Buddwing

16

At first, he was not sure the woman was addressing him. As he approached the taxi parked alongside the curb, she lowered the window, leaned partially out of it, and called, “Hey, you! Do you want to be a trophy?”

Clutching his parcels, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that he was the only person on the corner. As though answering the question he was phrasing in his mind, the woman in the taxi said, “Yes, you. I’m talking to you.”

He moved closer to the cab and bent down to look into it. The woman was in her middle thirties, wearing a very low-cut black cocktail dress and sitting forward rather carelessly on the seat, the dress riding high up over her knees. For a moment, her face seemed familiar, but then he realized the resemblance was only an illusion, the neon reflection from the bar on the corner softening her features in the dimness of the cab interior. Her blond hair was clipped close to her head, a coiffed tendril curling onto one cheek, a disorderly tangle falling haphazardly onto the other. There was a hard line to the woman’s jaw and nose. Her mouth, smiling at him now, combined with her heavily made-up eyes to deliver an immediate impression of knowledgeability that even the neon glow could not conceal. Whatever she had once looked like — at eighteen, at twenty, at twenty-two, at twenty-eight — had been obscured by a shellacked veneer of smartness and chic, and something more than that: a cynical wisdom that seemed to shine through her eyes from within.

“What did you say?” he asked.

The woman was still smiling. “I asked if you would like to be a trophy,” she said. She slurred the words, and it was then that he caught the whiff of alcohol and realized she was at least partially drunk. “I’m on a scavenger hunt. I’m supposed to bring back a tall man in a blue suit. What do you say?”

“Bring him back where?” he asked.

“Oyster Bay.”

“That’s an out-of-town call, lady,” the driver said over his shoulder. “You know that, don’t you?”

“You just tend to the driving.”

“All I’m doing is telling you it’s an out-of-town call.”

“Do you want me to take your number?”

“Lady,” the cabbie answered, “you can take my number if you like, all I’m doing is advising you that Oyster Bay is an out-of-town call, if that is where we’re going now.”

“That’s not where we’re going now,” she answered. “We still have other things to get.” She turned again to Buddwing. “What do you say?”

“Is this a gag?” he asked.

“Does it look like a gag? You’re the first man I’ve seen in a blue suit. Is blue going out of style or something?”

“I didn’t think it was.”

“Neither did I. Come on, what do you say? If I have to drag a man back to that party, he might as well be good-looking.”

“Well, that’s very flattering, but...”

“What have you got in the bags there? Your lunch?”

Buddwing smiled. “Whiskey,” he said.

“Ahhh, good, I picked a winner.” She threw open the cab door. “In. Not another word. In.”

Still smiling, Buddwing shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m on my way somewhere.”

“I’ll help you get there,” the blonde said.

“By way of Oyster Bay?”

“Why not? Oyster Bay is very nice.”

“Come on, lady, where to?” the cabbie asked impatiently.

“Hold your horses, I have to look at this list. Now, what the hell did I do with it? Oh yeah,” she said, and reached into the front of her dress and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from between her breasts. “Can you give me a light back here?” she asked. The cabbie sighed and turned on the overhead light. The woman squinted at the list and then said, “I’m as blind as a bat without my glasses.” She handed the list to Buddwing. “Can you make this out? Don’t mind the Chanel, it’s there by osmosis.”

Buddwing took the sheet of paper, reeking of perfume, and studied the items typewritten on it, one beneath the other.

“You really were supposed to find a tall man in a blue suit,” he said.

“What did you think this was? A clumsy pickup?”

“No, but—”

“Then why so surprised? Have you got a cigarette?”

“I’m sorry, I’m all out.”

“Driver, have you got a cigarette?”

“Lady, have you decided yet where you would like to go?”

“No, I have not decided yet, and I asked you if you had a cigarette.”

“Lady, I am a cab driver, not a butler.”

“What’s his number?” she said, turning to Buddwing. “I can’t read it from here.”

“It’s 704163,” the cabbie said, “and my name is Frederick Calabresi, and this is a Yellow Cab. Does that answer all your questions?”

“I don’t want to ride with you,” the woman said. She opened the door immediately and came out of the cab, legs flashing. She staggered on the sidewalk for a moment, clutched Buddwing’s arm for support, and then said, “Pay him.”

“Me?” Buddwing asked.

“Yes, you. All I’ve got is a hundred-dollar bill, and I don’t want to break it. Pay him, for God’s sake.”

The cabbie threw his flag, leaned out the window and said, “That’s two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

Buddwing sighed and reached into his pocket.

“If you tip him a penny, I’ll brain you,” the woman said.

He paid the fare and tipped the driver fifty cents. When he turned to the woman again, she said, “Did you tip him?”

“No,” Buddwing said.

“She’s drunk as hell, mister,” the cabbie said. “You better watch yourself,” and he pulled away from the curb.

“What did he say his number was?”

“I don’t remember,” Buddwing said.

“Neither do I. Have you still got that list?”

“Yes.”

“Will you help me find those other trophies?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You might as well stick around,” the blonde said. “You’ve already got an investment in me.” She smiled. “You did tip that louse, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t deserve it.”

“You were kind of rough with him.” Buddwing said.

“He never had a ride like that in his life,” she answered. “He should have tipped me.” She paused and looked at Buddwing unsteadily. “What’s your name?”

“The hell with that,” he said.

“Are you wanted or something?”

“No.”

“So don’t be shy.”

“I’m the man in the blue suit, okay?”

“Sure, but what do I call you? Rover? Prince?”

“Call me anything you like, I don’t care.”

“What kind of whiskey have you got there?”

“Scotch and bourbon.”

“Open the Scotch and we’ll have some.”

Buddwing hesitated.

“Come on,” she said, “you’re not going to deny a lady a drink, are you?”

“This is for a party,” he answered.

“That’s right,” she said. “Sit down, we’ll have a party.”

“Look, really, I don’t think—”

“A lousy drink? One lousy drink?”

“Well, all right, but—”

“Good, sit down. Here. Right here.”

They moved toward the front step of one of the buildings, the blonde weaving uncertainly, Buddwing helping her. She sat beside him, and then opened her legs and pushed the black folds of the dress down between them. Buddwing opened the bottle and handed it to her. “Cheers,” she said, and drank from the lip. “Ahhh, good.” She passed the bottle back to him. “Read me the other things on that list, will you?”

“Why’d you come all the way here from Oyster Bay?” he asked.

“I didn’t come from Oyster Bay.”

“Didn’t you tell the cabbie—”

“Yes, that’s where we’re going as soon as we round up this junk, but that’s not where we started. Not where I started.”

