announced someone at the door.
It was housekeeping with a complete casino-goer’s rig: tuxedo, black pants with shiny stripe down the outside leg, plum bow tie ready-tied (a handy hook-and-eye catch at the back for bumpkins like me), shiny black patent leather shoes, and dress shirt with frills downthe front and pearl buttons. It all fit perfectly. It was ten P.M ., the hour when serious players start to make their way to the tables.
At the top of the steps to the famous casino a footman in livery bowed at Lilly, Polly, and me.
“The best of France is a museum,” Lilly whispered.
“The more you pay, the better behaved the exhibits,” Polly said.
“They think a vagina is masculine, and their patron saint is a transsexual roasted in a suit of armor,” Lilly said.
“No wonder they’re so screwed up,” Polly said.
I didn’t know much about gamblers, but I knew vice when I saw it. The Twins, both in black evening gowns with pearls, silver earrings, and icy diamonds that glittered, owned all the signs, including fetishism. These two wealthy heiresses who took limos and six-star hotels for granted swooned over the casino’s old brass and worn carpets, while a delicious tension came and went in their eyes, and they clasped and unclasped each other’s hands. “Every time is like the first,” Lilly said.
“You remember the first?” I asked. I imagined Maurice Chevalier introducing them to champagne right here in the velvet lobby.
“We won twenty dollars. Daddy wouldn’t let us bet more.”
“I remember the roulette wheel, how big and heavy and silent, and how everyone seemed to hold their breath.”
“One of the Beatles was here, I forget which one—he lost ten thousand dollars in a bet on black.”
I already knew that roulette was the star of the show, and we would proceed slowly toward the wheel by way of lesser pleasures. They bought a bunch of chips from the tux behind the grille, and we paused at the slot machines. These were not serious bets, but both women had serious faces. I understood: this was the reading of the entrails before the invasion of Troy. How well or badly they did would determine how recklessly or conservatively they played on the grown-up tables.
Lilly gasped, squealed, giggled: three oranges in a row. The machine coughed up chips as if it had taken an expectorant, but thetotal win was hardly more than a hundred dollars. Polly didn’t fare so well, but she was happy enough with a couple of pineapples and a carrot, which delivered about five dollars. They gazed into each other’s eyes like newlyweds, then remembered me and held my hands on either side.
Let’s face it, every man likes to be king for a night. I was feeling like a million dollars myself when we finally took the steps up into the main hall. All the guys in tuxedos envied me. The more generous shared humorous grins, while the meaner spirits would have liked to spit on the carpet:
two
beautiful women, and I wasn’t even Italian! Hey, I was having a ball after all. These startlingly beautiful, rich, young(ish) women were spoiling me here. I was almost skipping while I hummed:
As I walk along the boulevard with an independent air
I can hear the girls declare
He must be a millionaire
He’s the man who broke the bank at Monte Caaaaarlo
.
(Okay, so I am a tad bipolar, but there’s no need for anyone to get judgmental: what do you do for variety yourself, DFR?)
We spent an hour or so on blackjack, then finally took the short set of steps up to the big table. The Yip party will only play
French
roulette, messieurs—don’t even think of imposing
English
rules,
merci
all the same.
“Faites vos jeus,”
the croupier said, but like all pros, Lilly and Polly waited until a nanosecond before the ball fell into the last two rows of the wheel, which is to say just before the implacable Frenchman said
“Rien ne va plus.”
Lilly put a thousand dollars on red, which was an even-money bet. Polly also put five hundred
It was housekeeping with a complete casino-goer’s rig: tuxedo, black pants with shiny stripe down the outside leg, plum bow tie ready-tied (a handy hook-and-eye catch at the back for bumpkins like me), shiny black patent leather shoes, and dress shirt with frills downthe front and pearl buttons. It all fit perfectly. It was ten P.M ., the hour when serious players start to make their way to the tables.
At the top of the steps to the famous casino a footman in livery bowed at Lilly, Polly, and me.
“The best of France is a museum,” Lilly whispered.
“The more you pay, the better behaved the exhibits,” Polly said.
“They think a vagina is masculine, and their patron saint is a transsexual roasted in a suit of armor,” Lilly said.
“No wonder they’re so screwed up,” Polly said.
I didn’t know much about gamblers, but I knew vice when I saw it. The Twins, both in black evening gowns with pearls, silver earrings, and icy diamonds that glittered, owned all the signs, including fetishism. These two wealthy heiresses who took limos and six-star hotels for granted swooned over the casino’s old brass and worn carpets, while a delicious tension came and went in their eyes, and they clasped and unclasped each other’s hands. “Every time is like the first,” Lilly said.
“You remember the first?” I asked. I imagined Maurice Chevalier introducing them to champagne right here in the velvet lobby.
“We won twenty dollars. Daddy wouldn’t let us bet more.”
“I remember the roulette wheel, how big and heavy and silent, and how everyone seemed to hold their breath.”
“One of the Beatles was here, I forget which one—he lost ten thousand dollars in a bet on black.”
I already knew that roulette was the star of the show, and we would proceed slowly toward the wheel by way of lesser pleasures. They bought a bunch of chips from the tux behind the grille, and we paused at the slot machines. These were not serious bets, but both women had serious faces. I understood: this was the reading of the entrails before the invasion of Troy. How well or badly they did would determine how recklessly or conservatively they played on the grown-up tables.
Lilly gasped, squealed, giggled: three oranges in a row. The machine coughed up chips as if it had taken an expectorant, but thetotal win was hardly more than a hundred dollars. Polly didn’t fare so well, but she was happy enough with a couple of pineapples and a carrot, which delivered about five dollars. They gazed into each other’s eyes like newlyweds, then remembered me and held my hands on either side.
Let’s face it, every man likes to be king for a night. I was feeling like a million dollars myself when we finally took the steps up into the main hall. All the guys in tuxedos envied me. The more generous shared humorous grins, while the meaner spirits would have liked to spit on the carpet:
two
beautiful women, and I wasn’t even Italian! Hey, I was having a ball after all. These startlingly beautiful, rich, young(ish) women were spoiling me here. I was almost skipping while I hummed:
As I walk along the boulevard with an independent air
I can hear the girls declare
He must be a millionaire
He’s the man who broke the bank at Monte Caaaaarlo
.
(Okay, so I am a tad bipolar, but there’s no need for anyone to get judgmental: what do you do for variety yourself, DFR?)
We spent an hour or so on blackjack, then finally took the short set of steps up to the big table. The Yip party will only play
French
roulette, messieurs—don’t even think of imposing
English
rules,
merci
all the same.
“Faites vos jeus,”
the croupier said, but like all pros, Lilly and Polly waited until a nanosecond before the ball fell into the last two rows of the wheel, which is to say just before the implacable Frenchman said
“Rien ne va plus.”
Lilly put a thousand dollars on red, which was an even-money bet. Polly also put five hundred
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