Kelby produced a Swiss Army Knife and set about slicing cheese, loosening the lid on the olive jar, popping the caps on the beer bottles. They took turns sampling from the spread, their makeshift table too small to accommodate both pairs of hands. “So, where are you headed?”
Winston was silent for a long while, perhaps because he was clearing his mouth of food, perhaps because he was considering. Then he said, “To the next casino.”
Kelby’s eyebrows climbed up his face. “No shit?”
“No,” said Winston. “No shit whatsoever.”
“A job?” Kelby ventured. He studied the circumspect demeanor, the white shirt tucked into black pants, the meticulously trimmed fingernails. “You a dealer?”
“No,” Winston took a swig of the warm beer and felt his face flush, “I am a player.”
“You’re shitting me, Winston.”
“I assure you I am not.”
Kelby laughed with his whole body, threatening the jar of olives. “This meal may turn out to be the most interesting part of my entire trip.”
It was Winston’s turn to register surprise. Before they had been invaded by the signora and her family, Kelby had announced that he was traveling on his honeymoon. Both Winston and the American woman had refrained from question or comment, but both, Winston was confident, had turned the remark over in their minds, examining it, speculating on the whereabouts of the bride.
“Spill,” Kelby said.
Winston checked the surface of the briefcase, then his pant legs, and looked up questioningly.
“Not noun. Verb. As in ‘talk.’” Kelby said.
“Ah,” Winston said, “as in ‘spill your guts.’”
“Exactly.”
“Where do I start?”
“In the middle. Beginnings are always boring.”
Winston pondered what of his history constituted the beginning. Was it the circumstances of his birth, being the oldest and the only son of a father who worked to support three generations? Was it wanting to protect his family from the anti-Hindu rage that still erupted without warning in the province of Sindh? Was it the nights at Trinity where he learned the game of blackjack and learned that he could outplay any of his opponents? Was it realizing that what he had regarded as companionship had been mere proximity, and that even that was lost when it became apparent that he always emerged the winner?
“I was a student,” he said. “At Cambridge,” he added, knowing this would impress his listener.
It did. Kelby whistled.
“I was doing well enough in my course work, but I was doing even better at blackjack. I decided to postpone my education. It was a good time for me to leave the school. The blokes I had thought were my friends were starting to put it around that I had been cheating them. That was not so, but you cannot convince a loser of his incompetence. Bad luck, yes; bad play, no. And I was winning too much for them to see it as a matter of luck. Which, of course, it was not. At least they were correct in that. So I took off with their money, my winnings, as my stake.”
“How much?”
“Seven thousand pounds. A little over.”
Kelby whistled again. “No wonder you weren’t popular on campus.”
“Yes.”
“And how long did it take before you blew that?”
“I have not lost my stake.”
Kelby tried to estimate Winston’s age. His face was so unlined as to look blank. The perfect poker face, Kelby thought to himself. “So, you’re off on a grand tour of casinos? Are you going to set a limit on how much you can lose each time? I hear that’s maybe the most important rule, or else you lose your shirt fast.”
“That is important. It is as important as setting a limit on how much you can win.” Winston fell silent long enough for Kelby to register that, then, “I am starting my sixth year of play.”
“I guess the artificial light in casinos helps preserve youth. No sunshine wrinkling the skin.” Kelby tossed an olive into the air and caught it in his mouth. “Maybe good for keeping the brain young too. You must have a great memory.”
“Not particularly.”
“But everyone knows you have to count cards if you’re going to beat the house with any consistency.”
“Do you play cards?”
“Bridge. A little poker with the guys. The times I’ve gone to casinos, I would play a couple hands of poker—more like lose a couple hands of poker—and then dump some quarters in the slots. Nothing in your league. Truth is I don’t like to gamble.”
“Neither do I.”
“So what’s your racket?”
“You make it sound like you suppose I am engaged in something nefarious. I am surprised to hear myself saying this,” Winston smiled, “but you are reminding me of my father. I did not expect disapproval from you.”
“Okay then, I should have said what’s your strategy? Wait. If you tell me, will you have to kill me?”
“No killing necessary.”
“Don’t you want to swear me to secrecy?”
“Also not necessary. Are you finished with your breakfast? Let us clear the ‘table’ for a demonstration.” Kelby packed their breakfast remains into the briefcase while Winston rummaged among his things until he came up with a deck of playing cards.
Winston dealt four pairs of cards face up. “When you play bridge, you have to keep track of what has been played. Not just the cards themselves and which face cards have fallen in play, but also the number of cards remaining in each suit.”
“Only if you care about winning.” Kelby fiddled with the corner of a jack, flicking it. “And you have to remember who played what, and the bidding, of course, so you can figure out who’s likely to hold what’s still out there.”
“Yes. Very complicated. And in the poker variations there is some of that as well. Figuring out the percentages. Suits matter because of flushes. I play only blackjack. Suits do not matter; the ranking within a suit does not matter; only the value of a card matters.”
“Still, you have to remember how many cards with the different values have been played.”