“Where did you start?”

“890 Park Avenue.”

“Is that where you live?”

“No. That’s where Sibbie lives. Sibbie Randolph. She’s a friend of mine.” She paused. “Do you know her?”

“No.”

“She’s a swinger,” the blonde said. “Anyway, we were there for dinner, and somebody suggested that we have a scavenger hunt and meet out at Jerry’s house in Oyster Bay at two o’clock. What time is it now?”

“I haven’t got a watch,” Buddwing said.

“Everybody has a watch.”

“Not me. Nor you, either, for that matter.”

“Well, what time is it about? You must know that.”

“It’s about eleven-thirty.”

“That gives us an hour and a half to round up this junk, if we’re going to be out on the Island by two. I’m not supposed to be doing this alone, you know. There were four other people on my team.”

“What happened to them?”

“Well, Sibbie and Ralph, I have a pretty good idea what happened to them. The other two, I don’t know. I’m stuck with the list, that’s all I know.”

“This is quite a list,” he said.

“Yes, but I’ve got you already, so that’s a start, isn’t it?”

“Don’t count on me,” Buddwing said. “I’m supposed to be someplace else right now.”

“Oh, never mind that, give me the bottle.” He handed it to her. She lifted it to her mouth, winked at him, said, “Cheers,” and drank. “Ahhh, good,” she said. “Here. Have some.”

“I don’t want to get drunk.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. I’m supposed to be someplace.”

“Where?”

“Well,” he said, and shrugged.

“Oh, look how shy and cute. What is it, a girl? What are you embarrassed about? I don’t own you.”

“I know that.”

The blonde grinned. “What was it? Did Mummy send you down to the store for some goodies, huh?”

“Cut it out,” he said harshly.

“Ah, the beast emerges. I love bestial men. Give me that bottle.” She took it from him again and held it to her mouth, taking a long swallow.

“You’d better go easy,” he said.

“Why? I go hard or easy, however I want to. Any complaints?”

He shrugged.

“Good. No complaints, no backtalk, you’re with me right now, and she can wait. Anyway, I can’t read that list without your help. What’s the first thing on it? Not the man in the blue suit, I know that. That was down near the bottom someplace.”

“Well, the first thing on it is ‘Five Hundred Thousand Dollars in Cash.’”

“Easy,” the blonde said. “What’s next?”

“Easy? Five hundred thousand dollars in cash?”

“Sure.”

“I guess they mean play money.”

“No, I guess they mean real money. If you consider five hundred thousand dollars real money.”

“I do,” Buddwing said.

The blonde shook her head. “Five hundred million dollars is real money,” she said, “and even that isn’t so much. It’s all relative. Do you have any relatives?”

“A few,” he said, smiling.

“I have all sorts of relatives,” the blonde said. “I have enough relatives to go around the world and back again, twice, laid end to end.” She sighed and said, “If you don’t start drinking with me soon, I’m going to get angry. I don’t like to drink alone.”

“I think you’ve had enough, anyway,” Buddwing said.

“Don’t ever say that to me. Not if you want to be my friend.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what’s your name?”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Ah-ha, a mystery man, Secret Agent X-9.” She paused and said, “That gives away my age, doesn’t it? How old do you think I am?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Yes, but I look thirty, don’t I?”

“No, you look thirty-five.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she said. “What’s the second thing on that list?”

“‘A Black Cadillac Sedan.’”

“Easy,” she said. “We’ll call Carey.”

“I have exactly one dollar and forty-six cents in my pocket,” Buddwing said.

“It only costs, a dime to make a call.”

“Who’ll pay for the car?”

“We’ll charge it to my husband’s business. What else is on that list?”

“We still haven’t got the five hundred thousand.”

“Stick with me, honey,” she said, and winked. “Everything’s easy. Just swing with it, and don’t let the bastards get you down. Come on, come on, the list.”

“‘Your Name in the Newspaper,’” he said.

“Simple. The penny arcade on Broadway and Fifty-second. We can get it there. What else?”

“‘Three Good Men and True to Testify to Your Character.’”

“That was undoubtedly Sibbie’s idea. There are only five extra men at the party now, you know, so she naturally feels the need for a few more. Three good men and true, brother!”

“To testify to your character,” Buddwing reminded her.

“That’s all we need is three men to testify to my character. We’d better make it yours.”

“But I’m not going along with you,” he said.

“Why not? Look at what that list offers. Fame, fortune, adventure, romance, what more do you want?”

“Where’s the adventure and romance?” Buddwing said.

“Me. I’m on that list someplace.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m better than on that list. I’m here. I’m sitting right here next to you. Give me your hand.” She took his hand. “You feel that? That’s me. Now, come on, let’s go get this stuff.”

He looked at her steadily, appraising her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I’m not sure it’s what I want,” he said.

“No? What do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shake hands with everybody in the world.”

“How are any of these things going to help me?” he asked.

“Help you what, for Christ’s sake?”

“Help me to know who I am.”

“Don’t talk metaphysics,” she answered. “Say what you mean.”

“I mean, lady, I’ve been lost since six o’clock this morning.”

“And no wonder. You keep asking stupid questions, you’ll be lost the rest of your life.”

“What did I ask that was so stupid?”

“You asked about identity. If you don’t know what identity is, then you don’t know anything.”

“Tell me.”

“Identity is five hundred thousand dollars, and a black Cadillac, and your name in the newspaper, and a beautiful blonde on your arm, and at least three lackeys to tell you how great you are. That’s identity.”

“Whose?”

“Yours, mine, everybody’s. If you want it, there it is, right on that list.” She smiled. “See? Didn’t I say I’d help you?”

“How have you helped me?” he asked. “All I’ve got so far is a meaningless scrap of paper.”

The smile turned into an impish grin. “You’ve also got a woman,” she said.

“So?”

“So I’m doing what a good woman is supposed to do. I’ve listened to what you want, and now I’ll help you get it, even if it scares hell out of me.”

“Why should it scare you?”

“Because I don’t understand you or the things you want. All I can do is feel your need, and try to help. I listened while you read your list to me, and now I’ll—”

“This list is yours,” he said. “Not mine.”

“Is it? Forgive me. I thought you wanted to know who you are.”

“I do.”

“Yes, that’s what you told me, remember? And I listened. And now I’m going along with you, to help you get—”

“You’re twisting it,” he said. “It’s you who needs these things, and you’re asking me to go along.”

“Is there really any difference, darling?” she asked.

“Maybe not.”

“There isn’t, believe me. Come on, have a drink.”

He hesitated, thinking over what she had just said.

