"Hi, Oliver! Fun. Francesca's a good buddy."
"Did you tell her about me?"
"Why--no. You're my secret, Sweet; I'm keeping you to myself. Besides,
Francesca's beautiful. Men go gaga over her. She's one of these tall,
dark, silent types. Gorgeous eyes, inner fires. I'd go for her myself
if I weren't so friggin straight."
"Hallelujah!" Oliver said with feeling.
"Thank you," she said. "Poor Franny, she has a terrible marriage. Two
of the cutest little girls. Oliver, I'm hoping you will come visit. I
want to show you the Bay and feed you some proper crab cakes. The
weekend after next would be perfect."
"How far are you from Atlantic City?"
"About two hours."
"I've never been to Atlantic City," Oliver said. "I've been wanting to
see what it's like. I could drive down on Friday, see you on Saturday?
Unless you want to meet me at one of the casinos?"
"You come here," she said. "I went once and it didn't do a thing for
me. All those grandmothers lined up at the slot machines . . . Cross
over the Delaware Bridge by Wilmington. I'm in northern Maryland, not
too far from there." She gave him directions, and they agreed to meet
around one o'clock.
"Behave yourself with the working girls," she said. "I'll see you in
two weeks."
"Bye," Oliver said.
Jacky hung up, and Oliver turned to Verdi. "I'm in trouble," he said.
At least she hadn't said anything to Francesca. He paced around the
room. What was happening? He was sliding into a life with Jacky. She
could keep him going while he looked for work; he could work anywhere.
Maybe he would do most of the cooking. What would it be like to wake up
next to her every morning? His head spun. What was wrong with this
picture? Anything? Something.
Atlantic City. When Oliver was confused, he tended to put himself in a
situation and see what happened. He was better at resilience than
calculation; he relied on his ability to pick himself up, dust himself
off, and learn from experience. When he tried to think about the
future, his mind turned off. He needed something more concrete to think
about. Casinos.
The next morning, he bought a book on gambling from the bookstore next
to the Victory Deli. He had never been crazy about cards. He had played
enough poker to know how brutal it was. The smartest and toughest
player won. If you were smarter and tougher, you might as well just
take the other person's wallet. It was worse than that. Not only did
you take his money, but you left him feeling responsible, stupid, and
broken. Oliver didn't want to be on either end of that exchange.
As he read about blackjack, he decided against it. He would actually
have odds in his favor if he could count cards without being caught and
thrown out of the casino. He probably could count cards with practice;
he'd been a math major in college; he was comfortable with numbers. But
it would be a lot of work. And he didn't like the idea of relating to
the dealer as an opponent, an enemy working for the house. The dealer
was just trying to make a living.
Roulette was O.K., but it seemed too mechanical and small in scale. The
best roulette odds were not as good as the best odds in craps. Craps
had a traditional sound to it. Oliver studied craps.
Players stood around an enclosed table and took turns throwing a pair
of dice. On the first throw, the player "passed" if a 7 or an 11 came
up. A 2, 3, or 12 was a "no pass." Any other number became the "point."
The player continued to roll until either the point came up again, a
pass, or a 7 was rolled, a no pass. All players could bet on every roll.
Custom required that a player continue rolling until he or she did not
pass. The dice were then pushed to the next player in turn around the
table. There were many different bets, simple and complicated. You
could bet that a player would pass or not pass or that a number would
be rolled before a 7. The complicated bets had large payoffs and
correspondingly smaller chances of winning. The simplest bet had the
best odds, winning just under 50% of the time. If you played only the
bets with the best odds, you could consider the house edge as a 2%
charge for hosting the game and keeping it honest. You would lose if
you played long enough. But you could get ahead and quit. Maybe.
The stakes could be as high as you wanted. This appealed to Oliver. He
liked the financial Russian roulette quality: win or die. He withdrew
everything but twenty dollars from his bank account.
On his way back from the bank, he stopped at Deweys. It was fun
drinking a pint of Guinness with six thousand dollars in his pocket.
Mark was there, celebrating another executive placement.
"Chemical sales. Houston, poor bastard."
"You ever go to Atlantic City?"
"Sure, man." Mark snapped his fingers. "_Down on the boardwalk . . .
boardwalk._"
"Where did you stay?"
"Bally's, most of the time."
"What was it like?"
"Bally's?"
"No, I mean the whole thing," Oliver said.
"Good time--if you don't get into it too deep. Have a few drinks, check
out the ladies. Lot of money flying around. They have these hard-nosed
dudes called 'pit bosses' that keep an eye on things, head off trouble
. . . I usually go on a travel package for a couple of nights. They're
a good deal; the casinos subsidize them. I take all the money I feel
like blowing off and one credit card in case I get stuck or something.
You going?"
"I was thinking about it," Oliver said. "I've been learning how to play
craps."
"Yeah, craps, the best. _Down on the boardwalk_ . . ."
Oliver made a reservation at Bally's and considered what to wear. A
plaid shirt and jeans weren't going to do it; there was something
significant and ceremonial about this trip. He had a summer linen suit
that he'd worn to his sister's wedding, years ago. He bought a mulberry
colored T-shirt to wear under the jacket. He wanted to look like a
star, a player. When in Rome . . . He stopped short of buying a gold
neck chain.
He put the cash in the walnut box and then hid the box behind old
sheets in the bedroom closet. The box made a good bank, but he missed
seeing it on the mantelpiece.
Verdi. He couldn't just leave food and kitty litter--Verdi needed to
prowl around outside. And what if he didn't get back right away, for
some reason? Maybe Arlen, downstairs, would look after him. A few
minutes after he heard Arlen return from work, he knocked on his door.
"Hello, Oliver."
"Nice shirt, Arlen. Aloha!"
"Aloha, Oliver." White tropical blossoms and blue sky hung from Arlen's
thin shoulders. He was wearing faded jeans and cowboy boots.
"I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"
"If I can--of course. Would you like to come in?" Oliver entered an
immaculate apartment. Parakeets and finches were hopping back and forth
in large cages near the windows.
"I'm going on a short trip--three days, maybe four, next weekend. I
need someone to look after Verdi, feed him, and let him out once a day.
I know it's a nuisance . . ."
"But I like Verdi. It will be no trouble. When are you leaving?"
"Friday."
"No problem. Would you like a drink? We don't get to chat often."
"Sure."
"Let me see. I have ale and, of course, the hard stuff."
"You wouldn't have any Glenlivet, by any chance?"