THE MAN was playing blackjack for a hundred thousand dollars a hand. A woman sat next to him, but no one else. The table was roped off for his private use. A crowd had gathered to watch. Security officers tried to keep the people moving.
“He’s losing,” a day-tripper said. “He’s lost ten hands in a row.” A million dollars.
Me? I’d been casing the place for a three-dollar table.
Then I’d gotten myself drawn to the crowd and then to the man. He was spectacular. In the dimness of the casino he was a vision in black. Black hair, black mustache, black suit. Tall and straight and handsome and built for a throne.
From the looks of him, he was no doubt an Arab, a prince, a member of the royal household from the depths of a desert kingdom, and worth, I figured, hundreds of millions and maybe some billions.
Royalty for sure. The man was aloof, absolute and magnificent.
“Move it, move it,” the security people said.
But I was too fascinated to move, captivated as I was by this event that made time stop. This was a tribute to excess, a triumph of opulence. So there were such people, after all. Such people actually did play for that kind of money.
That million he had dropped, he began winning it back and then some. Even drew blackjack twice in a row.
“Good shoe,” said the dealer in admiration. Only in gambling did luck count as skill.
The man nodded, but it was a reluctant gesture. He spoke no English, I assumed. That, or he was too exalted to accept, or even understand, praise. Nothing could touch a man like that; what could he need? He had enough money, obviously, to own whatever tempted him--things, for sure, and people, maybe. He had nothing in common with the rest of us except mortality, and even that was a question.
He continued to win. But win or lose, he was impervious. He had the face of a prince--masculine but also fine, sharply drawn, and washed, it seemed, by the sands of Arabia. The hands were beautiful, shaped to command by the flick of a wrist.
For me, a corporate speechwriter earning thirty-one thousand dollars a year before taxes, this performance was astonishing. All these chips being traded so nimbly and casually between man and house--any single one could have let me quit my job and join the dig for the City of David, or buy someone else a complete college education, or even a lung, a kidney, a heart...a life!
Despite this, I felt no envy, no resentment. I was too stupefied to feel anything but respect. After all, I had not been there when God gave out the money. This man had been!
But what sort of man was this, I wondered, who could so trivialize the profound, who could squander in an instant what others could not accumulate in a lifetime? Rich was one thing, but this--this was godly.
One hundred thousand dollars a hand was beyond gambling. It was more like creation, mountains and seas heaving and tossing and contesting for the exclusive right to declare sovereignty.
Who was this man?
“He’s winning,” a day-tripper said.
Most of the crowd watched in humbled silence, awed by this drama, mesmerized by this mighty Arab.
As for me, I was no stranger to this place and certainly no stranger to games of chance. I had seen high rollers before and big action, but nothing so lofty as this, and it deserved my attention. Would I not have paused for Beethoven in his day?
What Beethoven was to music, obviously this man was to money; and as music, literature and art spoke for the past, money spoke for the present. We wagered billions on the stock market, lotteries and casinos, and in so doing we defined our culture. Our culture was money. Millionaires and billionaires, these were our heroes.
Critical? Not me. I was here, wasn’t I?
I came here often to hit the jackpot, and as yet this had not happened; but there was always this time, and next time, and meantime there was this Arab to behold.
Though I was far back, behind a wall of people, I felt something strange--a kinship with this man. Maybe it was simply a natural longing to be in there with him, in the eye of life.
Or maybe it was true that there was contact, for each time I took a step back--acting on my decision to do some gambling on my own--I noticed his head drift my way, as if to summon me hither.
You’re dreaming, I said to myself. What is he to you and what are you to him? You’re not even on the same planet. Oh maybe he does notice you, but as he notices the rest, as grasshoppers.
But there it was again, a movement that could not quite be called a nod--but close. Close to what? I thought. What do you want from him? You want him to anoint you? You come from your own line of kings. You are already anointed. This is not your man.
Finally, I edged clear of the crowd and began my rounds, moving and losing, from slots to roulette to craps, distracted all along by thoughts of this man. There was this about him: possibility. The chance for something big.
Just being near this Arab removed the curse of tedium. The trouble with life, as I had it figured, was that nothing happened. Every day was just another day.
But in the vicinity of this Arab, something was bound to happen. What exactly, I did not know, except that greatness produced sparks, and these could light up another man. Burn him, too, of course.
So I resisted the urge to go back, although I was tempted, and even found that I had made a circle and was now only six blackjack tables away from him.
It was a three-dollar table, so I moved in and let the lady dealer exchange forty dollars for chips. I played an uninspired game. I was doing too much thinking--like this: What does a man reach for after his first billion? Does he dream, and what can he be dreaming when he already has everything?
I remembered combat heroes from my newspaper days--a Medal of Honor recipient among them--and their sorrow when peace set in. They were not lovers of war, but they knew they’d never get to surpass or even repeat themselves. I wondered if the same applied to heroes of wealth. Such an odd despair.
