The Man Who couldn't Lose (Short Story)

My name’s Benny Beaumont and I work the craps pit, early morning shift, at the Arabian Nights Hotel and Casino. For twelve years I’ve been in Las Vegas, same hotel. It’s my first and only real job, if you don’t count four years in the Marines.

It’s three in the morning on a winter Wednesday. No action. Not one customer in an hour. The pit boss, Carl Katz, walks by and tells the stickman to stop slouching. “Customers or not, you’re working so look sharp,” he says.

“Morning, Mr. Katz,” I say. He gives me a little nod as he walks by. Powerful, that Carl Katz. Never mind he’s morning pit boss – right there is power – but he’s also physically powerful. Two hundred solid pounds and a face that looks like it’s chipped out of rock. I’ve known Carl since I started here, spinning the Wheel of Fortune and collecting quarters. He likes me. I work hard and it was Carl got the blackjack boss to hire me. Then it was Carl who pulled me out of blackjack and got me trained as a craps dealer.

Mornings like this, my feet start hurting early from just standing around. It is so damn slow. I’ve got a dry throat and my shirt clings to my armpits. The low humidity does that, static, I guess. My mind drifts. I think about the lady I’ve been seeing. Then I get to wondering how mama’s doing since papa died. While I’m thinking, I’m watching the night crowd schooling like minnows in the big room. The few customers that come near the table float nearby but don’t stop. Nobody wants to be the only player on a craps table. The other dealers have gone back to flipping chips and telling jokes now that Carl’s out of sight.

A few more minutes pass when I notice this guy, tan, nice gray around the ears, tall like me, walking towards us. Seems to be mid fifties, rumpled and shabby, with wrinkled khaki’s and a blue jacket with shiny elbows, looking like he just blew in off the desert. But how he looks is not the main thing that catches my eye. It’s the way he moves, smooth and confident, not cocky like some of the assholes you get, mostly from California and New Jersey. Something about the way this guy moves makes you think there’s some style riding under those old clothes. I watch out of the corner of my eye until he's in front of the table. He looks directly at me, and I figure he must be on something. I’ve never seen eyes like that. They’re gray as a thundercloud and seem to thrust out of his face when he looks at me. They’re restless eyes, hungry eyes looking for a place to feed. After that one quick look he moves on.

"Pick up the phone, Benny." The stickman is grinning at me. And giving a nervous little laugh. Everything he says ends with a little laugh. “Yeah?" I say. “The question you didn't hear because you were dreaming about doing sweet Erica (little laugh) was, do they really pump oxygen into the ventilation system after midnight?"

"If they do, it ain't working tonight," I tell him. The few customers I see look like they could use a shot of oxygen, or just a good night’s sleep. The Erica he refers to is Erica Valdez. She's the lady I've been taking out. Erica's ambitious, a singer working cocktails until a spot opens up in the Bring Back Hollywood show over to the MGM. I could get serious about Erica. “We did it in the Bahamas," the other dealer says. "Every night about one o'clock I'd feel this rush. The customers would start betting their asses off."

I listen. I’ve been around awhile and I figure it’s just another Vegas story. The shot of oxygen ain’t necessary. Greed and loneliness provide the motivation and the players bring their own. It's all hope and desperation, getting something for nothing. I've thought about talking to my cousin Tony about going partners in a little bar and cafe in St. Louis. Mama would like that. She’d be able to tell her friends, “You know my son, owns Benny’s Place over to King's Highway." Mama's wanted somebody in the family she could talk proud about ever since poppa died.
Tony and I go way back to St. Louie, growing up on the southwest side. His mama and my mama are sisters. A couple of good-looking wop kids; me tall and thin and cousin Tony round and brown, just the two of us chasing pussy and staying alive.

So I think about St. Louis but I stay here. I stand behind this long table under the plastic chandeliers for eight hours and stare at velvet-textured wallpaper until I’m in a calm, comfortable zone. I watch the bosses, the girls, the money, the crazies. Someday I'll go back east, but not today.

