Mr. Lucky

3

Max Duncan, a twenty-eight-year-old blackjack dealer, watched the first fire trucks pull in front of the Riverboat Casino across the street. More trucks followed, along with dozens of wailing police cruisers. The joint must be on fire, he thought.

Max wanted to go to the windows and have a look; only, house rules forbid him from leaving his table. There was a famous story about a dealer who left his post to help a man having a stroke and was fired on the spot.

The pit boss hurried past Max’s table. He was a tough nut named Harry. Every day before the shift started, Harry made the dealers assemble in the employee lounge and on an easel wrote a single word in giant letters: WIN.

After a minute Harry returned, his face cast in stone. Max tried to get his attention.

“Harry, what’s going on?”

“Deal your game,” Harry snapped at him.

Harry made it sound like a threat. He made everything sound like a threat. Max looked at the elderly woman sitting at his table. Her name was Helen, and she was a retired bookkeeper. Helen had won the first bet she’d made a few hours ago, and allowed the memory to take up permanent residence in her imagination.

“Place your bets,” Max said. “You know what they say. You can’t win if you don’t play.”

“You can’t lose, either,” she replied testily. The cards had punished her since her first win, but she’d hung tight and almost pulled even. She placed a green twenty-five-dollar chip in the betting circle.

“Be nice,” she said as Max dealt.

Her two cards totaled sixteen. Helen had a stiff, the worst hand possible. She slapped the table hard.

“Now, now,” Max said. “Be kind to the furniture.”

More fire trucks raced past the casino. Someone opened one of the front doors, and the trucks’ wail filled the interior like a chorus of screaming cats. A chip girl walked past the table, and Max caught her eye. “What’s going on?” he asked under his breath.

“There’s a fire over at the Riverboat.”

“Is it bad?”

“People are jumping from the balconies.”

“Jesus,” he swore under his breath.

“Hit me,” Helen said.

Max looked at her. She’d heard everything the chip girl had said.

“Come on, lady,” he said testily. “Show some respect. People across the street are dying.”

“It’s no surprise,” she said, talking in a loud voice. “The owners rushed to make their grand opening. A lot of palms got greased to get the building up to code. Now, hit me.”

Max dealt her a four, giving her a twenty.

“Was that so hard?” she cackled, her foul mood vanishing.

Helen had started the evening with five hundred dollars, dropped to twenty, and was now slightly ahead. Max wanted to tell her to go home, but the rules prohibited it. He watched her slide all her chips into the betting circle.

“Let it ride,” she said.

The table limit was five hundred. Max called the pit boss. As Harry approached the table, Max said, “Lady wants to bet the kaiser roll.”

“She counting?” Harry asked.

“Naw.”

“Let her.”

The other blackjack tables were clearing out, the players going to the windows or walking outside to watch the fire. Helen ignored their departure, her eyes fixed on the plastic shoe as if the next card to be dealt contained the secret to the universe.

Max dealt the round. They both had twenty. A push. It seemed sinful to be gambling while people were dying; only, Helen didn’t see it that way, her mouth working a two-hour-old piece of gum like a piece of cud.

Max dealt another round. This time, Helen had twenty, while he had sixteen. He drew a card and snapped it over: a five. The retired bookkeeper gritted her teeth and swore.

“Always the big ones,” she said as Max took away her chips.

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?” Max said.

Busted, Helen got up to leave. An overweight man had walked into the casino and stood behind her, holding her chair. Helen thanked him, then made a funny sound. Max followed her gaze. The overweight man was soaking wet, his shoulders and balding head sprinkled with shiny slivers of glass.

“Where are your shoes?” Helen asked.

“Lost them,” the man said.

He took Helen’s chair and pulled his body close to the table. Helen hung close to his side, waiting to see what he was about to do. Riffling his pockets, the man scowled; no wallet. Removing his watch, he dropped it on the felt table and pushed it toward Max. “How much will you give me for this?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Max said, “but house rules prohibit me from pawning chips.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you sound like a robot?” the man asked. Turning to the retired bookkeeper, he said, “How about you? It cost me eight hundred.”

Helen appraised the timepiece. Placing it on the table, she said, “It’s broken, mister. You just come from across the street?”

The man stared at the shattered face of his Movado. “That’s right.”

“You jump into the pool or something?”

The man pointed at the watch. The hands were frozen at 12:05. The retired bookkeeper nodded, understanding immediately. The man said, “I jumped through the skylight in the spa’s roof and landed on some mattresses lying in the pool. They broke my fall. When I pulled myself out of the water, I discovered my shoes were gone.”

Helen took the seat next to him. “What’s your name, mister?”

“Ricky Smith.”

“This is your lucky day, isn’t it, Ricky?”

“It sure is. I won twenty grand earlier.”

“Twenty grand! What were you playing?”

“Blackjack.”

Helen looked into the young man’s eyes. A silent understanding passed between them. Taking her purse from her pocketbook, she extracted a twenty tucked behind a picture of her cat. “When I was growing up, my mother made me carry a hidden twenty whenever I went out. I thought it was stupid until a boy tried to rape me on a date. I ran and ended up calling a cab. Guess what?”

“What?” Ricky said.

“The fare came to exactly twenty dollars.” She dropped the grainy bill on the table and slid it toward Max. “Chips, please.”

Max took the twenty, called out “Changing twenty,” and shoved the money into the drop box in the table with a plunger. Then he took four red five-dollar chips from his rack and slid them toward Ricky.

“Good luck, sir,” the dealer said.

Ricky fingered the small stack of chips while looking at Helen. She blinked three times, as if unable to control a nervous tic. Ricky smiled at her, then slid his chips into the betting circle on the table. He fixed his eyes on the dealer.

“Let’s dance,” he said.