“You see what’s going on?” the woman next to me said to the dealer.
“He’s a sheik,” said the dealer.
“I thought it was Omar Sharif.”
“He sure is handsome,” said the dealer.
“Forget handsome. He’s glorious. God!”
“Never mind glorious,” said the dealer. “We’re talking rich.”
There was no escaping this man. The place was buzzing. I played a few more rounds, broke about even and then let my restless feet carry me back to this sheik.
As I made my way over I remembered this from the Midrash: A man’s feet lead him to his destiny.
I was again a face in the crowd.
“Ever see gold chips?” a man said to his friend.
“Gold chips?”
“Ten-thousand-dollar chips.”
“Didn’t know they made them that high.”
“You know it now.”
I kept edging closer, and before I knew it I was up front, my knees touching the rope. These gold chips, he had them piled high, and they came and went so fast I had no idea what was going on. Was he up, down? You should not care, I told myself. He, I reminded myself, was not me.
Also, I reminded myself, he’s an Arab. So he’s your friend?
Back in 1967, when I was with the Fifty-fifth Paratroop Brigade, they were shooting at me from Jerusalem rooftops; and even today there wasn’t much kissing and making up.
The difference here was this: This was royalty. Royalty was another business; and I had to admit I felt sensations. Something magical was transpiring here and I was getting hooked. I mean I started to care. I wanted him to win. I also wanted to be in there with him, only for a moment, to know what it’s like in that upper world.
This was glory.
I must have been planted to the same spot for an hour. Then I thought I saw him eyeing me and I turned my face, embarrassed for me and for him. For me, especially. I felt small, here shoulder to shoulder with the mixed multitudes, the voyeurs, the scavengers.
I felt perverse taking part in this great American pastime--watching.
Enough of this, I thought. I turned to muscle through the crowd and then it happened, meaning he lifted his left arm and waved. Must be the queen of England behind me, I figured, for surely he cannot be waving at me.
“You!” he said.
“Me?”
“You.”
He nodded and smiled, and kept nodding and smiling and waving me in, as you do to a reluctant pet. “Yes,” he said. “You. Please. Do me the honor of being my guest. Join me.”
Easy game, I thought as I stepped over the rope. Sometimes life is such an easy game.
At the same time I had an inkling about something. I don’t know. Sometimes things just look too good.
Now what? So I was in this red-carpeted enclosure, where all was plush and glitter, alongside this man and this woman, and it was his move, only there was nothing coming from him. He ignored me. Was there a mistake?
For the moment I felt quite rotten and abused and even stunned inside these gates. I became conscious of my jeans, sandals, red and white polo shirt--hell, I was a regular tourist!
The dealer was in a tux and so were the pit bosses, about five of them, and it was all so smooth and elegant among these people, nothing at all like real life. There wasn’t much talking at all here, everything was said by winks and nods, none of it my language. Food and drinks were served by raising a pinky finger. Even the dishes made no sounds. The hostesses moved in and out without notice.
Finally, the Arab did say something and it provoked whispering in the pit, which amounted to a riot for this respectful crew. What had he said? All I heard was: One.
“Our pleasure, sir,” said the dealer. “It will take a moment, sir.”
With that, the dealer gathered up all the chips, counted them out and waited. We all waited.
For what I did not know.
Now he introduced himself. “Ibrahim Hassan is my name.” I said my name was Joshua Kane.
He said, “Take the anchor seat, Joshua Kane.”
So I did. I sat down and without staring at him I gave him the once-over. He was massive all right, meaning, by my estimation, possessed of a rare intensity. This man knew who he was. He was beyond confidence. He was power. He was all presence.
His woman was another story. She annoyed me. There was something askew about her. She was wrapped loosely in a dress of many colors and was darkly splendid; but unlike her man, she was not here.
I had seen this type in the Middle East. They were “the women.” There was nothing more to be said. Ibrahim Hassan, no, I had never seen his type. They were there, I knew, out in the desert, riding the sands by camel and by jet.
“I should offer an explanation,” he said.
“Not necessary,” I said.
“You see…you have brought me luck.”
I said, “You believe in luck?”
He laughed. “Luck is everything. Don’t you know?”
Why yes, I thought, luck is everything. I’d known it all my life but never thought it so plainly.
“Stay awhile,” he said. “I’ll make it worth your time. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“Pepsi is fine.”
My answer pleased him. He was a Moslem and drinking no alcohol. Though in private, who knew?”
For some reason I was scared. I had the willies. What was I supposed to be doing?
I forced myself to remember that once upon a time I had not been so scared of them.
Whatever we were waiting for, we still waited.
“It takes time, this,” he said.
What is this? I thought.
“Be patient. Please.”
This finally arrived--a stack of paper slips, each the shape and size of an ordinary receipt. The bundle was handed to Ibrahim Hassan and he placed a single slip on his square and then on mine, right in front of me, and written on the paper were the words one million dollars.
