They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

85 March 2012

The silver Mercedes glided to a halt the instant we stepped through the hotel’s revolving doors, and a courteous, suited chauffeur jumped out to greet Herr Stoker by name, and then opened the rear door for me. It was then that I realized that the magnum of Champagne might not have just been an act of bravado to impress me. Stoker might actually be a man of substance.

As we crossed Frankfurt, cossetted in soft leather, to the quiet sound of Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro through the speakers, he produced an immaculately rolled cigarette from a silver case inside his leather jacket, lit it with a fancy lighter, then passed it to me.

I shook my head. No way, José. I might be drunk but wasn’t drunk enough to smoke. My resolve lasted all of two seconds then I had a tentative inhale.

Followed by a longer one.

Nice!

It wasn’t like the euphoria from all those heroin hits, this was different, mellow, just — well — just OK. I watched the lights of the city stretch past the window like they were elastic. Elastic lights. I giggled.

Then saw Stoker looking at me quizzically. ‘Did I miss the joke?’

I shook my head. ‘I think the Champagne and the cigarette have gone to my head!’

‘You OK?’

‘Weird how life works, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I met you in the schloss and now we’re in a limo in another city. Maybe we’re in a parallel universe?’

He asked me what had brought me to the Schloss Leichtigkeit. I told him, fully and frankly — omitting, of course, the little detail about relieving Nicos of some of his stash of cash and what might have happened to him subsequently.

When we finally stopped, the security guard outside the casino opened the rear door and greeted Stoker deferentially, by name. I noticed the banknote Stoker pressed into his palm. And the reverence with which my escort was greeted by the two glamorous ladies in the palatial reception inside, who signed us in.

We walked up a grand curved staircase and entered a vast room that would have taken my breath away, if I wasn’t already puffed out by the climb, and squiffy from the booze. The phrase ‘fin-de-siècle grandeur’ was all I could think of to describe what I was looking at.

Gaming tables that stretched into the horizon down below, each of them beneath a gilded chandelier. Baccarat, craps, poker, blackjack, roulette, all populated by smartly dressed men and women, quite a few in tuxedos and ballgowns. Glamorous young women in skimpy skirts and black bow ties weaved around, delivering drinks on silver trays. It was, honestly, like something out of a Hollywood movie.

If I hadn’t been so merry, I’d probably have turned and fled. But as it was, I just stood still, taking it all in. Inhaling the atmosphere. And it was a great atmosphere to inhale — amazingly, people were smoking, cigars and cigarettes! It took me right back to how delicious pubs smelled in those times before the smoking ban. A smell I loved. Even more intense now I was in my current state.

Stoker led me over to a cashier, put down a credit card and, after a few words in German, received a stack of chips. He handed me some.

I hesitated for a moment, then drunken bravado took over. I scooped them up and felt a buzz of adrenaline.

Ten chips.

Hell, I was feeling reckless. I couldn’t lose.

‘What do you want to play?’ Stoker asked.

Trying to remember what Jay Strong had taught me, all those years ago, I looked around. Three of the four tables were busy, but the fourth, on the far side of the room, looked deserted. It was manned by a female croupier with razored blonde hair. And she was looking very bored.

Perfect!

Trailed by Stoker, I strode through the melee towards it. She was, in true casino tradition, spinning the wheel and flicking the ball, despite having no punters. I stopped short and watched the little white ball rattling around, bumping off the frets, before finally settling in black 22. On the outer edge of what they call, in casino parlance, voisins du zéro — zero’s neighbours — or, in other words, the zero zone!

Beside the table was a column with a digital display, showing the most recent numbers the ball had landed on. Amongst them, zero had come up twice. Interesting. Was Jay right about all bored croupiers? Would she aim again for zero? I often thought that seventeen had been the age of my life where I’d had the best time and that number seemed to follow me like a talisman.

Good things always seemed to happen to me on the seventeenth of a month. It seemed always to have been my lucky number. Well, until it had become unlucky. But, hey, like the true gambler inside me, I ignored that bit. Black 22 was nine o’clock to zero. Number 17 was just before three o’clock and one number nearer. And suddenly I had a feeling. A really good feeling. She was going to adjust her aim and maybe she would go the other way, in her bored shot at zero.