Those goddamn eyes are back. One minute there isn't anybody for fifty feet in any direction, then here’s this guy holding a fist full of worn twenties and staring at me. You ever been outside just before a storm hits and everything is quiet, and the air is so charged that the hair on your neck stands up? Well, that's exactly how I feel the minute he drops his money on the table.

"Yes, sir?" I say, itching my neck against my shirt collar.

"Quarters," he tells me in a woolly voice.

I take his two hundred and give him eight twenty-five dollar chips. He puts two on the pass line and the stickman pushes the dice down to our end of the table. The shooter picks two he likes and squeezes them in his fist like he's milking a cow.
In case you’re not a crapshooter, you need to know that the pass line is your first and best bet. How it works is on the first roll the pass line bet wins and pays even money for the seven and the eleven. The two, three, or twelve loses. Any other number becomes your point and you don’t make money until you roll your point again. If you roll a seven before you make your point, you lose.

"What's your name?" the shooter asks.

"Benny."

“What's the house record for consecutive passes, Benny?"

"Who knows?" I say, sloughing the question off, giving the stickman a look. I mean, that's the kind of bullshit I'd expect from a Shriner. Right then I peg this character as a loser. When I don't answer his question he just stands there, milking the dice, staring inside me. Loudermilk, the table boss who looks like Winston Churchill, tells him he's got to shoot or give the dice back. But the customer just keeps milking and staring and smiling at me until I start to get embarrassed. So I say, “I heard some guy made thirty-two one night. I didn't see it." Then I add, smart-ass like, “You out to set a record?" This loser’s going to drop his stake and be outta here faster than I can say ten Mississippis, I figure.
Just for a joke I ask, real politely, “What’s your name, sir?" playing up to him like I would some high roller.

"David Albertson," he answers and gallops the dice across the felt. They bounce smartly off the far end of the table and come up three. "Craps," the stickman sings, “pass line loses."

I take Albertson's money and he puts another fifty on the line. I wonder if the two hundred he bought in with is all he has. If so he’s a gutsy bettor, putting up a quarter of his stake like that. He shoots again and they come up four, the hard way, a pair of twos. He puts fifty in odds behind his pass line bet and shoots again.

"Seven, loser," cries the stickman, a little too happily, I think. They come and they go. I’m about sick of Las Vegas. Too many distractions: women, money, food, celebrities. Too many nights being polite to people like David Albertson. Lately I’ve been thinking about finding myself a piece of ground out in the county and building a little house. Maybe keep a couple of horses. A place like that’d make waiting to swing a deal in St. Louie a little easier. Erica’s eyes lit up when I talked about the little house. It wouldn’t take much, and I’ve saved some. Another ten thousand or so and I could manage it.

His last fifty on the line, Albertson closes his eyes while he milks the dice in his fist a few times for the feel. Just like all the other losers, I figure, praying for God to kiss the cubes and save his ass. His arm uncoils and his fingers move like he’s working a puppet. I watch the dice bounce off the end of the table and come back halfway. The first one comes up four. The second one quits spinning and shows three. Seven, winner. I pay him off and watch his face. I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking his little prayer worked and the table is gonna get hot. How many times have I seen this play out?

Albertson leaves the hundred on the pass line and rolls another seven. He lets the two hundred ride and now comes the seven again. Then he does it two more times.
Five damn sevens in a row! I look at Loudermilk and raise my eyebrows. He just shrugs his shoulders. I have to give Albertson credit – when you're down to your last fifty dollar bet and let the money ride for five passes, well, that takes some guts. Most ain't got that kind of faith. "That's the way to do it, Mr. A,” I tell him. He gives me that same little smile as before. "You're thinking this old guy might have something after all. Is that right, Benny?"

How weird is this? I feel a hot flash run right down my neck. I got no apologies for what I thought but I feel like I’m caught talking behind his back. I grin like a silly bastard and all I can think of to say, is “You’re not old, Mr. A.” He doesn’t look at me, just pulls eight hundred, half his winnings, back to his tray. There’s a tap on my back and I move out to let the rotation crew take over. "Good luck," I tell Albertson. We're supposed to say that. I head to the coffee shop for a sandwich. Halfway there Carl Katz stops me.

