Chat

Michael stayed through the afternoon, reminiscing about the departed father, Peter Cadwallader, about old times and “powerful” games. Denise dried her eyes, warmed to the theme, became animated. Soon they were discussing the minutiae of blackjack: the spread in Avignon, the riffle in Perth.

“Well, ace depletion is obviously a fact, but it only means subtracting from the running count –”

“But this means no true count!”

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh! I don’t know where you play, to have counts like this!”

Eddie fetched beer. He cleared the chessboard and took it back to reclaim the deposit. He went for a walk unannounced, but no one asked where he’d been. Finally, he settled down to just, undergo suspense.

1     She would take him with her. They would roam the world, gambling.

2     Denise in Monte Carlo, Vegas, in hotel beds.

3     The roulette wheel spins, gorillas eye Eddie’s stack of chips in impotent rage.

4     “You’re a natural,” Denise whispers, awed by his quick grasp.

5     He would scream, he would beg. She loved him, she had said so. He would hold her to that! She shouldn’t have fucking lied!

6     When is this Frankenstein monster going to get the message? Hello! I want to talk to my girlfriend, alone!

At last he was emptied. He stared, undone, at the darkening surf.

At last Deesey too stared impartially at the darkening surf. Michael finished what he had to say about baccarat, fell still, yawned.

The sunset was purple and dull: The Fighting Kangaroo had closed its shutters. Above, the stars had come out boldly, avid in the absence of rival lights.

“I guess –” Denise said finally, and stood.

Michael sprang up after. “It is very good to see you.”

She took his hand – then kept it for a moment, snagged. “Where are you headed?”

“Macau. Macau tomorrow!”

“No, but they changed the rules.”

“Ah – the rules are back. Ronnie’s playing there. The rules are back!”

“Well.” She let his hand go. They said brief goodbyes. Michael shook Eddie’s hand and walked off, poring over his steps in the sand.

Deesey turned to Eddie then, said, “I suppose.”

And she scowled seeing Eddie’s face.

And he was cold in his shorts, bereft and weak: as if he’d been opened.

All she could say was, “I’m sorry, you must have been bored to tears.” She only had to touch him, but she turned to go. He followed her down the beach.

And they were walking, barefoot in firm sand. The occasional stretch of water ringed their toes, and they talked with estranged, parallel gazes out at the sea, as if what they missed were the few, far, sand-colored lights of Arabia, which rose and gave way with the floating waves.