Ed McBain: Downtown

“Jus’ rolled me a ’leven,” Harry said.

Michael smiled at her. She did not smile back.

An hour and fifty minutes to plane time.

“Let the twenty ride,” he said, and realized he was showing off for her, big spender betting all his money without batting an eyelash.

Harry picked up the dice, winked at him, and said, “Man knows a winner. Bet the two hunnerd.”

“I’ll take it all,” the other black man said.

“You facin’ disaster. Slam,” Harry told him and laughed his dirty Eddie Murphy laugh.

“I’m facin’ a man got lucky one time,” Slam said.

“Oh, my my my,” Harry said to the dice, “you hear this man runnin’ his mouth?”

“Who wanna fiffy more?” the first Chinese man asked.

“I’ll take thirty of that,” the seaman with the watch cap said.

“I hassa twenny,” the second Chinese man said.

Harry brought the dice up close to his mouth.

“Sugah,” he whispered, “we don’t wanna disappoint our friends here, now do we?”

He was talking to the dice as if he were talking to a woman. How could they possibly fail a man who speaks so gently and persuasively? Michael thought, and realized he was smiling. The girl thought he was smiling at her. Maybe he was. But she still did not smile back. Oh well, he thought.

“You know jus’ what we need,” Harry told the dice, “so I’m jus’ goan let you do yo’ own thing,” and he shook the dice gently, and opened his hand again, and the dice rolled off his palm and strutted across the blanket, and kissed the wall, and skidded off the wall to land with a five-spot and a six-spot showing for a total of eleven again, which was another winner.

Michael now had forty dollars, certainly enough to get him to Kennedy by cab.

“How’s that, James?” Harry asked.

“Good,” the first Chinese man said, beaming.

“ No good,” the second Chinese man said sourly.

“Bet the four hundred,” Harry said.

Michael looked at the girl one last time. She seemed not to know he existed. He pocketed his forty bucks and started moving away from the blanket.

“Don’t go, man,” Harry said softly.

Michael looked at him.

“You my luck, man.”

In Vietnam — ah, Jesus, in Nam — too many young men had said those words to too many other young men. Over there, you needed something to believe in other than yourself, you needed a charm, a rabbit’s foot, a buddy to stand beside you, to be your luck when it looked as though your luck might run out at any moment.

Michael looked at his watch.

9:30.

If he could get out of the city in the next half hour or so, he’d be okay. The roads to Kennedy would surely be clear of snow by now, it would be a quick half-hour run by taxi, walk directly to the gate, no luggage — thanks to Crandall — and off he’d go.

“You with me or not?” Harry asked.

There was something almost desperate in his eyes. “I’ve got forty says you’re good,” Michael said, and tossed the money onto the blanket and smiled at the girl. This time, she smiled back.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Michael,” he said.

“How do you do?” she said.

“We shootin’ dice here?” Slam asked, “or we chattin’ up Miss Shanghai?”

“Miss Mott Street, you mean,” the seaman with the watch cap said.

“Miss China Doll,” the second Chinese man said.

“Are you really all those things?” Michael asked.

“No, I’m Connie,” she said.

“Willya please roll ’em?” Slam said.

Grinning from ear to ear, Harry picked up the dice.

He was good for the next pass, and three more passes after that, by which time Michael’s initial ten bucks had grown to six hundred and forty dollars. He looked at his watch again — 9:45 — and decided (o let all of it ride on Harry’s phenomenal luck. He wondered if he was risking the money just so he could stay here by Connie’s side. All at once, the plane to Boston didn’t seem too very important. Missing a plane to Boston wasn’t the end of the world. On the television screen, Andy Williams began singing “Silent Night.”

Harry rolled a ten, a tough point to make.

Then Harry rolled a four...

And a nine...

And a six...

And an eight...

And Michael began wondering how many numbers he could roll before a seven came up and killed them both dead? Michael had never in his life won a nickel in a Saigon gambling house, but he’d kept rolling number after number out there in the jungle, never sevening out while everywhere around him brief good friends were dying.

“Tough point,” he said.

“Very,” Connie said, and smiled.

He smiled back.

Harry was whispering to the dice again.

This time I buy the farm, Michael thought.

“Sugah, we need a six and a four,” Harry whispered.

It was almost ten o’clock.

On the television set, Andy Williams was saying good night to everyone, wishing everyone in America a Merry Christmas. Michael paid no attention to him. His eyes were on Connie and his six hundred and forty bucks were on the blanket.

“Two fives, baby,” Harry whispered to the dice, and shook them gently in his fist, and opened his hand and said, “Ten the hard way, sugah,” and the dice rolled out and away toward the wall.

On the television screen, the news came on. The headline story was a bombing in Dublin, but no one was listening to it.

One of the dice bounced off the wall.

A three.

The second die hit the wall.

Bounced off it.

A four.

Shit, Michael, thought, there goes my taxi.

“In downtown Manhattan tonight,” the male anchor said, “motion-picture director Arthur Crandall...”

Michael looked up at the screen.

“... was found shot to death in a rented automobile. Police report finding a wallet in the car, possibly dropped by Crandall’s murderer. It contained...”

Everyone around the blanket was looking up at the screen.

“... sixty-three dollars in cash, several credit cards, and a driver’s license identifying...”

“Good night,” Michael said, “thank you,” and began walking toward the door across the room.

“... a man named Michael Barnes, who the Hertz company confirms rented the car at Kennedy last Fri...”

Michael closed the door behind him.

The same man was still behind the stainless steel table, stuffing fortune cookies.

“Have a nice holiday,” Michael said.

“The down of white geese shall float upon your dreams,” the man said.

The door opened again.

“Wait for me,” Connie said.

It had stopped snowing.

She was wearing a short black coat over the green dress. The red rose was still in her hair. Black coat, black hair, green dress and shoes, red rose — all against a background of white on white. The silent night Andy Williams had promised. Still and white, except for the flatness of the black and the sheen of the green and the shriek of the red in her hair.

“You’ve got trouble, huh?” she said.

He debated lying.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve got trouble.”

Their breaths pluming on the frosty air.

“Come on,” she said, “I’ve got a limo around the corner.”

He thought that was pretty fortunate, a rich Chinese girl with a chauffeured limo to take her hither and yon in the city. He didn’t want to go anywhere in this city but out of it. Straight to Kennedy, where he would catch his plane to Boston and Mama, or else try to get a plane to Florida. Get out of this rotten apple as soon as possible, call his lawyer the minute he landed someplace. Dave, they are saying I murdered somebody in New York, Dave. What should I do?

Hushed footfalls on the fresh snow.