THE WHEELHOUSE WAS LOCATED in a building about as big as an aircraft
carrier, but with nicer furniture, no portholes, and enough booze to launch
her. Inside an army of gamblers was looking to win big, although almost all
would lose what they had brought plus what they hadn’t brought. Archer
didn’t need Shyner to tell him the odds favored the House. Somebody had
to pay for the liquor, the neon, and the ladies, and the chubby old man who
owned it all and liked his champagne and fifty-dollar suckers.
Pretty much every game of chance invented was being played in the main
room as cocktail waitresses in black stockings and low-cut blouses made
their rounds with drinks, smokes, and the occasional teasing look that
hinted at additional services available after hours for those few with any
cash left. The bar set against one wall was packed because the liquor was
half price, or so said the sign overhead. Drunk people no doubt increased
the casino’s odds even more, figured Archer.
As ten struck on his timepiece, he checked his hat and strode across the
main floor to the cashier booths. He had never gambled in a casino, but
Archer had gambled. First in prison, and then in private games where the
odds were a little better than at this place, the booze came out of flasks or
thimbles masquerading as shot glasses and the only ladies present were
housewives coming to drag their no-account hubbies home while they still
had twin nickels to their names.
He paid for ten bucks’ worth of chips, then ambled over to a craps table
and from a distance studied the bets on the board until the table opened up
for new action like the jaws of a prowling gator. He continued to watch
three guys crap out after two tosses each. Then two more rollers in the
wings fell out, one passing out drunk, the other blowing his whole stake on
the last throw of the dice.
A man at the rail turned and saw Archer. He beckoned for Archer to join
him.
After Archer did, the man said, “Listen up, son, this here fella about to
throw has been hot three nights in a row.”
Archer looked down at the gent speaking. He was small and around sixty
with fine white hair and a pair of rimless specs worn low on his squat, redveined nose. He was encased in a seersucker suit with a snazzy blue bow tie and two-tone lace-up shoes. His nose and flushed face stamped him as a
man who liked his drink more than he liked just about anything else.
“Is that right?” said Archer.
“Yes sir. That boy can roll.” He held out a flabby hand. “Roy Dixon.”
“Archer.”
They shook hands as the stickman standing behind the casino’s table
bank called for fresh bets. The new shooter stepped up to one end of the
table shaking out his arms and undoing kinks in his neck, like he was about
to enter a boxing ring and not the green felt of a craps table that might be
the most complicated betting game ever devised. Archer thought he could
even see the guy’s eyes roll back in his head for a second before he shook it
all clear and got ready to either do the House damage or get grizzly-mauled
by a pair of dice weighing an ounce. The two base dealers handled all the
chip traffic, while the seated boxman, a burly man wearing a green visor
and a sour expression, watched all of this like his life and all those he knew
and loved depended on his not missing anything.
“Okay, son, let’s make some money,” said Dixon, who made his bet on
the Pass line.
“How?” said Archer.
“Hey, you.”
Archer looked up to see one of the base dealers drilling him with a stare.
“The button’s off, pal. Got a new shooter coming up, no point made. You
stand by the rail, you got to bet. That’s prime real estate, buddy. Didn’t your
mama ever teach you that?”
Everyone laughed and more than a few gave Archer patronizing looks.
He placed some chips next to Dixon’s on the Pass line.
“Thank you, sonny boy, now don’t you feel all better inside?” said the
dealer.
Dixon leaned over and whispered to Archer, “He’s gonna roll seven on
his come out roll.”
“How do you know that?”
“Shit, ’cause he always does.”
The stickman presented the shooter, a tall, thin man with curly brown
hair and wearing a two-piece beige suit with a wrinkled white shirt and no
belt, with five dice. He picked his deuce and handed the trio back to the
stickman, who dumped them in his shake-out bowl.
“Dice out, no more bets allowed,” announced the stickman.
The shooter blew on the dice and rattled them once in his right hand.
“Throw with one hand only, and both dice have to hit the back wall,”
instructed the stickman.
The shooter looked at him incredulously. “Hell, you think I don’t know
that? How long I been throwing here, Benny?”
“Just saying,” was Benny’s only reply.
The shooter let fly, and the dice bounced off the far U-wall of the table.
The stickman announced, “We got a Big Red, natural seven. Pass line
wins, no-pass goes down.”
Dixon said, “What did I tell you? We just doubled our money.”
Their chips doubled, and Archer looked intrigued as the dealers worked
the payoffs and oversaw new bets.
“Now what?” asked Archer.
“He’s going to make his point on this next roll.”
Dixon set his chips down on certain betting squares and Archer followed
suit.
A few moments later: “Shooter rolls a ten,” announced Benny. “Point is
made, folks.”
The bets were posted again and the shooter was handed the dice. They
banged off the far end of the table and came to rest.
“Little Joe on the front row,” bellowed Benny. “Hard four.”
Archer looked at the twin twos staring up from the faces of the dice.
Then he looked at his pile of chips growing. He and Dixon bet again.
“Boxcars,” called out Benny as double sixes stood up after careening off
the wall. “Twelve craps, come away triple.”
“What does that mean?” asked Archer.
“The Wheelhouse pays triple the field on boxcars,” Dixon said, looking
down with relish at his now-towers of chips.
“Hey, pal, shouldn’t we quit while we’re ahead?” said Archer.
“What the hell’s the point of that?” countered Dixon.
Archer took some of his chips off, while Dixon did not.
The next roll was another winner and Dixon grinned at Archer. “You’re
too timid, son. First rule of craps, you ride a hot shooter all the way to the
very end.”
Archer glanced at the shooter. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a line of
sweat rode on his brow, and his eyes spoke of too much booze, drugs, and
maybe overconfidence. If ever a man looked done in and done out, this was
the hombre, Archer thought. He lifted all his chips off the edge of the fabric
and slid out his reserve chips from the slots in the table and took a step back
as the boxman eyed him with contempt.
“Running out on a hot shooter, bub?” Archer just stared at him. The
boxman added with a sneer, “Then go find your mommy. It’s time for your
bottle of milk, junior.”
Dixon moved every single one of his chips forward onto new bets on the
Pass line and come field a second before Benny handed the dice to the
shooter.
As Archer walked away, a huge groan went up from the table as Benny
gleefully called out, “Seven out.” The next sound was his stick coming
down and raking away all the chips that had bet on the shooter continuing
to roll. The House had come roaring back and the lives of the bettors
gathered round came careening down to earth like a doomed plane.
Archer looked back to see Dixon staring at the spot where all his chips
used to be. The king had lost his kingdom, as they all eventually did.
“I better go find that bottle of milk,” Archer said to himself.
