Bond smiled. “How many zeros have they got on the Roulette?”
“Two, I guess.”
“There’s your answer. At least we play against the right percentage in Europe. You can have your neon lighting. The other zero keeps it alight.”
“Maybe.-But the craps only pay just-over one per cent to the House. And that’s our national game.”
“I know,” said Bond. ” ‘Baby needs a new pair of shoes’. All that sort of kid’s talk. I’d like to hear the banker for the Greek Syndicate whining ‘Baby needs a new pair of shoes’ when he’s already got one nine against him at the high table and there are ten million francs on each tableau.”
Letter laughed. “Hell,” he said. “You’ve got it easy with this crooked play-off at the blackjack table. You’ll be able to swank around back in London and tell the story of how you took ’em at the Tiara.” Leiter took a pull at his whisky and sat back in his chair. “But I better give you some of the background to the games just in case you get it into your mind to stake your pennies against their pot of gold.”
“Go ahead.”
“And I mean pot of gold,” continued Leiter. “You see, James, the whole state of Nevada, which, so far as the public cares, consists of Reno and Las Vegas, is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The answer to the public dream of ‘something for nothing’ is to be picked up for the price of your plane fare, on the Strip at Las Vegas or on the Main Stem at Reno. And it really is there. Not so long ago, when the stars and the dice were right, a young GI made twenty-eight straight passes at a crap table in the Desert Inn. Twenty-eight! If he’d started with a dollar and been allowed to let it ride over the house limits which, knowing Mr Wilbur Clark at the Inn, I guess he might not have been, he would have made two hundred and fifty million dollars! Of course he didn’t let it ride. Side-betters made a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The GI made seven hundred and fifty dollars and took to his heels as if the devil was after him. They never even got his name. Today that pair of red dice is on a satin pillow in a glass case in the Desert Inn Casino.”
“Must have been good publicity.”
“Betcha life!” said Leiter. “All the ad. men in the world couldn’t have dreamed it up. It made the wishing-well dream come true-and you wait till you see them wishing in those casinos. In just one of them, they use up eighty pairs of dice every twenty-four hours, a hundred and twenty packs of plastic cards, fifty slot machines go to the garage every day at dawn. And wait till you see the little old ladies in gloves working those slots. They have shopping baskets to carry their nickels and dimes and quarters. They work those slots ten, twenty hours a day without going to the rest-room. You don’t believe me? You know why they wear those gloves? To stop their hands bleeding.”
Bond grunted noncommittally.
“All right. All right,” agreed Leiter. “Sure these people collapse. Hysteria, heart attacks, apoplexy. The cherries and plums and bells climb through their eyes into their brains. But all the casinos have house physicians on twenty-four-hour call and the little old women just get carried out screaming ‘Jackpot! Jackpot! Jackpot!’ as if it was the name of a dead lover. And take a look at the Bingo parlours, and the Wheels of Fortune, and the banks of slots downtown in the Golden Nugget and the Horseshoe. But don’t you go and get the fever and forget your job and your girl and even your kidneys. I happen to know the basic odds at all the games and I know how you like to gamble, so do me a favour and get them into your thick head. Now you take them down.”
Bond was interested. He took out a pencil and tore a strip off the menu card.
Leiter looked at the ceiling. “1-4 per cent in favour of the House of Craps, 5 per cent at Blackjack”-he looked down at