diving into his meal. “What’s the next part of the plan?”
Batman drained his water. Twitch saw him bite down on something between his teeth.
Then Batman said: “The plan is, you stay here, enjoy that steak and drink it up.”
“But where are you going?” Twitch asked him.
“I’ve got to find the l’arrière-salle in this place,” Batman told him, meaning: the back room. “I just hope they have one.”
* * *
TWITCH WAS FINISHING his third glass of scotch when Batman reappeared.
His smile was even wider now and he looked like he had an aura glowing around him.
“Ready to go?” he asked Twitch.
Twitch was confused. Batman had been away twenty minutes at the most.
“You mean we’re done here?” Twitch asked. “Already?”
As a reply, Batman pulled out the wad of bills again. It had doubled in size.
Twitch couldn’t believe it.
“Damn…” Twitch said. “What the fuck are you doing back there?”
Batman paid the bar bill, including a hefty tip. He guided Twitch toward the exit.
“The night awaits” was all Batman said.
* * *
THEY VISITED THREE more casinos in the next hour. The Monte-Carlo Bay, the good old Sun Casino and the so-called Café Casino.
The pattern was the same at all three: Twitch drank at the bar while Batman disappeared for about twenty minutes. When he returned, he’d be happier than ever—and carrying a bankroll that grew so large, they finally had to purchase a travel bag to carry it in.
Twitch had no idea what was going on. Batman was obviously gambling in some way, but he seemed to be doing nothing but winning huge amounts of money in short periods of time. So when they started off toward the fifth casino, the exclusive Casino at Monte Carlo, Twitch drunkenly begged Batman to let him watch. Batman finally agreed.
They walked in and Batman exchanged most of his cash for a tray of gold chips. Each was worth $100,000. They walked through the most prestigious gaming area they could find, where Batman flagged down a floor manager. Slipping him one of the $100,000 chips, they had a brief conversation, and the floor man bid them to follow him.
He led them through an unmarked door that led into a smaller, windowless, previously unseen gaming area. It was ringed by armed plainclothes guards watching over just ten tables. The room was dark and elegant, and hushed. No one was talking over a whisper.
“Every casino in Monte Carlo has one of these places,” Batman told Twitch quietly. “No limits on betting. Anything goes. You just got to know how to get in.”
Twitch watched as Batman scoped out the various gaming tables. It took him a few moments, but he finally found a blackjack game to his liking. Three other players were on hand.
Batman took his seat and played five hands for 100 Euros each, losing each one. The low figure of his wager caused snarls from the other players. Why was this man here if he was just betting mere hundreds?
Then, when the sixth hand was dealt, Batman suddenly threw in all of the gold chips. Twitch almost passed out. His colleague was betting more than five million dollars—on one hand.
Twitch tried to get Batman’s attention, but his friend’s eyes had glazed over. He seemed to be looking at a spot over the dealer’s shoulder.
The dealer was stunned by the bet, but tried not to show it. He dealt the next card. Batman was showing seventeen, a high number and risky to take another hit.
Yet he did—his card was a four.
And he won.
Just like that.
The other players gasped as the dealer, now pale and unwell-looking, pushed a mountain of gold chips in Batman’s direction. A pit boss appeared and offered to help compute Batman’s winnings, but Batman politely declined.
“I know how much I have,” he said.
And so did Twitch.
By his count, Batman had just won ten million dollars.
The dealer took out a new deck of cards and, his face slightly ashen, asked the players to put up again.
Batman pushed his new mountain of chips forward and smiled madly.
“All in,” he said. “And may the best man win.”
20
Indian Ocean
SNAKE NOLAN COULDN’T believe he was still alive.
He’d been beaten about his face and shoulders. His feet had been hit with bamboo sticks. His torso had bruises from the ribcage on down. His head felt like it had been split open.
But it was his knuckles that told the tale. They were scraped, cut and bloody. He’d fought back. That’s why he’d been pummeled to within an inch of his life.