Queen of Spades Read online

  Chimsky became agitated. “Believe me, I’ll tell you everything I can. Murphy is a frightening man—I owed him money, a great deal of money. We worked out an arrangement.”

  Mannheim usually disliked Chimsky, but he found himself sympathizing with the dealer’s sad recital of his gambling debt. The information Chimsky provided was sparse—he didn’t seem to know much about Murphy, other than that he was a local businessman, a moneylender and bookmaker.

  “Was there anyone else present when you spoke to this individual?” Gabriela asked. She was taking notes in the ledger.

  “Murphy always has his bodyguards with him,” Chimsky said. “He has two. You can’t miss them.”

  “One’s on the tape,” Mannheim said. “He walks in with Murphy.”

  “What was this arrangement you had with him?”

  “I guaranteed he would win,” Chimsky said. “He was to come in and play with his own money. I’d set the deck and he was to bet everything on the final three cards in ascending order.”

  Mannheim watched Gabriela as she took down this information. Then, addressing him, she said, “Isn’t setting the deck in the way Chimsky describes almost impossible?”

  “Yes,” Mannheim said. “It’s virtually unheard of.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Chimsky said. “I can’t do it with any reliability. And that night, it was pure luck the cards came out in the right order. A complete accident of chance. But it got me off the hook with Murphy.”

  “And what would’ve happened if the hand hadn’t played out the way you promised?” Gabriela said.

  “I would hate to speculate,” Chimsky said, looking from Mannheim to Gabriela. “I just want to say that I appreciate the kindness and generosity you’re showing me. Thank you for allowing me to walk away. You’ll always have a friend in Chimsky.”

  “You’re not out of the woods yet,” Gabriela said. “What about the Countess? Was she in on it? She won more than Murphy, and tipped you five grand.”

  “She had nothing to do with the set deck,” Chimsky said. “She picked up on what was happening and took advantage of it. ‘Get a hunch, bet a bunch,’ as they say.” He laughed nervously, and paused. “I actually thought she was going to say something to Lederhaus that night—but she didn’t.”

  “That jibes with her story,” Mannheim said.

  “All right, Chimsky. If we find out you haven’t told us the truth, or you’ve withheld information, this tape is going straight to the commission.” Gabriela tapped the cassette with her fingernail and leaned forward in her chair. “Consider yourself terminated, Chimsky. Effective immediately. You will be permanently barred from ever setting foot inside these walls again. Please remove our uniform now.”

  Mannheim saw that Chimsky was shaken, and his heart went out to him as Chimsky began unbuttoning his purple vest. Chimsky carefully folded the vest and placed it on the desk in front of Gabriela. “Your name tag too,” Gabriela said. Chimsky unpinned the glossy card that read Sam Chimsky, High-Limit Dealer and placed it on top of the vest. He looked naked in his plain white shirt. It was true—Chimsky had no identity but that of a dealer, and now he was stripped bare.

  “I am truly sorry. But know that I loved the Royal and I have betrayed her trust, and for that, I will forever live with regret. Thank you again for allowing me the dignity of leaving.”

  “That will be all, Chimsky. Good luck.”

  Mannheim shook Chimsky’s hand. “Best of luck, Chimsky,” he said. They watched him leave, and Mannheim wondered if it would be the last time he would see the dealer—at least in this world.

  “Now,” Gabriela said, turning her attention to the cowed Lederhaus, who had been silent for the entire proceeding. “We have enough grounds to terminate you as well based on the fact you were Chimsky’s supervisor. But I made you an offer in good faith on Monday and it still stands. How do you feel about moving to day shift now?”

  By the time he left her office that night, half an hour later, Mannheim was officially in charge of the graveyard shift in the High-Limit Salon. When he asked Gabriela about who should replace the disgraced Chimsky, she told him to select whomever he liked from the pit—he was in charge now, and “I’m not going to be looking over your shoulder—unless you make me,” she said with a smile. Mannheim told her he would think about it and inform her the next day, although when he returned to the secret chamber in the changing room that night, he already knew he would say Chan’s name when the time came. It was with this thought, in the comforting embrace of the smell of old pulp, that Mannheim drifted off into a deep, uninterrupted slumber.

  An Understanding Is Reached

  “I’ve been fired—they’ve thrown me to the wolves!”

  Barbara listened to her ex-husband’s tale in silence. They were at Rudy’s on her lunch break—he had called her at work that morning, saying he had something very important to tell her, something he could say only in person. Now, sitting across from him, she placed a hand on his wrist. “I’m so sorry, Chim. I know that job meant a lot to you. But something better will come along.”

  “Not anytime soon,” he sighed. “No casino in this area will hire me now—no casino worth working at, anyway. I may have to move back to Vegas. Or even Reno.” He shuddered at the mention of these places. Barbara knew Chimsky had previously worked in Nevada when he first immigrated to America, and that he detested it, “desert towns full of Neanderthals,” as he would say.

  Chimsky had often told her that when he arrived at the Royal in 1976, he considered the job and Snoqualmie his final destination. First and foremost, he enjoyed the clientele, a motley collection of oddities and obsessives. They encouraged his wild stories and appreciated his manner of speaking. Barbara met him there in the pit, one night in 1979. He was dealing to her when she’d gone on a rush, turning a small stake of forty dollars into over five hundred. She’d tipped him generously and gone to the lounge to drink some of her winnings, and on his break, he had followed her to exchange numbers. Their courtship was brief and intense, fueled by a common interest in gambling, and took place at Rudy’s, Snoqualmie Downs, and the Royal when they were in public, and usually in his rooms at the Orleans when they weren’t. He had a Siamese cat, Rajah, they both doted upon, and within two months, on the morning after a particularly exciting day spent at the track—they hit the Daily Double!—they’d gone to the old Snoqualmie Courthouse and gotten married.

