Satori - Don Winslow [112]
Nicholai merely glanced back at him, but wondered when, and if, he would make good on his promise of payment.
Nicholai moved his chips onto the square marked 10. “Straight up,” he said to the croupier.
“That’s a thousand dollars, man,” Haverford said.
“Mon pote, the odds are—”
“Thirty-seven to one,” Nicholai said. “I’m aware.”
It seemed obvious.
Several people hastily placed bets on black; a few of the braver ones put money on a split between 9 and 10. The doubters among them laid chips on red.
“Rien ne va plus,” the croupier said, ending the betting as he spun the wheel.
The ball landed on 10.
“How did you know?” Haverford asked.
“Extraordinary,” De Lhandes muttered, “by the pope’s wrinkled scrotum …”
Nicholai shifted the pile of his winnings in a square layout on four numbers, 17, 18, 20, and 21.
“Pick them up, by the puckered anal cavity of—”
“Don’t be foolish, Michel.”
Nicholai looked across the table at Bay, who merely smiled, seemingly unbothered that Guibert was beating the house. Then again, Nicholai thought, he is unbothered.
“Corner,” Nicholai said. If the ball landed on any one of the four numbers, he would win.
Bets were quickly laid down for and against him.
“Rien ne va plus.”
The ball landed on 18.
“Cash out.”
“Pick them up.”
“A feast, I tell you, even in this colonial purgatory … and by the pubic hairs of the Mona Lisa, the women you could have tonight, piles of them …”
Nicholai pushed the chips back onto 10.
“… tits and asses like Cezanne’s hay bales, and —”
Bay looked at Nicholai and nodded, as if to say, Be my guest.
“—such a variety, a five-star Michelin sexual buffet, by the boiling hot spunk of —”
Nicholai looked back at Bay. “Straight up.”
“That’s madness,” De Lhandes said.
Haverford just shook his head. The gamblers around the layout scrambled to place counterwagers.
“Rien ne va plus.”
The wheel spun. The ball clattered, rattled, and bounced. Nicholai wasn’t watching the ball, however — he had his eyes trained on Bay, who met his stare with the same fixed smile. Nicholai heard the wheel slow and stop, and heard the crowd collectively gasp as the croupier announced, “Dix.”
Ten.
Nicholai didn’t move to pick up his chips or change his bet.
“Michel, you won,” he heard De Lhandes say. “Don’t be a fool, my new friend. That’s a lot of money.”
“Encore,” Nicholai said. “Straight up.”
“Mon pote, you are throwing your money away!”
“A fortune!”
Nicholai glanced over at Bay, who shrugged.
The croupier closed the betting.
The ball rolled.
Bounced …
Landed on 12 …
And bounced onto …
Ten.
Bay turned away from the table, put his arm around his woman, and walked toward the bar.
Nicholai picked up his chips, worth a little more than $100,000.
Bay had paid in full for the rocket launchers.
The casino was abuzz with the newcomer’s amazing run.
Nicholai walked over to the bar and bought a round of drinks.
“Well played,” De Lhandes said.
“Indeed,” Haverford added dryly.
“By the blue veins on Jane Russell’s sainted breasts,” De Lhandes enthused, “that was spectacular! For a moment I thought that the admittedly fat-clogged arteries of my overburdened heart — which more resemble pâté de foie gras than actual blood-bearing vessels — were about to burst! Thor’s throbbing member, man, you terrified me! But I am happy, happy — no, overjoyed — for your exemplary good fortune. Santé!”
“Santé,” Nicholai said.
“No one beats this casino,” De Lhandes said.
Unless, Nicholai thought, the casino owner owes you a large sum of illicit money and found a clever and entertaining way to pay you.
The roulette wheel was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.
A commotion and a fresh buzz was happening around the entrance to the casino. The security guards made their way toward the noise outside. Through the main door, Nicholai could see a convoy of large, shiny black sedans pull up. Captain Signavi emerged, then a squad of Binh Xuyen troopers, machine pistols