seen.
“I, ah, let me see.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and thrust it into her hand.
Staring at the lone hundred, her mouth dropped open. Lifting her head, she scowled. Was this some kind of a joke?
When he saw the shock on her face he mumbled, “Uh, just a minute. I thought that was my roll.” Bringing out his wallet, he thrust a wad of seven hundred dollar bills into her hand.
Glancing at him, she expected more bills, but he appeared to be satisfied with the miserly amount of eight hundred dollars.
What was going on here?
Despite his computer image, he must be an imposter. No self-respecting high roller started with just eight hundred dollars. It was late, and she was tired, or she would have returned to her office and pulled up his file. Tomorrow, first thing, she would check him out thoroughly.
Her management didn’t like to be made fools of by imposters, masquerading as high rollers. Beyond the outlay of money for his suite and other comps, there was the Xanadu’s reputation to consider. If word got out that they’d been bilked, they would be deluged by petty gamblers looking for a free ride.
But she didn’t want any more misunderstandings, either. Until she had her facts straight, she would play along, not confronting him until she was certain.
“I think the dealer can change this into chips,” she said.
His face fell and he ran his hand through his hair. She was beginning to learn his “tells.”
The man was nervous. As he should be, if he was trying to defraud the casino.
Leaning over the table, she signaled to get the dealer’s attention and handed over the money to be changed. “Hundred dollar chips?” she asked Damian.
He gulped again. “How about fifties?”
“Whatever you want.”
The dealer counted out the chips, recounted them into four equal piles of four chips each, and then handed them to her. She placed the stack of sixteen chips in Damian’s hand—a hand wet with perspiration.
Damian riffled through the chips.
She watched him sifting the chips through his hands as if he was an expert. Who did he think he was fooling? He wasn’t a high roller. The way he acted, he wasn’t even a wanna be high roller. She swallowed hard and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting to see what he would do.
Another shooter bit the dust. The crowd groaned.
The dealers gathered in the losing bets and paid the few winners. The stickman retrieved the dice and gave them to the boxman for inspection. The boxman looked over the dice and hefted them in one fist, testing to be certain no one had substituted loaded dice during the play.
Nodding his satisfaction, he returned them to the stickman. The stickman pushed the dice across the green felt to the next shooter. The players draped themselves over the edge of the table, placing their bets.
Damian glanced at Adriana and shrugged. “Here goes.” Leaning over the table, he placed one chip on the come line.
Adriana gasped. The come line was for betting after the shooter had established his point.
The shooter hadn’t even rolled yet. What was Damian doing? Before the dealer could remove his improper bet, Adriana leaned down and nudged his chip to the pass line.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Damian’s face. Either he was an imposter or craps wasn’t his game. Even so, if he were a high roller he should know the basics.
Damian’s lips pulled tight. He shifted his weight, stuck his hands in his pockets, and shuffled his feet. A silent apology filled his eyes.
Yeah, mister, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve been busted.
But instead of outrage, she felt ... well, honestly? She felt sorry for the guy.
And not only did he not know what he was doing, he was singularly unlucky. The shooter rolled a three, a low probability number and an immediate loss for anyone betting the pass line.
Even though she’d gone with the best odds, he’d lost. Maybe she was the unlucky one.
She
“I, ah, let me see.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and thrust it into her hand.
Staring at the lone hundred, her mouth dropped open. Lifting her head, she scowled. Was this some kind of a joke?
When he saw the shock on her face he mumbled, “Uh, just a minute. I thought that was my roll.” Bringing out his wallet, he thrust a wad of seven hundred dollar bills into her hand.
Glancing at him, she expected more bills, but he appeared to be satisfied with the miserly amount of eight hundred dollars.
What was going on here?
Despite his computer image, he must be an imposter. No self-respecting high roller started with just eight hundred dollars. It was late, and she was tired, or she would have returned to her office and pulled up his file. Tomorrow, first thing, she would check him out thoroughly.
Her management didn’t like to be made fools of by imposters, masquerading as high rollers. Beyond the outlay of money for his suite and other comps, there was the Xanadu’s reputation to consider. If word got out that they’d been bilked, they would be deluged by petty gamblers looking for a free ride.
But she didn’t want any more misunderstandings, either. Until she had her facts straight, she would play along, not confronting him until she was certain.
“I think the dealer can change this into chips,” she said.
His face fell and he ran his hand through his hair. She was beginning to learn his “tells.”
The man was nervous. As he should be, if he was trying to defraud the casino.
Leaning over the table, she signaled to get the dealer’s attention and handed over the money to be changed. “Hundred dollar chips?” she asked Damian.
He gulped again. “How about fifties?”
“Whatever you want.”
The dealer counted out the chips, recounted them into four equal piles of four chips each, and then handed them to her. She placed the stack of sixteen chips in Damian’s hand—a hand wet with perspiration.
Damian riffled through the chips.
She watched him sifting the chips through his hands as if he was an expert. Who did he think he was fooling? He wasn’t a high roller. The way he acted, he wasn’t even a wanna be high roller. She swallowed hard and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting to see what he would do.
Another shooter bit the dust. The crowd groaned.
The dealers gathered in the losing bets and paid the few winners. The stickman retrieved the dice and gave them to the boxman for inspection. The boxman looked over the dice and hefted them in one fist, testing to be certain no one had substituted loaded dice during the play.
Nodding his satisfaction, he returned them to the stickman. The stickman pushed the dice across the green felt to the next shooter. The players draped themselves over the edge of the table, placing their bets.
Damian glanced at Adriana and shrugged. “Here goes.” Leaning over the table, he placed one chip on the come line.
Adriana gasped. The come line was for betting after the shooter had established his point.
The shooter hadn’t even rolled yet. What was Damian doing? Before the dealer could remove his improper bet, Adriana leaned down and nudged his chip to the pass line.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Damian’s face. Either he was an imposter or craps wasn’t his game. Even so, if he were a high roller he should know the basics.
Damian’s lips pulled tight. He shifted his weight, stuck his hands in his pockets, and shuffled his feet. A silent apology filled his eyes.
Yeah, mister, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve been busted.
But instead of outrage, she felt ... well, honestly? She felt sorry for the guy.
And not only did he not know what he was doing, he was singularly unlucky. The shooter rolled a three, a low probability number and an immediate loss for anyone betting the pass line.
Even though she’d gone with the best odds, he’d lost. Maybe she was the unlucky one.
She
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