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