that pierced you with drums and syncopated music intoned by a beautiful black singer.
âHow do you like it? Exciting, huh?â I nodded numbly as he pointed. âOver here theyâre shooting craps. The dice have to bounce off the rail for the throw to count. If they donât, look out, some thug is apt to chop off your hand.â One player was talking to his dice, beseeching them. A woman was kissing hers. Everything was extravagant, exaggerated.
âAnd over here, Montrealâs own game, barbotte. Youâll find it played in any alley for penny stakesâand here for enough money to buy all the buildings on the Place dâArmes.â
He herded us over for a better look. âItâs the stupidest dice game ever invented: five winning combinations, five losing, nothing else counts. A strictly even chance, minus the cut of up to five percent the house skims off on each roll. Played with tiny âpeeweeâ dice, easy to shave. No skill, no strategy, no technique whatsoeverâjust plain dumb luck.â
Crowded around the table were a raucous and ill-assorted bunch of frenzied gamblers, some dressed to the nines, one who looked as though heâd slept in the bus station. This man, unshaven and reeking of cabbage, was rolling the dice, a mad gleam in his eyes.
âThatâs Marcel. They call him Magister Ludi, King of the Games. He has more luck than any living person, of both kinds, good and bad. You should have been here last week when he came in without an overcoat. He pawned it for six bucks, lost that stake in two rolls, scraped his pockets for all the change he had on him, lost that, and finally panhandled nickels and dimes from the spectators to make a last two-dollar bet. He won. And won again. Walked away at closing time with more than seven thousand dollars. He bought a new wardrobe, paid a yearâs room and board in advance at some fleabag inn, and heâs back tonight losing the rest.â
Making room for the vultures who wanted to savor Magister Ludiâs bankruptcy, Robert finally brought us to a table where he was welcomed by players and croupiers alike.
âThis is my game,â he announced. âRoulette. Le rouge et le noir. â
Through the din I heard the croupier calling numbers and colors, the French words an invocation.
âSo, little ladies,â Robert adapted his manner to the place, âwhat is your pleasure? What will it be? Red or black? Even or odd? Columns? Rows? Or thirty-five to one on your lucky number?â
âYou go ahead, Robert,â Mandy urged. âKathy and I will just watch until we get the hang of it.â
âNo,â I declared. When the pony sheds! Where did he get off, standing me up? âPlace your bet, Robert. And I will too.â
âKathy!â Mandy was as amazed by this new side of me as I was. âAre you really going to?â
I laughed and repeated her words back to her, âNo use going to a gambling casino if you donât gamble.â
âA woman after my own heart,â Robert encouraged.
âIn that case . . .â Mandy followed reluctantly.
Robert stepped up to the roulette table and placed his chips on Black. The croupier barked his warning call, the gigantic wheel spun, sending out sparks of light, and the money was raked away. Bettors lost and bettors won, their winnings added to the piles in front of them.
I picked a person with a mountain of chips before him, a gentleman with a malacca cane adorned in mother-of-pearl. The handle unscrewed, and out came a small flask from which he refreshed himself in moments of stress. He seemed to be the luckiest one there, and when he put his chips on Red, I emptied my purse and placed the first and last bet of my life.
My last, because after it was explained to me in French that the house accepted only chips, not cash, and the croupier with a resigned expression exchanged my money for a small, very small pile from a
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