“Come on, honey,” she coaxed. “The night is young, and we’ve got a whole damn city to plunder.”

He looked at her and nodded, and then took the cap off the bottle of Scotch. He put the bottle to his lips, drank, and handed it to her. She smiled over the rim of the bottle as she drank, and then pulled it away from her mouth and wiped a dribble of whiskey from her chin.

“Ick,” she said, “I hate the taste of whiskey.”

The chauffeur-driven Carey Cadillac picked them up on the southeast corner of 81st Street and Third Avenue. They got into the back seat, and the blonde crossed her legs and made herself comfortable, and then looped her hand through Buddwing’s arm and said, “Now, the first thing we’ve got to do is get your name in the newspaper. Have you ever been to the penny arcade on Broadway and Fifty-second Street?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you from New York?”

“I was born here.”

“Have you ever been to Grant’s Tomb?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. How about the Cloisters?”

“No. But I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“What on earth for?”

“So I could kiss Marjorie Morningstar under the lilacs.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the chauffeur said.

“Yes?”

“I’m double-parked, you know, and—”

“Take us to the penny arcade on Broadway and Fifty-second,” the blonde said, and the driver set the car in motion.

“Have you ever been to the Queensboro Bridge?” Buddwing asked.

“I live right on Sutton Place,” the blonde said. “The Queensboro Bridge is practically in my bedroom. As a matter of fact, I almost jumped off the Queensboro Bridge once.”

“Why’d you do that?”

She shrugged. “I was feeling blue.”

“You don’t look like the kind of girl who ever gets blue.”

“How do you know what kind of girl I am?”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Then don’t tell me what I look like.”

“I was only trying to—”

“Because nobody ever knows what goes on behind the four walls. This skin, these bones, they’re the four walls. Inside, there’s a secret person no one ever sees, no one. You probably know more about me right now than anyone else in the world.”

“How come?”

“I never told anyone else about the Queensboro Bridge.”

“You haven’t really told me yet.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I got out of bed one rainy day, and simply decided I’d had it.”

“Why?”

“How do I know why? I don’t like rain, all right? That was a good enough reason. Motivation is only for the movies. Real people are motivated by whatever the hell comes into their heads at any given moment.”

“And you were motivated by the rain?”

“No. I wasn’t motivated by the rain.”

“Then what?”

“What difference does it make? I was a kid, barely twenty-three. That was centuries ago.”

“I’m interested.”

The blonde sighed. She turned her head away from him as the car sped downtown. She seemed almost to be talking to the reflecting glass of the window beside her, rather than to Buddwing.

“I lost a baby,” she said. “I know that’s not very great shakes — what the hell, women lose babies every day of the week. But this was different, you see, because I hadn’t wanted the baby in the first place; in fact we had even discussed getting rid of it. But then — you know how these things are — we decided to go through with it; he convinced me that everything would be all right. Well, you know, you’re married, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then you know.”

“I used to be married,” he said quickly.

“Do you have any children?” she asked, turning to look at him.

“No.”

“Well, then...” She shrugged and turned back to the window again. “He really wanted the baby, I think. Or maybe not, I don’t know, maybe he was as scared as I was. But he convinced me, you see, he really convinced me that everything would be all right, and after a while I didn’t mind the idea so much and then, I don’t know what the hell happened, maybe the maternal juices began to flow, all at once I began looking forward to having the baby, and that was when I lost it. I lost it in the sixth month. It was very messy, ick, I don’t want to remember it.”

She was silent for a very long time. He thought she had finished her story, and then suddenly she said, “The night before the bridge bit, we talked about it. At long last, we talked about it, after walking around it for months, after pretending nothing so very terrible had happened. We finally talked about it, screaming at each other in that terrible cheap crumby little apartment we had, blaming each other for what? For my failure and for his failure, for the world’s failure, for death, for life? Who the hell even knew what life or death were at that time? Who knew anything but the grind of waking each morning and facing each other with an unspoken accusation in our eyes, until that night when all the accusations flooded out?”

The blonde drew a quick sudden breath.

“It was raining the next morning,” she said. “I got out of bed, and all I put on was my white raincoat, nothing under it, and an old pair of rubber boots I’d had since I was eighteen years old and going to N.Y.U. I walked onto the Queensboro Bridge, and I thought if this was what life meant, if this was what it was about, I didn’t want any part of it. I wasn’t going to wait around until they pulled me apart piece by piece and left me bleeding on the sidewalk. I’d do it myself, my own way. I’d break myself into a million pieces before they did it for me. So I stood on the bridge near Welfare Island, and I wondered if I should go back and leave a note, and then I decided no, the hell with a note, let him figure it out for himself. I looked down — I don’t know why; the mind plays funny tricks. I was going to throw myself off, but I wanted to see where I was going to land.”

She paused, and again drew a quick breath.

“There was a nurse down there, wheeling an old man around in the rain. She was holding an umbrella over his head. It was pouring bullets, and the two of them were marching around in the rain, it was crazy. And then suddenly the old man looked up and saw me standing on the bridge, way up there. And he smiled and waved at me.” She paused. “So I didn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess maybe I decided if an old man being pushed around in a wheelchair on a miserable day like that could find something to wave and smile about, what the hell.” She turned toward him suddenly. “Or maybe I just decided that if I couldn’t lick them, I had better join them damn fast. I had better go home and listen to that man of mine, and get him out of that goddamn dead-end trap before the jaws came clamping down — maybe that’s what I decided. Whatever it was, when I got home, I wasn’t so sure any more. I sat in our kitchen at the table — I still hadn’t taken off the raincoat or the boots — and I just wasn’t sure any more. I just had the feeling I’d only postponed something that was inevitable, why the hell bother? Just because a sick old man smiled up at me and waved? He was probably smiling and waving because he was looking up under my raincoat.” The blonde shrugged. “Anyway, he saved my life. For all that’s worth.”

“You saved it yourself,” Buddwing said.

“I’m getting sober,” the blonde said. “You’re a terrible influence. How’d I ever get involved with a person like you?”

“I don’t know. Just lucky, I guess.”

“Yeah, lucky,” the blonde said. “Where’s the bottle?”

“I like you better sober.”

“Nobody cares whether you like me or not. Give me the bottle.”

“No.”

“Oh my, a difficult man,” she said, and sighed. “When were you born?”

“January tenth.”

“Capricorn, it figures. Not that I believe in that junk any more,” she said, and shrugged. “I don’t believe in anything any more, if you want to know. Not the stars, not God, not love, not marriage, nothing but the five hundred thousand dollars we’re going to get tonight, and this Cadillac wrapped around us. That’s all.”

