The ball stopped. Bob turned around. He wasn’t really focusing. He was wondering where the waiter had gotten to. It was the collective silence that had attracted his attention. The dealer’s voice came to him from far away. “Red 13, Red 13.” The dealer pushed over three chips and doubled his stack. Everything was as it should be.
“Let it ride. Let it ride.” Bob waved a hand in the direction of the table. There was the waiter with his beer. “Look I know I already asked. But I won’t be able to rest easy until I try again.” The ball had started up again. “You don’t have any other flavor of crisp do you? Anything…”
The waiter folded his arms behind his back and look dispassionately at the bowl of chips on the table. “I’m afraid these are all we have.”
“Come on, you must have something. Maybe a pack has fallen out of the shelf and got tucked under somewhere? Did you check all the cupboards.”
“I’m very sorry sir.”
“Well what about cooked food. You got any eggs?” The ball bounced, rolled, slowed.
“I’m afraid, there’s no kitchen here.”
“Aha, what about cherries? You must have cherries for the drinks.”
“I’ll have to check with the other staff.”
“Do that. Please. Thank you.”
Bob turned back just in time to catch the dealer say: “Red 35, Red 35.” Oh my god, Bob muttered to himself, as he watched the dealer push out 6 more chips beside his stack. That made twelve, twelve chips. He’d done it. It had been easy. Maybe his luck stat meant something after all. He took a long draft from his beer. Tastes like freedom. The waiter appeared at his shoulder. He carried a martini glass full of cherries. “Will this do sir?”
“Jeeves, good man, you’ve done good. This will hit the spot nicely.” Bob plucked out a cherry and plopped it into his mouth. Nothing had ever tasted so sweet.
“I’m afraid my name is not Jeeves, sir.”
“Don’t worry about it Jeeves. I promise I won’t hold it against you.”
“Will that be all sir.”
“Yes, that will be all. I’ll just finish my beer and these cherries and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Bob thought he heard someone say something. “What was that, Jeeves?”
“I’m afraid I haven't spoken sir.”
“No I’m sure I heard something. Didn’t you hear anything?”
“Ah yes sir, you must be referring to the dealer. He just closed the betting for this round.” Bob paled.
“What did you say?”
“I was saying sir, that the dealer just announced the betting closed for this round.” The familiar, awful sound of the ball starting to spin underscored the waiter’s comment. “Jeeves, Jeeves, you’ve ruined me. What you’d come here and distract me for. Ruined, ruined I say.”
“I beg your pardon sir.”
Bob’s eyes were glued on the little ball as it spiraled around the wheel, as it arbitrarily and unfairly determined his fate. He’d gone and done it this time. He’d really stuck his foot in it. Twelve chips, twelve whole chips. Two wins in a row had already been a miracle. Three, why three was an impossibility, an absurdity. He’d never had a chance. No, no, that was the point, he had. He had had his chance. After everything, this, this was how he died. Bob closed his eyes. It was over. He was over.
“Red 11, Red 11.”
Bob opened his eyes. He’d misheard surely. It couldn’t be. No way. He wouldn’t believe it. Twenty four chips. Twenty four. His hand jerked out to sweep up the chips and then he caught himself. Every instinct was screaming at him to bail. Begging him not to cast his fate again on the whims of a little, white ball. But he was on a roll here. Three in a row. He was on a fucking roll. You can’t hit if you don’t swing.
Bob wavered. He had maybe fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds to decide. Was he going to walk out of here, the half-naked mud splatted idiot who risked everything to scrap out the exit fee, or was he going to walk out of here a hero? It was an insane move. The highest form of idiocy. Redeemed only by the fact that if he lost, they’d take him off to a back room and kill him so he wouldn’t have to live with the shame of it.
Bob had lived a mediocre life. He’d been a regular village nobody. Our world has plenty of room for nobodies and he had rolled along just fine. But things would be different after this. That was for sure. He had a feeling he was headed for a world where you either took risks or you died. He was on a roll now, wasn’t he, three in a row, heaven had never given him a clearer sign. If he didn’t bet here, would he ever?
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Bob clenched the side of the table until his knuckles turned white. “Whiskey,” he shouted to the table at large, “I need whiskey.” “Final bets,” the dealer warned. The waiter appeared with a glass of amber liquid. Bob said nothing. He took the drink and downed it all in a single pass. The night was still young.
When he heard that whining sound of the ball careening around the wheel, all his doubts came back. He’d blown it. He was the dumbest, maddest motherfucker on this blue earth. He’d pissed away heaven’s gift. And then he’d called for whiskey, the stuff that tastes like poison. But poison was just what he needed about now. “Waiter, fill her up.” The ball wobbled to a stop. “Red 9, Red 9.” 48 chips. 48 bloody chips. His trembling hands stretched out for the pile. Not yet, not yet, Bob, the fire’s still burning.
The wheel spins. Red 5. 96 chips. Ninety-fucking-six. That was enough, surely, that was enough. Everybody else had stopped betting. They were all just gazing wide-eyed at his massive pile of chips. The dealer too was starting to look a little uneasy.
“Do you mean to play on, sir?” He asked.
