Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“You go, Dad,” says the rodeo fan. “Show ’em how it’s done!”

Walt gives the kid a hard look, then softens it into a smile, hugging the girl to his side. “This’un here’s the only one who gets to call me daddy.”

There’s general laughter from the crowd, and the roller tosses the dice.

The crowd whoops as the dice come up eleven.

“Yo eleven,” says the stickman, barely controlling the excitement in his voice. “Pay the line, and pay the gentleman. Thank you again, sir.”

Walt gives a casual nod as the dealers collect a total of $16,000 in tip money to divide as they see fit.

He lays down the same bet again, to sincere thank-yous from the crew. Predictably, it misses. And just as predictably, the roller’s hot run ends a few throws later. Gradually, the dice make their way around the table. When they reach Walt, he gestures graciously to the hooker that she should take his roll. She squeals and squeezes his arm, then takes a gulp from her rum and coke. He drops the dice into her moist palm, tells her to blow on them before she rolls. Her eyes light up like a penny slot machine. She blows on the dice, then flings them down the table like a kid skipping rocks on a pond.

“Seven,” says the stickman. “Winner, seven. Pay the line, take the don'’t.”

The crowd roars as usual, and Walt uses its attention like a spotlight. “Let’s do another bet for the boys,” he says generously. “You can win it for them, right, honey?”

The hooker giggles wildly as the stickman places another thousand-dollar “yo” bet for himself and his coworkers.

The hooker rolls the dice, establishing a point of four, but losing the prop bet. The crowd sighs.

“Sorry, boys,” Walt says. “Let’s hit that point. What do you say, Fancy?”

“It’s Nancy,” the girl says with an exaggerated pout.

Walt grins for the crowd. “I knew a Fancy in New Orleans once. Or was it Dallas? Hell, I can’t remember. But I sure remember her. How ’bout you be Fancy just for tonight?”

The hooker looks uncertainly around at the attentive eyes, then down at Walt’s long rack of high-value chips. Her eyes flash, and she pumps her fist like a high school cheerleader at a pep rally.

“Fancy Nancy!” she cries. “Gimme those damn dice!”

The crowd chatters while Walt places the maximum odds bet on his four, then falls silent, waiting for the throw.

“Roll ’em, Fancy,” Walt says. “Put the magic on ’em, baby. Give us a four. Make those old bones pay, I know you know how to do that.”

The crowd laughs again, but the girl’s past caring now. Walt feels like a son of a bitch, but it takes a son of a bitch to get his rocks off watching two dogs tear each other to pieces to please men who don'’t care if they live or die, except as extensions of their own pride.

Nancy blows on the dice again, then gives them a backhand throw, but the pit boss’s eyes are on Walt now. Just like the PTZ cameras in the hanging domes on the ceiling. The guys in the security room were probably bored shitless when he started his run, but now they'’re watching with the same hunger as the people leaning against the table, wishing somebody would beat the house and walk away flush.

Suckers every one,

Walt thinks.

How empty does your life have to be to spend your nights in this place?

The dice come up three and one—the needed four. Nancy shrieks, and the crowd surges against Walt like a tide. It’s so easy to win when you don'’t care one way or the other.

Walt ups his line bet, and Nancy rolls, establishing a point of four again. Walt takes the maximum odds, then places two thousand-dollar bets on “hard four”—one for him, and one for the dealers. Another crazy bet, way past the edge of probability. But a thrumming on that old taut wire stretched from his balls to his throat tells him that tonight is his night.

“Get ready, boys!” he says, feeling like Joe Namath before Super Bowl III. “You’re going home with folding money tonight!”

Nancy skips the dice across the table with evanescent excitement, and they rebound half the table’s length, wobbling over to a two and a two.

The dealers blink in astonishment as the crowd goes wild around them.

“Four the hard way,” the stickman says with unaccustomed awe. “Hard four. Pay the man.”

“And don'’t forget to pay yourselves, son,” Walt says with grandiose intimacy, having won both men another two grand each to take home. “You’re gonna remember J. B. Gilchrist, aren'’t you?”

The stickman smiles with genuine gratitude. “Yes, sir.”

“Color me up,” Walt tells the dealers, and the crowd falls silent. The dealers change his winnings into high-denomination chips that he can carry easily to the cashier.

Walt pockets the chips, then grabs the hooker and dips her low, like Fred and Ginger. Nancy squeals, but the crowd claps and cheers as Walt brings her back up, red-faced from the effort. “Time to move on, hon!” he bellows. “I like action, and the action’s always moving. Anybody knows where to find it, you come talk to me. I'm always looking!”

The crowd parts as though for a prophet, and Walt leads his hooker across the casino floor like a king escorting a royal consort. He hasn’'t felt this good about a job in a long time. He’d never gamble with his own money, but he does believe in luck. Any man who’s been in combat has seen luck in all its infinite variations, and Walt has been putting his life on the line for fifty years since he got back from Korea. He’s the last of the Rangers from his old company still doing law enforcement work, and while he knows that judgment and experience have helped get him this far, without luck he would have died long ago. Driving out from the ranch, he’d wondered if he might be pushing a little too hard this time, tempting the lady to turn against him. But tonight he feels the fullness of his abilities in all their old potency. He’s got his mojo working, as an old Houston cop used to tell him.

“I'm waiting for you,” he says softly, thinking of the man who threatened Tom Cage’s granddaughter. “Come on and take a nibble, sonny. I'’ll set the hook so hard it’ll break your goddamn jaw.”

In the parking lot on the bluff, Walt tips the driver of the shuttle bus, then steps off and joins Nancy on the pavement of the parking lot.

“Where’s your car?” the hooker asks, looking up the line of modest cars in the lot. “I'’ll bet you drive a big old Cadillac or something, don'’t you? Old school, right?”

“Hell no,” says Walt, pointing to the big Roadtrek van. “That'’s me right there.”

The girl’s mouth falls open. “Where? That?”

“That'’s me.” Walt clicks open the locks from his key ring. “Wait till you see her.”

The girl looks wary, but she follows him into the van, which is finished as finely as a boat cabin. “Ain’t no regular RV, is it?” she marvels, turning in the small space. “You got a stove and a microwave and a flat panel and a refrigerator and a—”

“Shower,” he finishes.

“Man! What did this thing set you back?”

“’Bout a hundred,” Walt says.

Nancy shakes her head and eyes the sofa in back doubtfully. “You’re not sleeping in this thing, are you? I mean, you got a hotel room, right?”

“Sure. I'm at the Eola.”

She smiles and nods knowingly. “Well, hell. Let’s get this thing going and get up there. We’ll open up the minibar and have us a party, Daddy.”