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Authors: Steve Gannon
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proudly placing an arm around his date—a wi llowy young thing named Sandee who was short on brains and long on looks. Definitely Holden’s type. Sandee cocktailed the late shift at the MGM Grand and had to be at work at eleven, so we got right down to drinks.
Since my problem began, I hadn’t been able to drink. Not much, anyway. One or two cocktails hit me hard, and I would spend the rest of the evening trying not to slur. I nursed a beer until we sat down to dinner.
Sarah outdid herself that night: Caesar salad, seafood pasta with shrimp, scallops, and clams in a spicy red sauce, hot garlic bread, and tiramisù for dessert. I think she was unconsciously trying to get our lives back on track with that meal. I wasn’t hungry. Nonetheless, the evening went well until Holden started expounding his gambling theory . Sarah and I had heard it before ; his performance was obviously for Sandee’s benefit. Mumbling something about helping to clear the table, I excused myself, grabbed some dishes, and followed Sarah into the kitchen. As I began rinsing plates , I found myself listening to Holden’s explanation in the next room , begrudgingly admitting that despite his didactic tone , my friend did have a few things to say about gaming. Holden was a professional gambler.
“Why does the average Joe leave the tables a loser?” Holden began, talking around a mouthful of tiramisù. Then, answering his own question, “Simple. It’s because he plays till he loses. The house has the resource s to hang in while he’s winning, so if the guy keeps playing—and they all do—sooner or later he’s gonna lose. And when that happens and he’s lost the farm and then some, he’s forced to quit. The house just has to wait him out.”
“So how do you do it?” wide-eyed Sandee asked as Sarah and I returned for more dishes.
“Simple. I quit when I’m ahead,” Holden replied. “I only play craps, which is as close to even odds as you can get, and every day, rain or shine, I place a five-hundred-dollar bet on the pass line. If I win, I walk away a winner.”
“And if you lose?”
“Then I double the wager. If I lose again, I double the bet once more, and so on. I have enough to double-up ten times, but I’ve never had to go that far. And as soon as I win, I quit—ahead five hundred bucks every day I play. Tax free, too,” he added slyly.
“Of course, it’s not quite that simple,” he went on after a moment, clearly pleased with Sandee’s reaction. “If I pass the fifth repetition, I exceed the single-bet limit of ten thousand dollars. But I have a way around that as well, and I’ve only had to go to the seventh roll once. It’s foolproof. Know the chances of losing ten times straight?”
Sandee didn’t have a clue.
I did. I had worked it out; it was about one in a thousand . I also knew where Holden got his backing. He’d taken out a $250,000 home-equity credit line years ago, and to my knowledge he had dipped into it deeply more than once. In my book, Holden was heading for a fall. I was coming back from the kitchen carrying a carafe of decaf when I suddenly tired of the subject.
“Enough about gambling,” I said . “Why don’t we talk about something—”
All at once I froze. I couldn’t move. As if in a dream, I heard the coffee hit the floor.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Sarah cried. I heard her run in from the kitchen and felt her hands steadying me. I tried to speak, but couldn’t.
Seconds ticked by. At last, the paralytic fist that had gripped me eased. Sarah helped me to a chair. I slipped into it gratefully, cradling my head in my hands.
“What the hell was that ?” said Holden.
“John’s been having trouble sleeping lately,” Sarah answered, rubbing my neck. “Feeling better, hon?”
“No,” I answered. God, I was tired.
“Hey, we’ve gotta be goin’ anyway,” said Holden, taking that as
Since my problem began, I hadn’t been able to drink. Not much, anyway. One or two cocktails hit me hard, and I would spend the rest of the evening trying not to slur. I nursed a beer until we sat down to dinner.
Sarah outdid herself that night: Caesar salad, seafood pasta with shrimp, scallops, and clams in a spicy red sauce, hot garlic bread, and tiramisù for dessert. I think she was unconsciously trying to get our lives back on track with that meal. I wasn’t hungry. Nonetheless, the evening went well until Holden started expounding his gambling theory . Sarah and I had heard it before ; his performance was obviously for Sandee’s benefit. Mumbling something about helping to clear the table, I excused myself, grabbed some dishes, and followed Sarah into the kitchen. As I began rinsing plates , I found myself listening to Holden’s explanation in the next room , begrudgingly admitting that despite his didactic tone , my friend did have a few things to say about gaming. Holden was a professional gambler.
“Why does the average Joe leave the tables a loser?” Holden began, talking around a mouthful of tiramisù. Then, answering his own question, “Simple. It’s because he plays till he loses. The house has the resource s to hang in while he’s winning, so if the guy keeps playing—and they all do—sooner or later he’s gonna lose. And when that happens and he’s lost the farm and then some, he’s forced to quit. The house just has to wait him out.”
“So how do you do it?” wide-eyed Sandee asked as Sarah and I returned for more dishes.
“Simple. I quit when I’m ahead,” Holden replied. “I only play craps, which is as close to even odds as you can get, and every day, rain or shine, I place a five-hundred-dollar bet on the pass line. If I win, I walk away a winner.”
“And if you lose?”
“Then I double the wager. If I lose again, I double the bet once more, and so on. I have enough to double-up ten times, but I’ve never had to go that far. And as soon as I win, I quit—ahead five hundred bucks every day I play. Tax free, too,” he added slyly.
“Of course, it’s not quite that simple,” he went on after a moment, clearly pleased with Sandee’s reaction. “If I pass the fifth repetition, I exceed the single-bet limit of ten thousand dollars. But I have a way around that as well, and I’ve only had to go to the seventh roll once. It’s foolproof. Know the chances of losing ten times straight?”
Sandee didn’t have a clue.
I did. I had worked it out; it was about one in a thousand . I also knew where Holden got his backing. He’d taken out a $250,000 home-equity credit line years ago, and to my knowledge he had dipped into it deeply more than once. In my book, Holden was heading for a fall. I was coming back from the kitchen carrying a carafe of decaf when I suddenly tired of the subject.
“Enough about gambling,” I said . “Why don’t we talk about something—”
All at once I froze. I couldn’t move. As if in a dream, I heard the coffee hit the floor.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Sarah cried. I heard her run in from the kitchen and felt her hands steadying me. I tried to speak, but couldn’t.
Seconds ticked by. At last, the paralytic fist that had gripped me eased. Sarah helped me to a chair. I slipped into it gratefully, cradling my head in my hands.
“What the hell was that ?” said Holden.
“John’s been having trouble sleeping lately,” Sarah answered, rubbing my neck. “Feeling better, hon?”
“No,” I answered. God, I was tired.
“Hey, we’ve gotta be goin’ anyway,” said Holden, taking that as
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