Vigorish, Page 2

hair-colored hair, which was sort of out of characterfor a barroom hustler. I put plenty of TK on the heel of her rightslipper, and she stepped right out of it. It might as well have beennailed to the floor. Nothing was going to discourage this one, I saw. Ilet her pick it off the floor, squeeze it back on her skinny foot, andcome toward me.

  This new babe leaned over toward me and stuck her nose up against mine.It was long, thin, and not a little red.

  "Billy Joe!" she said, and sniffled loudly. "My darlin' Billy!"

  How near-sighted can you get? I don't think there's such a thing as acase of mistaken identity around a guy like me. I didn't know herdarlin' Billy from Adam's ox. But I'd have bet a pretty we didn't lookalike.

  "You're wasting it," I told her, looking out over the crap tables. "It'snew, and different. But I'm not _anybody's_ darling." A jerk of my headtold her to move on.

  But she sniffled and stayed put. I gave up and started through the pressof gamblers toward the Cashier's cage.

  "Billy Joe!" this hustler moaned behind me, clawing at my jacket. "Iknew I'd find you here. And I came sich a fer piece, Billy Joe! Don'tmake me go off again, darlin' Billy!"

  While I prefer to gamble for cash, I had reason while on a job forsticking to a known amount of chips. She stood there while I got athousand dollars worth of ten-buck markers, looking at me with some kindof plea in her eyes. This again was not in the pattern. Most hustlerscan't keep their eyes off your chips.

  She puppy-dogged behind me to the crap table I had decided needed myattention. It was crowded, but there's always room for one more sucker.And still one more, for the sniffly girl with the hair-colored hairpressed in against my useless right arm when I elbowed my way in betweenthe gamblers, directly across from the dealers.

  "Billy Joe!" she said, just loud enough to hear over the chanting of thedealers and the excited chatter of the dice players. Billy Joe! What acorn-ball routine!

  * * * * *

  I took stock before beginning to lose my stack of chips. There were morethan twenty gamblers of both sexes pressed up against the green baize ofthe crap layout. Three stick-men in black aprons that marked them fordealers were working on the other side or the table. We had at least onedealer too many for the crowd. That screamed out loud the table washaving trouble. Big gambling layouts know within minutes if a table isnot making its vigorish. A Nevada crap layout, with moderately heavyplay, should make six per cent of the amount gambled on every roll.That's its vigorish--its percentage. If the take falls below that, thesuspicion is that the table is being taken to the cleaners by a crookedgambler, or "cross-roader." The table I had picked was the only one inthe Sky Hi Club's casino with more than one stick-man working it.

  The girl sniffled, and her long skinny arm reached around behind me tosnag a couple sandwiches the size of postage stamps from a waiter'stray. She wolfed them down, wiping at the end of her long nose with awadded-up hunk of cambric. She'd done it before, and plenty, for hernose was red and sore. She made cow-eyes at me.

  "Don't say it," I told her. "I'm not your darlin' Billy."

  The dice were to my right--I'd get them after a couple more losersrolled. My unwanted hustler stood on that side of me, too. They neverhave any money of their own. I wasn't about to give her any of mine.

  I wanted to lose some dough in a hurry. I started playing field numbers,and TK'd the dice away from the field every time a gambler came out. Ofcourse, I could have let the table's six per cent vigorish take it awayfrom me, but that would have taken longer.

  Even with losing on every roll, the dice got around to me before I hadlost the nine hundred I had set out to drop. I put four chips on the"Don't Pass" side of the line, shook left-handed because of my weakright arm, and got ready to come out. Sniffles seized me. "Don't BillyJoe!" she said suddenly. "You'll lose!" She pushed my chips across theline to the "Pass" side. That burned me up.

  "Get your hands off my chips," I said, annoyed by bad gambling manners.Her face was all resignation and sadness. Well, not quite all. A lot ofit was thin, red nose and buck teeth.

  "You'll lose, darlin' Billy," she said.

