Nickel Men by Keith Skinner

In his gambling, he had one besetting weakness —

faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain.

— Jack London, The Call of the Wild

It was the whoop of joy that drew me here, a boisterous din that soared above the cartoonish chime of slot machines and briefly dispersed the gloom clouding the late night gaming tables. For one bright moment, every shipwrecked gambler paused to take note, hoping some spark of good fortune would land nearby.

The celebrants are a young, attractive couple. They stand at the center spot of the blackjack table as if they stopped momentarily. He’s tall, wearing a tux, and has impeccable hair. She’s shorter, thin, and in a dressy black number with spangles. Like Hoffman says in Rain Man, she looks like a holiday.

Their skin is pink and radiant. They’ve been to the Bellagio’s spa. They’ve been mudded, steamed, exfoliated and coiffed. Mani-ed and pedi-ed. They could be extras in a Bond movie or actors in a daytime drama. This close to L.A., I’m guessing the latter. He’s Ken, the hunky young doctor with ethical flaws. She’s Susan, the lab tech juggling affairs with Ken and the head surgeon. Neither man suspects. No—she’s not a Susan. She’s something that ends in “y” but she spells it with “i” instead with a little heart over it. Suzi, Debbi…Carli. Ken and Carli.

Carli dangles on Ken’s shoulder like a walk-on Bond girl, beaming as he rakes in his big haul. Ken has mounds of chips in front of him, mostly black. Hundred dollar chips. I quickly try to calculate the bankroll’s value. Five thousand? Ten?

Three older men are seated at the table, mid-century lounge lizards in Paul Fredrick silk shirts, sipping Chivas Regal. They’re sensible men out for a few laughs, men that win or lose slowly all night. They’re old hands at blackjack. They know the odds and live by them, never doubting conventional wisdom. They’re five dollar bettors at a five dollar table. Nickel men.

I learned to gamble from nickel men. I emulated them: watchful, cautious, one red chip at a time, one hand at a time. I listened to their chatter and got good at the game. Now I’m good enough to feel like a chump. I’ve tired of the drizzle of payoffs, of the meager returns for a long night of gambling. I’ve been too conservative in the past. Risk more and make more; that’s been my strategy this time. And it’s working. It’s my third night and I’ve cleared several thousand bucks so far.

I slide into an empty spot at the table but all the nickel men cash out. Ken’s too flash for their blood. I wanted a crowd but now it’s just me and Doctor Ken. Ken’s still celebrating his big hand. He has a bipolar glint in his eyes as he places another bet. He thinks he’s invincible now—a demigod among mortal gamblers. Yet he and Carli remain standing, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

I don’t trust Standers; they’re too unreliable. Blackjack is a long game. You don’t drop in for one hand. You work a table the way you milk a cow—calmly, patiently. There’s a rhythm to it. Standers don’t understand patience or rhythm. They’re impulsive. They’re wildcards.

I place a five dollar bet on the table—not that I’m a nickel man; I’m just a bit flat tonight. I’ve hit a lull. Everyone hits a lull now and then. The problem with lulls is they can stretch out for hours. This one has.

I have ten showing and double down.

Ken gets two eights and splits them.

My lull remains intact as I bust at twenty-five. Ken hits eighteen on both eights and beats the dealer. She snatches my two red chips and counts out eight black ones for Ken.

People think gambling is about luck—they court it, cast spells, craft rituals, and make blood sacrifices in its name. But it’s not luck that carries you; it’s tempo. Like an athlete in the zone, a gambler has to find his pace. Cards start falling in your favor. You win every double down and split. You get several runs of blackjacks. But change your stride slightly and you can start venting fuel. A dealer gets lucky or they change dealers. A beginner joins the table and screws up the cards. You shrug it off. You tell yourself it’s temporary. Then you realize you’ve lost that tempo and need to get it back. You move from a single deck table to one with three decks. Then seven. Before long, you’re sucking cards from a bottomless shoe that kicks out nothing but twos and sixes. A few hours of that and—poof—cash and confidence are gone.

Which is why I’m at this table—it has tempo. I’m counting on Ken the demigod to rouse me from my slump, to help me find my way back into the zone.

I switch to playing two hands, hoping to build some momentum. I lose every hand and Ken wins each time.

I sit out a few hands, telling myself it will joggle the cards, but I know I’m sucking wind. I’ve lost all my winnings tonight. I hit the limit for ATM withdrawals two hours ago. I stand as much chance of coaxing something from an ATM as I do squeezing a face card from the dealer. And I can’t go back to the cashier for another credit card withdrawal. I can’t face that humiliation again. I’ve watched the steady parade of losers at the cashier window. Some haven’t slept, some are drunk, and others are like junkies—jittery with desperation that’s been building for days. They’ve lost everything but won’t quit. Just another thousand bucks. No more than two. Jewelry, pink slips, second mortgages—whatever it takes—they’ll sign anything you put in front of them.

