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It starts like this: You think you'll come back up, you think tomorrow will be the day they start
tumbling in even numbers, you think today, finally, today, you'll throw the perfect set. Start with
a seven, toss an eleven, everyone ponies up, you're hot, they can smell you. They call you shooter,
or player, or if it's some frat boy on spring break they call you "Pimp Daddy" or "The Mack". The point
is eight and you dance around it. You give them the field, you hit a few hard ways, give the dealers
a toke because you know it's on, just keep rolling until you can almost predict the numbers: four, six,
nine, five, and then, oh yeah, here it comes. Eight. Hard eight. Everyone wins. More Johnnie Walker
Gold. Straight this time, no rocks, no water, just Johnnie.
It ends like it begins: seven. Always seven.
I've been up for twenty-six hours chasing the dice, all the while trying to figure out a way
to tell Sally that I'd lost it all, again, and that this time there could be repercussions. I'd borrowed
a grand from a guy named Jerry Lincoln who I used to know from the dog tracks in Florida. I'd spotted
him at the Bellagio the morning before playing pai-gow, a real gentleman's game, and said, hey, I'm
in a spot, any way you could hook me up for twenty-four hours?
Jerry was always good for a grand.
"I haven't seen you since when?" Jerry said. "Florida in '97?"
"I ran into some trouble there," I said.
"I remember," Jerry said.
I'd been working for US Customs in Miami when I first met Jerry. He was looking for a guy who
could help him get some steroids into the country. It was a can't-miss proposition. Jerry would tell
me which dogs were on the juice and I would lay some late action on them and wait for the windfall.
It worked for a long time. Jerry had some crazy juice, the greyhounds were chasing that rabbit and catching
it, attacking the fucking thing, and the money was blurring. I borrowed twenty grand from a Cuban named
Cienfuegas, and if I won I'd be all square with everyone, finally.
I put all 20K on one of Jerry's skinny greyhounds, number 44, Reggie Jackson's number, the hard
eight, a real good fucking sign. I sat back and waited for the payoff. 44's odds were 7-1 so I knew
this was going to be large. 44 rounded the first turn in fifth place and then he just took off, and
I knew it was all good, that circumstance and hope and luck had finally come together. He kept chugging
forward, and that rabbit kept getting closer, and my debts were paid, and I was ready for something
new, better, a fresh start. 44 came around the final turn in first place, his eyes bulging, his tongue
flapping against the side of his narrow head. I'd save a little. I'd get even and think about getting
a place where I could raise a family. Then it happened, because it always happens this way: 44's back
legs collapsed fifteen yards from the finish and he crumbled in a twisted heap. He yelped in that way
hurt dogs always do, except that it sounded more like a baby, and 44 didn't stop yelping because blood
was pouring from his mouth and he was twitching like bugs were under his skin. And then, just as fast,
the dog stopped making any noise at all because its internal organs had been completely fried and it
was about to die. I packed my shit up that day and left Florida, Customs, and my old name behind. Things
were fucked up beyond repair.
"You owe me," I said. "I could have dropped a line on you and been free and clear."
"You look like shit," Jerry said. "What are you calling yourself now?"
"Reggie," I said.
"That's pretty inventive," Jerry said and handed me $500 in chips. "Where you gonna be in twenty-
four hours?"
"The bank," I said. "Or maybe Cheetah's spending my winnings."
"I suggest the bank," Jerry said.
"You staying here?"
"You see this place? Its painted cream. You believe that? They got this place painted in soothing
colors." Jerry grimaced so that I could see his two gold teeth. "I could have saved myself ten years
of therapy by just sitting in this place all day. I've never been this relaxed in my entire life."
"I'll come back here tomorrow then," I said.
"You got a passport?"
"Yeah."
"Go get it and your driver's license," Jerry said, "and then I'll give you another five hundred.
You fuck me on this and it won't matter how many times you change your name."
* * *
I sit in the car and call Sally from the cell phone. She'll be awake by now.