Number 17 was the other way.

Reckless, for sure. But what the hell. I’d blown the best part of a grand already tonight on my bill. Why not enjoy this free gaming now? If I won big, it could change my life and Bruno’s.

I bet the lot on 17. All ten chips. One thousand euros.

The ranch.

As I did so, I felt the presence of a few other people coming over. Like Stoker and I were a magnet? Stoker placed chips on several other combinations.

The wheel began spinning.

Shit.

I was tempted to grab my chips back. But I was too late.

I was in a bubble of silence.

The croupier announced, first in German then English, No more bets!

The ball bounced, danced, ricocheted. Into 22, then out. Into 8 then out. Dancing.

Shit, shit, shit.

I watched the wheel turning, slower and slower, in total disbelief. I was hallucinating. A tiny round ball, smaller than a quail’s egg, nested in a tight little black box, sandwiched between red 25 and red 34.

Was it going to pop out again, just like it had popped out of 22 and then 8?

But the wheel was slowing too much. The ball snug between the frets, slowly passing in front of my eyes. Before it even came to a halt, the croupier announced, sounding totally bored, ‘Siebzehn, schwarz.’

And suddenly I felt giddy.

This could not be real!

I heard someone say an excited ‘ja!’

And ‘super!’ from someone else.

I watched the croupier rake in all of Stoker’s chips, then she turned to the various stacks of chips in front of her, took three off one pile and one off another, and placed them next to my original one-thousand-euro stake.

‘Wow!’ Stoker said. I think he’d already said it several times, but I’d barely heard him. ‘Wow, fucking awesome, wow!’

I did a rough calculation — I had just won thirty-five thousand euros. Yikes!

A couple of other people were now laying down bets, along the side and on groups of numbers. More people had materialized and were crowding around the table. I just stared at my winnings, still sitting on 17. At thirty-five thousand euros. Enough money to maybe get me through another year in Frankfurt at the crappy Gasthaus & Hotel Seehaus. And even more importantly to pay for another year of Professor Ramsden’s fees for Bruno.

Was this real, or was I imagining it all?

The stone-faced croupier had finished clearing away all the dud bets. And the little white ball still lay between the frets: 17.

My lucky 17!

A male voice called out: ‘Nochmal!’

Again!

Then a female voice: ‘Nochmal!’

Then it seemed I was engulfed in a wild crowd of people and the reek of perfume and cigar smoke, and all around me voices were calling, ‘Nochmal! Nochmal! Nochmal!’

Stone-face was preparing to spin the wheel again. Hands were appearing in front of me, laying down chips of different colours around the green baize.

I ignored them. I was going to take my winnings and bank them.

Through all the excited shouting I heard Stoker’s calm voice urging, ‘Take your winnings, Sandy, eh?’

I reached, then stopped. I could not explain it then and I can’t explain it now, but at that moment I had a feeling. That was all.

‘NOCHMAL!’ bellowed a tall guy in a tuxedo, with wild hair and a bow tie hanging loose. ‘NOCHMAL, NOCHMAL, NOCHMAL!’

A feeling. Not a voice in my head and not an epiphany. Just like in that moment in time I could see the future — as if I was peeking through a curtain at it. At the immediate future. Just maybe a minute or two ahead of now. I could see the ball rolling around the rim of the wheel and I knew where it was going to land.

I knew, I absolutely knew.

More voices joined in the chant. ‘NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL!’

I had to leave those chips where they were.

The charmless croupier set the wheel spinning again, a little faster than before, and that made me anxious. Stoker was nudging me, then, almost shouting, ‘Get those chips off the table! Grab ’em!’

‘NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL! NOCHMAL!’

When he realized I wasn’t going to remove those chips, he reached towards them himself.

But it was too late.

‘Keine Wetten mehr,’ the croupier said sharply.

No more bets.

The ball was rolling around the rim and slowing down.

I realized I might have just made a monumental error.