“Don’t touch those dice!” the boxman repeated.
Wilson glanced at his wife. Was there a ray of hope?
The triumphant grin faded from Tony Francisco’s face.
From his position at the Wilsons’ end of the table, Steve Forrester peered closely at the dice. Something was definitely wrong.
The boxman held a hurried consultation with Kelly, Bloom, and Sinclair.
“Gentlemen,” the boxman announced, “one of the dice is cocked. No roll.”
Sheila Wilson whispered feverishly to her husband: “What does he mean? Didn’t I shoot a seven?”
Jack was jubilant. “No. Look at the dice. One of them is leaning against Tony’s chip rack. Your roll doesn’t count. We’re still alive!”
One of the dice, the one that showed a four, was lying perfectly flat on the green felt. But the other one—the one the stickman had read from his vantage point as a three—had rolled to a stop against one of Francisco’s chip racks and was positioned at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. Viewed directly from above, both the three-spot and the five-spot facets were equally visible.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the stickman. “You’ll have to shoot again.”
“Oh, please,” Sheila replied excitedly, “don’t be sorry. You’ve given us another chance!”
The entertainer muttered an obscenity and squeezed his girlfriend’s arm painfully. For one glorious moment, he thought he’d won. To him, losing a million and a half wouldn’t have been the end of the world; besides, he had no intention of paying if that happened. But still, he’d much rather win, if only to stick it to that cheap bastard Emmett Druperman.
“Same dice, sir?” asked the stickman.
“Why not?” replied Jack Wilson, a.k.a. Fred Langdon. “Dice have no memory. I hope.”
The stickman passed the dice to the Wilsons. “Coming out!” he called.
Once again, a hush fell over the crowd. Once again, Sheila picked up the dice. But this time there was no hesitation. The dice flew through the air, bounced, and landed perfectly flat on the layout.
Snake eyes!
“Two craps,” the stickman called with certainty. “Line away. Pay the don’ts.”
The spectators cheered.
The Wilsons hugged each other in relief.
For them, it was over.
For the members of Tony Francisco’s entourage, the next few days were probably going to be hell.
Buster Malloy couldn’t wait for his shift to end.
There had been this pleasant tingle in his groin ever since he’d finished his work in the bathroom of the penthouse suite. But he knew the deeper satisfaction, the real thrill, would come only when he witnessed the results of his evening’s handiwork.
In the end, it wasn’t the money. For Malloy, the game was the thing. Especially when the game involved killing.