"Where are you?" she says, before even saying hello.
"I'm in the car," I say.
"Are you coming home?"
"I don't know yet," I say. "Things are really looking positive right now and I'm not sure I want
to blow it."
"With the dice or with us?" Sally says.
"Both, I guess," I say. "Did you sleep all right?"
"The dog kept me up scratching her ears," Sally says. "You said you were going to get some of
that powder."
"I will," I say. "I promise to get that before I come home." There's a pause on the line and
I think I can hear Sally ticking, like she wants to explode, like every part of her knows that this
conversation is empty of any truth. "Did you make any money last night?"
"About three hundred," she says. "It was slow. Summer always sucks in the club."
"Were the guys nice to you?"
"You know," she says. "As nice as desperate people can be in front of a naked woman."
"I better go," I say. "I'm really feeling hot and I don't want to lose that."
"Reggie," she says, "just come home, okay?"
"I will," I say and hang up.
I'm worried about Sally. During the night she kicks and punches at me in her sleep, mumbles obscenities,
says names I don't know. Her pulse races and she sweats like she's running a marathon, until the bed
is damp and salty. There are nights when I think that I should wake her, ask her who she is fighting,
but I never do. I'm afraid she will say me.
Lately Sally has been complaining about feeling short of breath. I tell her we should go to a
doctor, get her checked out. She always refuses. "I'm fine," she says. But what she means is: Who will
pay the bills if I'm really sick?
I open my wallet and count my change: $98.14
The dog's ear powder will run me about $4.75, so I pull out a five spot and stick it under the
floor mat. It'll be safe there.
* * *
I've lived under so many different names these past few years that sometimes I forget who I used
to be. Up until 1997, my name was John Cummings. That's a good name, solid, American, like John Wayne.
It was a name perfectly suited for working in Customs. I loved Miami, loved watching the dogs (until
the last time), loved going down to South Beach and shaking down the Cubans. What's funny is that no
matter how bad a person is, he still has family, still has people who love him, still has a best buddy
or a person he leans on when he's in trouble. I had that then, when I was still John Cummings.
My mom and dad lived in Atlanta, close enough for me to fly up to see them for Christmas or Thanksgiving,
far enough away that they never saw me doing shit, never saw me coked out of my mind. Kurt and Gayle
Lawson lived down the street from me and used to have me over all the time for barbeques or to watch
the 'Canes play. Kurt and I had gone to college together, even lived with each other for a time, and
Gayle was a real sweetheart. They never had any idea what I was really doing, though in many ways I
believe Kurt understood that I wasn't always working for the good guys. But we were friends, man, friends.
Being John Cummings was better than this, I think. This is a three-dollar crap table at the Frontier.
The rodeo is in town so the Frontier is swimming with people, by virtue of the fact that the Frontier
is the only hotel on the Strip that also has an electric bull. I'm down another seventy-five bucks.
I've got fifteen bucks left so I toss all three red chips on the hard eight. 9-1 odds pays me $130.
I press that $130, hit another hard eight, and just like that, boom, I'm even with Jerry.
"C'mon shooter," I say to a black man wearing a cowboy hat and tight jeans. "Let's see that hard
eight."
"What's that?" he says, but then he frowns in a way that makes me think he knows what a hard
eight is and, you know what? He's gonna get it for me.
Six, nine, six, two, five, three, five, ten (the easy way), ten (the hard way), five, five, six,
five.
"How about that hard one, Tex," I say. The point is four.
Five again and an Asian woman in a red dress screams. She'd put a black chip on the five.
Tex shakes the dice in his hand and lets them fly. They tumble across the board, knocking over
a stack of white chips another cowboy has stacked on the hard six, and hit the wall.
"Seven," the dealer says. "Seven crap."
The table claps because every fucking one of them was riding that five, or that hard ten, or
some other fucking number that isn't the hard eight, that isn't Reggie Fucking Jackson's number, that
isn't bleeding on a dog track in Florida, that isn't stone broke.
