Swimming with Bridgeport Girls

by Anthony Tambakis

  Within fifteen seconds, the college boys were encouraged to go play elsewhere, and when the others at the table saw me flex my VIP muscle and ruin the run they had all been on, they grabbed their chips and left, too. The only person who stayed was an amiable office-supply salesman who wore a name tag reading HI, I’M EVERETT! He had hair the color of dead grass and was wearing an orange Illinois sweatshirt and matching hat. He was about Boyd Bollinger’s age, and I figured it wasn’t inconceivable that they knew each other. Bollinger looked like a guy who went to a Big Ten school that never won anything.

  “Damn, Raoul. You really put their dicks in the dirt the other night,” Everett from Illinois said. “I watched the whole thing. And thanks for that hundy you gave me. Or my wife thanks you. Women! They can smell it when you got a little extra scratch on you, can’t they?”

  I thought: Can you believe the nerve of this guy? Getting all chatty with me after going to school with Boyd Bollinger? Rooming with Boyd Bollinger, most likely. Writing fucking papers for the guy? I ignored him and looked at the table. It was filled with proposition bets. I knew those were for suckers, so I figured I’d play one of them. I wasn’t sure what they paid, and there was no way I was going to ask Everett, who was a traitor and deserved to be shunned.

  “Saw that little filly you were with the other night,” he said. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she? With all due respect.”

  I ignored him and grabbed a handful of chips. “Hard ten,” I said.

  The box man turned around and looked at Mota and Manny C., who nodded.

  “Gentleman has a thirty-thousand-dollar hard ten.”

  “How much?” I said.

  “Thirty thousand, sir.”

  “What does that pay?”

  “Ten to one, sir.”

  “Stop calling me sir.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  I glared at him, then grabbed another fistful of chips and tossed them on the table. “Same way.”

  Everett let loose a low whistle as the box man turned around and looked at Mota and Manny C. again. Manny said, “Jesus Christ, Vernon,” and waved his hand as if to say, “How many fucking times are you going to ask the same question? Let the burnout do whatever he wants.”

  “Eighty-thousand-dollar hard ten,” he said.

  The stick man shoved five dice my way. I looked at them. Went completely blank for a few moments. Started seeing black lights.

  “Any two you like, sir.”

  “Are you being lippy?” I demanded.

  “No, sir.”

  “You call me sir again, I’m shoving that stick up your ass. It’s just that simple.”

  “Easy, fellas,” said Everett the Mediator, grabbing a couple of red chips. “Gimme a ten-dollar hard ten. Gotta go with my man Raoul. He’s a lucky son of a gun.”

  I grabbed two dice, glared at the stick man, glared at Everett, and pitched them down the table.

  “Gimme them puppy paws!” Everett shouted.

  A pair of 4s finally settled down.

  “Point is eight. Eight’s your point.”

  Everett clapped his hands. “Eighter from Decatur. Got yourself a square pair, Raoul. Right in the old neighborhood. Now gimme that pair of roses.”

  I fired the dice angrily across the felt. They ricocheted around.

  “Nine.”

  Everett slapped me on the shoulder. “What shot Jesse James? A forty-five. Almost, buddy. I know you got those sunflowers coming up next.”

  I took a swig from the tumbler. I could feel something boiling inside me. They weren’t roommates at Illinois, they were fraternity brothers, Everett and Boyd. They knew secret handshakes and hazed farm boys who didn’t know any better. Who just wanted to fit in. I whizzed the dice in disgust. A 7.

  “Seeeeeven out,” said the boxman.

  “Six one, we’re all done,” Everett said.

  My chips were scooped off the table. I glared at Everett, then at the box man, the stick man, Mota, and Manny. I wanted to kill every one of them. I dumped the rest of my chips on the table like a child. “All of it. Hard ten again.”

  There was $170,000. Mota grimaced. He was thrilled when I was back at the blackjack table, inexplicably giving my money away, but now two random 5s on the dice would pay off $1.7 million. I grabbed the foam padding on the table and took a deep breath, not because I was nervous (my life had ended on the phone, what did I care about anything else?) but because I could barely stand up. Everything was blurry. I banged my cast on the shelf again.