"Rotate back to the same table," he says.

"Okay," I say, “why?" Normal shift rotation calls for dealers to work their way around the open tables after each break.

"It's a little bonus for you."

Puzzled, I look the question at him.

"This guy Albertson is dangerous. If he's still there when you get back that means he'll hit the house hard, but you'll see some real action." I laugh. “He’ll be gone by the time I get back." Carl folds his hands behind his back and studies his lizardskin shoes. The creases in his tanned face crawl up his forehead into wavy, silver hair. His suit has no wrinkles. When Carl stands like that it makes a dealer like me nervous. Like I’d questioned Donald Rumsfield or somebody. "You know this guy?" I finally ask, a humble tone replacing my former cockiness. Carl sighs. I guess it takes a lot of patience dealing with dumbasses like me. “You ever hear about an episode over to the Sands about twenty years ago?” he says. “A big win that got out of hand? A killing?”

I shake my head. That was before my time. Hell, I was in high school. “Albertson was holding the dice. The table was full and behind his shooting they were hitting us upward of two hundred thousand. The pit boss got his orders and tried to break up the game. Some tough from Jersey took it personally and shot the pit boss.” Carl looks away and his face softens. He looks sad. “That pit boss was a good man. A very good man,” he says, “and Albertson is the reason he’s dead.” I take all this in. While I don’t want to seem skeptical, I’ve heard a million Vegas stories, and this sounds like just one more. "Even if it's the same guy, Carl, that kind of run don't happen twice."

“Hear what I’m saying, Benny,” he takes a deep breath, “the time of that killing wasn't his only win. Albertson started out as a craps dealer a few years before, then one day he up and quits. He disappears for six months, then he's back throwing dice at the Sands. He either lost in the first five minutes or he held the dice for hours and won big. The bosses figured he was cheating somehow and there was talk of freezing him out of Vegas, but he left town after the shooting – just disappeared.” Carl shifted from parade rest, folded his arms. “Anyway, Albertson told me once that he took a month between games to gather his strength, his 'psychic energy' is the way he put it. I think the son-of-a-bitch would go to the desert and pray – then come back and win at craps.” Carl shakes his head, his jaws hard, "Being serious with God Almighty about gambling, that ain’t right."

Carl moves on and I head for the coffee shop. What he said about the pit boss trying to break up the game was not what you might figure. The big casinos are honest as far as stuff like loaded dice and rigged roulette goes. However, they ain't in business to lose money. So when some customer gets hot there are little ways, legal ways, to screw the game up: by counting the payoffs slowly; interrupting the game to count the bank; holding the dice from the shooter longer than necessary. Stuff like that’s all that's needed to rattle most guys, make them do dumb things. When a shooter loses his cool, right then is when Lady Luck takes a walk. Never seen it fail.

Coming back from breakfast I can see the tables cooking from halfway across the casino. Taking my spot across and to the right of the stickman, I think about how there must be some kind of mental telegraph system in this town, else how can a table get full all of a sudden when the casino was empty minutes earlier? Where there was only one, there are now ten players with their money down and more elbowing in.

Sometimes you get to thinking you can pick the winners, but when I first met David Albertson I figured no way. He seemed a little down, but he was loose and confident like it didn’t matter. So I figured here was a guy who didn't know how to hurt. Plus, he’s white and educated. That's a problem because I think the Lord Jesus figures somebody like that has everything he needs to start with and if he fucks it up, too bad. Always when I think of a big win, a monster roll, I think of your black or your oriental. Those people can be flat-on-their-ass broke and all of a sudden they're in the money and betting like there ain't no tomorrow. Take China Seas down to the far side of the table: born Shanghai, when Mao took over his folks slipped over to Hong Kong and then to the States. He's short, fat and ain't got no right arm. I've seen that China Seas down so far he was driving a taxi –then, one day he walks in looking like a new man, cash, cars, clothes, women. Makes me wonder if Buddha ain't a better bet than Jesus Christ.

"Watch the spade," Carl whispers over my shoulder.

