As a matter of fact, it was not so much the one pushing the money out on the table who caught my attention; it was really his companions. A slightly built, nervous, very pretty and very attentive boy hovered at the gambler’s elbow. The other onlooker could not have been more different. Well over six-and-a-half feet tall, the creature’s ugly face had not been improved by the visible effects of fists, knives, and probably worse it had encountered in what must have been at least thirty years of rough life. This was the ideal bodyguard. His looks alone, I was convinced, would turn an assassin’s bullet.
And the gambler’s behavior, if not his appearance, indicated there might be more than one terrorist out there waiting his chance at remedying wrongs back home by zeroing in on this profligate gambler. While his clothes were undistinguished, though expensive and European, I guessed him to be a Middle-Easterner. Perhaps an Afghan tribal chief who had a monopoly of the country’s opium trade. Or an Israeli arms dealer, fresh from a successful and large-scale sale to the Saudis. Or some Arab ruler of a minute Gulf monarchy sitting on the last of the world’s oil reserves. In my mind, I thought of him as very likely a despot, labeled him The Shah, let it go at that, and turned back to serious play. Christian was set to go.
I played my own chips sporadically on odd and even, again not really keeping track of whether I was ahead or behind. Christian, on the other hand, started playing specific numbers. He was working beautifully! Three doubled wins in a row brought in a veritable cascade of Euros. I punched a button and he went back into random play on reds and blacks, risking little, getting less. I kept a close eye on the croupier, which was easy and pleasant to do. So far, no signs of suspicion. In her eyes it was probably just a run of luck by someone at the table—more than made up for by The Shah’s lack of luck.
It was quite evident His Majesty was drawing from a bottomless pit. When his stack ran low, which it did with considerable regularity, he raised a languid hand in the direction of his boy, patted him on his buns and sent him off to replenish the supply. I took advantage of Christian’s neutral mode to examine The Shah more closely. Unprepossessing as he appeared, there was still something unique about him. At first, I was puzzled, and then I recognized what would have been much more apparent to me had I been a denizen of the gambling tables. I was looking across at a compulsive gambler.
While such a presence here was not unexpected, but—joined as it was with his unlimited supply of money—it did make him stand out. I could see how, as with any gambling addict, the money meant absolutely nothing to him. Winning most certainly did, though. It meant everything. A lost wager brought a passing and insincere groan. A win produced a happy laugh and at least one cartwheel rolling toward the equally happy spinner, who also received a jealous scowl to go with it from the young assistant to The Shah.
Here, in the guise of a very average-looking male, was the epitome of the insatiable addict. Unlike the typical person hooked on the odds, however, there was no way The Shah could ever break away from the addiction, or even want to. The simple reason for this difference was he could not possibly toss the money away faster than his oil wells, or landmines, or whatever, were producing it for him.
The sight was so remarkable, I almost forgot my reason for being there. It was going to be a one-night stand. I was going to win a fortune. Christian and I would then get up and leave, never to return to this den or any one similar to it. So I really did not forget. Even so, I paced it, watching the croupier carefully, since I knew she might still spot something significant in Christian’s success, however carefully I spaced his winnings. She continued to seem oblivious. Then I realized The Shah was not so unperceptive. He kept staring at Christian. Even, unbelievable as it might seem, missing placing bets once or twice, so entranced was he with my companion’s performance.
The climax came when The Shah lifted a hand to catch the attention of both his boy companion and his bodyguard, gestured toward an empty seat next to Christian and then moved to our side of the table. I was not happy with the move but, at first, nothing untoward happened. The Shah scattered his abundance along the length of the table with the same alacrity he had before. His luck had not improved, though I assumed the change of chairs had occurred in hopes some of Christian’s good fortune would rub off on the potentate. And then…I noticed something else. Something terrifying!
The Shah turned to Christian and whispered a few words in his direction. I had not programmed in a voice, for the simple reason synthetic voices still sound synthetic even when adapted from human equivalents. More seriously, and as you undoubtedly know, artificial, interactive vocalization is still in its infancy, and I certainly had not prepared Christian to take the Turing Test. I could only hope Christian’s silence would act as an effective rebuff.
Looking over and catching the expression on The Shah’s face, I panicked. Realization hit me. It had not been Christian’s apparent luck which had prompted The Shah to change places; it was Christian, himself. There was absolutely no mistaking the expression on the potentate’s face. Christian had turned him on. I immediately punched a button on Christian’s near arm and the automate pushed his already enormous stack of Euros on to 19. The wheel continued spinning. The win would take care of me for life. I could see The Shah, who had not even placed a bet this time, reach out to put a very friendly hand on Christian’s.
With luck—not for the 19 since it was inevitable, but for something to keep the pale, poised hand from touching—we might be able to pick up our winnings and leave. The touch would ruin it all. Not only no voice synthesizer, but no thermal implant. It had never occurred to me one would be necessary. Christian’s hand would be as cold as the stainless steel rail at the edge of the table. Plans roared through my head to stop the advancing gesture. I would speak for my companion and say how shocked my friend, mute from birth, was at this untoward advance. The ball bounced obediently into 19, with the pay-off large enough to bring gasps from several of these jaded gamblers.