I kept cool, showing no trace of the astonishment that had me walloped.
The dealer rapidly dealt out the cards, and Ibrahim responded with the traditional blackjack signs, finger down meaning hit, palm down meaning stay. I was not impressed by his selections, especially when he split tens. This was not even basic blackjack.
But I had no say over any of this, including the cards that came to me at the anchor. I was sitting here, bringing him luck. Luck? He was getting clobbered.
Millions kept going the wrong direction. He was too damned bold.
I became protective over my square. I resented it terribly when he took the wrong action; as, for example, when the dealer’s up card was six and he hit on “my” thirteen--and busted. I shook my head.
He laughed. “Play?” he said.
I shrugged.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Play the anchor.”
I had half expected this but it was still an intoxicating moment.
For starters, I knew I had to do something dramatic to turn things around. The first cards to arrive my way were ace and seven, meaning a soft eighteen, since an ace could count for one or eleven. The dealer’s up card was eight; so assuming he had a ten down, we’d be even, a push. A wise thing to go for.
But contrary to what I’d been bitching about, I decided to be daring and take a hit. I drew three.
That made it twenty-one.
“Ah,” said Ibrahim triumphantly.
That did it, all right. The right cards kept coming across the table and the dealer ran into a streak of bust, bust, bust. He had to hit himself--according to the rules--up to seventeen, and he kept going over twenty-one. It was beautiful. My luck was so terrific that when I drew on fourteen I’d get a seven; sixteen I’d get a five. The ultimate sign of good luck was that I kept beating him by single points; my nineteen to his eighteen, my twenty to his nineteen.
I was motoring. I made the big money when I split eights. I drew a three on the first, a two on the second and doubled down on both, so that I had $4 million riding. I drew two picture cards to the dealer’s eighteen and made myself a profit of $4 million.
Or rather, made it for Ibrahim.
Sure I lost a few hands now and then but it never got bad.
At anchor--the pivotal and most crucial spot since it was last on the player’s side and thus determined the dealer’s next draw to himself--I played a cunning game. I stayed on a nine (a sin) to his up three, anticipating a ten for him to bust--and he did.
I kept saving Ibrahim by these tactics, many against the book. The book wasn’t there, and I was and I was hot. This was it, that sublime occasion when you can do no wrong. You ride on your self-confidence, you soar on your instincts.
I drew a murmur from the pit and a rebuke from the dealer when I called for a hit on eighteen--to his nine up card. This was absolutely never done, except perhaps by professional card-counters.
“Hit?” said the dealer.
I nodded.
Ibrahim smiled. I was his man.
The dealer announced my decision to the pit. “Player takes a card on eighteen,” he said, so there’d be no doubt that it was my choice and not the house’s error. He dealt me an ace and this resulted in no more than a push, but it did save the hand.
Ibrahim was amused. That smile again, so paternal. He was about my age, maybe even younger. Such perfect teeth. They seemed to go round and glistened as though they’d been polished and waxed. His nails obviously were. His black hair climbed up like a staircase. His eyes, he could switch them on and off and I noticed the difference. With me it was one way; with the dealer and the people in the pit he was abrupt, almost rude.
“You must lead a good life,” he said.
I was surprised. He should know better than to interrupt the flow.
He had grown bored, it seemed.
It is possible, I thought, to grow bored with anything, even good things.
They say you can’t be too rich or too thin. Well I don’t know about too thin, but rich? Maybe you can be too rich. Maybe you can even be too handsome and maybe life can be too good, so good it gets boring.
Sure enough, the tide turned.
I knew it was time to quit when I got blackjack and the dealer matched me with blackjack of his own. This was the signal that things were about to start going the other way.
Ibrahim, mediocre blackjack artist though he was, knew this, too.
He rose from his chair as a king rises from his throne, and this act told everybody it was over.
“Thank you,” he said, and all the men in the pit nodded. A few bowed. The big boss said:
“Our pleasure, Mr. Hassan.”
I wondered, can’t we stay right here for a little while longer? We do not have to play. Just stay here, I thought, under this spell, this cloud of glory.
But it was over.
As he had ignored me there at the outset of this, so he ignored me now at the end.
What? I get nothing?
I was like the fox who lusted for the fruits of the garden. He starves himself to fit under the fence, squeezes in, has himself a feast, and then must starve himself again to get back out.
Go in empty, fill up, go out empty.
That, I’d been taught, was a parable about life--and it sure as hell was.
But I had no gripes. The money had never belonged to me--just like the fruits in the garden. I’d had my fun, even lived out a fantasy, and that was enough. Though maybe...maybe I had earned the right to some recompense.
Ibrahim Hassan did not think so. He had already forgotten me. But then he broke from the people who had him flanked and said, “Thank you Joshua Kane.” He shook my hand. He said, “We will do business.”
Yeah sure, I thought.