A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  “Thanks for the accommodation, mister,” he said.

  He nodded back but didn’t look at Archer; he kept his gaze on the Birds.

  When Archer’s drink came the man turned and eyed the whiskey. “Good choice. It’s one of the best they serve.”

  “You have knowledge of the bar here?”

  “In a way. I own the place. Max Shyner.” He raised a flute of champagne and clinked it against the whiskey glass.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Shyner. My name’s Archer. And thanks a second time for the table spot, then. Wondered why you had such a good seat for the show.”

  “You like the Dancing Birds?” he said, returning his gaze to the stage.

  Archer gave a long look at the Bird on the end, who responded with a hike of her eyebrows, the lift of a long fishnet-stockinged leg in a dance kick, and a come-hither smile before she tap-tapped to the other end of the stage with the rest of the feathered flock.

  “Let me just say how could a breathing man not?”

  “You just in town?” Shyner asked.

  “Why, do I look it?”

  “I know most of the regulars.”

  “Passing through. Bus out tomorrow.”

  “Where to?”

  “West of here,” he said vaguely, not wanting to offer anything more.

  “California, then?” Shyner said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, son, any farther west and you’d be drinking the Pacific.”

  “Suppose so,” replied Archer as he took a sip of the whiskey. He picked up the menu. “Recommend anything?”

  “The steak, and the asparagus. They both come from near here. Get the Béarnaise sauce. You know what that is?”

  “We’ll find out.” Archer gave that order to the waiter when he next came by and got a finger of whiskey added to what he had left. “So how long have you owned this place?”

  “Long enough. I was born in Reno. Most are from someplace else, at least now. Great transition after the war, you see.”

  “I guess I’m one of them,” replied Archer.

  “Where in California? I got contacts, in case you’re looking for work.”

  “Thanks, but I think I got something lined up.”

  “The Golden State is growing, all right, why people like you are rushing to get there. Me, I’m more than content with this piece of the pie.”

  “Who’s she?” asked Archer, indicating the Bird who had given him the eye.

  “Liberty Callahan, one of my best. Sweet gal.” He pointed a finger at Archer. “No ideas, son. She wants to get into acting. Don’t think she’ll be here long, much to my regret.”

  “I’m just passing through, like I said. I’ve got no ideas about her or any other lady.”

  Shyner leaned forward, his look intense and probing. “You like to gamble?”

  “My whole life’s been a gamble.”

  “I mean, in a casino?”

  Archer shook his head.

  Shyner drew a fist of cash from his pocket and peeled off fifty dollars in sawbucks.

  “You take this, with my compliments, and go try your luck at the Wheelhouse. It’s my place.”

  “You give out folding money to all the folks passing by?” said Archer. “If you do, you might want to stop before you run out.”

  Shyner leaned in more so Archer could smell the champagne on the man’s breath and Old Spice cologne on the ruddy cheeks. “Little something you need to know about casinos, young fella. No matter what the game, the casinos have the edge. With blackjack and roulette it’s a little less, with craps and slots a little more. But there’s no game where the House doesn’t have the advantage. My job is to get folks into my place. Even if I have to front them a bit. In the long run it pays off for me.”

  “Well, with that warning, aren’t you defeating your purpose of recruitment?”

  Shyner laughed. “You forget the element of human nature. I give you a little seed money and you’ll pay that back and more on top in no time.”

  “Never got the point of gambling. Life’s uncertain enough as it is.”

  “Gambling will be here long after I’m dead and buried, and you too. People are born with weaknesses and they pass them on. Sort of like Darwinism, only the stupid survive.”

  “I might try your place, but I’ll do it with my own coin, thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure as I’m sitting here with a man who owns a casino.”

  Shyner put the cash away and lit up a short, thin cigar and blew wobbly rings to the high plastered ceiling. “You surprise me, Archer. I’ve done that fifty-dollar bit more times than I can remember and you’re the first to turn it down.”

  “So what about all those casinos in Las Vegas? Don’t they give you competition?”

  Shyner waved this concern away. “In twenty years it’ll be a ghost town and no one will even remember the name Las Vegas, you mark my words.”

  His steak and asparagus came, and Archer ate and washed it down with another two fingers.

  “Can I at least comp your meal, Archer?”

  “What do I have to do in return?”

  “Just go to my casino. Two blocks over to the west. You can’t miss it.”

  Archer laid down a dollar for his meal and drinks.

  “So you’re not going to the Wheelhouse then?” said Shyner in a disappointed tone.

  “No, I am. Just on my terms instead of yours.”

  “Action doesn’t start up till around ten. You’ll want the full picture.”

  As he left, Archer gave Liberty Callahan a tip of his hat as she was singing a solo while reclining on a baby grand piano that had been wheeled onstage. She hit him with a dazzling smile and then kept right on singing without missing a beat. Her voice sounded awfully good to Archer. She waved bye-bye with her fake feather as he left the nest.

  Archer had to admit, he liked the lady’s style.