* * *
I met Reggie Jackson once. He was playing high-limit blackjack at the Mirage just like a normal
person, assuming all normal people carry around some 6'8" dude with a Kevlar vest on to control people
from touching them.
I don't ever play blackjack. It's a loser's game. You've got some moron from South Dakota hitting
16s against 5s because he doesn't give a fuck about my cards. He's just having a good time. Then you've
got the dealer slipping cards for the house. It's a loser's game. I sat down anyway.
For the first ten minutes, Reggie didn't say a word. He was getting stuck with 13s and 14s, shit
like that, and he was pissed. I was doing well. I pushed two 17s, won on an 18, got a blackjack, lost
a double down 9 against a 5.
When I saw that Reggie was going to head to another table, I said, "Hey, stick around for another
hand. Can't get any worse, right?"
He nodded and said, "One more hand."
My first card was a 4.
My second card was a 4.
"Hey," I said, showing my cards to Reggie. "How's that for karma?"
The 6'8" guy leaned forward and said, "Don't say another word to Mr. Jackson."
Reggie got a 9 and a 5. The dealer was showing a Queen.
I split my 4s, a terrible bet, but I wanted to see what kind of power was working here, and because
I wanted to save Reggie from getting another bust card.
4 and 4.
I hit again.
2 and 2.
"One more."
8 and 8.
"I'm good," I said.
Reggie pulled a 10, a bust card, and the dealer turned over a king.
"Guess it can get worse," I said, but Reggie was already gone.
* * *
"Hi Mom," I say. "It's me. John."
"John? Is it really you?"
"Yes," I say.
"Where are you?" she whispers.
"You don't need to whisper," I say. "I don't think anyone is listening anymore."
It's been two years since the last time I called my mom. I tell her that I'm in Vegas and that
things are starting to look up.
"Are you in trouble?" she says.
"No," I say. "I'm in love with a girl named Sally. We're getting married."
"That's wonderful, John," she says, and then I hear her sniffle.
"You don't need to cry," I say. "I'm better now. Everything is so good out here, mom. You wouldn't
believe it. We have a nice house in a charming development. We even have a guest room so that you can
visit."
"What does Sally do?"
"She's a school teacher," I say, "but we're going to open up a little cafe soon. We've been saving
our money for a down payment, but now with the wedding coming up we'll have to put that off for a while."
There is silence at the other end of the line. In the background I hear a commercial for mouthwash
running on the TV.
"How much, John," my mom says eventually.
"I don't need money," I say.
"It'll be my wedding gift to you," she says.
"Five grand," I say.
"Don't ever call again," she says after I tell her where the money can be wired. "Let me just
believe that you are too blissfully happy to call your mother. Can you do that?"
"I can do that," I say.
"I do hope Sally is real," my mom says. "Someone needs to care for you."
"She is real," I say. "All of it is real."
* * *
Sally is an honest person. I've never told her about anything. It would break her heart to know
that I'd hurt people, had put people in prison for things they hadn't done, had run out on my own name,
my own life, for this: an existence predicated by the fall of the cards or the shake of dice.
I told Sally after we'd been together for a time that my dream was to someday play music. I'd
always written songs and poetry, and I really felt that if I could just learn to play the guitar I could
make it work.
"Then you do that," she said. "If you believe you can do it, I believe you can do it."
"I'll never get there from here," I said.
"You keep writing songs," she said, "and when I have enough money, we'll get you lessons. I have
a customer that's friends with the lead singer of Ratt. I bet he'd help you."
"You'd do that for me?"
Sally touched my face; Sally always touched my face when she was going to tell me something she
really believed in. "I'd do anything for you," she said. "This could be our way out of all this. We
could get out of Vegas, move to California, really try to make it."
For a time, I actually tried. I'd take Sally to work and come back to our house and write lyrics.
I'd put on the Beach Boys or the Stones, and then I'd try to copy all of their hooks, all of their phrasing.