Bob grinned savagely at the man. The cool, inhuman dealer who had pronounced death on how many poor souls in that level, unruffled, even bored voice. “Let ‘em ride.” And then another thought came to him. “All of you,” Bob addressed the assembled masses, “it’ll be red next. Mark my words.”
Everybody was just gaping at him, not knowing what to think. But a tower of ninety-six chips is a compelling argument. Everybody piled in. There must have been three hundred chips on red. Not a soul bet on anything else. The dealer swayed a little but managed to get out the ritual phrase: “all bets final.” He cranked the wheel about. Nobody moved. Nobody sipped their glass or turned to their neighbor. They all just watched.
“Red 19,” the dealer said in a quiet, defeated voice. 192 chips. The dealer reached into a drawer to swap out for a higher denomination chip. Then he made to push the pile over towards Bob. Bob blocked him with a hand.
“Again.”
Red had come up six times in a row at this point. Doubt and fear pulsed across the crowd. Red couldn’t come up again. It couldn’t. It wouldn’t. The crazy man in the ridiculous outfit was going too far.
“Why not take out 100, play it safe.” Someone advised with genuine concern in their voice.
But Bob, Bob was beyond all such things. He’d reached the heights of ecstasy, of madness, of power. Maybe it was the sheer risk, maybe it was the drink, or maybe it was the ridiculous streak of good luck, but pulling out now seemed absolutely absurd. Bob felt like he could see the flow of fate. Like there was a golden stream coursing through the air around him. If he stepped back now, if he wavered even for a moment, pulled back just an inch, the whole current would collapse down and melt away into sparkling dust.
“Again,” he grunted, choking down another shot. The dealer physically flinched at the word. No one joined him on red. Almost nobody bet at all. Everyone was swept up in the grand showdown. A few cynics tried a couple chips on black, betting on the turn. But fate laughs at them. The ball span, slowed, stopped and the dealer paled: “Red 21.”
384 chips. The dealer glanced up at the black camera stationed over the table. And then at Bob with a sort of pathetic, pleading expression. “Again.” The dealer whimpered like he taken a blow to the back. “But sir,” he tried. Bob cut off him: “Again.” Nobody even tried to bet this time. Nobody even dared. 768 chips. “Again.” 1536 chips.
At this point a grey-haired man came out, wearing an expensive suit and stood next to the dealer. He looked like a manager type. Bob didn’t care. “Again.” 3072 chips. The manager sidled over to Bob’s table, signaling the waiter to bring them both fresh drinks. He started congratulating Bob. He wanted to shake Bob’s hand. He tried to pull Bob over to some vip room. Bob ignored him completely and just kept repeated the same solitary word: “again, again, again.”
“Red 33,” the dealer squeaked out, twitching a little as he met eyes with the grey-haired manager. 6144 chips. The manager looked at Bob and then at the mountain of chips on the red square. They’d stopped stacking it three rounds back and it was just a mass of plastic, even threatening to spill over into the other squares. “Please, you’ll bring down the house. Why don’t you call it a night? Enjoy your winnings. I’d hate to see you lose it all.”
Bob didn’t even look at the man. Bob was cold, hard. Mercy? There would be no mercy. One of them would die here. It was him or them. That’s what this was now. This was a duel to the death. He wouldn’t stop. Nobody, nothing could hold him back. Bob smiled evilly and everyone around him seemed to shrink back a little. “Again.” The dealer glanced pleadingly at the manager. But the manager was at a loss for words; he just gazed horrified at Bob.
The ball spins playfully around the wheel, inexorable, impartial, like the divine will itself, utterly beyond human comprehension. 12,288. The manager pulls out a cigarette and fumbles it between his lips. He digs out a lighter from his jacket pocket. The light clicks and clicks, but he can’t get it to catch.
“Again.”
The cigarette slips out of the manger’s mouth and falls to the ground. A hush has descended over the crowd. The dealer’s chip box looks strangely empty. He starts the wheel and the ball spirals around. The ball catches. It hovers over a red square, then starts to tip back, the crowd gasps, and the ball falls through.
Red 29. 24,516 chips. The dealer empties his chip box upside down over the table as he tried to make the sum. There aren’t enough. The manager sighs. It was over. Finally. “I’m sorry sir. It appears the table is out of chips. It will need to close for the present. But we’ll make sure to sort out the rest of what you're owed.”
Bob doesn’t budge. He doesn’t move. He repeats the fateful word: “again.”
The manger splutters. “But, sir, there’s no more chips. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I don’t care. Find more. Bet your clothes, the table itself, the building, bet yourself wife or children. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Again, again, again. Don’t you get it. Don’t you know what this is. It’s you or me. One of us is walking out of here with nothing. I’ve bet my life on this roll 15 times in a row. And I say 'again'. Roll it.”
The dealer shrunk back, vacillating between Bob and his manager. “Again.” Bob snarled at him. The dealer crept back to his place beside the wheel. He started the wheel rolling. He dropped the ball in.
It span lazily around, not a care in the world, with a jolly, whistling sound. And then it stopped. The dealer choked out the words: “Red 7.” The manager collapsed to the floor. Everybody was silent. Bob stood up, drained his glass and said in a low voice that seemed to carry all around the room: “You’re all free now.”