Hard 10

It's not my defiance of the odds that's got everyone going, it's what these winnings are going to do for our night at the strip clubs.

By David Goodman

Jan 14, 2000 |

Dear Button,

My first day back to earth, post Scandinavian babe contingent, was a Monday, and I was feeling pretty good about life. I was on the verge of falling in love with my reflection in the glossy surface of the hot tub. It was one of those days.

Then, as if things could get any better, the call came: I had just won the office football pool for the third time.

Needless to say, I high-tailed it to Vegas.

Touch down at McCarran by 4, in the Rio at 4:20, at the craps table before 5. Tom is anxious to hit the strip clubs early and threatens to break off from the herd. According to the Las Vegas code of conduct, he is well within his rights to do so. In truth, he could abandon us at the airport upon arrival and not show his face until boarding the flight home. All bets are off; nothing that happens here over the next two days will be spoken of, ever, except by the person who did it (and even then, he is not allowed to say who he was with).

But we want to wait for our final musketeer to arrive, and Trey is not due until about 7. Tom acquiesces, content to have some drinks and nose around while John, Frank and I whet our craps appetites. Jun heads off to the new Monopoly slot machines.

I pull a conservative $80 from the stash, and within two hours I've parted with about $60, the rest of which I am content to throw to the dealers in fond farewell. The craps table and I will meet again soon. There's no particular hurry.

Jun, Tom and I rendezvous with Trey. He has brought nothing but his wallet. "Guess what room we're in?" he asks. We wait for a sign. "777," he says. Anticipation flushes my cheeks like red wine.

Compounding the beating Frank and John are taking at craps is the fact that the Jacksonville Jaguars won't make the over, which both our friends had teased down to 31 points on a side trip to the sports book prior to rolling the bones. I deliver the bad news: The final score is 20-6. But our boys are professionals, and it's no surprise they decide to stay in the pit. The rest of us are going shopping. I have no shirts with collars; Trey has no clothes at all.

On our way out we pass an empty craps table. Trey's head turns. Being a believer in craps superstition, I remind him that it is unlucky to play at an empty table. "Not with me it isn't," he spits.

Trey and I each lay a pass line bet, which we back with double odds after his come-out roll. He rolls a few numbers, then sevens out. Another person joins the table, and the dice are mine.

I put $10 on the pass line and establish 9 as the point. This I back with $20. When I roll, I only bet the pass line so as not to queer the mojo that surrounds the dice. Spend too much time fiddling with various bets and your luck will run out quick.

Trey spreads about $60 across three other numbers plus the point. Then he drops the whopper: $100 on the hard 10. That's two fives (versus six-four or four-six). The payout is 8-to-1. All hands clear the layout; I twist the dice one way, back the other and throw. Six. This wins Trey $7. Another guy joins. I'm ready. I roll.

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