Oh, I found out about the fat little man, all right. I found out how clever and audacious he was. And I found out just how wrong I had been — and just how right.
He hadn’t stolen anything from my house.
He had stolen the whole damned house.
Liar’s Dice
“Excuse me. Do you play liar’s dice?”
I looked over at the man two stools to my right. He was about my age, early forties; average height, average weight, brown hair, medium complexion — really a pretty nondescript sort except for a pleasant and disarming smile. Expensively dressed in an Armani suit and a silk jacquard tie. Drinking white wine. I had never seen him before. Or had I? There was something familiar about him, as if our paths had crossed somewhere or other, once or twice.
Not here in Tony’s, though. Tony’s is a suburban-mall bar that caters to the shopping trade from the big department and grocery stores surrounding it. I stopped in no more than a couple of times a month, usually when Connie asked me to pick up something at Safeway on my way home from San Francisco, occasionally when I had a Saturday errand to run. I knew the few regulars by sight, and it was never very crowded anyway. There were only four patrons at the moment: the nondescript gent and myself on stools, and a young couple in a booth at the rear.
“I do play, as a matter of fact,” I said to the fellow. Fairly well too, though I wasn’t about to admit that. Liar’s dice and I were old acquaintances.
“Would you care to shake for a drink?”
“Well, my usual limit is one...”
“For a chit for your next visit, then.”
“All right, why not? I feel lucky tonight.”
“Do you? Good. I should warn you, I’m very good at the game.”
“I’m not so bad myself.”
“No, I mean I’m very good. I seldom lose.”
It was the kind of remark that would have nettled me if it had been said with even a modicum of conceit. But he wasn’t bragging; he was merely stating a fact, mentioning a special skill of which he felt justifiably proud. So instead of annoying me, his comment made me eager to test him.
We introduced ourselves; his name was Jones. Then I called to Tony for the dice cups. He brought them down, winked at me, said, “No gambling now,” and went back to the other end of the bar. Strictly speaking, shaking dice for drinks and/or money is illegal in California. But nobody pays much attention to nuisance laws like that, and most bar owners keep dice cups on hand for their customers. The game stimulates business. I know because I’ve been involved in some spirited liar’s dice tournaments in my time.
Like all good games, liar’s dice is fairly simple — at least in its rules. Each player has a cup containing five dice, which he shakes out but keeps covered so only he can see what is showing face up. Then each makes a declaration or “call” in turn: one of a kind, two of a kind, three of a kind, and so on. Each call has to be higher than the previous one, and is based on what the player knows is in his hand and what he thinks is in the other fellow’s — the combined total of the ten dice. He can lie or tell the truth, whichever suits him; but the better liar he is, the better his chances of winning. When one player decides the other is either lying or has simply exceeded the laws of probability, he says, “Come up,” and then both reveal their hands. If he’s right, he wins.
In addition to being a clever liar, you also need a good grasp of mathematical odds and the ability to “read” your opponent’s facial expressions, the inflection in his voice, his body language. The same skills an experienced poker player has to have, which is one reason the game is also called liar’s poker.
Jones and I each rolled one die to determine who would go first; mine was the highest. Then we shook all five dice in our cups, banged them down on the bar. What I had showing was four treys and a deuce.
“Your call, Mr. Quint.”
“One five,” I said.
“One six.”
“Two deuces.”
“Two fives.”
“Three treys.”
“Three sixes.”
I considered calling him up, since I had no sixes and he would need three showing to win. But I didn’t know his methods and I couldn’t read him at all. I decided to keep playing.
“Four treys.”
“Five treys.”
“Six treys.”
Jones smiled and said, “Come up.” And he had just one trey (and no sixes). I’d called six treys and there were only five in our combined hands; he was the winner.
“So much for feeling lucky,” I said, and signaled Tony to bring another white wine for Mr. Jones. On impulse I decided a second Manhattan wouldn’t hurt me and ordered that too.
Jones said, “Shall we play again?”
“Two drinks is definitely my limit.”
“For dimes, then? Nickels or pennies, if you prefer.”
“Oh, I don’t know...”
“You’re a good player, Mr. Quint, and I don’t often find someone who can challenge me. Besides, I have a passion as well as an affinity for liar’s dice. Won’t you indulge me?”
I didn’t see any harm in it. If he’d wanted to play for larger stakes, even a dollar a hand, I might have taken him for a hustler despite his Armani suit and silk tie. But how much could you win or lose playing for a nickel or a dime a hand? So I said, “Your call first this time,” and picked up my dice cup.
We played for better than half an hour. And Jones wasn’t just good; he was uncanny. Out of nearly twenty-five hands, I won two — two. You could chalk up some of the disparity to luck, but not enough to change the fact that his skill was remarkable. Certainly he was the best I’d ever locked horns with. I would have backed him in a tournament anywhere, anytime.
He was a good winner, too: no gloating or chiding. And a good listener, the sort who seems genuinely (if superficially) interested in other people. I’m not often gregarious, especially with strangers, but I found myself opening up to Jones — and this in spite of him beating the pants off me the whole time.
I told him about Connie, how we met and the second honeymoon trip we’d taken to Lake Louise three years ago and what we were planning for our twentieth wedding anniversary in August. I told him about Lisa, who was eighteen and a freshman studying film at UCLA. I told him about Kevin, sixteen now and captain of his high school baseball team, and the five-hit, two home run game he’d had last week. I told him what it was like working as a design engineer for one of the largest engineering firms in the country, the nagging dissatisfaction and the desire to be my own boss someday, when I had enough money saved so I could afford to take the risk. I told him about remodeling our home, the boat I was thinking of buying, the fact that I’d always wanted to try hang-gliding but never had the courage.
Lord knows what else I might have told him if I hadn’t noticed the polite but faintly bored expression on his face, as if I were imparting facts he already knew. It made me realize just how much I’d been nattering on, and embarrassed me a bit. I’ve never liked people who talk incessantly about themselves, as though they’re the focal point of the entire universe. I can be a good listener myself; and for all I knew, Jones was a lot more interesting than bland Jeff Quint.