It never worked.
I'd tell Sally that I was going to listen to a band at the Hard Rock and could I have a hundred
bucks for drinks and dinner? She'd give me the money and I'd spend the rest of the night at the table,
rolling. I'd pick her up at the club at 4 am and tell her that I'd been inspired, that I'd written five
songs.
"When can I see them?" she'd ask.
"Soon," I'd say, but the songs never got written and after a while Sally stopped asking. There
was a tacit understanding that when I asked for money now, it was not to see a band.
Two nights ago I wrote a poem for Sally and crammed it into the purse she takes to work. She
never mentioned it.
* * *
I find Jerry Lincoln sitting right where he said he would be: the pai-gow table. He's wearing
tan slacks, white shoes, and an off-white shirt.
"Look at you," I say. "You look like a local."
Jerry doesn't budge from the table. "You're late," he says.
"The table was hot," I say. "I figured you wouldn't mind."
"Bullshit," he says, and then hands the dealer a $25 chip before getting up from the table.
"You lost money all over town."
I pull out my billfold and slide ten fresh hundreds into Jerry's hand. "How's that for a losing
hand?"
"You're two hours late," Jerry says. "That's another grand."
"What?"
"The clock's turned over," Jerry says. "Now you're working off another loan. So, it's either
give me another grand now while you still have it, or meet me here tomorrow morning when all you've
got is some lame ass excuse. Your choice, John."
I count out another thousand. "It's Reggie," I say and hand him the money.
"I'm gonna give you some advice, John, free of charge," Jerry says. "Turn yourself in. Move.
Go to vocational school. Whatever. Just get out of this town. You're a piss-poor gambler and a worse
liar."
"I'll think about that," I say.
"I like you John," Jerry says. "We made each other some money back in the day, didn't we? That
was a good time. I'm sorry you got caught up in it, though. You're a decent guy, and that whole scene
wasn't made for you."
"I've gotta go," I say. "My girl needs me to get some ear powder for our dog."
"That's good," Jerry says. "You do that and then you get on a plane to Missouri or Idaho and
just start over again. And for Christ's sake, don't call yourself Reggie."
"Good luck," I say and Jerry shakes my hand. I think he looks a touch sad for a guy who just
made a clean grand off me.
"If you need some traveling money," Jerry says, "I'll be here until next week. I'm not talking
craps money. If you need to pay someone off or to catch a bus, let me know. Okay?"
"I can't afford your terms," I say.
"Not like that, okay? Just as someone who might be able to help," Jerry says.
I leave Jerry at the pai-gow table and walk slowly through the Bellagio, taking it all in. I
think that this might be the last time I visit a casino, so I want to be sure that nothing feels hot
to me. I snake past the craps tables and ten-dollar blackjack tables, past the baccarat and poker rooms,
until I'm standing in the hotel lobby. There are tourists here taking photos of the ornate flower display
while they wait in line to pay three hundred dollars a night for a room they won't sleep in. There are
so many marks here, so many easy targets. I could take my remaining three grand and just go to work
on these people. I could follow them to the Venetian or Paris or New York, New York and just sit and
wait. Find the table they're playing at and just feed on them. It wouldn't matter the game, because
none of these people has any idea who I am. I can take them at any game: dice, blackjack, poker, fucking
keno if I wanted too.
I walk out front and give the valet ten bucks to bring my car around.
* * *
I am in love with Sally. She is such a tender person, a touching reminder of what I could have
had if I wasn't such a fuck-up. I met her when I was way up, full of confidence, loaded on coke and
X, and she brought me back to life. I met her and she made me want to be ridiculous, made me want to
go to Disneyland and the movies, got me to appreciate holidays again. I'd do anything for her. I would.
She got me clean, told me that she wouldn't have drugs in her house, and that if I wanted to live with
her I needed to wash out that part of my life.
"What about the gambling?" I said.
