Texas by the Tail

tonight, now did they? 'Thought any more about that stock option?' he added. 'Think you're going to be able to pick it up?'

'It doesn't look that way at the moment.' Mitch shook his head regretfully. 'I don't fully understand the picture, but I seem to be involved in a long-term investment program. I couldn't pull out at this point without losing practically everything that's been put into it.'

'I see. I think I know what you mean,' Zearsdale said casually. 'Well, do you feel up to a little fun?' He simulated a man shooting dice. 'Like to roll the bones a little?'

'Whatever you say,' Mitch smiled.

He followed Zearsdale to a sunken recreation room, and the oil man got brandy for them from a long saloon-type bar. Then, as Zearsdale excused himself ('to go after ammunition'), he wandered over to the dice table. It was a regulation, gambling-house crap table, marked off for field, pass, come, craps and so on. In the ceiling above it, and approximately the same dimensions, was a mirror. Mitch was idly puzzled by it-why a mirror over a crap table? He picked up the dice from the green felt, and made a few throws with them. Zearsdale returned, slapping two thick sheafs of bills together- new one-hundred-dollar bills with the bank's band still around them.

'Warming up on me, huh?' He laughed roguishly. 'Well, we'll see about that. Want to tee-lee for firsts?' Each of them rolled one of the dice. Mitch got a six. Zearsdale matched it.

Mitch threw a five next time, not wanting to look too good. Zearsdale came back with a six. He picked up both dice and shook them.

'Put a name to it, Corley. A buck-two bucks?'

'A couple of bucks will be fine,' Mitch said, and he dropped two hundred dollars on the table.

'Two into that,' Zearsdale said, and he laid down a packet of the hundreds.

He rolled the dice. They came up craps-snake-eyes. Since he had had no point, he lost the bet but kept the dice. 'Shoot the four bucks,' he said, and came out with a big seven.

Again picking up the transparent cubes, he glanced at Mitch. 'Eight or any part, Corley.'

'Eight,' Mitch nodded, and he dropped more money on the table.

Zearsdale sixed on the next roll, and fell off a few rolls later with a seven. He chuckled, good- humoredly, tapping the sheaf of bills.

'Sixteen into me, my friend. Want to shoot it?'

'Sure,' Mitch agreed. 'Shoot it all.'

He was still intent on making it look good, so he rolled a point rather than passing. The point was ten, and he came right back with a- -seven!

He could hardly believe it for a moment. How in the hell could it have happened? He could think of only one reason, and that reason was not nearly so far-fetched as it seemed.

The rich do get richer, the majority do, often with no apparent effort on their part. Them that has gets. The same quality which led them to their original getting continues to prevail in their favor. Perhaps there is a better name for that quality than luck, but no one has ever heard it.

Of course, Mitch could admit the possibility that he might have goofed; he had done it before to the tune of much bigger losses. But always before he had sensed the slipping of his control, the momentary short-circuit between his brain and his fingers. This time, however, he had had no such feelings.

He had called for a ten, certain of its arrival. And the devil had jumped up at him.

Still, he hadn't lost anything yet. He had been shooting with Zearsdale's money. So despite a certain uneasiness, his gambler's conviction that skill can never beat luck, he agreed to another doubling of the bet.

'Sure,' he said, piling bills onto the green felt. 'Thirtytwo's a nice round number.'

'Here we go,' Zearsdale said, and away he went.

With a six-five, a six-ace, a five-two, a four-trey, an eight, another eight, and another eleven…

And then Mitch was glancing into his wallet, grinning ruefully, as casual as though he had dropped a book of matches instead of what was practically the last cent he had in the world.

'I guess that's going to have to be the end of our game,' he said pleasantly. 'Next time I'll come a little better prepared.'

'Now, you don't need cash with me,' Zearsdale said. 'Just write a check for whatever you like.'

'No, that's not fair to you.' Mitch shook his head 'I think it jinxes a man to bet paper against cash.'

'Well, borrow some cash from me then. Come on now,' Zearsdale urged jovially. 'The game's just getting interesting.'

Mitch strongly demurred, but not nearly so strongly as he had in the matter of the check. At last, at the oil man's insistence, he accepted a loan of ten thousand dollars. With it, his confidence surged back into him.

He firmly believed, as any gambler would have, that Zearsdale had given away his luck with the loan. He would now be betting against his own money, and the good fortune it bad brought him.

Just as he shook the dice, there was a sudden clatter from the room above them. Mitch started, surprised at the noise in what must be a well-built house, and Zearsdale looked upward with dark disgust. He muttered something to the effect that if the help wanted to romp around all night, they could stay up and work.

'Let's see,' he said. 'Coming out for thirty-two hundred, right?'

'You're covered,' Mitch nodded.

Zearsdale rolled. The dice bounced and spun, and laughed at him with a little three. He passed them back to Mitch, and Mitch settled down to work.

He was confident, but very careful. The goof-of-the-year was out of his system now, and the magic was back in his hands. But he was taking no chances. He could only control the dice while he had them, and he could not hold onto them indefinitely.

His first move was to lower the bet to five hundred dollars-after all, why make work out of fun? Thus buiwarked against a lucky run by Zearsdale, he won thirty-five hundred dollars before deliberately crapping out.

The oil man passed, pointed and fell off.

Mitch went to work again, allowing himself only two passes, beating all around a point before he made it; finally going 'unlucky' after another thirty-five-hundred-dollar run.

He kept it looking good all the way-something much harder to do than winning.

It was drudgery but it paid off. Some ninety minutes after he had landed in the swamp he was up on the mountain top. He was square on the loan and his original stake was back in his pocket, and with it was eighteen thousand of Zearsdale's money.

He lost the dice at this point. The oil man let them lay, politely stifling a yawn.

'Getting a little tired, aren't you? What do you say we have a drink?'

'Maybe I'd just better run along,' Mitch said. 'Unless you'd rather keep the game going. I don't want to quit winner on you if you do.'

Zearsdale said, oh, what the hell? There'd be another night. 'We'll be seeing each other again. You can depend on it, Corley. Now, if you're sure you won't have a drink..

He saw Mitch to the door. They shook hands and said good night, and Zearsdale gently closed the door behind him. Then, he went up the stairs, his square, heavy-set body moving as lightly as a cat's, and opened the door of a small room.

It was directly above the recreation room. Part of its flooring had been taken up, creating a gape in its approximate center. Poised to look down through this-and through the two-way mirror above the crap table-was