  “I like your style, Raoul,” Everett the Two-Faced said. Then he made an elaborate display out of taking a $25 chip from his pocket and setting it on the table. Judging by the look on his face, you would have sworn we had the same bet out there.

  “Heck with the dinner buffet,” he said. “Gotta go with my partner in the fancy robe again.”

  In my former life, I would have liked the man. Would have valued his sense of camaraderie and pleasant nature. His sincere desire for fellowship and unassuming midwesternness. I’d met countless people like him on the road over the years, and normally I would have spoken to him as a friend. Asked about his kids. His take on parenting in the modern age. I would have asked for his and his wife’s origin story. Perhaps encouraged some recollections regarding his collegiate affiliation. Memorable games. Favorite halfbacks. Opinion on concussions. I would have shown a great deal of interest in getting his take on the lay of the land from his corner of the world. We would have made fast friends in the Sheraton lounge. Maybe teamed up for group trivia. Bought each other drinks. Made vague plans to hook up next time I was passing through. Heck, Everett might have even wanted to get high for the first time since the late seventies, when everyone was experimenting. He might have kicked off his Thom McAns, taken a toke, and coughed his lungs out. Joked about being out of practice. All of these things could have happened once, but not now. Now I wanted Everett from Illinois in a wood chipper. I wanted to go Fargo on him.

  “Make it happen, amigo,” he said.

  I whipped the dice so hard that one of them hopped off the table and plunked Mota in the shoulder. Everett said, “Whoa, Nellie!” and I was given two fresh ones. Threw a pair of 4s again.

  “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. Ozzie and Harriet. Old Raoul likes the windows, boy.”

  My hands were shaking as the stick man sent the dice back my way. I flung them and came up with another 9. Everett started chirping immediately. “Nina from Pasadena . . .”

  I whirled around on him. “Will you shut the fuck up, Everett? I mean, Jesus Christ.”

  His face sagged with shock and hurt. He put his hands up like I’d pulled a gun on him. He had no idea what had just happened. It was like kicking a friendly dog.

  I grabbed the dice, tossed a 4, and looked at him. You could tell he wanted to say something, but he held it in. Same thing on the next throw, a 5. Then an 11. Another 11. A 6. Silence. Three. Five again. Eleven. Nothing from Everett. Another 6. Biting his lip. Still nothing. And then I tossed a 7.

  “Up pops the devil,” he muttered.

  Before it was out of his mouth, I swung wildly and brained him with my cast. Pain shot through me like buzz saw to bone. We fell to the floor and rolled around a little before Manny C. and a couple of security guards separated us. Everett’s Illinois hat sat on the carpet with his hair under it. He was balder than a bad tire. They led him away, red-faced and bewildered.

  “You’re a crazy person!” he shrieked. “A crazy person!”

  Mota put his arm around my shoulder and walked me through the casino. Everyone was watching. You couldn’t even hear slots being played. He told me to tie my robe, which was wide open. Members of a wedding party walked past and eyeballed me.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” I hollered at the groom. “You think she’s gonna stay with you? She’s not gonna stay with you. She’ll find somebody else. You hear me, you son of a bitch? She’ll find someone else!”

  When we got back to Mota’s office, he told me
to sit in the same chair I had a few days earlier. I felt like I was back in prep school, waiting to get expelled. The Lou Gehrig bobblehead seemed to move imperceptibly. Was he judging me, too? I slumped back in the chair. Rubbed the lapel of the robe on my cheek. It was a miracle I hadn’t passed out. You have never seen someone so messed up in your life.

  “Seems like you’re a little under the weather tonight, Ray.”

  “I’m fucked-up, Bob.”

  “Well, how’s about you call it a night and hit ’em again tomorrow? The tables, that is. Not the customers. I don’t think you really want to be drawing that kind of attention to yourself. All things considered.”