"You can't let it possess you," she said. "As long as you can keep it under control and it remains
profitable, I don't have a problem with it."
The problem with Sally is that she believes in me.
I go to Rite-Aid and fill a cart with things I know we need: Powder for the dog's ears, Clorox
bleach, disposable razors, Power Bars. In the background, beneath the strands of Muzak, I can hear the
pling-pling of the slot machines at the front of the store. The dank smell of cigarette smoke seeps
back from the gaming area, where the players are allowed to smoke as much as they like, and that gives
Rite-Aid a dirty, used feeling. Not the best thing for a drug store.
The odds in the stores are terrible, worse than at the airport. I've never won a fucking cent
at Rite-Aid or Sav-On or any of the gas stations.
"Can I help you with something?"
I look up and see the pharmacist smiling at me. His hair is combed elaborately across his forehead
in an effort to hide a patch of bald scalp. I've been standing in front of the pharmacy staring at the
various thermometers and blood pressure machines Rite-Aid sells. There are a few open for display, their
LED lights blinking, the pressure hoses sucking and hissing.
"How much is your best blood pressure machine?" I ask.
The pharmacist points to a large box that is sealed and not available for display. "That's the
kind you find in most doctor's offices," he says. "No flashing lights or anything, just accurate results.
Run you $300. Can I get one for you?"
"No," I say. "What about this one with the hoses and lights?"
"$75," he says.
"I'll take it," I say. If she won't go see a doctor, perhaps Sally will at least check herself
out.
* * *
When I get to our house, Sally, the dog, and Sally's Jetta are gone. There is a note stuck to
the fridge:
Reggie-
I'm sorry. I really am. Please take as much time as you need to get your stuff out. I've gone
to my mom's in California.
I love you,
Sally
For a long time, I sit on the couch and take my blood pressure. I think about all the things
I've fucked up and watch my pressure rise and fall. I imagine Sally and the dog driving through the
desert. I imagine Sally is listening to the radio, singing along to some nameless song, the dog has
its head out the window, its tongue dangling from its mouth. It's a happy picture. Sally is getting
out just like I have so many times before. She won't need to change her name, though she might consider
it, might think I'm dangerous and will come looking for her. But that's not who I am.
This is how I imagined it would end: One morning I would wake Sally with roses and champagne.
I'd tell her about the amazing run, the hundreds of thousands of dollars I'd won, how everything had
changed and we could live anywhere. I'd tell her that my name was John Cummings and though I'd done
some bad things before, I was ready to become conventional, to let her meet my mom, my old Florida friends.
She would understand because that's the kind of person she is. She fixed me once before, now she would
know what was broken. I would ask her to be my wife and she would accept and we would have a ceremony
with friends and family and yes, yes, I would go to the police and tell them this is what I've done,
these are the people that were involved, and can't we reach some kind of plea? I would do a year of
house arrest, which would be fine, because all I ever wanted was to spend time with Sally.
I open my wallet and count my money. I have $2912. The New York Yankees are playing the Chicago
Cubs in an inter-league baseball game tonight. The Yankees are favored 3-1. It's an easy bet. I'll parlay
that into tomorrow's Oakland A's game against the Mariners. I'll be all square. I'll mail my mom back
the money she gave me, and then I'll drive to California and find Sally.
Maybe, instead of sending mom that money, I'll hold onto it. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll drive
to California, find Sally, and maybe we can open up a little cafe. Yes. That is exactly what we will
do. We will open a cafe, and we'll serve burgers and smoothies and some healthy food for the people
who want it. We'll call it The 44. Perfect. The 44. Maybe it will be a sports bar.
I check my watch. It's noon. The Yanks are playing in Chicago, which means I have to get to the
sports book right away. I'll hop into the shower, wash the stink off of myself, change into some clean
clothes, place my bets, and then I'll shoot down Interstate 15 toward California. Already the distance
between Sally and me has narrowed. We're that much closer to being together. All of this is going to
be perfect. Like 4 and 4.
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