CHAPTER
26
It doesn?'t take long for a hooker to latch onto Walt. He?s playing the craps table in high style, like an oilman with money to burn, and nothing draws girls like burning money. This one?s young, and that fits his role: sugar daddy on the prowl. She?s a bottle blonde with skinny legs, a hard face, and hard little tits, but she?s not more than thirty, so she?ll do. Walt likes dark-haired women, but he?s somebody else tonight?J. B. Gilchrist from Dallas, Texas?and picking a wrong woman makes it easier to remember that.
Walt?s working the
Zephyr,
not the
Magnolia Queen.
In a market this small, word of a big player will spread plenty fast. His goal is to lose enough of Penn?s money that by tomorrow night, every pit boss and dealer in town will know his name.
The crowd on the
Zephyr
is mostly black, which he?d expected when a guy on the shuttle bus joked about him going to the
African Queen.
The majority of this clientele clearly doesn?'t have money to lose, but here they are, dropping their dollars into the slots and looking longingly at the table games. He feels guilty sliding the brightly colored chips across the felt under their watchful eyes, but he?s got a job to do, and there?s no point worrying about something he can?t change.
It takes about fifteen minutes?and a good deal more of Penn?s cash?before the table hits a hot streak. Walt?s not the roller when it happens, but that hardly matters: Craps is the most social of casino games, with the players rooting for each other, united against the house. By laying down hundreds per bet, Walt?s become the de facto ?table captain,? and all eyes are on him. If he wins, everybody wins, at least in spirit.
By the time the roller has hit his fifth point, Walt?s up by thousands, and the hooker?s snuggling closer on his arm. His fellow players? eyes go from Walt, as he makes his bet, to the tumbling dice, then back to Walt, who?s increased his line bets to a thousand dollars.
A couple of men in Western-style suede sport coats have joined the swelling crowd waiting for an opening at the table. Well-heeled rednecks by the look of them?one older with gray whiskers, the other a Tim McGraw look-alike in his midthirties?father and son, maybe. If they stick around, Walt might ask them about finding some action. They?ll ogle the blonde and say, ?It looks like you already found some, partner,? but he?ll shake his head and draw them in close and ask about some real sport. They might act confused, play it carefully, but the young guy?s wearing an Angola Prison Rodeo belt buckle, so he can?t be from too far away. Walt suspects that he, at least, knows the score.
?Five, five,? the stickman calls out. ?No-field five.? He pushes the dice to the red-hot roller. ?High, low, yo, anyone??
The stickman?s pushing for prop bets, bad-odds wagers that only amateurs make.
?Thousand on the yo.? The crowd hushes, watching as Walt tosses out two purple chips. ?One for me and one for the boys.?
?Thank you very much for the action, sir,? says the stickman loudly, placing the chips in the middle of the table, one representing Walt?s bet, the other $1,000 bet for the stickman, the pit boss, and the two dealers running the table. Now Walt has the employees? attention as well. If his bet hits, the dealers will win a tip that comes only a handful of times in a career.
?Whew,? breathes the girl on his arm. ?That'?s a lot.?
Walt grins like he?s lapping it up. ?That'?s the secret of this game, hon. Soon as you get a good run going, you ride it. Ride her till she bucks ya and go home happy.? He leans down to her ear and adds, ?And ride some more.?
?You go, Dad,? says the rodeo fan. ?Show ?em how it?s done!?
Walt gives the kid a hard look, then softens it into a smile, hugging the girl to his side. ?This?un here?s the only one who gets to call me daddy.?
There?s general laughter from the crowd, and the roller tosses the dice.
The crowd whoops as the dice come up eleven.
?Yo eleven,? says the stickman, barely controlling the excitement in his voice. ?Pay the line, and pay the gentleman. Thank you again, sir.?
Walt gives a casual nod as the dealers collect a total of $16,000 in tip money to divide as they see fit.
He lays down the same bet again, to sincere thank-yous from the crew. Predictably, it misses. And just as predictably, the roller?s hot run ends a few throws later. Gradually, the dice make their way around the table. When they reach Walt, he gestures graciously to the hooker that she should take his roll. She squeals and squeezes his arm, then takes a gulp from her rum and coke. He drops the dice into her moist palm, tells her to blow on them before she rolls. Her eyes light up like a penny slot machine. She blows on the dice, then flings them down the table like a kid skipping rocks on a pond.
?Seven,? says the stickman. ?Winner, seven. Pay the line, take the don'?t.?
The crowd roars as usual, and Walt uses its attention like a spotlight. ?Let?s do another bet for the boys,? he says generously. ?You can win it for them, right, honey??
The hooker giggles wildly as the stickman places another thousand-dollar ?yo? bet for himself and his coworkers.
The hooker rolls the dice, establishing a point of four, but losing the prop bet. The crowd sighs.
?Sorry, boys,? Walt says. ?Let?s hit that point. What do you say, Fancy??
?It?s Nancy,? the girl says with an exaggerated pout.
Walt grins for the crowd. ?I knew a Fancy in New Orleans once. Or was it Dallas? Hell, I can?t remember. But I sure remember her. How ?bout you be Fancy just for tonight??
The hooker looks uncertainly around at the attentive eyes, then down at Walt?s long rack of high-value chips. Her eyes flash, and she pumps her fist like a high school cheerleader at a pep rally.
?Fancy Nancy!? she cries. ?Gimme those damn dice!?
The crowd chatters while Walt places the maximum odds bet on his four, then falls silent, waiting for the throw.
?Roll ?em, Fancy,? Walt says. ?Put the magic on ?em, baby. Give us a four. Make those old bones pay, I know you know how to do that.?
The crowd laughs again, but the girl?s past caring now. Walt feels like a son of a bitch, but it takes a son of a bitch to get his rocks off watching two dogs tear each other to pieces to please men who don'?t care if they live or die, except as extensions of their own pride.
Nancy blows on the dice again, then gives them a backhand throw, but the pit boss?s eyes are on Walt now. Just like the PTZ cameras in the hanging domes on the ceiling. The guys in the security room were probably bored shitless when he started his run, but now they'?re watching with the same hunger as the people leaning against the table, wishing somebody would beat the house and walk away flush.
Suckers every one,
Walt thinks.
How empty does your life have to be to spend your nights in this place?