“How do you know we’ll get the five hundred thousand dollars?”

“Because we need it.”

“For what?”

“To win.”

“To win what?”

“The game.”

“Ahhh, the game. And when we win it?”

She shrugged. “We win it, that’s all.”

“What do we win?”

“The right to keep playing it,” she answered. “The right to get two hundred dollars every time we pass Go. The right to stay in the game, that’s all. Until we’re bankrupt.”

“Then what?”

“Then out. We pack our hotels and our houses, and we trade Boardwalk and Park Place for the Queensboro Bridge. When you’re bankrupt, there’s no place else to go.”

“But you’re never bankrupt if you win,” Buddwing said.

“Aren’t you?” the blonde answered. “You’re married, go ask your wife. Go home and say... what’s her name?”

“Grace.”

“Go home and say, ‘Grace, can you win and be bankrupt at the same time?’ See what she tells you.”

“I can’t do that,” Buddwing said.

“Sure, because you know what the answer’ll be.” She glanced through the window and said, “There’s the penny arcade. Let’s get your name printed in the goddamn newspaper. Just pull right up there, driver.”

“Ma’am, there’s a No Parking sign there,” the driver said.

“We’ll take that back to the party, too,” the blonde said. “Rip it off the post, will you?”

“Me?” the driver asked.

“Yes, you. Do you want to be a lousy chauffeur all your life? Live a little.”

“Well...”

“Come on,” she said to Buddwing, and they got out of the car.

It was midnight in New York on Saturday night, and the Broadway sidewalk was packed with pleasure-seekers, all of them hiding their broken hearts from all the lights up there commemorating the fissures. The lights seemed determined to overwhelm by sheer size and candlepower, each blinking barrage showering onto the night a dazzle of swirling, skittering, racing, exploding illumination. A thousand times life size, a million times brighter than life, they blasted their wares to the street until the mind reeled dizzily. The people below, as though running to escape the falling debris of wattage, jostled against each other blindly, seeking the more human scale of the stores and restaurants lining the avenue. The shows had broken, the movies had let out, and now the Saturday night throng moved in a narrow canyon rimmed with shrieking illumination, like a herd of cattle ponderously and painfully avoiding an electrified fence.

There was very little equality in this crowd that moved along the sidewalk and overflowed into the street, constantly imprisoned by light. Whereas they were all here for pleasure, none of them had any intention of sharing it. This was not a unified crowd that had just come from the same football game, emptying an arena. This was, instead, a crowd pouring into an arena, and the only thing they shared was the uneasy knowledge that within this brightly lighted oval they themselves might have to provide the only entertainment. So they looked at each other suspiciously. Was that blind man leading his dog really blind? Were those teen-agers looking for fun or trouble? Was that real mink or imitation?

The Fourteenth Street shopgirl had spent all afternoon in a beauty parlor having her hair washed and tinted and teased and set and sprayed and lacquered into place so that a woman from Washington Mews could walk by and whisper to her escort, “My God, did you see that fright wig?” This was Saturday night, and a group of Puerto Rican teen-agers from Bruckner Boulevard could feel momentarily free to venture into the city as though they really did own a part of it. (“This place is getting overrun by spies,” a second-generation Italian from Fordham Road would mutter to his wife.) This was Saturday night, and going too fast, moving into the past too quickly — how many Saturday nights would there be before the whole thing ended? This was a time for enjoyment, a narrow respite between Friday evening and Sunday morning. If there were drinks to be consumed, this was the time to do it; jokes to be told, tell them now; women to be laid, lay them quick before they turned on the lights and called the law; jigs to be danced, chanteys to be sung, rumbles to be started, riots to be led, dance them, sing them, start them, lead them — this was Saturday night and such a short time in which to cram all that pleasure, such a short time in which to realize the week-long dream. If you didn’t make it now, you’d have to wait clear the hell to next Saturday, and who knew whether you’d be here or not by then?

They came out of the illegally parked limousine and pushed their way against the current of the crowd, walking past the front windows of the arcade, the monster masks, the practical jokes, the souvenir ashtrays and metal Empire State Buildings. The arcade was crowded with teen-agers and older people who still remembered Luna Park. Slot machines bonged and blinked, rifles popped, pellets pinged, a young girl in a bouffant hairdo shrieked joyously to her boyfriend when she shot down a hundred and forty Messerschmitts with an electronic machine gun. At one end of the arcade, alongside a man who was painting nude girls on silk ties, stood an elementary printing press and an ink-stained man. A small crowd of people was watching the artist as he dotted the nipples of a painted voluptuous redhead. A lone Negro was watching the printer pull a wet newspaper from the press, the headline stating A BOY FOR THE COHENS! Buddwing and the woman walked directly to the counter.

“My friend wants his name in the paper,” she said.

The printer looked up. “What do you want it to say?” he asked. “Write it down here. No more than twenty-five letters, and spaces count as letters.”

“How long will it take?” she asked.

“Half hour. You can wait or come back, either way suits you.”

“Think we can make five hundred grand in a half hour?” she asked, and winked at Buddwing.

“Only way you can do that,” the printer said, “is if I was to run it off on this press for you.”

“No, we need real money.”

“That’s a lot of loot, lady,” the Negro standing at the counter said.

“Not if you’re lucky,” she answered, smiling.

“You’re lucky, huh, lady?”

“I’m lucky. This tall man in the blue suit here is my lucky charm.”

The Negro looked at Buddwing appraisingly, nodded, and then said, “I believe you.”

“We’re thinking of robbing a bank,” the blonde said. “Do you know any banks that need robbing?”

“I know a couple in Birmingham that need robbing,” the Negro said, “but that’s a long ways off.”

“We were thinking of something closer.”

“Five hundred grand is a lot of loot, lady,” he said again. “Most banks don’t keep that kind of loot over the weekend.”

“You want a newspaper or not?” the printer asked. “I got work to do.”

“We want it,” the blonde said.

“Then write down what it should say, willya?”

“What shall we say?” she asked Buddwing.

The Negro grinned and said, “Couple Caught Robbing Bank.”

“That’s more than twenty-five letters.”

“Blonde Breaks Bank?” he suggested, and then shrugged. “How many letters is that?”

“Why don’t we just say I’ve been a big success at something?” Buddwing suggested.

“Yeah, just say he made it,” the Negro put in. “So-and-So Makes It.” He paused. “What’s your name?” he asked. “We’ll need it for the headline.”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Every man has a name,” the Negro said.

“I’m not Everyman,” Buddwing said.