The customer in question stands across the table from me and is named Washington – I know that because the stickman called him by name when he bought in. He looks familiar but I can't quite make him. A small man, he wears his hair in braids, has what you might call a pretty face and looks real girl-like except for his big shoulders and hands like rockcrushers. It's getting busy so I shift Washington to the edge of my mind and concentrate on the game.

"Don't make me wait, make that eight!" cries Chiquita, the old Mexican broad with the blue hair standing near the other end of the table. We're hot. Albertson's arm is a blur, pumping green money out of red dice and the tension is popping like champagne bubbles. I have to focus all my attention on the game and getting the payoffs right. Albertson bounces the dice down the table and makes an eleven and I notice he has the same smile on his face as before. Even though he’s printing money he doesn’t seem excited. When there’s a little delay to give the dealers time to make the payoffs he ain’t impatient like most people; just watches the waiting dice and now and then nods at the other players when they compliment him or yell encouragement. He manages money well. Aggressive and smart on a hot table.

"Keeping moving! Keeping moving!" China Seas yells like some goddamn Comanche. Everybody’s happy, happy as gamblers can get, yelling to Albertson, telling him what a fine human being he is, and throwing dealer tips. Carl walks by about this time, with a quick look calculating the money on the table, and moves on. He’s busy now, supervising four working tables. Word has gotten out and the multitudes are gathering to find the action at the Arabian Nights.

“These guys gonna run you for president,” I tell Albertson, looking at the rogues whooping it up around the table. He grins, a nice warm smile. “Sweet, isn’t it?” he says. He shoots again and makes his point – a ten – the hard way. People go crazy. Everybody's bouncing up and down and pounding the rail and the back of whoever is next to him and yelling kudos to Albertson. "Pay me six hundred," Chiquita screams in her diamond-­cracking voice. "Fast as I can," the dealer at the other end tells her. The table is heavy with chips and it's while I'm counting Albertson’s money that I catch Washington out of the corner of my eye. He has a hundred on the pass line backed up with a stack of fives and quarters for odds – a hundred total behind the line, I count with a quick look. When he thinks I don’t see he pumps two more black chips under his odds pile. "Two hundred behind the line," I say, paying the two to one odds bet for his hundred and looking him right in the eye. Well, Washington screams like I stuck a knife in his ribs.

"I laid three hundred odds," he screams in my face, braids dancing all around. "Pay me six hundred!"

"What is it?" Loudermilk, the table boss, asks.

"The man put two hundred extra under his odds after the point was made," I tell him.
"Bull . . . shit!" yells Washington.

Now everybody's watching, holding their breath, scared this is gonna fuck up the roll. "Don't break rhythm," China Seas whispers desperately. “Don't, don't, don't."

"Hold the dice," Loudermilk tells the stickman. Poof. The happiness of moments before disappears. Everybody's pissed, including us dealers. Just when the tips are rolling in, this has to happen. Carl comes over, slow and easy, nodding his big gray head like he's the goddamn pope and talking to me and Loudermilk and Washington.
"The motherfucker's cross-eyed," Washington screams, pointing to me. "Throw his ass out," yells Chiquita. "Rhythm, rhythm, don't break rhythm," chants China Seas.

I tell Carl what I saw and he motions for Washington to come around to the end of the table. Suddenly, Albertson moves between Carl and Washington. "You're looking well, Carl," he says. Carl’s eyes are cold but he makes a smile. "So are you, David."

“I'm a little surprised at all this, Carl, a big house like the Arabian Nights – and so early in the game."

"We run a clean game," Carl snaps, the smile gone. Me, I don't know what the hell's going on, why Carl gets so defensive. Carl steps away from Albertson, back to Washington, who is dancing up and down, lying and denying, appealing for help from somebody – anybody – for this wrong he claims is being committed. The yelling and threatening goes on for another couple of minutes. Albertson smiles at me. We both know Carl is in no hurry to settle this – the longer he delays, the cooler the table gets. Finally, after what seems an hour but is really only three or four minutes, long enough to deflate the happiness that once reigned, Carl points to Washington, warns him to watch his step, tells me to pay him, and lets the game continue.
I’m paying Washington his rip-off while the stickman pushes the dice to Albertson. He's just standing there, flipping a chip, a little smile on his face, watching Carl. I’m wanting to ask Carl how it is they know each other a whole lot better than Carl has let on to me, but Albertson speaks first.

