that Barty was going to listen. But no. He’s tempted—and he falls.
“Okey doke,” says Barty. “One more hand it is.”
It was Luke now who seemed to look mildly uneasy as he covered the seventy-odd dollars and squared up the deck. From other parts of the room the crowd was rolling up in force again: forty, fifty of them now, watching in silence as Luke dealt the cards. Barty let his pair of cards lie on the table a few seconds and his hands seemed half full of the shakes as he picked them up. A ten; and a six. Sixteen. And for the first time that evening he hesitated, as he fell to figuring out the odds. Then he said, “Stick,” but it took him twice to say it because the first “stick” got sort of stuck in his larynx. So it was Lukey’s turn now, and he slowly turned over a six—and then a nine. Fifteen. And Luke frowned a long time at his fifteen and his right hand toyed with the next card on the top of the deck, quarter turning it, half turning it, almost turning it—and then putting it back.
“Fifteen,” he said.
“Sixteen,”
says Barty, and his voice was vibrant as he grabbed the pile of notes in the middle.
Then he was gone.
The on-lookers were beginning to drift away as Luke sat still in his seat, the cards still shuttling endlessly from one large palm to the other. It was the old boy who spoke to him first.
“You deserve a drink, sir!” he says. “Virgil K. Perkins Junior’s the name, and this is my li’l wife, Minny.”
“We’re from Omaha,” says Minny dutifully.
And so Virgil gets Luke a rye whisky, and they start talking.
“You a card player yourself, Mr. Perkins?”
“Me? No, sir,” says Virgil. “Me and the li’l wife here” (Minny was four or five inches the taller) “were just startin’ on a vaycaytion together, sir. We’re from Omaha, just like she says.”
But the provenance of these proud citizens seemed of no great importance to Luke. “A few quick hands, Mr. Perkins?”
“No,” says Virgil, with a quiet smile.
“Look, Mr. Perkins! I don’t care—I just don’t
care
—whether it’s winnin’ or losin’, and that’s the truth. Now if we just—”
“No!” says Virgil.
“You musta heard of beginner’s luck?”
“No!”
says Virgil.
“You’re from Omaha, then?” says Luke, turning all pleasant-like to Minny …
I left them there, walked over to the bar, and bought an orange juice from Lucy, who sometimes comes through to serve about ten o’clock. She’s wearing a lowly cut blouse, and a highly cute hairstyle. But she says nothing to me; just winks—unsmilingly.
Sure enough, when I returned to the table, there was Virgil K. Perkins “just tryin’ a few hands,” as he put it; and I don’t really need to drag you through all the details, do I? It’s all going to end up exactly as you expect … but perhaps I’d better put it down, if only for the record; and I’ll make it all as brief as I can.
From the start it followed the usual pattern: a dollar up; a dollar down. Nice and easy, take it gently; and soon the little fellow was beaming broadly, and picking up his cards with accelerating eagerness. But, of course, the balancewas slowly swinging against him: twenty dollars down; thirty; forty …
“Lucky little run for me,” says Luke with a disarming smile, as if for two dimes he’d shovel all his winnings across the table and ease that ever-tightening look round Virgil’s mouth. It was all getting just a little obvious, too, and surely someone soon would notice those nimble fingers that forever flicked those eights and nines when only fours and fives could save old Virgil’s day. And someone did.
“Why don’t you let the old fella deal once in a while?” asks one.
“Yeah, why not?” asks another.
“You wanna deal, pop?” concedes Luke.
But Virgil shakes his white head. “I’ve had enough,” he says. “I shouldn’t really—”
“Come on,” says Minny gently.
“He can deal. Sure he can, if he wants
“Okey doke,” says Barty. “One more hand it is.”
It was Luke now who seemed to look mildly uneasy as he covered the seventy-odd dollars and squared up the deck. From other parts of the room the crowd was rolling up in force again: forty, fifty of them now, watching in silence as Luke dealt the cards. Barty let his pair of cards lie on the table a few seconds and his hands seemed half full of the shakes as he picked them up. A ten; and a six. Sixteen. And for the first time that evening he hesitated, as he fell to figuring out the odds. Then he said, “Stick,” but it took him twice to say it because the first “stick” got sort of stuck in his larynx. So it was Lukey’s turn now, and he slowly turned over a six—and then a nine. Fifteen. And Luke frowned a long time at his fifteen and his right hand toyed with the next card on the top of the deck, quarter turning it, half turning it, almost turning it—and then putting it back.
“Fifteen,” he said.
“Sixteen,”
says Barty, and his voice was vibrant as he grabbed the pile of notes in the middle.
Then he was gone.
The on-lookers were beginning to drift away as Luke sat still in his seat, the cards still shuttling endlessly from one large palm to the other. It was the old boy who spoke to him first.
“You deserve a drink, sir!” he says. “Virgil K. Perkins Junior’s the name, and this is my li’l wife, Minny.”
“We’re from Omaha,” says Minny dutifully.
And so Virgil gets Luke a rye whisky, and they start talking.
“You a card player yourself, Mr. Perkins?”
“Me? No, sir,” says Virgil. “Me and the li’l wife here” (Minny was four or five inches the taller) “were just startin’ on a vaycaytion together, sir. We’re from Omaha, just like she says.”
But the provenance of these proud citizens seemed of no great importance to Luke. “A few quick hands, Mr. Perkins?”
“No,” says Virgil, with a quiet smile.
“Look, Mr. Perkins! I don’t care—I just don’t
care
—whether it’s winnin’ or losin’, and that’s the truth. Now if we just—”
“No!” says Virgil.
“You musta heard of beginner’s luck?”
“No!”
says Virgil.
“You’re from Omaha, then?” says Luke, turning all pleasant-like to Minny …
I left them there, walked over to the bar, and bought an orange juice from Lucy, who sometimes comes through to serve about ten o’clock. She’s wearing a lowly cut blouse, and a highly cute hairstyle. But she says nothing to me; just winks—unsmilingly.
Sure enough, when I returned to the table, there was Virgil K. Perkins “just tryin’ a few hands,” as he put it; and I don’t really need to drag you through all the details, do I? It’s all going to end up exactly as you expect … but perhaps I’d better put it down, if only for the record; and I’ll make it all as brief as I can.
From the start it followed the usual pattern: a dollar up; a dollar down. Nice and easy, take it gently; and soon the little fellow was beaming broadly, and picking up his cards with accelerating eagerness. But, of course, the balancewas slowly swinging against him: twenty dollars down; thirty; forty …
“Lucky little run for me,” says Luke with a disarming smile, as if for two dimes he’d shovel all his winnings across the table and ease that ever-tightening look round Virgil’s mouth. It was all getting just a little obvious, too, and surely someone soon would notice those nimble fingers that forever flicked those eights and nines when only fours and fives could save old Virgil’s day. And someone did.
“Why don’t you let the old fella deal once in a while?” asks one.
“Yeah, why not?” asks another.
“You wanna deal, pop?” concedes Luke.
But Virgil shakes his white head. “I’ve had enough,” he says. “I shouldn’t really—”
“Come on,” says Minny gently.
“He can deal. Sure he can, if he wants
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