Lawrence Osborne - The Ballad of a Small Player

“What?” Adrian snorted.

After handing over the second ten percent cut, he demanded angrily to play the last hand himself.

I watched the whole thing impassively.

“The least I can do,” he muttered, “is lose it myself.”

And he did so, turning a terrible hand. It happened in a split second, and Adrian’s brief moment of revived hope expired. The girls laughed out loud, experimental winners for a moment.

I put a hand on his shoulder and called it a night. He rose slowly and gave me the last of the chump change as my cut, but I refused it.

“Keep it for drinks with Yo Yo. Get laid, at least.”

“Cheers, old man. But I can’t get laid now. I feel suicidal.”

“Written in the stars,” I said.

We walked slowly in defeat back to the Florian, though of course for me it was not entirely a defeat. I never thought I’d celebrate the end of a lucky streak as anything but a misfortune, but I did and it felt unexpectedly sweet. We went upstairs to the mall and walked around for a while to cool off, and Adrian bitterly lamented his bad luck, his lack of sau hei . There was nothing for it, he complained, but to go back to Nottingham and ask his mother for a loan. It was a lamentable plan, I said, and one that was bound to fail. One’s mother was always the worst person to turn to in a scrape.

“I just don’t know if I can go on,” he said. “I’m down to the last of my savings from my bank days, and I thought that would last forever. What the hell have I done with it?”

“Don’t you ever win? Not ever?”

He shook his head.

“Not in three months. Losses every night. It can’t be, it just can’t be. I ruin everything I touch.”

“It’s not the case, Adrian. We’re playing punto banco — it’s a game of pure luck. You’re talking like the Chinese.”

“Don’t we all?”

“But we don’t think like them. Surely?”

“I don’t know anymore. Maybe I do think like the Chinese. Why shouldn’t I?”

As we lingered there trying to forget our misfortune, Yo Yo came up with the look of someone who has been searching for her sugar daddy and been unable to find him. She covered Adrian with kisses and we went downstairs, back into the din and musk and percussive voices. A place where the old are not allowed to be old, where the chandeliers look like model zeppelins chained to the ceilings and where their fairy light is a gold that makes the skin itself look metallic. A mix of human voices and the string music of Europe, and actors dressed as characters from the operas of Puccini wandering about in their costumes breaking out into arias or ringing bells and turning cartwheels among the Taiwanese tourists who are so anxious to capture them on film. Look, a Pulcinello. A Bohemian. Flesh turned to metal and air and pedigree. Adrian turned to me while Yo Yo went to the bathroom, and he had grasped the poisoned nettle of his situation with a shocking clairvoyance.

“Doyle, lend me another four thousand for the rest of the week. I won’t play it, I swear. I’ll use it to entertain Yo Yo. You don’t know how demanding she is. She eats money like a badger eats grass. She’s insatiable. She sucks everything up and then demands more. She’s like a housewife cleaning up and I’m the dog poop in the corner. She’s a money vacuum cleaner. You can afford it, it’s nothing to you now. I couldn’t have known that your luck had run out. Quick, while she’s in the bathroom!”

There’s no explaining why I gave it to him, and I didn’t even intend to tot up what he owed me because I knew I would never get it back.

“You’re a sport,” he gushed, pocketing the notes with lightning speed. “You’re a sport and the Goddess of Luck will reward you.”

“Repayment?”

“Next week, next week. I have a scheme.”

We all had a scheme, and the pity of it was that none of us knew what the scheme was. It was there somewhere in the back of our minds, but it was perpetually obscure to us.

When Yo Yo returned, we went out to the canal and rode for a while in a gondola under a honeyed moon. It was just like Venice, as it is intended to be, with the water slapping the stones and the moon above gilding insignias and crenellations and gothic devices. Adrian said nothing and Yo Yo and I talked in Chinese, and as we spoke I knew that it was Adrian’s luck that had failed to deliver the natural and not mine. I had no idea why I was so sure of this. Eventually we went our separate ways and after a snack at the Florian I walked off back to the Lisboa, and as I was passing through the main doors I caught sight of Adrian sitting at one of the baccarat tables with Yo Yo behind him, his face distorted and blushing, losing with the alacrity and lack of style with which he always lost. So there it was. One loses and one wins, and one submits to the law of sports and pastimes, but I, on this occasion, was off the hook.

The following morning a letter was delivered to my room by the Lisboa management, carried there by a bellhop in full regalia. Unusually for me I was up early, taking my Earl Grey and toast in the room where I was reading the South China Post . The mood of happiness from the night before was still upon me, and I felt a kind of self-assurance that was quiet and intimate. It was, if you like, a quiet self-confidence, a sense of being a little bit superior to my circumstances. People with inferiority complexes often feel this way after a few hours of unexpected good luck. The note, meanwhile, was from one of the senior managers of the hotel and invited me to stop by his office later in the day to discuss the unusual scale of my winnings the night before, on which I was congratulated in the politest terms. It is , he wrote, normal procedure when a customer of ours has won such a sum. My ass , I thought. They always singled me out.

I told the messenger to say that I would be down within an hour. But as it turned out I was stopped by an elegant young Chinese executive as I made my way to the elevators. He asked me to step into a private office on the floor above. It was, in fact, the writer of the note, a Mr. Chang Souza, and he was as full of charm and precision as an executive can be, in his official Lisboa tie and his cuff links shaped like black dice and his black oxfords with tooled caps. We went into an office opened with a magnetic key and paneled with red wood. There was a juniper bonsai on the desk and a photograph of a small girl in a sailor suit, and Mr. Souza placed himself behind it with a comfortable ease and assurance that seemed intended to make his task easier. On his computer he brought up the transactions in which I had been involved two nights before, and there was a look of surprised consternation on his face as he neared the summit of my considerable tally. “Nine naturals in a row,” he said, breaking into a frigid smile. “Never been seen before.”

“Not by me, anyway.”

“Lord Doyle, you are a lucky man.”

“Luck?”

It made him smile. He scanned down my winnings and I was sure that he was skimming through some surveillance videos at the same time. Every moment of every game is filmed; they can be recalled on the company computers in a second. Millions of such moments were captured daily and stored for future use, and they formed an encyclopedia of our gaming experiences. Souza’s face was still young, untarnished by pleasure. His eyes, enlarged behind wire-frame spectacles, seemed as if they were blue when they were nothing of the sort.

“As far as we can see,” he began, “there is nothing illegal about your winnings. We have been puzzling over it for some hours. I wonder if you are aware of the statistical odds of scoring nine nines in a row?”