“How do you know?” the blonde said. She took the pencil from the counter, and on the slip of paper she wrote:

“There. How’s that?”

“A bit pretentious, don’t you think?” Buddwing said.

“Well, that depends,” the Negro said. “How many letters is it?”

The blonde began figuring. “Eighteen,” she said. “Counting spaces.”

“That’s less than twenty-five, all right,” the Negro said. “It ain’t pretentious at all.”

“I’m not Everyman,” Buddwing said. “I’m me.”

“And who are you?”

He shrugged. “Nobody.”

“Maybe that’s more to the point,” the blonde said. She scratched out what she had written, and beneath it she wrote:

“That’s poetic, but untrue,” Buddwing said. “We are going to make it.”

“I believe you,” the Negro said.

The blonde shrugged and handed the slip of paper to the printer. “Print it,” she said. “We’ll be back in a half hour.”

“What kind of a headline is that?” the printer asked.

“What are you, a printer or an editor?”

“I’m only saying.”

“Print it,” she said. She turned to Buddwing. “Come on, let’s go make our five hundred grand.”

“Nobody makes it,” the printer muttered behind them.

The Negro followed them out to the sidewalk. As they approached the limousine, he asked, “You serious about that loot?”

“Why? Have you remembered a bank someplace?”

“Banks are for putting in, lady.”

“What’s for taking out?”

“Crap games.”

“Life’s the biggest crap game going,” the blonde said.

“Me,” the Negro answered, “I don’t dig symbolism. If you’re looking for a real crap game with some real money in it, I know where. You interested?”

“I’ve got a dollar and thirty-six cents,” Buddwing said, and shrugged.

“That won’t get you in this crap game, man.”

“Will a hundred?” the blonde asked.

“You hope to parlay a hundred bucks into five hundred grand?” the Negro asked, and shook his head.

“Why not? Will there be that much money in the game?”

“It’s there, if you can take it home.”

“We can take it home.”

“I don’t know,” Buddwing said dubiously. “What’s your stake in this?”

“Ten per cent,” the Negro said.

“Of what?”

“Your winnings.”

“We’d have to win a hell of a lot more than five hundred grand in order to afford your percentage.”

“Tell you what,” the Negro said. “Win five and a quarter, and I’ll settle for twenty-five grand.”

“Suppose we only win five? Or less than that?”

“Then my services are thrown in free. How about it?”

“You really do think we’re going to make it, don’t you?” Buddwing asked.

“Yep. I think you’re gonna bust that game wide open.”

“How come?”

“Man, when you’re born black, you never know the smell of luck until it comes sailing down Broadway sweet and cool in your nostrils. When you and your wife walked into that penny arcade, I got such a whiff of it, it nearly overpowered me. I’d like a piece of it, man. Twenty-five grand is all I ask.”

“You’re on,” the blonde said.

“Where is this game?” Buddwing asked.

“Up in Harlem. You ain’t a segregationist or anything, are you?”

“Yeah, sure I am,” Buddwing said, and grinned.

“So am I,” the Negro answered, returning the grin. “I want to segregate all that money in the crap game from its rightful owners.”

“Come on, let’s go do it,” the blonde said.

She was moving toward the limousine when the Negro said, “My name’s Hank. I know your husband’s name ’cause I seen it in the paper.” He grinned broadly. “But I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, lady.”

The blonde hesitated. Then she opened the car door, winked at Buddwing and said, “Just call me Grace.”

Spanish Harlem was in full swing by the time they arrived, overrun by sailors from a squadron of destroyers moored in the Hudson River, all of whom had come uptown in search of exotica and erotica. The only natives concerned with the sailors were the prostitutes and the muggers; each would have a chance at rolling them before the sun came up. The rest of the citizens ignored the fleet and went about their pursuit of gaiety as relentlessly as did the Broadway crowd. The bars lining Madison and Park were full of drinkers, the apartments in the side-street tenements rang with the sound of guitars and Spanish songs, teen-agers sat on front stoops and discreetly nuzzled each other and their bottles of Thunderbird. This was not San Juan or Mayagüez, but it was Saturday night and for a while the ghetto could ring with the same humor and joy that sounded in the town plazas back home. There would be some fights, yes, and perhaps some youthful gang members would test their muscles against each other, it being spring and the summer rumble season not being too far off, but for the most part the cops roaming in pairs would have nothing more to worry about than a few drunken slashings and some sailors with bumps on their heads.

The Housing Authority cop had no such worries since he was not in the streets but was instead up on the third floor of the City Housing Development on 114th Street, in an apartment overlooking Fifth Avenue. The Housing Authority cop was not alone in the apartment. He was, in fact, part of a group that numbered about a dozen people, all of whom were crowded around a blanket that had been spread against the living room wall. As Buddwing, Hank, and Grace moved closer to the group, the Housing Authority cop reached for the dice on the blanket, shook them in his fist, yelled, “Eight, right back!” and then hurled them mightily against the wall. Hank, Buddwing, and Grace, standing on the edge of the crowd around the blanket, watched the white cubes strike the wall, bounce off onto the blanket, roll halfway down its middle, and then stop dead, a five-spot showing on one die, a two-spot showing on the other. In deference to the ladies present (there were three including Grace) the Housing Authority cop muttered his swear word under his breath, and then looked sourly at his neighbor as though the man had hexed him. His neighbor, clutching a fistful of ten-dollar bills, ignored the glance, adjusted his rimless spectacles on his nose, and reached for the dice. Buddwing and Grace elbowed their way into the circle and watched while the man with the spectacles rolled a seven and then a six, and then failed to make his point. The dice passed around the circle to a young mulatto woman named Iris, who picked them up and chided them gently as though they were a pair of skittish lovers, and then rolled them easily against the wall, her palm opening, the dice striking the wall and rolling back with a three-spot showing on one, and a one-spot showing on the other.

“Two to one, no four,” a tall beefy man in a dark gray tropical suit said, and Buddwing was surprised to see Grace hold out her hundred-dollar bill, and say, “It’s a bet.” The man in the gray tropical took her bill and tucked it together with his two bills between the forefinger and middle finger of his right hand while he continued to agitate for further bets, “Two to one, no four,” and the mulatto girl picked up the dice and blew her breath upon them as softly as a lover’s kiss, and again eased them out of her white palm and against the wall. They rolled back showing a pair of deuces, Little Joe, four the hard way. Grace collected her money — their stake had grown on a single roll of the dice to three hundred dollars — and Iris, the mulatto girl, put fifty dollars on the line and picked up the dice again, smiling a secret smile at them and again brushing her breath against them like a kiss.

