Chapter 22: Winning Streak
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The crowd parted and two men in evening clothes pushed their way out and I saw the back of her neck and her bare shoulders in the opening. She wore a low-cut dress of dull green velvet. It looked too dressy for the occasion. The crowd closed and hid all but her black head. The two men came across the room and leaned against the bar and asked for Scotch and soda. One of them was flushed and excited. He was mopping his face with a black-bordered handkerchief. "Boy, I never saw such a run," he said in a jittery voice. "Eight wins and two stand-offs in a row on that red. That's roulette, boy, that's roulette." "Its gives me the itch," the other one said. "She's betting a mill at a crack. She can't lose." They put their beaks in the drinks, gurgled swiftly and went back. "So wise the little men are," the barkeeper said. "A mill a crack, huh. I saw an old horse-face on Titan once -" The noise swelled over at the middle table and a chiselled voice rose above it saying: "If you will just be patient a moment, Madam. The table cannot cover your bet. Mr Mars will be here in a moment." I left my Bacardi and padded across the carpet. The little orchestra began to play a tango, rather loud. No one was dancing or intending to dance. I moved through a scattering of people in dinner clothes and full evening dress and sports clothes and business suits to the end table on the left. It had gone dead. Two croupiers stood behind it with their heads together and their eyes sideways. One moved a rake back and forth aimlessly over the empty layout. They were both staring at Vivian Regan. Her long lashes twitched and her face looked unnaturally white. She was at the middle table, exactly opposite the wheel. There was a disordered pile of money and chips in front of her. It looked like a lot of money. She spoke to the croupier with a cool, insolent, ill-tempered drawl. "What kind of a cheap outfit is this, I'd like to know. Get busy and spin that wheel, high pockets. I want one more play and I'm laying table stakes. You take it away fast enough, I've noticed, but when it comes to dishing it out you start to whine." The croupier smiled a cold polite smile that had looked at thousands of boors and millions of fools. He said gravely: "The table cannot cover your bet, madam. You have over sixteen million dollars there." "It's your money," the girl jeered. "Don't you want it back?" A man beside her tried to tell her something. She turned swiftly and spat something at him and he faded back into the crowd red-faced. A door opened in the panelling at the far end of the enclose place made by the bronze railing. Eddie Mars came through the door with a set indifferent smile on his face, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner jacket, both thumbnails glistening outside. He seemed to like that pose. He strolled behind the croupiers and stopped at the corner of the middle table. He spoke with lazy calm, less politely than the croupier. "Something the matter, Mrs Regan?" She turned her face to him with a sort of lunge. I saw the curve of her cheek stiffen, as if with an almost unbearable inner tautness. She didn't answer him.
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Part 1