“You ever worked with Washington before?" he asks quietly. He sees I don’t understand and says, "Guess not." Then zing – I remember the Golden Garter downtown two winters ago. I dropped in on a craps game and some guy was on a roll and they broke up the game because some black guy got caught with funny dice in his pocket. I stare at Washington and realize I didn’t recognize him tonight because he didn’t have the cornrows back then. Shit. Carl brought this guy in to screw the roll; slow it down; break the rhythm. Washington is a shill for the dark side; a maven for the Don’t Pass. This sucked. Guys tell me they pull this stuff downtown all the time but I honest to God never knew they did it at the Arabian Nights. I guess I’m still green as a cactus about some things.

I focus on the table. Everybody’s afraid the run is over. Some bets come down. One guy puts money on the Don’t Pass. We’re all puckered up, not breathing, waiting, wondering. In the quiet I can hear Chiquita whispering to herself, praying.
Albertson milks the dice real slow. "To luck, to magic, to God, to . . . what?" he asks and winks at me. Watching him pull his fist close to his chest and uncoil for the shot, it's like I'm standing on the next table watching. It all seems to roll out in slow motion – like one of those TV commercials where people are running down the beach – proud of their deodorant or whatever. Albertson is loose and fluid and his fingers move like he has strings attached to the dice. It is silent, even Chiquita is quiet. We are frozen things. Then there's a crack like something breaking and everybody is cheering. I’m grinning inside and out because it’s an eleven – winner, eleven.

I can’t help smiling evilly at the Don’t Pass player as I collect his money.
I’m still pissed about Washington. "I never seen them pull that stuff here before," I whisper to Albertson as I count out his winnings. “Don't blame Carl,” Albertson says. “He's scared." That stops me. Just when I’m thinking this Albertson is okay he says something like that. I’ve known Carl Katz for a dozen years. He’s survived the gambling business since 1960. I’ve seen him handle big shots, drunks, and men gone crazy from losing their money. He might be cautious, but not scared. “Carl's kind say they only believe in the percentages; in truth they believe in magic,” Albertson says, like he's reading my mind and ready to overcome my argument point by point. “They build their lives on the percentages. When somebody like me comes around they get scared."

"You think you're magic?" I whisper, then laugh. It’s a forced laugh like a frog’s croak. I look around to see if Loudermilk is overhearing any of this. He isn’t. The old table boss is watching the play with bulldog concentration. Albertson talking like this embarrasses me. Why can’t he just whoop it up like anybody else, happy he got lucky and lay off that kind of talk? “Things happen every day that people can't explain so they call them magic, psychic, paranormal." He speaks calmly but when I look into his eyes there’s something there, something I don’t know how to explain. Something that confuses me. If anybody but Albertson was saying this stuff, I’d just nod and hope they got home without hurting themselves.
As for me I know there are powers around that come and go and do whatever they want; but I don't like thinking about that stuff and I don't like the idea that some people can tap into them. I wish I were home with Erica, rubbing her legs, which are always tired after her shift, and watching the morning news.

While I'm churning inside, Albertson doesn’t miss a shot. In quick order he makes his point with the four, six and ten – all the hard way. Every point he makes, when you add the hard-way bets, is now paying Albertson more than six thousand dollars. I see Carl lurking around the back of the table and I know more trouble's coming.