  "Pull those chips back!" I said. Her eyebrows shrugged, but she did as Itold her. I came out, and tipped the dice to eleven. I kept the dice,but lost my chips, which is what I wanted. Throwing six more down on the"Don't Pass" side, I rattled the ivories in my left hand. Tears began toroll down her unhealthy cheeks.

  "Lose!" she cried nasally, and sniffled. "Billy Joe! Listen to me,darlin' Billy! You'll lose!" Her eyes rolled up toward the top of herhead as I ignored her and came out. Sniffles gasped, "Hit's a seven!"

  Well, that's the number I'd tipped them to, but she called it before thedice stopped rolling. That left me thirteen chips. Half absent-mindedly,I put three of them on the "Pass" side of the line and tipped the diceto twelve. Mostly I was looking at this scarecrow beside me.

  "Box cars!" one of the dealers called. "My future home." But he wasn'tas quick as Sniffles. She had called the turn before the gallopingdominoes had bounced from the backrail.

  The box cars cost me the dice. The next gambler blew on them, cursed,and rolled. I didn't bet, and spent the next couple rolls looking ather.

  * * * * *

  The girl was a mess. Some women have no style because they don't evenknow what it means. Courturiers have taught them all to be lean andhungry-looking. This chicken was underfed in a way that wasn't stylish.They call it malnutrition. Her strapless gown didn't fit her, noranybody within twenty pounds of her weight. She was all shoulder bladesand collarbones. I suppose that a decent walk would have given her_some_ charm--most of these hustlers have a regular Swiss Movement. Butthis thing had a gait that tied in with the slack way her skirt hungacross her pelvic bones and hollered "White Trash!" at you.

  I wasn't much flattered that she had tried to pick me up. People have apretty accurate way of measuring their social station. And she thoughtshe was what I'd go for. Well, I guess I don't look like so much,either. I'd missed my share of meals when they might have put someheight on me. My long, freckled face ends in a chin as sharp and pointedas her nose. And there's always something about a cripple, even if mypowerless right arm doesn't exactly show.

  My days on the Crap Patrol came back to me. That's where the Lodge hadfound me, down on my knees in an alley, making the spots come up my waywithout even knowing I could do it. And when they'd convinced me I wasreally a TK, and started me on the training that finally led to theThirty-third degree, they'd put me right back in those alleys, and cheaphotel rooms, watching for some other unknowing TK tipping the dice hisway.

  Did Sniffles have it? She wasn't tipping dice, exactly, but she sure wascalling the turn. She was tall, as well as skinny, and our eyes weren'tfar apart. "Billy Joe," she whispered above the racket of the gambler inthe casino, putting her mouth close to my ear. "I told you, sugar. Andnow you lost. You lost!" Her perfume was cheap, but generous, and prettywell covered up her need for a bath.

  "There's some left," I told her. "Show me how." She hugged my arm to herskinniness. That's all any of the hustlers ever want--to get their handson your chips. They figure some of them will stick to their fingers.

  The gambler next to me had won a dollar bet without my help. He actedmighty glad for a win--maybe it was a while since he'd hit it. I decidedto give him a run of luck.

  Now in charge of my chips, Sniffles called the turn on every roll. Shewas hot. It wasn't just that she followed where the gambler next to meput his dough--she was ahead of him on pushing out the chips on half therolls.

  He quickly saw that my chips had stayed on the same side of the lineeach roll as his. He cursed me for a good luck mascot. "Stick with me,Lefty," he said. "We'll break the table!" I rammed a hard lift under hisheart, and then, ashamed of myself, quit it. He turned pale before Itook it off him.

  "What's the matter?" I asked him, supporting his sagging elbow, stillmad at myself for acting so childish.

  "Nothing,
nothing," he gasped, starting to recover. He'd only beendying, that's all. But it came in second-best compared to holding thedice.

  No point calling too much attention to him. I decided four passes wereenough while he held the dice. What do you know, as he came out for thefifth time, Sniffles pulled my stack of chips to the "Don't Pass" sideof the line, while scraping at the chapped end of her skinny nose withthe back of her free hand.

  Like every compulsive gambler I've ever seen, the roller next to me