Trouble Is My Business by Raymond Chandler

you go home. I’d hate to see any of that money get in the wrong pockets.”
    The red-haired girl looked at him, not very pleasantly.
    “I’m not leaving—unless you’re throwing me out.”
    Canales said: “No? What would you like to do?”
    “Bet the wad—dark meat!”
    The crowd noise became a deathly silence. There wasn’t a whisper of any kind of sound. Harger’s face slowly got ivory-white.
    Canales’ face was without expression. He lifted a hand, delicately, gravely, slipped a large wallet from his dinner jacket and tossed it in front of the tall croupier.
    “Ten grand,” he said in a voice that was a dull rustle of sound. “That’s my limit—always.”
    The tall croupier picked the wallet up, spread it, drew out two flat packets of crisp bills, riffled them, refolded the wallet and passed it along the edge of the table to Canales.
    Canales did not move to take it. Nobody moved, except the croupier.
    The girl said: “Put it on the red.”
    The croupier leaned across the table and very carefully stacked her money and chips. He placed her bet for her on the red diamond. He placed his hand along the curve of the wheel.
    “If no one objects,” Canales said, without looking at anyone, “this is just the two of us.”
    Heads moved. Nobody spoke. The croupier spun the wheel and sent the ball skimming in the groove with a light flirt of his left wrist. Then he drew his hands back and placed them in full view on the edge of the table, on top of it.
    The red-haired girl’s eyes shone and her lips slowly parted. The ball drifted along the groove, dipped past one of the bright metal diamonds, slid down the flank of the wheel and chattered along the tines beside the numbers. Movement went out of it suddenly, with a dry click. It fell next the double-zero, in red twenty-seven. The wheel was motionless.
    The croupier took up his rake and slowly pushed the two packets of bills across, added them to the stake, pushed the whole thing off the field of play.
    Canales put his wallet back in his breast pocket, turned and walked slowly back to the door, went through it.
    I took my cramped fingers off the top of the railing, and a lot of people broke for the bar.
    THREE
    When Lou came up I was sitting at a little tile-top table in a corner, fooling with some more of the tequila. The little orchestra was playing a thin, brittle tango and one couple was maneuvering self-consciously on the dance floor.
    Lou had a cream-colored overcoat on, with the collar turned up around a lot of white silk scarf. He had a fine-drawn glistening expression. He had white pigskin gloves this time and he put one of them down on the table and leaned at me.
    “Over twenty-two thousand,” he said softly. “Boy, what a take!”
    I said: “Very nice money, Lou. What kind of car are you driving?”
    “See anything wrong with it?”
    “The play?” I shrugged, fiddled with my glass. “I’m not wised up on roulette, Lou . . . I saw plenty wrong with your broad’s manners.”
    “She’s not a broad,” Lou said. His voice got a little worried.
    “Okey. She made Canales look like a million. What kind of car?”
    “Buick sedan. Nile green, with two spotlights and those little fender lights on rods.” His voice was still worried.
    I said: “Take it kind of slow through town. Give me a chance to get in the parade.”
    He moved his glove and went away. The red-haired girl was not in sight anywhere. I looked down at the watch on my wrist. When I looked up again Canales was standing across the table. His eyes looked at me lifelessly above his trick mustache.
    “You don’t like my place,” he said.
    “On the contrary.”
    “You don’t come here to play.” He was telling me, not asking me.
    “Is it compulsory?” I asked dryly.
    A very faint smile drifted across his face. He leaned a little down and said: “I think you are a dick. A smart dick.”
    “Just a shamus,” I said. “And not so smart. Don’t let my long upper lip fool you.