Albertson says to me – maybe to me – I’m beginning to think he’s having a discussion with himself or with somebody I can’t see, "To the outsider this game must seem like a dim purpose for dull spirits. Bleary-eyed people concentrating on the movements of two small plastic cubes; dealers mechanically passing chips to and fro; dense smoke hovering. . . ” I lean over close, “What are you saying there, Mr. A?
He goes on like there’s nobody else in the room, more of that mystic bullshit.
"It's a good roll, all right," I say, not knowing what else to say. He looks sharply at me when I say that and his face suddenly loses its sparkle. "That's not enough for me anymore," he says, and his whole body shudders – just for a couple of seconds – then he smiles and the magic – I don’t mean magic like Albertson means it –is back like nothing ever happened. I take a deep breath; it calms me. Hell, he can believe in the Easter Bunny as long as he’s making numbers. I look at the chips stacked in his tray and figure what he’s got there would be more than enough for me. Man, if I could hit a streak like this dude I’d have Erica and me on a first class flight to St. Louis by morning. We’d open that little restaurant and piano bar and life would be good.

Who knows? Mr. Albertson likes me and I’ve heard stories about high rollers that caught a big hand and slipped their favorite dealer five grand or so afterwards. That won’t get me the restaurant but it’ll get me closer. Albertson’s smile is still warming me when Carl comes over to examine the dice, then orders them changed. Everybody but Albertson yells and stamps their feet and there are unflattering comments about Carl’s parentage. Five minutes later Carl is back with the cashier guards: now they’ve decided they want to count chips and pick up the cash in the table safe. Chiquita gets a laugh when she cracks, "There ain't no money been deposited, we're only making withdrawals." The tension eases a bit. The players' faith in Albertson's ability has reached religious intensity.

Before another hour passes, Carl has changed the dice two more times and stopped the game for bank count three times. Also – and I’ve never seen this pulled before – he accuses Albertson of holding funny dice and says it's a body search or the game is over. Albertson doesn’t protest the search and we all wait silently, uncomfortably, looking down at the table, some players counting their chips, nobody looking at anybody else, until the security guy brings him back. I guess they weren’t prepared to plant crooked dice on him, probably figured stalling the game would be enough.
None of it makes any difference. Albertson just keeps making money. A few minutes after six Loudermilk whispers that the house is out well over five hundred thousand dollars. A couple of players are up thirty thousand or better. I figure Albertson is up three times that. "I'm glad he’s whipping the bastards," Loudermilk whispers to me. I look at the old man, surprised that a casino executive with thirty years on the job would speak such sacrilege, then I nod. I’m glad as hell.

It’s not long after Loudermilk’s comment, a little past six, when Albertson starts to throw the dice and stops, his arm halfway through the arc. He turns to me and his eyes are suddenly flat and lifeless. "You okay, Mr. A?" I say. He smiles, a weak little thing that trembles, “I’m tired, Benny. It’s over." He turns to the other players. "Enjoy your good fortune, my friends." He throws the dice to make a six. They come up seven. Seven out.

You could hear the moans and groans clear to the other end of the casino. Greedy bastards, you might be thinking. After all, they’ve been winning for more than three hours straight. But, listen, I’ve been on both sides of the table and there's more to it. Nothing transports a gambler to the promised land as fast as a hot craps table. It’s the money, and it ain’t the money. When the dice purr we know that God or the Lady or fate has finally recognized our worth. We're all gamblers at something. And loneliness – loneliness goes away when the table cooks. And whatever home means to us, a nice house in Kansas City with a lady and a couple kids, or an apartment in LA with one old dog, it doesn’t matter anymore. When you’re winning you’ve got a new home, just for that slice of time. You feel accepted and loved in your new home just as long as the dice are rolling. And when you win and the hand is over, you walk away from the table and you might act happy and talk loud, or maybe you just get away to some corner where you can count your chips again, make sure it isn’t a dream. At that moment there’s something inside you wanting to be satisfied and free. But the chips just weigh there in your pocket and no matter how hard you try to get excited about buying something or going somewhere, you can't think of anything you want to buy or anywhere to go because what you really want is to find another game, another home.

When David Albertson crapped out, everybody abandoned their freshly made hopes and dreams and came back down to the red-flocked walls, black and red carpets, icy chandeliers. Outside the big front doors, dawn is coming gray and desert damp, and it will be cold out there, cold and stinking from last night’s exhaust fumes. Cold and stinking from all those exhaust fumes from all those cars filled with all those people looking for a home.