“I’m with her,” Grace said. “Three hundred dollars she’s right.”

“It’s a bet,” the man in the tropical suit said, and he handed Grace three one-hundred-dollar bills.

Iris whispered, “Come on, you mothers,” and immediately rolled an eleven.

“How we doing?” Hank asked at Buddwing’s elbow.

“So far, so good.”

Hank was looking around the circle of bettors and trying to determine where the big money was. To take five hundred and twenty-five grand out of this game, it was first necessary to know who were the real gamblers and who were the Sunday drivers. There was no bookie in the game, and all bets were being made between the individual players, which meant that the odds were true odds, without a house percentage working against the players. It was entirely possible for his companions to win very big money here, provided they bet against the people who had it, and provided luck was with them. Hank nodded in approval when he saw that Grace was betting against the man in the gray tropical suit, since he was very big wood, a pusher who worked a lot of high schools in the Bronx. In addition to him, there were two other big gamblers in the game, both of whom were clutching fist-spiked handfuls of bristling bills, and one of whom had bound bills lying in front of him on the blanket in ten- and twenty-thousand-dollar packets. Hank nudged Buddwing gently and, with successive nods of his head, pointed out the heavy spenders in the game. Iris, meanwhile, had rolled a seven and another eleven, and Grace’s bankroll had mushroomed to twenty-four hundred dollars, which was still several hundred thousand short of their goal. On the next roll, Grace switched to betting the girl wrong, wagering the full twenty-four hundred dollars. The girl rolled a five, a six, and a seven in rapid succession, and Grace picked up her forty-eight hundred dollars, and grinned up at Buddwing.

The dice passed to a thickset man with an Irish-looking face. He put a five-dollar bill on the blanket, and Grace bet him wrong for two hundred dollars. He sevened out almost immediately, and she picked up the four hundred and now had an even five thousand dollars as the dice were passed to her.

“You roll,” she said to Buddwing and handed him the dice. “Five grand he’s right,” she said, and extended the five thousand dollars.

One of the big guns in the game looked at Grace appraisingly, shifted his eyes to Buddwing, moved his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, and then softly said, “Bet,” and held out his five thousand dollars.

Buddwing picked up the dice.

“How do you feel, man?” Hank whispered into his ear.

“Lucky,” Buddwing said.

“Roll ’em,” the man in the tropical suit said.

“We want a seven,” Grace said.

“Here’s your seven, honey,” Buddwing said, and hurled the dice against the wall. They bounced back onto the blanket. One of them stopped dead almost immediately with a six-spot showing on its face. The other die rolled and then went into a long spin and finally fell flat on the blanket, showing a one-spot.

“Seven!” Hank said, and Buddwing picked up the dice again.

“Bet the ten thousand,” Grace said.

“It’s a bet,” the man with the cigar answered.

“You don’t leave no room for error, honey,” Iris said to Grace.

“We can’t lose,” Grace answered, and watched as Buddwing shook the dice in his fist.

“Seven now!” he shouted, and threw them against the wall.

One die hit the wall and bounced straight up into the air like a rocket going into orbit. The players watched it reach its apogee and then fall swiftly to the blanket, where it struck the other die, changing the number on its face. Both dice rolled an instant longer and came to a stop.

“It’s a seven!” Grace yelled.

“We’ve got a hot shooter in the game at last,” the Irishman said.

“Roll the mothers,” Iris said.

“What do you want me to bet?” Grace asked him.

“All of it,” Buddwing said.

“Put part of it on eleven,” Hank said.

“Why?”

“I got a feeling.”

“Grace?”

“Okay with me,” Grace said.

She put five thousand dollars on the blanket and was immediately faded by the man with the cigar. She held up the rest of the money and said, “I’ve got fifteen thousand says he elevens.”

“I’ll give you fifteen to one on that,” the man in the tropical suit said.

“The right odds are seventeen to one,” Hank said gently. “You know that.”

“Oh, boy, we got an accountant in the house,” the man answered. “Okay, seventeen to one. Is it a bet?”

“It’s a bet,” Grace said.

They were laying bets all around the blanket as Buddwing picked up the dice again. In his mind he was trying to multiply fifteen thousand dollars by seventeen, which was what the payoff would be if he rolled an eleven. He clenched his fist around the dice and began shaking them.

“That eleven’s a one-shot bet, you know that, don’t you, lady?” the man in the tropical suit asked.

“She knows it,” Hank said.

“Fifty dollars, he elevens,” the Irishman said.

“Bet,” someone across the blanket answered.

The tall thin man wearing rimless spectacles held out a thousand-dollar bill and said, “Would anyone else care to give me seventeen to one on that?”

“You’re covered,” the man with the cigar said.

“Come on, these dice are cooling off,” Buddwing said.

“Oh, don’t let ’em cool, honey,” Iris said.

“Any more of that eleven action open?” a young man needing a shave asked.

“Right or wrong?”

“Right.”

“How much?”

“Ten bucks.”

“Come on, sonny, Mickey Mouse is across the street.”

“Who’ll give me seventeen to one?” the unshaven young man persisted.

“All right, all right, it’s a bet,” a redheaded woman said.

“Can I roll these damn things now?” Buddwing said.

“Go ahead, roll.”

Buddwing shook the dice again.

“Talk to ’em first, baby,” Grace said.

“We want an eleven,” Buddwing said.

“Come on, you mothers,” Iris said, “give the man his eleven.”

He raised his fist over his head, shook the dice once more and, as he threw them against the wall, shouted, “Ee-lev-en!” The same shout went up from half the players around the blanket at the same moment, so that the word “Ee-lev-en!” struck the air at the same moment the dice struck the wall. They hit savagely and rolled back savagely and savagely came to an abrupt stop. There were only two ways of making an eleven as against thirty-four ways of making any other possible number, and there was a whole hell of a lot of money riding on those two cubes as they stopped dead on the blanket like a pair of fists connecting. For a moment, the players were startled by the sudden halt of the dice. A six-spot and a five-spot stared up from the blanket, but nothing seemed to register on the players’ faces. It was as though a rain dance had provided rain immediately and unexpectedly, drenching everyone before he’d had a chance to work up even a fairly good jig.

“He made it,” someone whispered, and the right bettors began laughing and slapping each other on the back and picking up their winnings while the wrong bettors stared sourly at the dice still lying on the blanket.

“How much have we got now?” Buddwing asked.

Grace, counting bills feverishly, looked up and said, “Just a second.”

“Come on, let’s roll them dice, honey,” Iris said.