But it was not a gasp behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the face of The Shah’s boy contorted into a horrible grimace at sight of what his master was up to. I now realized I was not the only one shocked at the untoward advance, but I had no gun to convey the depth of my feelings.
The roar of the automatic cleared the table almost as quickly as Christian’s reaction which, despite my muddle, I still felt to be remarkably human-like. He had fallen forward, face down on the table. Very unhumanlike, however, were the cogs and wheels and springs spilling out of the prominent hole in his head. I did not wait for an encore. Remembering the direction to the exit, I was up and out before the dust had even begun to settle and while the screams were still reverberating through the casino. I raced to the hotel and decided there would be just about enough time for me to reclaim my Kadux and head north.
A bit of thought made me calm down. The management of the Fer de Lance had been conned, and knew they had been, but they had lost not a cent to my automate’s talents. As my breath came back, I became more and more certain the shooting would be by far their major concern. How The Shah’s boy had managed to get the gun by the detectors, was beyond me. Further thought on the matter convinced me how, if The Shah had wanted to run a Pakistani tank corps through the casino, the staff and management would have stood aside and cheered him on. No, the gun’s presence was no mystery.
Just as I was beginning to relax, there was a soft knock on the door. I was not about to unchain it. “Yes?”
“Your winnings, sir. The management apologizes for the untoward incident at your table, but we pride ourselves on giving all players their just dues.”
Strange way of putting it, but who was I to argue. I unhooked the chain, swung the door open, and there was a smiling Shah and a scowling bodyguard. Not waiting for any encouragement to do so, I backed into the room and into a chair.
“Monsieur Girault, I have come to apologize.” The Shah was breathless. “Wahid acted in a fit of pique. He has been, let us say—rather posses
sive—of late. The poor boy simply allowed his temper to get the best of him, I’m afraid.”
I was afraid too, but ever so glad The Shah had not reached out for my hand when we were sitting at the table.
“For the inconvenience you have been caused, I will of course see to it you receive your winnings. It is only fair. Also, I should match those winnings. After all, I am really the one who was responsible for the disturbance. I do hope this will be sufficient compensation for your discomfiture.”
It was, but I was every bit as dumb as Christian at this sudden change of fortune. I nodded.
“Wonderful. But, now, I do have a favor to ask. Your automate was truly an incredible combination of science and art. Would it be possible for you to construct another similar to the one Wahid destroyed? I would, of course, pay you amply for your time and for any expenses you might incur. Please! Would you be willing to do so for me?”
Before I could make the profound nod the question deserved, The Shah went on. “Remarkable. Truly remarkable. He was able to predict where the ball would fall. How amazing!”
I was unsure whether his last remark was a statement or a question deserving of a further nod. Before I could decide, The Shah sighed and said, “If you could produce such a remarkable creation again, I might even have him make some wagers for me.”
CHICKEN STOCK FOR THE SOUL
Two hundred and forty cases of chicken stock! Carlton Ritchie looked unbelievingly at the invoice and shook his head. The original order had been for twenty-four cases, and even such a number was probably more than See Our Groceries would sell in two months. And now there was this Liz Stanton, some do-gooder social worker sitting across his desk from him, off on some tangent which for sure wasn’t going to make his life any easier.
“As owner of one of the major businesses in Centerville, you owe it to the community.” Liz was talking, and Carlton was only half listening. “James Lemieu is a capable, personable individual with a lot of courage. He’s been in physical and speech therapy since he was a child and has done remarkably well. The birth injury he suffered was so severe he wasn’t even expected to live, never mind recover so fully.”
He could send the shipment back, but the order was already on its way, and he could hear the wholesale distributor now if he so much as suggested such a thing. It didn’t pay to cross those people. Giving half his attention to Liz, he said, “I’m not sure what I can do for this James Lemoo, or whatever his name is. I contribute to the United Good Neighbor fund. Don’t they take care of the handicapped?”
Liz, a gray-haired, severe looking woman, perhaps in her early sixties, moved right in. “James is a person with a handicap which he has come to terms with. He’s eighteen, has a good school record behind him, even though for most of his life he couldn’t attend classes. What he needs now is a little more help, and he will be well on his way to being an asset to his employer and to the community. But he needs someone who will hire him despite his handicap, someone who will give him a chance to prove himself, who will make it possible for him to become self-sufficient.”
On the other hand, he could just run the chicken stock as a loss-leader item. As soon as he could get rid of this Stanton woman, he’d look up earlier sales. If they hadn’t pushed chicken stock lately, maybe they could make it a big item in the Tuesday Shopping News. “Exactly what’s wrong with him?” He wasn’t much interested, but the question did appear to be an appropriate one.
“His speech is a little slurred, and he walks with a noticeable limp.”
He had to get to those invoices. He should have thought of some excuse to avoid this meeting. “There really is no place in a supermarket for someone who can’t do their share of the work.”
“I’m sure James can and will do his share. Obviously, there is some work he couldn’t do. Even though he’s physically strong, he wouldn’t be able to go into construction for example, but his grades are well above average. He was always a good student, and he’s a voluminous reader.”
