Johnny swung back toward the sound of his voice.
“Johnny?”
“I feel lucky, just like the man said. “He smiled down at her. “Unless you mind…?”
“No, go ahead. Just don't take too long.”
He looked at her again in that frankly speculative way that made her feel a little weak, wondering how it would be with him. Her stomach did a slow roll-over that made her feel a bit nauseated with sudden sexual longing.
“No, not long. “He looked at the pitchman. The midway behind them was almost completely empty now, and as the overcast had melted off above them it had turned chilly. The three of them were puffing white vapor as they breathed.
“Try” your luck, young man?”
“Yes.”
He had switched all his cash to his front pocket when they arrived at the fair, and now he pulled out the remains of his eight dollars. It came to a dollar eighty-five.
The playing board was a strip of yellow plastic with numbers and odds painted on it in squares. It looked a bit like a roulette board, but Johnny saw immediately that the odds here would have turned a Las Vegas roulette player gray… A trip combination paid off at only two to one. There were two house numbers, zero and double zero. He pointed this out to the pitchman, who only shrugged.
“You want Vegas, go to Vegas. What can I say?”
But Johnny's good humor tonight was unshakable. Things had gotten off to a poor start with that mask, but it had been all upbeat from there. In fact, it was the best night he could remember in years, maybe the best night ever. He looked at Sarah. Her color was high, her eyes sparkling. “What do you say, Sarah?”
She shook her head. “It's Greek to me. What do you do?”
“Play a number. Or red/black. Or odd/even. Or a ten-number series. They all pay differently. “He gazed at the pitchman, who gazed back blandly. “At least, they should.”
“Play black,” she said. “It is sort of exciting, isn't it?”
“Black,” he said, and dropped his odd dime on the black square.
The pitchman stared at the single dime on his expanse of playboard and sighed. “Heavy plunger. “He turned to the Wheel.
Johnny's hand wandered absently to his forehead and touched it. “Wait,” he said abruptly. He pushed one of his quarters onto the square reading 11-20.
“That it?”
“Sure,” Johnny said.
The pitchman gave the Wheel a twist and it spun in-side its circle of lights, red and black merging. Johnny absently rubbed at his forehead. The Wheel began to slow and now they could hear the metronome-like tick-tock of the small wooden clapper sliding past the pins that divided the numbers. It reached 8, 9, seemed about to stop on 10, and slipped into the 11 slot with a final dick and came to rest.
“The lady loses, the gentleman wins,” the pitchman said.
“You won, Johnny?”
“Seems like it,” Johnny said as the pitchman added two quarters to his original one. Sarah gave a little squeal, barely noticing as the pitchman swept the dime away.
“Told you, my lucky night,” Johnny said.
“Twice is luck, once is just a fluke,” the pitchman remarked. “Hey-hey-hey.”
“Go again, Johnny,” she said.
“All right. Just as it is for me.”
“Let it ride?”
“Yes.”
The pitchman spun the Wheel again, and as it slid around, Sarah murmured quietly to him, “Aren't all these carnival wheels suppose to be fixed?”
“They used to be. Now the state inspects them and they just rely on their outrageous odds system.”
The Wheel had slowed to its final unwinding tick-tock. The pointer passed 10 and entered Johnny's trip, still slowing.
“Come on, come on! “Sarah cried. A couple of teenagers on their way out paused to watch.
The wooden clapper, moving very slowly now, passed 16 and 17, then came to a stop on 18.
“Gentleman wins again. “The pitchman added six more quarters to Johnny's pile.
“You're rich!” Sarah gloated, and kissed him on the cheek.
“You're streaking, fella,” the pitchman agreed enthusiastically. “Nobody quits a hot stick. Hey-hey-hey.”
“Should I go again?” Johnny asked her.
“Why not?”
“Yeah, go ahead, man,” one of the teenagers said. A button on his jacket bore the face of Jimi Hendrix. “That guy took me for four bucks tonight. I love to see him take a beatin.”
“You too then,” Johnny told Sarah. He gave her the odd quarter off his stack of nine. After a moment's hesitation she laid it down on 21. Single numbers paid off ten to one on a hit, the board announced.
“You're riding the middle trip, right, fella?”
Johnny looked down at the eight quarters stacked on the board, and then he began to rub his forehead again, as if he felt the beginnings of a headache. Suddenly he swept the quarters off the board and jingled them in his two cupped hands.