“We’ve got two hundred and sixty-five thousand,” Grace said, a shocked tone in her voice.

“Yeah, and it’s all my money,” the man in the tropical suit said.

“Bet it all on the next roll,” Buddwing said.

“Hey, go slow, man,” Hank warned. “We lose it, and we’re out of the game.”

“If we win it, we’re out of the game, too. Even money on that would give us five hundred and thirty thousand.”

“Still...”

“Put it on the line, Grace,” Buddwing said.

She hesitated a moment, and then looked at Hank. Hank shrugged.

“Yes or no?” Grace asked him.

“Go,” Hank said, and Grace put two hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars on the blanket.

“Who’ll fade it?” she asked.

“That’s a lot of action, lady,” the man in the tropical suit said.

“We thought this was a real game,” Hank answered.

“Yeah, it’s a real game, all right. You come in with a single bill, and you’re busting up the joint.”

“That’s gambling,” Hank said. “If you want to play jacks, maybe we can go to the Y and round up some little girls.”

The man in the tropical suit closed his eyes gently and pulled a grimace, and then opened his eyes slowly and stared directly at Hank and said, “I know guys on the bottom of the river.”

“So do I,” Hank said. “You fading or not?”

“I’ll take a hundred grand of it,” he answered.

Across the blanket, the man with the cigar said, “I’ll take another hundred.”

“There’s sixty-five open,” Hank said.

A small blond man who had been betting quietly up to now, but whom Hank had recognized as one of the bigger gamblers, took three twenty-thousand dollar packets of bills from the inside pocket of his jacket, and threw them on the blanket. He pulled a roll from his side pocket, removed the rubber band from it, and peeled off five one-thousand-dollar bills, which he put onto the blanket with the rest of the money.

“I think that covers it,” he said softly. “You want to roll now?”

“If you don’t mind,” the man in the tropical suit said, “I’d like to see those dice before you roll.”

“What is this, a Warner Brothers movie?” Hank asked.

“I don’t know what kind of a movie it is,” the man in the tropical suit said. “I only know you won more than two-and-a-half grand from me on the last roll, and I’ve got another hundred thousand riding on this one. Now, maybe that kind of loot don’t give me the right to examine those dice where you come from, but where I come from, three hundred and fifty-five grand buys a lot of seats at the RKO Palace.”

“Show him the dice,” Hank said.

Buddwing handed the dice over. “Don’t cool ’em off,” he said.

“I just want to make sure they ain’t too hot,” the man answered. He held the dice close to his face, one in each hand, and tried to wobble one against the other, and then studied them for cut edges or shaved sides, and then turned each die to each of its sides, matching the number against the same number on the other die. The dice were flush-spotted, which meant they would have been extremely difficult to load, and very easy to detect if they had been loaded, but he examined them minutely nonetheless. Still unsatisfied, the man in the tropical suit passed the dice to the man with the cigar and said, “What do you think?”

“Now, let’s not handle those dice too much, huh?” Hank said.

“If you don’t mind, Mac,” the man with the cigar said, “I got a stake in this, too.”

He took the dice and, with his hands in full view of all of the players, went through the same scrutinizing examination the man in the tropical suit had just conducted.

“What do you think, Harry?” he asked.

“I think five hundred and thirty grand on that blanket calls for a fresh pair of dice,” the man in the tropical suit said.

“Why? There something wrong with those?” Hank asked.

“He made three passes in a row,” the man with the cigar answered.

“If these dice are straight,” Hank said, “there’s no rule I know of that says he can’t make a hundred passes in a row.”

“It’s the shooter’s option to change the dice, isn’t it?” Grace asked.

“Not if they’re crooked,” the man with the cigar answered.

“The dice were in the game when we got here,” Hank said. “If they’re crooked, they were crooked for everybody.”

The Irishman standing next to Iris said, “Give him the dice, and let him shoot.”

The young man who needed a shave, and who had bet ten dollars on Buddwing’s eleven on the last roll, and who now had a hundred and eighty dollars, looked directly at the man with the cigar and said, “Give him the dice.”

The thin man with the rimless spectacles looked at the wall and said to no one in particular, “The dice are straight. Let him shoot.”

“There’re your three good men and true,” Grace said, and she smiled at Buddwing.

“Well, how about it?” Buddwing asked. “Are we shooting craps here or what?”

“What do you think, Harry?” the man with the cigar asked.

The man in the tropical suit answered, “I don’t know, Alfie. What do you think?”

The quiet blond man, who had sixty-five thousand dollars riding against Buddwing, very calmly said, “Give him the goddamn dice. This ain’t no nursery school.”

“The same dice, please,” Hank said, and watched as Alfie handed them back to Buddwing.

“Is it okay to roll?” Buddwing asked.

“Roll,” the blond man said.

“Roll,” Harry said.

“Roll,” Alfie said.

“Make it a good one, honey,” Iris said.

“Now, easy, man,” Hank said.

“Go, baby,” Grace said, and Buddwing shook the dice in his fist and bounced them off the wall. They rolled back and came to a stop.

“Ten,” Harry said.

“Your point is ten, mister,” Alfie said.

“Easy,” Grace said.

Buddwing picked up the dice. All around the blanket, the bettors were laying right bets, wrong bets, proposition bets, flat bets, come bets, point bets, one-roll-action bets, hard-way bets, none of which concerned Buddwing. All of his money was on the blanket already, two hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars. All he had to do to double it was roll a ten before he rolled a seven. He shook the dice and threw them.

“Eight,” Harry said. “Your point is still ten. Two to one, no ten,” he said and held out a fistful of bills.

“I’ll take fifty of that,” Iris said, and handed him her money. “Now, go, man,” she said to Buddwing. “Make them mothers behave.”

“Come on, baby, we want a ten!” Buddwing said, and threw the dice.

“Four, the easy way!” Alfie said. “You’re off this hard-way bet, mister,” he said to the Irishman.

“I know it. Ten dollars on the five.”

“Three to two, here’s fifteen,” Alfie said. “Roll ’em, mister.”

Buddwing threw the dice again.

“Nine,” the blond man said. “Who’ll take the odds on the six and eight, six grand on each, six to five?”

“It’s a bet,” the redhead across the blanket said.

“Ten grand, Red.”

“Here you go.”

“Roll.”

“Talk to them, baby. Talk to them,” Grace said.

“Come on, Mac, do it.”

“Now-come-on-TEN!” Buddwing shouted, and rolled.

“Eleven,” Harry said.

“You’re close, baby,” Grace said.

“Three to two, no five.”

“Bet.”

“A hundred on any craps.”

“Eight to one, you’re covered.”