A reader, no doubt like store clerk Willy Sanford, who carried a copy of Motorcycle Times around in his back pocket everywhere he went. “So what do you want me to do?” Just possibly he could sell the whole shipment to the Santanelli Brothers, who ran the discount store in Snyderford. It was thirty miles distant, and so wouldn’t draw away any customers even if they put on a big sale. Or would it?
“Why not a box person? I’m sure he could handle the job very easily, and it would give him a chance to build up the self-confidence he needs to move up to something better.”
All Carlton wanted was to get this woman, who considered herself mother to the world, off his back. Then he could get on to checking the invoices. Why not just hire this James whatever his name is and get her out of here? He probably won’t last a week, and he sure can’t do the damage the misplaced zero in the chicken stock order did.
“OK. OK. One month on probationary hire. But he gets treated just like everyone else.”
“No!” The word was spoken softly but it carried as much force as though it were shouted. “He’s not everyone else. He needs encouragement. He’ll do well, I know. But tell him when he does. He needs that kind of help, and I’m sure you won’t ever regret hiring him.”
Maybe a big special in this week’s shopping news. THE BUY OF A LIFETIME.
***
James Lemieu wasn’t much better than Carlton had expected, but he did show up promptly the same afternoon. Short, maybe five-five, a bit overweight, a definite limp—more like a kind of funny pigeon-toed walk—some slurring of his speech which made him sound like he’d been drinking, and a kind of smirk to his smile, but Carlton had to admit he was neat in appearance. No nose rings or spiked hair. Unusual, these days. He was polite, and certainly not stupid.
Carlton had met him at the customer service counter and decided it wouldn’t hurt to show him around and break him in on the essentials. Actually, they were short a bagger, so why not put him on as soon as possible? The rules certainly involved no giant intellect. Paper or plastic? Don’t put the tomatoes at the bottom of the bag. Do you need help with your purchase? Thank you. Have a nice day. Smile without smirking. Carlton tried to cover all the bases as they walked through the aisles.
James assured him he’d been through the store many times and pretty well knew the location of most items. Something in his favor, thought Carlton as he took him into the storeroom.
“There’s a big shipment of chicken stock coming in, and we’ll have to fill the shelves to capacity to make room. Even then, we’re going to be crowded.” Crowded is putting it mildly. Some of the cases would have to go up in the mezzanine. Carlton could envision the overflow into his office. He shook his head and became so engrossed with his own thoughts he only half heard James’ comment.
“I just read about someone who wrote a cookbook called, ‘Chicken Stock for the Soul.’“
Good for him. I’ll send him a case for his soul.
Carlton asked if he had any questions. The only question was, “Can I start right away?” Carlton nodded and turned him over to the assistant manager. Climbing the stairs to the mezzanine, the comment came back to plague him. Someone wrote a book about chicken stock? Seems unlikely. In the front office he asked Patti if she could find out whether or not any such book had ever been written.
“Sure,” she said, happy to abandon bookkeeping for some internet surfing. “Won’t take but a minute.” It didn’t. “Here it is. Chicken Stock for the Soul. The author is Stanford Marquardt.”
Carlton had an inborn distrust of computers, but they still fascinated him. Looking over Patti’s shoulder, he asked, “Can you find out his address? Maybe his telephone number.”
“I can sure try.”
Carlton looked over the printout on his desk and admitted to himself the world of the internet was truly amazing. He also had to admit he needed someone like Patti to make full use of it. The printout had not only the author’s address but also the publisher’s name and address, and ev
en Marquardt’s agent’s name, phone number, mailing address and e-mail address.
Agent? The tip of an idea probed its way into Carlton’s consciousness. He reached for the phone and punched in the agent’s number. The first ten-minutes of conversation turned the tip into a full iceberg. Carlton could barely follow the fast talking New York accent.
“Stanford will be happy to do a signing right there in your store.” What’s a signing? “He has one in St. Louis on—let’s see—the fifteenth of next month. He can be in your store all day on the thirteenth. I’ll take care of the advance publicity. We can take each of his recipes—he has over five hundred in his book—print up separate copies of each one, and you can distribute them in the store. Every customer should get one in their grocery bag between now and the thirteenth. And we’ll pay for the newspaper advertising. I’ll drop by on the twelfth and we can figure out places for the signing and book displays.”
Carlton tried, unsuccessfully, to get a word in. “Our art department will have posters in the mail by tomorrow with date and time on them. And what about local media? Give me the names of the newspapers and I’ll fax a news release. Same for radio and TV. Who is your local news commentator? I’ll get on the blower to him or her as soon as I hang up. And…”
Well, with luck, he might at least clear his office of the cases of chicken stock, but it would take more than some recipe writer and his fast-talking agent to move two hundred and forty of them.
***
It had been an uneventful week. James seemed to be doing his job. Nice to customers. Maybe too nice. Burt Wampus came through the line, and Carlton, who was observing the floor from the mezzanine, could almost smell the old drunk from there. But James treated him like a regular customer. Willy had his six pack under his arm and probably a snitched candy bar in his pocket. He patted James on the shoulder as he shambled off with his purchase.
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