Lucky

The swarm around the roulette counter pushed and shoved and edged closer as if to influence the scene on the table. Eager faces leaned over, watched the numbers on the dial gradually become recognizable from the spin. The little white ball sprang from notch to notch, undecided. It eventually settled in its final position, dropping into a slot as though in slow motion, still a little uncertain. As the news got around, the players dispersed languidly, expectant expressions turning into various degrees of indifference.

One man, forty something, conspicuous in his checked trousers and tweed jacked, stood for a moment, holding his temples between his fingers and occasionally rubbing the back of his balding chestnut head.

"Fingle?"

"What?" The man whose name was Robert Fingle, turned with a start, contained himself in no time and swaggered over to the bar. He slumped on a chair beside a clean-shaven, cultivated if fidgety individual, about his own age but showing fewer signs.

"So Fingle, bet you just won a million dollars." Robert Fingle's boyhood friend Frank Connelly had always been in private awe of Robert's complacence and lifestyle. Now he spoke a little too early, a little too cheerfully.

"Never been that lucky," Robert said without looking at Frank, "but I get along."

"Just like you, Fingle." Frank looked at Robert from the corner of his eye then blurted out, "You know what, I was thinking if you could just pay me now, I'd be getting on."

Robert was expecting this and went for stalling it by derision. "Frank. Don't be little. Is that why you came all this way?"

"Little? You owe me five thou, Robert. You're a big man. Just give me my money and you'll never see me again."

Robert looked straight in Frank's eyes for the first time and Frank checked himself.

"You know what? You're right about that. I am a big man. See this?" Robert dangled a key on a gold chain. "This belongs to my Porsche outside. I won it, right here in this casino." He reached over and took his friend's chin in his big hands. "And I'm gonna win your five thousand bills right now with you watching so you can take your cash and stop dunning me and live happily ever after."

Sparing Frank a chance to reply, Robert strutted off toward a crowd assembling around a roulette table. Frank stood behind him while he waged his stake.

"Robert, you lost eight hundred bucks."

"Hell."

"Hell, what? Do what you like with your money, just give me mine and I'm gone." Frank's nervousness was fading.

"Hell, we'll have another go." Robert spoke adamantly. "I'm surprised, Frank. All these years and you still don't know me. Well, listen to this: it's not the losing that I hate, it's the winning that I love. So hold your breath for a while 'cause I'm going to show you some of my stuff."

He shoved Frank back into the crowd a little too coarsely and following close behind, wagered on another game. Rapt in the display, he watched the ball bounce out of his favored slot and settle in some further notch. Before Frank could protest, Robert pushed him into another crowd clenching him fixedly by the wrist. He wasn't going to lose face to Frank. Not like this. Not now.

"Robert, buddy, you slipped." Frank spoke boldly, his unease completely gone. Robert had played thirteen games and lost each one of them, each stake a little higher than the last. They sat at the bar now. Frank tried not to embarrass Robert.

"Well, you still have your car."

"Hell with the car."

"Really? It is a nice car, though."

"I can win it any time."

"You know, I've been thinking lately. I might completely forget about the money." He contemplated the key on the gold chain. "It really isn't all that important, you know."

"You can have it, Frank."

"Have what?"

"The car. My beautiful red Porsche. You can have the beauty. It's yours." Robert slid the key to Frank across the counter.

"You're not a bad guy, Robert. You know, if you ever need..."

"Just so long as I don't see you again. That's the deal."

"Whatever you say."

Robert waited by the jackpots while Frank paid for their drinks. He slid a couple of chips through a slot on a jackpot machine and imagined them settle somewhere in a deep recess like coins at the bottom of a wishing well. Mulling over the events of the day, he reflected fully for the first time on how much he hated Frank.

Frank had a swing in his walk now as he approached Robert. Robert pulled on the jackpot lever absentmindedly.

"Ready to leave, Fingle?"

"Sure." Robert and Frank walked side by side toward the neon exit sign and Robert held the door, letting Frank pass.

Meanwhile, a youthful fellow in a bright red baseball cap saw an unattended jackpot tray fill with cash and couldn't believe his luck. He called his friend over.

"Man, are you lucky today! You could get a car with this."

"Yeah, how about a red Porsche?"