  “All things considered.”

  “Right. Lot of these people probably watch the news, if you hear what I’m saying.”

  “I hear you,” I said, and sighed.

  “Good,” he said, standing up. “Then we understand each other. You and the little lady need anything, you just call downstairs. Try and get some rest for yourself.”

  I suppose I should have been grateful for his kindness. He could have dropped a dime right there. But he wasn’t motivated by goodwill. It was greed. I still had something he wanted, after all. Then again, what did it matter? Intent. Outcome. Goodwill. Greed. Luck. Fate. What did it really matter? Who gave a shit about the fine line that divided every last thing? Life was arbitrary. It was unfair. What you had today would be gone tomorrow. All was temporary. Anybody could be forgotten. The feeling love gave you—that you were heroic, that your life was epic—was a lie. You weren’t heroic. You were nobody. Everything was nothing. In the end, your life was like a strand of Christmas lights wired in sequence. When one bulb went out, everything went dark. Everything stopped working. The light was gone. It would never come back.

  “Fuck you, Bob.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Fuck you. You’re not my father. You don’t tell me when to go to bed.”

  “Now hold—”

  “Gimme the rest of my goddamn money. I’ll go play at Caesars.”

  There is little to no question that he wanted to stomp the shit out of me right then and there. The New Yorker in him was telling him to climb over the desk and dish out some East Coast–style justice. But he wasn’t on the East Coast anymore. And he had a job to do. And that job was making sure I left with nothing. Not even the robe.

  “You want to keep playing, toughie?” he said, getting up. “Fine. G’head and play.”

  We marched across the lobby, where a boxing ring was being set up to promote a major fight. I had no idea who it was. That world was another I was once a part of but was now lost to me. Mota led me on into the casino. He was walking at a pace, no doubt wondering whether he’d done the right thing by not kicking my ass for telling him to fuck off. I weaved behind him, everything on the casino floor stretching and contorting like reflections in a fun-house mirror. I sat at my own table again and told Mota to get me a marker for $500,000. A young, handsome Korean dealer shuffled up. His name tag read HO. SEOUL.

  “Hey, Ho,” I said.

  He remained expressionless.

  “Little Ho Hum tonight?” Nothing.

  Screw him, I thought, as another pair of newlyweds and their wedding party barged through the casino, making a big scene. The bride was falling-down drunk, and the groom had his arm around one of the bridesmaids. When Ho asked me if I was ready to make a bet, the groom reached down and grabbed a healthy handful of the bridesmaid’s ass. I sighed, then put out a $100,000 play and adjusted my shades. Ho dealt me a 7, then a 4, against an 8. I doubled up, measuring another stack next to my first one, and drew a 9 for 20. He flipped a 6 next to his 8, snapped down a 7, and racked up my chips like he hadn’t just handed me a brutal beat. It irritated me. A dealer’s job is to say “Ouch” or “Tough one” or at least something that indicates he sympathizes with what just happened to you. Not Ho. Old Stoneface didn’t make a sound. I contemplated my next bet as a waitress I vaguely recognized from the night before came over and put a vodka pineapple in front of me.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s what you were drinking last night.”

  “It’s not last night anymore, is it?” I said.

  I waved it away and ordered tequila. If she had brought me a tequila, I would have waved it away and ordered vodka pineapple. I wondered what Boyd Bollinger drank. Dewar’s, probably. The fucker had Dewar’s written all over him.

  “Wait. What do old guys drink?” I said to her.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Old dudes. Bring me whatever old dudes drink. Dewar’s or something.”

  “What about the tequila?”

  “Bring that, too.”

  I stacked up another $100,000. Ho fed me a 17. Turned an 18 without blinking and snatched my chips.

  “You gonna ask me if I want a card next time, Hi Ho Silver?”

  Ho sighed. Turned around to look at Bob Mota and Manny C., who had appeared. They were like peas and carrots, those two.

  “Raoul’s an unpredictable player,” Bob said. “Don’t deal without seeing what he wants to do.”

