In his time he’d frequented a number of high-class casinos; this one had the same slightly passé grandeur as others he’d been in; dark-wood paneling, damson carpeting, portraits of forgotten luminaries on the walls. Hand in trouser pocket, jacket unbuttoned to reveal the gloss of the lining, he crossed the mosaic foyer to the desk. Security would be tight: the moneyed expected safety. He wasn’t a member, nor could expect to become one on the spot: not without sponsors and references. The only way he’d get a good night’s gaming was by bluffing his way through.
The English rose at the desk smiled promisingly. “Good evening, sir.”
“How are you tonight?”
Her smile didn’t falter for a moment, even though she couldn’t possibly know who he was.
“Well. And you?”
“Lovely night. Is Bill here yet?”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“Mr. Toy. Has he arrived yet?”
“Mr. Toy.” She consulted the guest book, running a lacquered finger down the list of tonight’s gamblers. “I don’t think he’s-”
“He won’t have signed in,” Marty said. “He’s a member, for God’s sake.” The slight irritation in his voice took the girl off-balance.
“Oh . . . I see. I don’t think I know him.”
“Well, no matter. I’ll just go straight up. Tell him I’m at the tables, will you?”
“Wait, sir. I haven’t-”
She reached out, as if to tug at his sleeve, but thought better of it. He flashed her a disarming smile as he started up the stairs.
“Who shall I say?”
“Mr. Strauss,” he said, affecting a tiny barb of exasperation.
“Yes. Of course.” Artificial recognition flooded her face. “I’m sorry,
Mr. Strauss. It’s just that-”
“No problem,” he replied, benignly, as he left her below, staring up at him.
It took him only a few minutes to acquaint himself with the layout of the rooms. Roulette, poker, blackjack; all and more were available. The atmosphere was serious: frivolity was not welcome where money could be won or lost on such a scale. If the men and few women who haunted these hushed enclaves were here to enjoy themselves they showed no sign of it. This was work; hard, serious work. There were some quiet exchanges on the stairs and in the corridors-and of course calls from the tables, otherwise the interior was almost reverentially subdued.
He sauntered from room to room, standing on the fringe of one game then another, familiarizing himself with the etiquette of the place. Nobody gave him more than a glance; he fitted into this obsessive’s paradise too well.
Anticipation of the moment when he eventually sat down to join a game exhilarated him; he indulged it a while longer. He had all night to enjoy, after all, and he knew only too well that the money in his pocket would disappear in minutes if he wasn’t careful. He went into the bar, ordered a whisky and water, and scanned his fellow drinkers. They were all here for the same reason: to pit their wits against chance. Most drank alone, psyching themselves up for the games ahead. Later, when fortunes had been won, there might be dancing on the tables, an impromptu striptease from a drunken mistress. But it was early yet.
The waiter appeared. A young man, twenty at most, with a mustache that looked drawn on; he’d already achieved that mixture of obsequiousness and superiority that marked his profession.
“I’m sorry, sir-” he said.
Marty’s stomach lurched. Was somebody going to call his bluff?
“Yes?”
“Scotch or bourbon, sir?”
“Oh. Er . . . Scotch.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Bring it to the table.”
“Where will you be, sir?”
“Roulette.”
The waiter withdrew. Marty went to the cashier and bought eight hundred pounds of chips, then went into the roulette room.
He’d never been much of a card-player. It required techniques that he’d always been too bored to learn; and much as he admired the skill of great players, that very skill blurred the essential confrontation. A good cardplayer used luck, a great one rode it. But roulette, though it too had its systems and its techniques, was a purer game. Nothing had the glamor of the spinning wheel: its numbers blurring, the ball rattling as it lodged and jumped again.