Wild Cards by Philip Reed

Author:Philip Reed
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2014-03-18T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

My Lucky Day

“I remember that casino fondly: the courtesy and the hospitality, the spacious, attractive modern dining room with its fine cuisine, and the casino with its juicy little cluster of blackjack tables, the favorable rules, and last, but not least, the free money.”

—Edward O. Thorp, Beat the Dealer

The next day we are walking off the golf course when my phone rings. I see by the number that it is the dealership where I left my car to have the overheating problem fixed. I’ve done lots of stories for my company’s website about service department upsells and rip-offs, so I brace myself before answering. The worst part is I don’t have any negotiating leverage; I need the car fixed and I need it fixed today.

“Mr. Reed?” the service advisor asks.

“Yes,” I answer, steeling myself for an argument.

“Your car’s all fixed. You can come and pick it up any time.”

“Fixed? You mean it’s all fixed.” I repeat inanely. Usually, they call with an estimate first, you throw out half the items, settle on the work to be done, and negotiate the price. Instead, they’re just saying it’s fixed. I don’t know how to deal with that.

“It turned out that it was a loose hose clamp at the back of the engine so we just tightened it up.” This is too good to be true. “Oh, but we did find one thing.”

Uh-oh, here it comes …

“The radiator cap wasn’t holding pressure so we replaced it. But that’s only going to set you back $19 so we went ahead and took care of it.”

I thank him profusely and disconnect, feeling lighter than air. I had braced myself for a $200-plus bill and instead it was a cheerful $19.

Two hours later, I’m still feeling relieved about my car. And, after a shower and some lunch, Bill, Pat, and I walk into the MGM Casino in the downtown section of Bill’s city. I can tell by Bill’s attitude that this is supposed to be my get-back-up-on-that-horse-and-ride session. It feels like my father is ordering me to go outside to face the neighborhood bully. But, like a good father, Bill is not abandoning me completely. Since my card counting is still less than perfect, I accept Bill’s offer to give me the old nudge under the table to raise my bets when the count is high.

It’s the middle of a Saturday afternoon, but the tables in the high-limit area are mostly empty.

“This one looks good,” Bill says, steering us to a six-deck, $25 minimum table. We’re greeted by a middle-aged blond dealer named Helen, who looks like the salt of the earth and sounds like she never spent a day outside the Midwest. I’d expect to find her to be behind the counter at a neighborhood grocery store instead of wearing a checkered vest and dealing blackjack. Right away, Pat and Helen get into a “where are you from?” and “have you ever been to?” conversation about notable places around the state. Meanwhile, I lay five big ones on the green felt and get my chips.

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