“Actually, no.” Winston was enjoying himself. He realized he hadn’t really enjoyed himself in a long while. He also realized he hadn’t talked to anyone this much in a long while as well. “Did you know that the shoe the dealer uses customarily holds six decks?”
Kelby whistled a third time.
“At some establishments, as many as eight.” Winston put the tips of his fingers together, tenting his hands. “Consider how difficult it would be to keep track of 312 cards or more.”
“Impossible.”
“Perhaps not. But impossible for me and for most people. And of course that is why so many decks are used. My system is simple. First, I play by the suggested best practices. If you play by these, you will not do very badly, as these are determined by the odds. A novice can ask the dealer what to do. He will tell you if the odds dictate that you should take a hit. A gambler relies on instinct or some other foolishness. I rely on the odds.”
“But if the odds favor the house, even if only slightly, how do you make money by following the odds?”
“Because I bet more money when the odds shift in my favor.”
“And how do you know when that happens?”
“By keeping track of the value of the cards that have been played.”
“Counting.”
“No. Not the face value of the cards. Not the number of them played. The assigned value.”
“Okay, Winston, I’m in the dark. Enlighten me. Dazzle me.”
“I assign a value to each card in the deck. Ace, king, queen, jack, ten—they all have the value of minus one. The low cards, deuce through six, are plus one. The middle cards—seven, eight, nine—they have a value of zero. So I watch and add as the cards are revealed.” Winston pointed to the first pai
r, an ace with a deuce. “The ace has a value of minus one, the deuce is plus one, so their sum is zero.” He gestured to the next pair, a three and a jack. “Three is plus one, jack minus one, total zero.” Of the third pair, he said, “An eight and a seven are both zero.” The last pair consisted of two face cards. “Both minus one. So the total for the deal is minus two. Zero plus zero plus zero minus two.
“I don’t have to remember what was played, only the sum of the values. I add or subtract to that sum with each deal. What is left in the shoe, the positive or negative value, determines how I bet. Or if I walk away from that table.”
“Okay, I’m beginning to get the idea. So you know when to make the really big bets.”
Winston shook his head. “I know to never make really big bets.”
Kelby looked his question.
“For two reasons. One is that a big bet can mean a big loss. ‘Always avoid the big loss.’ That is a lesson I learned from one of your fellow countrymen, Casey Maguire, in Las Vegas. The second reason is that you want also to avoid the big win. He taught me that as well.”
Kelby kept his eyes on Winston, waiting, knowing that the answer was coming at him with the certainty of a train moving along a track.
“It is not good for a player to draw attention to himself. Before I learned that, I was banned from two casinos. Also I was robbed once. You are familiar with the saying the father gives his son when he goes out on a hot date with a young lady? ‘If you cannot be good, be careful.’ My father said much the same thing to me, but about playing blackjack. If I could not be a good son and stop playing, then he asked that I should be a careful one. So I am that. I play quietly. When I am doing well, I endeavor to appear mildly surprised by my good fortune. And I place all my winnings, except for modest tips to the dealer, to the servers, and the cage worker, in the safe-deposit boxes of the casinos.
“The only time I draw attention to myself is when I make it obvious that I am not carrying any cash beyond the equivalent of twenty dollars American on my person. The days on which I withdraw my winnings from the safe-deposit boxes are not the days when I spend time at the tables, often not the same weeks. So it is not just a game of odds, it is also a game of cat and mouse.”
“But not a game of chance,” Kelby nodded. “I’d like to see you in action.”
“I am afraid that if you were watching, you would give me away.”
“Probably right. I’m not known for my subtlety.”
Winston smiled. “I think I understood this when you spoke so extensively about female breasts.”
“Hey, I didn’t know that prissy bitch could understand what I was saying. Serves her right, though. I like thinking of her having to sit there and not being able to say a word because of that bullshit, pretending she couldn’t speak English.”
“I am sure there were things she would have liked to say.” Winston lowered his eyes. “I, too.”
“Like?”
“Not about the breasts. I think that subject was fully examined.” He allowed himself a smile before he pressed on. “Excuse me, but you said you are on your honeymoon?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it is your turn to spill.”
“Use your imagination.”
Winston shrugged. “I am not a very imaginative person.”
“Doesn’t take much to figure this one out. She dumped me. Two days before the wedding. At least it wasn’t one of those at-the-altar-in-front-of-everyone-you-know jobs. Nina was engaged once before. She didn’t show up at the church for that one.”
Winston nodded. “Yes, that would be worse. But how do you tell people, the relatives who have come from far away?” He immediately regretted letting the question escape, leak out of him. He was rubbing salt in a too fresh wound.
“You don’t. That’s what parents are for. My mother never liked Nina, so sharing the news was its own reward. I can imagine how she phrased it.” He shook his mother’s words out of his head. “What you do is go on a three-day bender and then you leave on the flight for Paris with an empty seat beside you.”
A flyspeck of an idea became trapped in the web of Winston’s thoughts. He leaned forward. “What is your itinerary?”