China Seas pushes his way through the crowd and shakes Albert­son's hand. It is awkward, what with using his left hand, and it isn’t like a man shakes at all, more like he wants to touch something holy. Old Chiquita, glowing like a child, timidly kisses him on the cheek. And everybody claps and cheers for Albertson, who made them whole one morning in the Arabian Nights Casino.

He cashed in $89,456. In a voice that seems to have trouble getting past his lips, Carl Katz offers him the Harlow Suite – compliments of the casino.

At nine a.m. I’m changing clothes in the dealer’s locker room when a bellman hands me a message. Mr. Albertson is inviting me to breakfast in his suite. It seems strange him wanting to talk to me; table relationships end when the game is over, but I’m damn sure gonna go. I guess if he was some ordinary guy that hit a monster roll and won big I’d forget his name in a week. But the way David Albertson won was different and my mind won’t turn it loose. Also, the possibility of a fat tip is still on my mind. I call Erica to say I’ll be late for the breakfast we’re supposed to have. There’s no answer so I leave a message. At nine-thirty Albertson lets me into this suite that looks how you'd expect an expensive whorehouse to look. Mirrors are mounted on the bedroom walls and ceiling and the sitting room is done in plush red and black velvet with a sunken hot tub in the middle. I knew about these rooms but I've never been in one – playpens for high rollers who for a couple of days get to be treated like the big swinging dicks they want to be.

"Hope I'm not interrupting your morning," Albertson says as he lets me in. The table is set and there are two serving carts within easy reach. "I don't have much going today," I tell him. “We'll have breakfast, we’ll talk, do a little business, then you can go." I still wonder what business he wants me for, but I don't ask. “Some joint," I say, my eyes moving from the hot tub to the statue of the nude woman with a toga draped over her shoulder. "They want me to stick around – think they can get their money back." He laughs. "I'll be around for awhile but they can’t have their money back." He busies himself serving our break­fast. His eyes are alive again.

"That was something – what you did," I say. He looks at me like he doesn’t understand. “When you walked into the casino, you thought you knew you were going to win – not felt lucky, not wanting to win, you thought you knew you were going to win.” I take a sip of the coffee he hands me and look at him. I don’t want to piss him off by asking too many questions, but this is bothering me. “And then you seemed to think you knew when the run was over. Understand, Mr. Albertson, I don't believe for a minute that you really knew – but I think you really thought you knew."

He studies his plate for a while then he studies me. "Okay. I'll tell you how I thought I knew . . . . In the beginning I thought I wanted to be a minister. A year in a seminary cured me of that ambition. I bummed around for a while and ended up broke in Vegas. The town was booming and casinos were paying people to learn to be dealers so I wound up in the craps pit at the Sands.” I shook my head. "Hard to understand how somebody who could have been a minister could give it up to deal craps."

“Devote my life to others?” He smiles. “While I liked the sound of that, it wasn’t me. Craps gave me what I was really looking for, power." I’m thinking it’s odd that he doesn’t mention money. How money, not some cross around your neck, gives power. Chewing his toast he looks out the window, out past the MGM, at the Sierra Nevada range on the horizon. "Sometimes I felt like I had control over the dice. I could think of the number and there it would be. Eventually I found out . . . well, I found out how to win.”

I listen, skeptical. “So I guess you must be pretty rich,” is all I can think of to say. He coughs, choking on his orange juice. “Well, you’ve hit on something there, Benny.” He clears his throat and laughs like you laugh when something ain’t all that funny. "Here’s the kicker. I can only win if I give the money away. In this sick, cosmic joke, that’s the way it works.” He has trouble getting it out. It’s like the words stick down deep when he says this. "What's the point?" I say, more confused than before, “and who says?”

“I don’t know. I get a little current running down my back and I know I’m going to win. When I follow certain rules – give the winnings away is the big rule, and anonymously, always anonymously – then I win the next time.”