  Chapter 3

  THE WHEELHOUSE WAS LOCATED in a building about as big as an aircraft carrier, but with nicer furniture, no portholes, and enough booze to launch her. Inside an army of gamblers was looking to win big, although almost all would lose what they had brought plus what they hadn’t brought. Archer didn’t need Shyner to tell him the odds favored the House. Somebody had to pay for the liquor, the neon, and the ladies, and the chubby old man who owned it all and liked his champagne and fifty-dollar suckers.

  Pretty much every game of chance invented was being played in the main room as cocktail waitresses in black stockings and low-cut blouses made their rounds with drinks, smokes, and the occasional teasing look that hinted at additional services available after hours for those few with any cash left. The bar set against one wall was packed because the liquor was half price, or so said the sign overhead. Drunk people no doubt increased the casino’s odds even more, figured Archer.

  As ten struck on his timepiece, he checked his hat and strode across the main floor to the cashier booths. He had never gambled in a casino, but Archer had gambled. First in prison, and then in private games where the odds were a little better than at this place, the booze came out of flasks or thimbles masquerading as shot glasses and the only ladies present were housewives coming to drag their no-account hubbies home while they still had twin nickels to their names.

  He paid for ten bucks’ worth of chips, then ambled over to a craps table and from a distance studied the bets on the board until the table opened up for new action like the jaws of a prowling gator. He continued to watch three guys crap out after two tosses each. Then two more rollers in the wings fell out, one passing out drunk, the other blowing his whole stake on the last throw of the dice.

  A man at the rail turned and saw Archer. He beckoned for Archer to join him.

  After Archer did, the man said, “Listen up, son, this here fella about to throw has been hot three nights in a row.”

  Archer looked down at the gent speaking. He was small and around sixty with fine white hair and a pair of rimless specs worn low o
n his squat, red-veined nose. He was encased in a seersucker suit with a snazzy blue bow tie and two-tone lace-up shoes. His nose and flushed face stamped him as a man who liked his drink more than he liked just about anything else.

  “Is that right?” said Archer.

  “Yes sir. That boy can roll.” He held out a flabby hand. “Roy Dixon.”

  “Archer.”

  They shook hands as the stickman standing behind the casino’s table bank called for fresh bets. The new shooter stepped up to one end of the table shaking out his arms and undoing kinks in his neck, like he was about to enter a boxing ring and not the green felt of a craps table that might be the most complicated betting game ever devised. Archer thought he could even see the guy’s eyes roll back in his head for a second before he shook it all clear and got ready to either do the House damage or get grizzly-mauled by a pair of dice weighing an ounce. The two base dealers handled all the chip traffic, while the seated boxman, a burly man wearing a green visor and a sour expression, watched all of this like his life and all those he knew and loved depended on his not missing anything.

  “Okay, son, let’s make some money,” said Dixon, who made his bet on the Pass line.

  “How?” said Archer.

  “Hey, you.”

  Archer looked up to see one of the base dealers drilling him with a stare. “The button’s off, pal. Got a new shooter coming up, no point made. You stand by the rail, you got to bet. That’s prime real estate, buddy. Didn’t your mama ever teach you that?”

  Everyone laughed and more than a few gave Archer patronizing looks. He placed some chips next to Dixon’s on the Pass line.

  “Thank you, sonny boy, now don’t you feel all better inside?” said the dealer.

  Dixon leaned over and whispered to Archer, “He’s gonna roll seven on his come out roll.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Shit, ’cause he always does.”

  The stickman presented the shooter, a tall, thin man with curly brown hair and wearing a two-piece beige suit with a wrinkled white shirt and no belt, with five dice. He picked his deuce and handed the trio back to the stickman, who dumped them in his shake-out bowl.

  “Dice out, no more bets allowed,” announced the stickman.

  The shooter blew on the dice and rattled them once in his right hand.

  “Throw with one hand only, and both dice have to hit the back wall,” instructed the stickman.

  The shooter looked at him incredulously. “Hell, you think I don’t know that? How long I been throwing here, Benny?”

  “Just saying,” was Benny’s only reply.

  The shooter let fly, and the dice bounced off the far U-wall of the table.

  The stickman announced, “We got a Big Red, natural seven. Pass line wins, no-pass goes down.”

  Dixon said, “What did I tell you? We just doubled our money.”

  Their chips doubled, and Archer looked intrigued as the dealers worked the payoffs and oversaw new bets.

  “Now what?” asked Archer.

  “He’s going to make his point on this next roll.”

  Dixon set his chips down on certain betting squares and Archer followed suit.

  A few moments later: “Shooter rolls a ten,” announced Benny. “Point is made, folks.”

  The bets were posted again and the shooter was handed the dice. They banged off the far end of the table and came to rest.

  “Little Joe on the front row,” bellowed Benny. “Hard four.”

  Archer looked at the twin twos staring up from the faces of the dice. Then he looked at his pile of chips growing. He and Dixon bet again.

  “Boxcars,” called out Benny as double sixes stood up after careening off the wall. “Twelve craps, come away triple.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Archer.

  “The Wheelhouse pays triple the field on boxcars,” Dixon said, looking down with relish at his now-towers of chips.

