Condo Conversion, Chapter 8

There Nicholas stood, resplendent in his tall, dark and handsome magnificence, shaking the dice wildly in his clenched fist.  There are few men that I acknowledge as exceptionally good looking but he was certainly one of them.  He was the kind of guy who could have any woman he wanted.  A light shone behind him, giving him an almost divine appearance. 

            “Eight, come on eight,” he repeated several times.

            “Hit it for us Nicky,” my brother called out.

            “Four-four,” I chimed, “do it the hard way.”

            He threw the dice.  One skidded and tumbled on the felt, never more than half an inch off the table.  The other bounced two feet high, spinning in mid air.  I watched it twist and turn.  It was almost eye level.  Time slowed down.  This must be how a great baseball hitter feels, watching the movement of the seams as the ball catapults toward him at ninety miles an hour. 

            Then time accelerated.  Both dice hit the back of the table and magically flipped over: four-four.  Hard eight.  The entire table burst into screams of elation.

            We received our chips and walked away.  Everybody was up big.  I was up about seven hundred.  My brother put his arm around my neck.

            “What did I tell you?”

            “You were right,” I admitted.

            “Let’s go upstairs.  Rick is probably there.”  

            We cashed out and went to the suite.  And sure enough, there was Rick hunched over the glass coffee table chopping up a gratuitous pile of cocaine, several long lines already prepared: four, to be precise.  I had been drinking heavily.  These things were always hardest when you’ve had a few drinks. 

            “Let’s get this party started,” Rick said, extending a rolled up bill my way.

            “Ahh, thanks anyway, man.  I’m on the wagon.”

            “But not this weekend,” he argued.  “We’re on vacation.”

            “I’ll just stick to my drinks,” I responded, proceeding to kitchen to make myself a bourbon and coke. 

            “Well I’m not waiting any longer,” he said, snorting up the biggest of the lines.

            Nicholas was next, taking the bill without comment and sucking up another line.  He offered the bill to my brother, who politely declined as well.

            “What the hell is going on here?” Rick said, outraged.

            “We haven’t even eaten dinner yet,” my brother replied.

            “So?  This won’t have any effect on dinner.”

 

            An hour later we were at the steakhouse.  And damn it if Rick hadn’t been perfectly correct in his statement.  Despite having enjoyed two more huge helpings of Columbia’s finest, he was attacking his porterhouse with gusto.  It was quickly devoured.  He even picked up the bone in his hands and gnawed on it, just to make his point clear, in my opinion.  He downed the last of the expensive Cabernet, some of which trickled on to his chin and meaty jowls. 

            “Jesus,” my brother said, “you fucking killed that thing.”

            Rick smiled contentedly.  His face was a deep purple, which contrasted dramatically with his light blonde hair and pale blue eyes.  His hefty arms were crossed in front of him as he belched soundly.  “It’s my Norwegian heritage,” he said proudly.  “We’re a stout people.  I’m a goddamned Viking.”

            “You know what else you are?” I asked.

            “What?”

            “A bon-vivant.”

            “What the hell is that?” Nicholas, who was completely drunk by this time, asked.  He always tried to keep up with the pace of the party, but invariably fell short.

            “A person who lives luxuriously and enjoys good food and drink, a lover of life” my brother answered perfectly.

            “You really mean that?” Rick asked.

            “Of course,” I replied.

            “You’re all right, man.”

            “I call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

            We split the bill between the four of us and got up to leave. 

            “I’m going up to the room,” Rick said.

            “Me too,” added Nicholas, swaying back and forth.  He desperately needed a pick-me-up.

            “I’m gonna go play the tables,” I said.

            “Yeah,” agreed my brother.  Rick shook his head in consternation.  All that coke and here he was with two abstainers: what had the world come to? 

            Dave and I proceeded to the roulette table, where there were no other casino patrons.  I like to play alone or with a friend.  Large groups crowded around ruin the experience for me: too many arms and fingers invading my domain.  I always play the same inside numbers: 0, 00, 4, 7, 8, 10, 11, 17, 18, 21, and 24.  Sometimes I play the outside as well, red or black, odd or even.  But for starters I generally stick with my numbers.  They’re all lucky to me in one way or another, hand selected, containing personal significance.  Numbers are important to me, imbued with portent.  Anyway, it’s easier to just stick with the same ones time and time again.  That way you don’t lament your choices because you don’t really have any.  Either you are lucky or you are not. 