“And the money?" I ask. My mouth feels dry. I don’t know if it’s this stuff about him controlling the dice making me feel weird or maybe it’s how he can’t keep the money that bothers me. "A gambler in too deep, ready to kill himself. Some women. The Salvation Army." He shrugs his shoulders, nods, and the action of moving his head seems to drain the blood from his cheeks. Lifting his pale face he laughs. “I’m a saint after all, right?” Being near Albertson is like being in a room full of people. The vibes are too strong to come from one person. “I’d think you’d be a legend – I never heard of you.”

“I move around. London, Spain, North Africa, the Caribbean, Macao. Can’t stay in one place very long. And I usually stop after an hour or so, smaller wins attract less attention."

“No money?”

“Only expenses.”

"Just roam around? Shooting craps in all those places?" He nods, stares into his coffee cup like something might be in there to give him comfort. "I need to find a way to win and keep the money." We sit for a while, not talking. This is even crazier than I thought. “Maybe,” he shakes his head, stares somberly at the poached egg growing cold in its cup, “maybe God isn’t who we think He is. Maybe God spends His time thinking up tests for people. Like you might have done with your Guinea Pig in science class . . . like some people pull the wings off flies just to see what they’ll do.” I eat a plump, red strawberry sitting on the side of my plate. Grown in water tanks with liquid nutrients. Beautiful, empty, tasteless.

Albertson says, "There was an incident some years ago – at the Sands – a Casino employee was killed.” I nod, “Carl Katz told me.”

“Carl told you? Everything?”

“I don’t know what everything is . . . he said some pit boss got shot.”

The gambler thinks about this for a long moment. “A murder, clean and simple. A crime of passion. The boss was trying to slow the game, and me, I’m rolling dice like a wild man loving every minute of it. I saw the heavy from Jersey getting upset with the casino. I never thought . . . if I realized how drunk and angry the customer was I would have rolled a seven and ended the run.”

“You telling me you can just decide when to roll a seven out?” He looks at me for what seems a long time, and then his eyes drop to the table. “I want to hire you," he says. Walking to the bar he comes back with two cashier's checks. One made out to me in the amount of eight thousand dollars; the other to Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas for most of the night's winnings, eighty thousand. "I'm paying you ten percent for your help. Go to the hospital and give this check to the administrator after he agrees, in writing, to my terms.”

"You don't have to pay . . . ."

"Don't be so damn generous!" His tone is sharp. "I can't do it because all my gifts must be anonymous." He hands me an envelope. "There’s an agreement in there he has to sign. The money will be used for improvements to the emergency room. A bronze plaque will be placed on the emergency room wall in memory of Abraham Katz."
I stare at him, then at the check, trying to sort it all out. I am not immune to the thought that I’m holding a check for as much as I make in two years. Or that even the smaller check might be enough to get me back to St. Louis. "Abraham Katz was the pit boss at the Sands, killed the night I made my big score."

“Carl’s . . . ?”

"Carl’s father," he says.

I do the deal with Sunrise Hospital like Mr. Albertson told me. Carl's the only person who knows about that. I figure that might be why Albertson hired me, so I’d tell Carl. He shakes his head, “It’s not enough,” he mumbles. “Shit!” he adds. He walks away and thinks about it and when he comes back there are tears in his eyes. He wants details so I tell him everything said at breakfast with Albertson. “Where’d he go?” Carl asks. “In the suite, last I saw.”

“No more. He gave the limo driver a Franklin to take him to the airport.” Carl shakes his big head and stares across the casino. Staring at nothing, or, maybe staring down the strip to where the Sands Hotel used to be. “Did he tell you how he did it?” He finally asks. “He talked about it. Didn’t make any sense to me.”

“I don’t want to know,” Carl says.

As for me, I’m sticking around here awhile longer. Maybe buy that little ranchette at the foot of the mountains where I can see the sun lifting over the peaks in the morning. Albertson’s check gives me enough for the down payment. I can fix it up real nice over time, even nicer if Erica wants to help. Besides, I’ve come to like the weather out here better than St. Louis. Someday I’ll go back and visit mama. But not today. Today I’ll work, and I’ll watch the bosses, the girls, the money, and the crazies. Right now I’m going to find Erica. Talk to her about the ranchette. Find out if that’s something she’d like to do – hang out with me at the foot of the mountain and watch the sun rise.

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