“Here we go, ten, baby,” Buddwing said, and rolled.

“Six,” Grace said. “Where’s that ten, baby?”

“Coming up, sweetheart, just for you.”

“Roll it, baby, give it to me.”

He did not know how many times he threw the dice in the next five minutes without rolling either a ten or a seven. He only knew that the action around the blanket was frantic now, and that thousands upon thousands of dollars were being wagered on each successive throw. The big gamblers had been betting Buddwing wrong from the moment he had rolled the ten, giving the odds, and had lost thousands more in addition to their initial investment, the fate of which was still undecided. Moreover, the balance of power seemed to have shifted somewhat. Iris and the young man who needed a shave and the thin man with the rimless spectacles and the Irishman were all holding fistfuls of crumpled thousand-dollar bills and trying to drum up some action. Reluctantly, the quiet blond man gave Iris eight-to-one odds on the hard ten, and she handed him her thousand-dollar bill and then turned to Buddwing and said, “Now really do it, man. Two fives for me.”

Grace looked at the blond man and asked, “May I talk to those dice a minute?”

“Go ahead, talk to them.”

She was reaching onto the blanket for the dice when Alfie shifted his cigar in his mouth and said, “Are you rolling or is he?”

“Why, he is,” Grace said.

“Then leave the dice alone.”

“Your friend said I could talk to them.”

“Let her talk to them,” the blond man said.

“How do I know she won’t switch them?”

“With that dress she’s wearing, would you mind telling me where she could hide another pair of dice?”

“You tell him,” Grace said, smiling, and picked up the dice. She held them between her thumb and forefinger and rubbed them lightly over her crotch. Then, with a wide grin, she said, “There. I just talked to them, baby. Now, shoot.” She threw the dice across the blanket to Buddwing, and they rolled to a stop near his knees, one die showing a five-spot and the other showing a two-spot.

“You just took the seven off the goddamn dice!” Alfie said angrily.

“That’s just what I did, mister,” she answered, grinning. She turned to Buddwing. “Now give me my ten, baby.”

“I told you we shouldn’ta let her touch the dice.”

“They’re the same dice,” the blond man said.

“She took off the seven.”

“So go say a novena. What the hell are you, a gambler or a witch doctor?”

“You want to inspect them again maybe?” Hank asked.

“Oh, roll the goddamn dice and get it over with,” Harry said.

“Damn guy’s been rolling since last Tuesday,” the blond man said.

“Okay, here we go,” Buddwing said, picking up the dice. “I’m making that ten, and then I’m going home.”

He glanced at Alfie, and then Harry, and then the blond man, hoping for some sort of indicative reaction to his statement, testing them. If he did roll his ten, he would pick up five hundred and thirty thousand dollars from the blanket, and obviously that would be the time to say good night. But would the three gamblers allow him to bust open the game and then simply leave?

“Come on,” he said, “I want to go home,” and he began shaking the dice in his fist, watching for a reaction.

“Make your ten first, mister,” Alfie said, “and then we’ll see about going home.”

“Make it the hard way,” Iris said. “Come on, honey, two sweet fives.”

Buddwing shook the dice again. He was sweating heavily, and he was very thirsty, and it occurred to him suddenly that this was hard work and that even if he won he might wind up with a hole in his head.

“Don’t wear out the spots.”

“Roll ’em.”

“Ten, baby,” Grace said.

“Here we go,” Buddwing said, “ten now, give me a ten now, give me a TEN!” and he hurled the dice against the wall. They struck soundly and bounced back spinning.

“We want a ten,” Iris intoned as the dice continued spinning, “two fives, two fives, two fives.”

The dice continued spinning.

“The damn things are trained,” Alfie said.

“Come on, lay down,” Harry said to the dice, and one of the dice fell at his command, showing a five-spot. The other die was still spinning, but no one was talking now. They watched its whirling motion breathlessly, their fists clenched, their bodies tense. The die was slowing now, wobbling, it seemed ready to fall, it gave a short death rattle and then rolled over onto its side. It was showing another five-spot.

“You did it!” Grace shouted, and threw herself into Buddwing’s arms and kissed him full on the mouth. At the same moment, Hank reached onto the blanket and picked up their winnings. He turned to them quickly, pulled them apart, and steered them away from the blanket. The three gamblers were busily paying off bets around the blanket, but the blond man looked up as Buddwing approached the door, and then very quietly said, “You going someplace, mister?”

Buddwing turned. “Yes,” he answered. “We’re leaving.”

“You’re taking an awful lot of money out of this game,” the blond man said softly.

“That’s right.”

“Ain’t you gonna give us a chance to win it back?”

“Would you give me the same chance?” Buddwing asked.

“Well, now, a gentleman would.”

“There ain’t no gentlemen in crap games,” Hank said.

“I’m just concerned about you, that’s all,” the blond man said softly. “That’s a lot of money to be carrying around with you at this time of night.”

“We’ll be all right, don’t worry,” Buddwing said.

“I think he’ll be fine,” the young man who needed a shave said, and he walked away from the blanket and took up a position beside Buddwing.

“So do I,” the Irishman said, and went to join them.

“I’ll help see you home,” the thin man with the rimless spectacles said, and walked to where the others were standing in a small defiant knot.

“What the hell is this?” Alfie asked. “Are all the winners quitting?”

The blond man kept staring at the group near the door. It seemed to Buddwing that he was trying to decide whether to shoot them on the spot, or let it go until a later time, or perhaps postpone it indefinitely. Harry and Alfie were flanking the blond man now, their feet widespread, their hands hovering about the openings of their suit jackets. Buddwing was certain they were carrying pistols. He hoped they were good shots because he preferred not to crawl out of there a cripple. At the same time, he hoped the blond man — who had seemed fairly reasonable throughout the course of the game — would be just as reasonable now. And while he was waiting to be shot or pardoned, it suddenly occurred to him that he and Grace now owned five hundred and thirty thousand dollars. He wiped the sweat beads from his lip.

“I know guys on the bottom of the river,” Harry said menacingly.

“Argh, shut up with your guys on the bottom of the river,” the blond man said. He looked at Buddwing again. “Double or nothing on the five hundred thousand,” he said. “Highest roller.”

“No,” Buddwing said.

“You’re just gonna walk out like that, huh?” the blond man said. “Without so much as a fare-thee-well?”

“Fare-thee-well,” Buddwing said, and opened the door.

“Hey, smart guy,” the blond man called after him.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t come back. Not you, and not your friends, neither.”

They went out into the hallway. Behind them, the blond man said, “All right, let’s shoot craps here.”