Hot Night in the City

see, sir, there are a total of thirty-six numbers painted on the wheel before you. Now, with a full tip ('tip' being what people in my profession call the crowd standing in front of a game or a wheel) I would have thirty-six dimes —one per each number—riding on every turn of the wheel. And that, if I am not mistaken, would be a total of three dollars and sixty cents. It would be three dollars and sixty cents, wouldn't it, sir? Please feel free to test my contentions and verify my estimates. Now, I can purchase these fine hams wholesale for three dollars and forty cents each. Thus, if I manage to keep my tip full and enthusiastic, then somebody wins a ham with every spin, and I make twenty cents, clear profit. That may not seem like much to a rich man like you, but you take twenty cents and multiply it by a whole bunch, and you'd be surprised how soon it mounts up! Now, I am not going to stand here and ask you to cover every single number on the wheel just to make sure you win your ham. And why? Because you'd refuse to do it. And why would an intelligent man pay three dollars and sixty cents for a three-forty ham? That'd be bad business, and any fool can see that you have the clear eye, the quick mind, and the sharp appetite for a good deal that marks the American businessman (I say 'marks' in the sense of 'characterizes') and as Cal Coolidge said, 'What's good for business is good for America.' Here's what I suggest, sir. I suggest you put one dollar—one dollar—on either number nine or number seven, the choice is yours, freely offered and freely taken. Then I want you to come up here and spin the wheel with your own hands because this is a game of chance and we don't want skill to play any unjust role. If your number comes up within twelve spins—twelve spins!—then I'll hand over to you, free and clear and as an unencumbered gift of the establishment one of these Southern Delight Honey Cured Slo-Smoked Virginia Hams. Now, let's you and me walk through the percentages and probabilities of this offer. The chance of your number coming up in one spin would be one in thirty-six. Have I got that right? So with twelve spins, your chance of winning becomes... what would that become?' And the banker says, 'One in three,' and I frowned and struggled with the figures for a second, before I says with surprise, 'That's right! One in three! And I'm offering a prize that has a wholesale market value, not of three dollars, but of three dollars and forty cents, which gives you an indisputable advantage without making me seem like the fool who is soon parted from his money. Have I made any oversights or errors in working out the odds, sir?' Well, this banker ran over the figures in his head and guess what? I was right: he did have the mathematical advantage. So he narrowed his eyes and asked how come I was willing to give him the better part of the odds, and I wagged my finger at him and said, 'You see right through me, don't you, sir? You recognize that I stand to win either way. If you fail to hit your number in twelve (twelve!) spins, then I pocket your dollar. But if the international law of averages brings one of these fine hams into your possession, then every citizen of this town will see a leader of the community walking around with one of my hams under his arm, and the next thing you know, my poor wheel will be flooded with customers, and I'll be making a steady twenty cents with each spin. Like I said, I win either way. Oh, by the way, sir? You don't have to baby this wheel. You can spin 'er as hard as you want because she's been carefully and thoroughly G'd.'

'Well, the mark plunks his dollar down on the nine, and he climbs up and spins the wheel. Then he spins it again. And again. And pretty soon he attracts a tip of local gawkers, wondering what their town banker is doing, sweating in the sun, spinning that big wheel. Well, he kept on spinning, although I could see he was embarrassed by the crowd watching him. Finally his twelve spins were over without him hitting his nine, and he was a little huffy about the way the crowd was laughing and giving him free advice about how to spin a wheel; so, of course, I give him an additional five spins out of the goodness of my heart, telling him that I really wanted him to win his ham and bring me in rafts of customers. So he grunts out another five spins, but that darned nine just refused to come up. I pocketed his buck and shook my head and said, 'Ain't that the ornery way of mathematics for you? Sometimes the law of averages just doesn't work out in the short term. Say, you wouldn't want to risk another dollar, would you, sir?' He grumbles and walks away with his pals laughing and kidding him. So you see, kid. Your Mr Small-Town- Lord-It-Over-the-Little-Guy Banker turned out to be nothing but a mark after all.'

'Yeah, but what if he'd hit the nine and won the ham?'