            My brother was wagering on the outside bets, playing small.  He doesn’t enjoy roulette as much as I do.  He thinks it’s a bad proposition, which is perfectly true.   The player suffers a disadvantage of close to five and a half percent on most American wheels, much larger than on craps or blackjack.  But if you find a run of luck on the roulette table you can increase your money exponentially, unlike any other game in the casino.  Besides, I like facing the tough odds. 

            I spread two dollar bets on all my numbers and the croupier gave the wheel a spin.  My brother and I began to talk offhandedly as I scrutinized every movement of the ball.

            “Rick’s on fire tonight,” he said.

            “He has an incredible constitution.  It makes me jealous.”

            “You’re really sticking with the no-drugs thing.  I’m impressed.”

            “I just couldn’t take it anymore.  But I could fall at any moment.  There are times when the desire is very strong.”

            “What holds you to your resolution?”

            “I just weigh how good it would feel immediately versus how bad it will feel tomorrow.  Nothing is worth that pain.  Nothing.”

            “Seventeen,” the croupier exclaimed.

            “Yes!” I pumped my fist and jumped up from the table.  I noticed a pretty waitress behind me. 

            “Would you guys like something to drink?” she asked. 

            “I’d like a jack and coke, please,” I said.

            “Scotch,” requested David. 

            I tipped the dealer and doubled all my bets.  The ball was alive and moving once again. 

            “People are surprised when they hear about you,” David said.  “There was even a rumor going around that you’d quit drinking too.”

            “I hope you dispelled that one quickly.  I’d hate for people to think I was a twelve stepper or something.”

            “I never realized what a huge reputation you had.”

            “That was precisely the problem.”

            “Eight!”

            “Fuck yes!” I yelled, my hand shaking nervously.  I was now up almost two hundred since sitting down.  I doubled all my bets again. 

            “What about you?” I asked David just as the waitress quickly returned with our drinks.  I took a long pull.  “You’re not indulging either.”

            “I never really liked it to begin with.  I just did it to be a part of things, you know?  If you were partying I probably would, too.  It makes it easier that there’s two of us.”

            I raised my glass.  “Cheers to that.”  We toasted and felt good. 

            “Double zero.”

            “You have to be kidding me!  I can’t lose!”  I was beside myself and David was jumping up and down screaming, scotch spilling on the floor.  The croupier had run out of roulette chips in my color and paid me in twenty five dollar green chips.  I tossed one his way, now up over five hundred dollars in five minutes.  

            After that the spell broke.  The next spin missed my numbers and we both knew the time had come to leave.  I colored up my chips and we walked toward the blackjack tables. 

            We played for about forty-five minutes.  It was a good even run: win one hand lose the next and so forth.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  It keeps the drinks flowing, the entertainment alive and the conversation civil.  It also keeps a steady stream of tips moving toward the dealer, which I consider important.  If you are going to piss money away gambling, some of it at least should go to the people working. 

            I was getting drunk and very happy.  It had been a great day for a gambler.  I knew that time was short and I wouldn’t lose it all back, my once full tank of compulsion having been emptied by the action.  Our dealer’s name was Clarissa.  She busted on a sixteen.

            “Clarissa, we love you,” Dave said, also very drunk.  He gave her a five dollar chip.

            “My brother shall not exceed me in generosity,” I said, also giving her a red.

            “You are the two sweetest guys I’ve dealt to all week,” she responded.  That was probably partially true and partially her desire to extract more money from us.  If so, her plan was working.

            The Billy Ocean song “Caribbean Queen” began playing.  I hadn’t heard it in a long time, but I consider it a real classic of 80’s pop.  My brother and I looked at one another and simultaneously began singing along and dancing awkwardly in our seats, unwilling due to our intoxication to stand up.  Clarissa continued dealing the cards as we sang.  The song and our exuberance worked in our favor somehow and she busted every hand.  Soon we were singing directly to her, serenading her with our drunken adoration.  Players at other tables, pit bosses and other dealers stared our direction and laughed, some mockingly.  We clearly looked like idiots, but at least we were pleasant idiots who weren’t trying to hurt anybody.  Our joy leaped in a crescendo of broken notes and good energy.  It was a sublime moment neither of us would immediately remember the following day, but would recall when reminded by the casino manager.  No more love on the run…