  “He had a seventeen.”

  “Don’t deal without consulting the player. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So I gotta eat that last one, Bob?”

  “You tell me. Sharp guy like you gonna hit seventeen?”

  “You never know,” I said. “You never know what’s going to happen in life.”

  My heart was still racing and my blood was sizzling. I kept seeing Boyd in bed with L. Revolting images caromed around inside my brain. I saw flashes of things that were horrible. Things you should never imagine. I shook my head and emptied the rest of my rack, stacking up $200,000.

  “You ever heard of a guy named Boyd Bollinger, Ho?”

  Mr. Personality shook his head. Dealt a 14 against a face. I hit. El busto.

  “You gonna answer me or just fucking stand there?”

  “Never heard of the gentleman, sir.”

  I told Mota to bring me another $500,000. In the meantime, my drinks arrived, and I slammed them both. I nearly threw up. But I told the waitress to bring me two more anyway. When my chips arrived, I dumped them on the table like a four-year-old playing with LEGOs. I must have looked like a maniac.

  “Boyd Bollinger is the man who stole my wife,” I continued.

  “Sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. “I don’t believe you care about that.”

  Ho turned around and looked at Mota and Manny C. again.

  “Why do you keep looking at them? Bob, why does Ho Chi Minh keep looking at you?”

  “Let’s just relax a little bit, Raoul.”

  “I’m very relaxed. I’m cool as a fucking cucumber,” I said. “Just tell your boy to deal the cards.”

  The waitress plunked down two more drinks, which I hammered back. I covered my mouth to keep from throwing up. More images of Boyd and L tumbled in my head. I couldn’t shake them.

  “I’m from Korea,” Ho said evenly.

  “I can read a name tag. Seoul. With an E.”

  “Ho Chi Minh is Vietnamese.”

  “Yeah? Well, Merry Christmas for him. You gonna deal cards or teach geography?”

  I put out another $100,000 bet. Before I could even read my cards, Ho rolled an ace-queen. I could swear I saw a smile crease his lips.

  “Like that, didn’t you, Ho?”

  “No, sir,” he said.

  “Bob, Manny, put this motherfucker on the next boat to Saigon. I want a new dealer.”

  Ho wiped his hands and gave me a curt bow that was soaked in disdain. There was no telling who wanted to kill the other more. Difference was that he was just a polite kid doing his job, and I was a chrome-plated asshole. There wasn’t a lot of nuance to the situation. I stared into space until my old friend Patrice arrived at the table.

  “How you doing, honey?”

  “How’m I doing? How I’m doing is I los
t my wife.”

  “That little blond girl? I’m so sorry.”

  “Not her,” I said. “She’s not my wife. She’s nobody. She’s from fucking Ohio.”

  I leaned back in my chair and turned around. A small crowd had formed, but not like before. Now they were keeping their distance a good ten feet behind me. Bob Mota went to disperse them after I hollered, “What the hell are you buzzards looking at?”

  “Sorry about that, Raoul.”

  “It’s not the fucking zoo, Bob,” I said, ignoring the fact that I had turned his floor into a raging house party not a day earlier.

  “You’re a hundred percent right,” he said.

  “I mean, it’s not the fucking zoo. Do I look like a panda to you? Patrice?”

  “No, Raoul.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You sure you want to keep playing, sweetheart? You look worn out.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I said without placing a bet. “Deal the cards.”

  I just sat there for a while, Boyd and L doing the most heinous things imaginable in my head, before Manny C. coughed and said, “What’s the play, guy?” I glared at him and shoved my entire rack out in front of me: $400,000. No one in the history of legalized gambling deserved to lose more than I did.

  “This is the play.”

  “Raoul.”

  “What, Patrice?”

  “Look at me,” she said.

  “Deal the cards.”

  “Maybe you want to go slow? Have some coffee?”

  “Deal,” I said. I couldn’t even look at her. She was too sweet.

  “I’m really sorry about your wife.”

  “Deal.”