“No. Spin for the lady. I'll watch this one.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “Johnny?”
He shrugged. “Just a feeling.”
The pitchman rolled his eyes in a heaven-give-me-strength-to-bear-these fools gesture and set his Wheel going again. It spun, slowed, and stopped. On double zero. “House numbah, house numbah,” the pitchman chanted, and Sarah's quarter disappeared into his apron.
“Is that fair, Johnny?” Sarah asked, hurt.
“Zero and double zero only pay the house,” he said.
“Then you were smart to take your money off the board.”
“I guess I was.”
“You want me to spin this Wheel or go for coffee?” the pitchman asked.
“Spin it,” Johnny said, and put his quarters down in two stacks of four on the third trip.
As the Wheel buzzed around in its cage of lights, Sarah asked Johnny, never taking her eyes from the spin, “How much can a place like this take in on one night?”
The teenagers had been joined by a quartet of older people, two men and two women. A man with the build of a construction worker said, “Anywheres from five to seven hundred dollars.”
The pitchman rolled his eyes again. “Oh, man, I wish you was right,” he said.
“Hey, don't give me that poor mouth,” the man who looked like a construction worker said. “I used to work this scam twenty years ago. Five to seven hundred a night, two grand on a Saturday, easy. And that's running a straight Wheel.”
Johnny kept his eyes on the Wheel, which was now spinning slowly enough to read the individual numbers as they flashed past. It flashed past 0 and 00, through the first trip, slowing, through the second trip, still slowing.
“Too much legs, man,” one of the teenagers said.
“Wait,” Johnny said, in a peculiar tone of voice. Sarah glanced at him, and his long, pleasant face looked oddly strained, his blue eyes darker than usual, for away, distant.
The pointer stopped on 30 and came to rest.
“Hot stick, hot stick,” the pitchman chanted resignedly as the little crowd behind Johnny and Sarah uttered a cheer. The man who looked like a construction worker clapped Johnny on the back hard enough to make him stagger a bit. The pitchman reached into the Roi-Tan box under the counter and dropped four singles beside Johnny's eight quarters.
“Enough?” Sarah asked.
“One more,” Johnny said. “If I win, this guy paid for our fair and your gas. If I lose, we're out half a buck or so.
“Hey-hey-hey,” the pitchman chanted. He was brightening up now, getting his rhythm back. “Get it down where you want it down. Step right up, you other folks. This ain't no spectator sport. Round and round she's gonna go and where she's gonna stop ain't nobody knows.”
The man who looked like a construction worker and the two teenagers stepped up beside Johnny and Sarah. After a moment's consultation, the teenagers produced half a buck in change between them and dropped it on the middle trip. The man who looked like a construction worker, who introduced himself as Steve Bernhardt, put a dollar on the square marked EVEN.
“What about you, buddy?” the pitchman asked Johnny. “You gonna play it as it lays?”
“Yes,” Johnny said.
“Oh man,” one of the teenagers said, “that's tempting fate.”
“I guess,” Johnny said, and Sarah smiled at him.
Bernhardt gave Johnny a speculative glance and suddenly switched his dollar to his third trip. “What the hell,” sighed the teenager who had told Johnny he was tempting fate. He switched the fifty cents he and his friend had come up with to the same trip.
“All the eggs in one basket,” the pitchman chanted. “That how you want it?”
The players stood silent and affirmative. A couple of roustabouts had drifted over to watch, one of them with a lady friend; there was now quite a respectable little knot of people in front of the Wheel of Fortune concession in the darkening arcade. The pitchman gave the Wheel a mighty spin. Twelve pairs of eyes watched it revolve. Sarah found herself looking at Johnny again, thinking how strange his face was in this bold yet somehow furtive lighting. She thought of the mask again-Jekyll and Hyde, odd and even. Her stomach turned over again, making her feel a little weak. The Wheel slowed, began to tick. The teenagers began to shout at it, urging it onward.
“Little more, baby,” Steve Bernhardt cajoled it. “Little more, honey.”
The Wheel ticked into the third trip and came to a stop on 24. A cheer went up from the crowd again.
“Johnny, you did it, you did it I” Sarah cried.
The pitchman whistled through his teeth in disgust and paid off. A dollar for the teenagers, two for Bernhardt, a ten and two ones for Johnny. He now had eighteen dollars in front of him on the board.
“Hot stick, hot stick, hey-hey-hey. One more, buddy? This Wheel's your friend tonight.”
