"Be good t'Harry Price, good t'Harry Price," he mumbled at the red translucent cubes. "These are the dice t'pay the price," he chanted maniacally. While Beano looked at the other players apologetically, nobody noticed as Duffy palmed the dice, expertly dropping them between his legs into the Porta-Toilet, at the same time switching them with a set of his brother's Miami-made counterfeits. Then he put the switched dice down on the table. From his wheelchair seat, his head just barely appeared above the rim of the table. He reached over the rail and arranged the dice in a five-two combination of seven. He was giving the Stick-man a good look at his ringer dice to see if they would pass muster at that distance. Nothing happened so, with his "splash move" completed, he picked up the dice and shook them next to his ear.
"Okay, okay. Talk to me. Be nice to Harry Price," he said to the dice in his fist. Then he turned and snapped at Beano, "Get me down on the come line, Douglas. Wanna raise the limit… five thousand."
"I'll approve the bet," Zigman said to the Stick-man, raising the table limit.
There was a gasp from the table and, once his bet was down, Duffy rolled the bones. They came up six and four.
"Point is ten," the Stick-man said.
"Get me down for two thousand, the hard way," Duffy said. And Beano handed the Stick-man two thousand in chips to buy the longshot sucker bet that the ten would eventually get made as double fives, before he sevened out.
Zigman smiled from his place behind the Stick-man. If the old crippled guy kept betting like that, they'd take his whole poke in half an hour.
For the next thirty minutes Duffy threw his money away like a street sucker betting Three-Card Monty. The Box-man grinned as Duffy's chips were repeatedly scraped off the table. Luke Zigman had quickly figured out that the old man was using a Martingale System, which was a complicated betting scheme often employed by losers. It basically consisted of doubling and quadrupling bets after every other loss. Twice Duffy had to ask that the table limit be waived so he could quadruple his bet. Both times this happened he lost, and the Stick-man would rake over ten thousand of the old man's dollars off the table. Duffy ended up being the only player shooting at table three because he was so cold he had become a plague on everybody's luck.
"Jeezus, Uncle Harry… whatta you doing? Don't bet all the hard-ways; it's a jerk-off bet," Beano whined with no effect, as Duffy hissed at him to shut up and did it over and over again. What nobody noticed was that, with each loss, while the Stick-man and Box-man were trying to contain their grins, another pair of casino dice rained down into the Porta-Toilet catch basin under Duffy's bony ass. After he lost a big roll he would yell, "New dice! New dice!" in his wheezy rasp and the casino would only too gladly oblige this loser, pulling his counterfeit dice off the table and supplying him with a new set of casino perfects, which would hit the plastic catch basin under him a few moments later.
"Jeezus, Harry, can't we get outta here?" Beano whined. "You need to take your medicine." But the old man waved him away.
Zigman moved up and whispered to the Floor Manager, "We're gonna Schneider this jerk in less than an hour."
Every employee in the casino knew in minutes there was a major slab of deadwood on table three.
In the Credit Office, the Shift Manager, Arnold Buzini, was waiting for his Credit Manager to confirm the sucker's net worth. Buzini was known around the Sabre Bay Club as the Buzzard, and was leaning over her desk, impatiently tapping his fingers.
"Try and verify him as high as you can," Buzini said; his close-cut hair was steel-gray and he had gray-white skin. He lived indoors and loved to see "leakers" like Harry Stanton Price show up. He lived for dumb bettors with systems.
The Credit Manager was named Angela Hopkins and she had just dialed the Cattlemen's Bank of Fresno, using her new set of McGuire Financial Listings that had been unexpectedly delivered yesterday. After a series of clicks, which she assumed was the island telephone system but was really the rollover call-forwarding mechanism in Fresno, the pay phone at the golf shop, not two hundred yards away, rang.
"Cattlemen's Bank of Fresno, one moment, please," Victoria said in a high sing-songy voice; then she hit one of the numbers on the punch-dial to make a tone sound and held the receiver to her stomach until an island workman's car with a loud muffler passed by. "Yes, how can I help you?" she said, coming back on the line.
"This is the Sabre Bay Club on Grand Bahama and we'd like to get a credit verification," Angela said, while the Buzzard leaned closer to try and overhear.
"That would be Miss Prentiss. One moment, I'll transfer you." And she hit a number on the keypad for a sound effect, then put the phone back up to her ear.
"Louise Prentiss, Personal Accounts Manager," she said, now using her normal voice. She was holding the sheet of paper in front of her with all of the information Beano wanted to impart.
"This is the Sabre Bay Club on Grand Bahama. We're doing a credit check on Mr. Harry Stanton Price. He told us he banks with you."
"That's correct. Let me get his account on screen. Do you have an International Verification Number?" Victoria asked.
"Two-four-five-nine-eight double-zero." Angela gave the number from memory.
"Thank you. How can I help?"
"He's requested a loan from us of two hundred thousand dollars. We need verification up to that amount."
"Is this a casino hotel?" Victoria asked.
"Yes, it is," Angela responded.
"Both Mr. Price's personal account and his Price Is Right Automotive Center bank with us. Mr. Stanton has a net worth in excess of ten million dollars. His cash-on-hand balance is well in excess of the required two hundred thousand. We can reserve it here, but would rather not wire it unless it becomes necessary."
"That's fine. Reserve it and we'll issue the credit and settle with you if need be when he checks out."
Buzini was out of the office before Angela hung up. He made his way across the carpeted casino to where a small crowd had gathered to ooh and aah as Duffy threw his money away with stupid bets on table three.
"New dice," Duffy yelled after each miserable roll. When Buzini got to him, he was down to less than five thousand dollars, and half of that was scraped away two rolls of the dice later.
"Sons-of-bitches," Duffy scowled at the dice. "Losing's worse than a Communist dictator." He looked up at the casino Shift Manager through bloodshot eyes; his head lolling badly to the right side, he had let a fine line of spit drool down his chin.
"It's a pleasure to have you at the Sabre Bay Club," Buzini said, smiling at the horrible-looking cripple, praising his good fortune and thinking the old man would be better off in some vegetable ward at a mainland hospital.
"Goddamn dice, can't buy a fucking winning number," Duffy complained.
"Sir, I'm sorry you're experiencing a run of bad luck," Buzini purred, "but Sabre Bay would like to extend you the courtesy of one of our priority suites. Everything that's here, dinner, the shows, all of the resort amenities, will be complimentary."
"How's my credit check coming? Need more cash," Duffy wheezed.
"I've checked that, sir, and your credit has been approved to two hundred thousand dollars." He smiled, hoping the old leaker didn't croak before he had a chance to lose it all.
"Harry, can we get out of this casino for a while? You've lost enough for one sitting," Beano moaned. "Let's go before you lose the whole car business."
"Goddamned whining and complaining. All you do is groan an' moan an' ruin everybody else's fun."
"Sir, would both you gentlemen honor us by being our complimentary guests for as long as you'd like to stay?" the Buzzard said, exposing his carrion smile.