“I don’t have one. Nina and I were going to spend the better part of a month touring around France. She’s fluent in jilting and in French.” Kelby gestured to the Italian countryside passing in the window, “Here you see me bailing on France. I don’t speak foie gras and there’s no reason for me to wander around the Frog pond solo. Hey,” he said, registering the shift in Winston’s posture, “what would you say to me riding on your coattails? You could set the itinerary. I don’t care where I go, except I’m determined not to go home until this honeymoon is over. We could take in the sights by day, do some meals together, and then you could hit the casinos at night while I hit the bars.”
“Customarily, it is during the day that I visit the casinos.”
Kelby felt the rejection like a body blow. “Sure. No problemo. Dumb idea.”
“Not a dumb idea,” Winston said. “Not at all. But I think I have a better one.”
Kelby spread his hands wide over his thighs, his arms tensed, as though ready to spring up and exit the compartment, waiting for the right or wrong word to set him off.
“I am thinking we should go someplace that is so unlike France that you will have things other than the missing Nina to occupy your mind.”
“We should?”
“Yes.”
“Crap. Now you’re feeling sorry for me.”
“Of course. Only a person completely devoid of feeling would not feel sorry for you. You have had a terrible blow. You are dealing with it most admirably, but, like you, I think companionship would be beneficial to you at this time. I know companionship would be of particular help to me. There is something I would like to do, someplace I need to go, and I would be grateful if you would go with me. I am confident that if we go to this place together, you will forget your pain.”
“Are we talking brothel?”
“No. I hope that does not disappoint you.” Winston frowned, finally looking of an age to place a bet. “I propose that we travel to Pakistan. More particularly to the city of Hyderabad. Most particularly to the home of my family.”
Kelby whistled. “Seriously?”
“Most definitely seriously. I would pay for your transportation. Once we arrive in Hyderabad, my family will take care of everything.”
Kelby’s eyes widened, reflecting the scope of the generosity of the offer and of the distance to be covered. “Thanks—money is not my problem but, come on, Winston —Pakistan? How about we get off at Venice? That would be un-French enough for me. Or maybe go to one of those Greek islands. They’re a lot closer. Why Pakistan all of a sudden?”
“Such a dramatic change would be good for you. You would see everything with different eyes, I promise. And my eyes have not seen my parents or my sisters in six years. You would be rendering me a service.” He lifted his hands, palms up, into the space between them. “I cannot face them alone. And perhaps my family could come to view me through the eyes of my friend.”
“I guess it would be a dramatic change in itself to render a service to someone that wasn’t billable by the hour. My pro bono for the quarter.” Kelby sat back in his seat and exhaled. “Hell, I’ll never get to Pakistan any other way.”
Being men of resolve and best friends, they shook on it.
The Pensione Désirée
7.
Betsy started down the hall of the Pensione Désirée slowly, touching her fingertips to the wall every few feet, as though steadying herself at sea.
“Dove?” she said to a young man leaning against an open doorway. “Scuse. Dove gabinetti, per favore?” She heard the words hum in the back of her head so she knew she had spoken.
“Sorry,” he said with a distinctly Ameri
can twang. “Don’t speak Italian.”
“Bravo. Me either. Where can I find the toilet, please?”
“Second door on the right.”
When she emerged from the amber-and-white-tiled room that also held a bidet, a footed tub, and a marble sink, she felt comforted by the amenities, felt that life was less impossible.
She tapped at the frame of the doorway where her countryman had stood.
“Come in,” commanded a female voice, a hostess.
“I’m hoping,” Betsy said as she took in the engaging portrait of reclining woman and hovering man, “I am desperately hoping you might have a bottle of mineral water you’d be willing to sell.”
“Have a glass on us,” the young woman said. “I’m Helena.”
“Betsy. Thanks, but I’m afraid a glass won’t be enough. I must be dehydrated—‘thirsty’ doesn’t come close—and I just can’t manage the streets tonight.”
“You wouldn’t find anything open now anyway. We have some extra water, don’t we, Stephen? Give Betsy the bottle over there on the desk. Will that work?”
“Better than a wonder drug. Let me pay you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I feel like you’ve saved my life, but that’s possibly an overstatement. Thanks. Good night.”
She was offered three good nights in return and pivoted slowly to see the third person, a sandy-haired man wearing wire-rim glasses and a correspondingly intent expression. He sat antagonistically erect on a straightback chair in a corner formed by one wall and a massive armoire.
The next morning, fortified by two rolls, apricot preserves, and several cups of caffé latte, Betsy tapped at the door of her rescuers. The voices intersecting on the other side stopped abruptly. “Come in,” Helena called, bright as the Florentine sunshine.
“Good morning,” Betsy curtsied.
“Morning,” the one called Stephen smiled at her. He was serving breakfast from a tray.
Her body’s needs taken care of, Betsy was able to turn her attention to the couple. She hadn’t been in a noticing frame of mind the night before. Lanky and alert, Stephen struck her now as catlike, a painter perhaps, visiting this city of painters. Even if he were not an artist, his wife would still seem the ideal artist’s model. “I’m disturbing you,” Betsy said.
The Opposite of Chance Page 7