'If he'd of hit the nine, I'd of been so surprised I wouldn't of known whether to shit or go blind. Chances are I'd of compromised by closing one eye and farting. There was no way he could of hit the nine. Like I told you, that wheel had a painted G. I even flashed the G to your banker friend when I told him he could spin 'er as hard as he wanted because it was well and truly G'd.'

'What's a painted G?'

'A G-wheel is a fixed wheel. Sometimes with elaborate brakes that let the practiced carnie stop on an empty number, sometimes with a slide that lets him skip a number with a lot of money on it. But the best G is the one painted right on the wheel, where the numbers are written on little triangles, half with their broad ends towards the nails around the edge, and half with their points. On that wheel, all the odd numbers had their points coming to a nail, so, of course, the flapper couldn't possibly stop on an odd number. A painted G is always better than any mechanical G, even a high-class belly-buff, because it's right out there in front of the mark's face, but he can't see it because he's concentrating so hard on complicated scams and devices. Of course, a painted G requires a word- weaver to fog their minds, which is why yours truly is one of the finest wheelman in this republic, from sea to shining sea.'

I turned around and looked back down the street to the big shiny Packard parked outside the bank, and I shook my head. 'Yeah, but all the same I admire the way—'

'Admire's ass, kid. He's nothing but a mark. Not worth thinking about.'

When we reached the edge of town where the houses began to thin out, we climbed back up onto the tracks and walked on northward. The sun was settling into the horizon, growing big and dusty red where it had got snagged in a clump of trees that threw their long shadows across the darkening flatlands. I heard singing off to our left, where a little white clapboard church was standing next to its burying ground, its windows already lit for evening worship. On the front steps was this preacher dressed in black, and some parishioners were standing around, looking up at him with respect and admiration.

I stopped and looked down on the scene, and I felt a sort of tug in my chest. 'Man, wouldn't I give a lot to be in that man's shoes,' I said. 'I can just see myself standing there and being admired and respected by everybody, and nothing to do but get up in the pulpit and lay into folks, telling them how low-down and vile and sinful they are, and how they'll sure as hell roast in eternal fire, if they don't shape up pretty goddamned soon.'

Dirty-shirt nodded. 'Yeah, I gotta admit that preaching's a pretty soft scam. Any fair-to-middlin' carnie could make a bindle out of, if he was willing to sacrifice his freedom and settle down in some Boobville Corners. And quite a few of them have done just that. But believe me, kid, you wouldn't want to be that particular shame merchant.'

'Why not?'

' 'Cause he's the biggest goddam fool of a mark I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot.'

'You know him?'

'I recognize him.' Dirty-Shirt started to walk on, and I followed. 'In my line of business you learn to recognize people before they recognize you and go after the law. Or their shotguns. Yeah, I recognize him from some twenty-five years ago when I played through here with Happy Elmer Holliday's Great Eastern Amalgamated Shows. He was lots younger then—but then, who wasn't? Except for you, of course. You were still part of some angel's nightmare.'

'What makes him the biggest mark you ever saw?'

Dirty-Shirt shook his head. 'That man...! That man threw away what most men would have given their front seat in hell to have. He passed up Loving Grace Appleby. Can you believe it?'

I could believe it because I didn't have the slightest idea who Loving Grace Appleby was, and I said so.

'Loving Grace Appleby was the best piece of ass that ever drew breath on God's good green earth. You can't compare her to other women, no more'n you can compare a ten-car, high-ball railroad carnival manned by top- drawer scam-mavins to a broken-down three-truck punk show run by a handful of forty-mile stumble bums.'

I wasn't with the carnivals yet, so I didn't know about highballs and scam mavins and forty-milers and punk shows, but I got the idea that this Grace Appleby was something special.

He sighed and said in a voice soft with memories, '...Loving Grace Appleby... Oh, my, my, my! She danced the hoochie coochie with Happy Elmer's show, and believe-you-me, kid, when, she did her little appetizer in front of the show tent, those rubes would crowd around and stare up at her, their mouths open, their eyes bugging, and their imaginations chugging full steam ahead, while their wives either huffed off in