At least I have humiliation working for me. The look the cashier gives you is enough for me, the expression that says I know your kind. The car, the college fund, the wife—they’ll all be gone; it’s just a matter of time. Next thing you know, you’ll be living at the Y and clearing tables at an airport donut joint. I know people like you, Hon. I was married to people like you.

One win—that’s all it takes to get the tempo back and get the cards falling right again. One win leads to two, then three. Chips turn from red to green to black. Back on top in no time.

I jump back in, playing two hands again. The first is a push and the other beats the dealer. My mojo’s beginning to stir.

Then I lose both hands in the next round. A hundred-dollar loss.

And the next.

I sit out again and Ken scores two thousand bucks while I watch.

Carli-With-The-Heart snuggles up against him, sending little telegrams with her hand up and down his spine. Cash out, Sweetie. We can get a luxury suite and order champagne. A hot bath and hot sex.

Ken leans back into her. Message received.

He shoves his entire bankroll forward, a Matterhorn of black chips. Twenty grand at least, all in.

Carli sucks in a breath, then lifts a hand to stroke Ken’s chest.

I’ve had it with this episode of General Hospital, the Ken and Carli show. They could walk away deliriously happy. Why risk that huge haul? Everything about them disgusts me: the clothes, the gloss, posing as a high roller at a humble five-dollar table. Have they even tipped the dealer once?

I plunk down a chip at the last minute and hit a blackjack—an ace and a queen.

Ken draws a five and a six. He hits with the dealer showing ten and gets an ace. Then a three. Then an eight. Twenty-two—too much.

Carli lets out a loud gasp. “Everything. We lost everything!” She glares at me and says to Ken, “He took your queen.”

I don’t look at Carli; I don’t need to. I feel the diamond-tipped eyes boring into the side of my skull. She pulls away from Ken as her fantasy night dissolves and the dream of a heart-shaped tub with Dom Pérignon ebbs away with her libido.

It wasn’t his queen, Carli-With-The-Heart. It belongs to some nube who gets a blackjack on his first hand but then can’t quit. It belongs to an off-duty dealer whose only decent clothes are casino uniforms, who shares a place on the outskirts of town and skips meals so he can afford one night of cards each week because one day his luck will change. It belongs to a white-haired woman with a whiskey voice who loses another big bet, money she says she picked up from Western Union for her friends back at the hotel. It belongs to every wide-eyed mark and every conman prowling every joint in town like a coyote waiting for chickens to stray from their pens.

No, Carli, that queen didn’t belong to Ken or me or anyone else. It’s a grail, a mirage, a lie. It’s a glimmering bauble that passes by just out of reach. I see that now. You’ll see it too one day after more two-bit actors and more sexless rooms, more one-last-hands and one-last-chances. I could say I was being charitable, that I was leading you to the light. But I’m not charitable. I’m delusional, despicable, and selfish. I had one play left in me tonight and that was to bring you down. So I took it. You deserve it. Ken deserves it. God knows I deserve to live with myself.

Ken is shaken to his cummerbund, a tormented look on his face as the dealer sweeps away the last of his black chips. In a halting croak, he says, “It’s okay. We’ll make it back. Tomorrow.”

They turn and head toward the hotel entrance, Ken glancing back briefly, unable to accept what’s just happened. Our eyes meet momentarily.The bipolar glint has disappeared, the demigod flame has been extinguished. The couple seems to shrivel away as they disappear into the crowd.

A sudden wave of regret washes over me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I misjudged them.

I play a few more joyless hands, losing all of them. I don’t care anymore; I’m beyond winning and losing. I’m sick of dim casinos and neon lights. I push my few remaining chips toward the dealer as a tip. Maybe it’s to compensate for Ken’s bad form or maybe I’m trying to buy back a piece of my soul. Whatever the case, I avoid the dealer’s eyes. She knows what I did and that it was intentional. Maybe she’s with me or maybe she isn’t. I don’t want to know.

Tomorrow, I’ll head home, wondering all the way what the hell I was thinking. Thousands of hard-earned dollars gone like dust in the desert wind. I’m a sensible guy, a frugal guy. At least that’s how I once saw myself. Now? Who knows? What I know is that I’m no high roller. Whatever it takes to play at that level, I don’t have it in me, be it skill or guts or just dumb luck.

I’m a nickel man. I’ll always be a nickel man. If I’m any kind of a man at all.

Keith Skinner is a writer and photographer from Berkeley, California, specializing in history and culture. His nonfiction has appeared in Travelers’ Tales anthologies, The San Francisco Chronicle, Hidden Compass, Wild Musette, and others. He working on a historical novel set in 19th century Mendocino County. He no longer gambles.

 

 

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