A Gambling Man by David Baldacci (best short books to read txt) 📗

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 on 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