  “Hey, pal, shouldn’t we quit while we’re ahead?” said Archer.

  “What the hell’s the point of that?” countered Dixon.

  Archer took some of his chips off, while Dixon did not.

  The next roll was another winner and Dixon grinned at Archer. “You’re too timid, son. First rule of craps, you ride a hot shooter all the way to the very end.”

  Archer glanced at the shooter. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a line of sweat rode on his brow, and his eyes spoke of too much booze, drugs, and maybe overconfidence. If ever a man looked done in and done out, this was the hombre, Archer thought. He lifted all his chips off the edge of the fabric and slid out his reserve chips from the slots in the table and took a step back as the boxman eyed him with contempt.

  “Running out on a hot shooter, bub?” Archer just stared at him. The boxman added with a sneer, “Then go find your mommy. It’s time for your bottle of milk, junior.”

  Dixon moved every single one of his chips forward onto new bets on the Pass line and come field a second before Benny handed the dice to the shooter.

  As Archer walked away, a huge groan went up from the table as Benny gleefully called out, “Seven out.” The next sound was his stick coming down and raking away all the chips that had bet on the shooter continuing to roll. The House had come roaring back and the lives of the bettors gathered round came careening down to earth like a doomed plane.

  Archer looked back to see Dixon staring at the spot where all his chips used to be. The king had lost his kingdom, as they all eventually did.

  “I better go find that bottle of milk,” Archer said to himself.

  Chapter 4

  HEY. HEY, YOU!”

  Archer looked over and saw the woman waving enthusiastically at him.

  It was Liberty Callahan, of the Dancing Birds troupe, sitting at the roulette table. She had changed out of her stage outfit and lost her condor-sized feather. While her sparkly dress was tight, her welcoming smile, promising skittish fun with few rules, was even more appealing to Archer. And yet when he more soberly took in her toothy smile and frisky appearance, Archer saw in it prison guards itching to bust his head, chain gangs to nowhere, and food that was not food at all. That was what had happened to him the last time a gal had called out to him like that. A sob story, a poorly planned escape from her tyrannical father, the arrival of the police, a change in heart by the gal after her old man put the screws to her, with the result that Archer had donated a few years of his life to busting up rocks and seeing the world through the narrow width of prison cell bars. Still, he ordered a highball from the bar and took a seat next to her. He just couldn’t seem to help himself. He was an internal optimist. Or just stupid.

  “I’m Liberty Callahan.”

  “I’m Archer.”

  She shot him a curious look. “That’s a funny name.”

  “It’s my surname.”

  “What’s your given name?”

  “Not one I ‘give’ out.”

  Her features went slack and put out, but Archer didn’t feel unduly bothered by this. Any first meeting was a nifty place to lay out the ground rules. And his new universal ground rules were to take no one into his confidence and to listen more and talk less.

  “Suit yourself, Archer.” She turned to play with her little stack of chips.

  He said, “Mr. Shyner pointed you out to me back at the café. Told me your name too.”

  She eyed him cautiously. “That’s right, you were at his table.”

  Archer eyed the wheel and the dealer standing in the notch cut out of the elongated table, while the gamblers sipped on drinks and conspired on their future bets. He heard all sorts of talk coming in one ear about this method and that superstition coupled with that infallible telltale sign of where a spinning ball would come to rest in a bowl full of colored numbers in slots that were spinning the other way. People had colorful chips in hand that looked very different from the ones Archer had been using at the craps table.

  The table had a sign that said minimum and maximum be
ts differentiated between inside and outside bets. Archer had no idea what any of that meant.

  “He told me you want to get into acting?” said Archer.

  Her smile emerged once more, showing every tooth in her arsenal, including a jacketed porcelain crown in the back that was so white it looked nearly pewter in the shadowy cave of her mouth.

  She nodded, her smile deepening. “People calling out your name and wanting your autograph. Your picture in the newspapers. Somebody else driving you around and you travel with your own maid. It all sure sounds swell. So, yeah, I want to try my hand at it. Stupid, maybe. Long shot, sure, but why not me, right?”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” asked Archer evenly.

  “Hey, hey!” called out the dealer. He was beady-eyed and thick at the waist but with a steady hand in which the little ball already rested. “You got a seat, you got to bet.”

  “Sorry,” said Callahan. She quickly put a chip on ten black.

  Archer pulled out some of his crap chips.

  The dealer shook his head. “No, no, you need to use roulette chips here, sonny. Let me see what you got there.”

  Archer pulled out all of his chips and showed them to the dealer. The man eyed him with interest as he totaled them up, scooped them away, and placed a stack of colorful chips in front of Archer.

  “Okay, what do you want each to be worth?”

  “Excuse me?” said Archer.

  The dealer told him what his crap chips had been worth. “But you get to pick how much each of these chips are worth, while not going over the total value of the chips you just turned in.”

  “Why so complicated?”

  “It’s not complicated. It’s roulette. Everybody at the table has a different color chip. They tell me what they’re worth and I keep that in my head. What’s complicated?”