  Unbidden, these remembrances came now, while Barbara looked at Chimsky across the table. He was nearly inconsolable, his head in his hands, looking nothing like the person she’d married. “Oh my God,” he cried. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Hush, Chim,” she said gently. “Maybe it’s a sign you should try something else.”

  “I can’t do anything else!” he said, suddenly furious. “You’re right, Barbara—you’ve always been right. Since we split up, you’ve changed for the better. You’ve gotten your life in order. Me, I’m still where I’ve always been at. Except now, I don’t even have a job. I need to be like you, Barbara. I need to transform myself.” He looked at her, his face twisted with pain. “I can’t believe I’m saying this—but gambling has ruined my life. I can see that now.”

  Barbara stared at Chimsky as he concluded his pronouncement. She thought about how they started out gambling together as a team, how excited they got when they won, how important gambling was to them both. It wasn’t merely a pastime—it had been their life-blood. She began to laugh. “Please, Chim. You, quit gambling? Get serious.”

  “Fine, fine,” said Chimsky after a moment. “But at least a brief hiatus.”

  “That sounds much more judicious. You’re just going through a bad patch, Sam. You’re due for something good to happen.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes, Chim, I do.”

  He drank from his glass slowly, and then he set it down on the table. When he spoke again, he sounded more like himself. “Can I ask you for a favor, Barbara?”


  “Of course, Chim. Just say the word.”

  “Can you go to the Royal in a couple weeks,” he said, “and pick up my last paycheck from the cashier’s cage? I don’t think I can stand showing my face in there, with everyone seeing me and talking about me behind my back.”

  “No problem,” Barbara said. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “The next time you see me, I’m going to be better. I promise.”

  He was silent again, staring at his glass. Barbara watched him carefully—he seemed to be deciding something for himself. Then his face became less strained, and a playful smile appeared on his lips.

  “What did the Chimsky say to the Royal after he was fired?”

  “I give up, Chim.”

  “I can’t deal with you anymore!”

  Barbara chuckled. It wasn’t a good joke, but it was a good sign. Chimsky was going to be all right.

  After work on Thursday, the twentieth of December, instead of going to Hair & Now, Barbara drove to the Royal Casino, a place she had not visited in the almost three years since the divorce. She entered the revolving doors, walked through the entrance vestibule, and emerged into the casino proper. Since the last time she had been there, a clear night sky, replete with constellations and a luminous full moon, had been painted on the tall ceilings, giving the room an impression of great vastness. There were several dozen customers in the place at the moment, milling about, sitting at machines. She walked across the floor, soaking in the quiet early evening buzz, feeling pleasantly enlivened.

  First, she collected Chimsky’s paycheck from the cashier’s cage and put it in her purse, a task which took all of five minutes. Then Barbara looked around, and an old and familiar urge tugged at her. Shouldn’t she place a few bets and see how her luck was running? She had refrained from any sort of gambling since Thanksgiving, and she felt she should have a look, at the very least. She began drifting through the aisles of slot machines, seeing if any caught her eye. Eventually, she found herself near the pit, where traffic was light. The Blackjack dealers, standing idly over empty tables, tried to make eye contact with her as she passed, and she diverted her gaze. She was drawn to the four tall rectangular Roulette boards at the end of the row of table games, two of which were lit at the moment. Roulette was one of her favorite games. She had always enjoyed watching the wheel, how you could place your chips even as it spun, how the dealer waved a hand over the board when your time had run out.

  Approaching the two active wheels, she suddenly realized that seated at the closest one, with his back to her, was—of all people!—Dimsberg. She could tell by his head, its shiny bald top and the bun perched on the back of his skull. He was still dressed in his aerobics gear, as if he’d come straight from the club. There was an empty chair next to him, and Barbara, instantly desirous of making him feel uncomfortable, pulled it aside and sat down. So absorbed was Dimsberg in his play that he did not notice until Barbara lightly tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Isn’t it against the rules,” she asked, “for you to be in a casino?”

  He looked up, saw her, and then returned to the stack of chips in front of him—Barbara estimated around $300. “Who’s following who now?” he asked, out of the corner of his mouth. “Like you told me, what we do outside the group is none of anyone’s business.”

  “Once an addict, always an addict, right?” Barbara said in her most cutting manner.

  “Aren’t the seats for players only?” Dimsberg asked the dealer.

  “Who says I’m not playing?” Barbara rooted around inside her purse, and fished out three crumpled twenties. “Just Reds, please,” she told the dealer, a short, barrel-chested man whose nametag read Derek. “I’m only going to play the outside.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  She received her twelve $5 chips—redbirds, as she fondly called them—and looked at the board. She saw Dimsberg had bet various numbers, and also had ten dollars on Even. She took two red chips off the top of her stack and placed them on Odd. He pretended not to notice. The wheel spun and they both watched intently as the ball rolled, then fell and landed in the slot for 27.

  “Red 27,” the dealer announced, and he took Dimsberg’s bet and shifted the chips to her.

  The next spin, Dimsberg bet twenty on Black. Barbara took four $5 chips and placed them on Red. This time, Dimsberg glared at her, but said nothing. The wheel spun and the ball fell.

  “Red 19,” the dealer said. Again, he took Dimsberg’s bet and shifted his chips over to her.

  “I see what you’re doing,” Dimsberg said, “and I don’t appreciate it.”

  “Like you told me at the club, it’s a free country. I can bet any way I want, and you’re free to leave this table whenever you’d like.”

  On the next roll, Dimsberg waited as long as possible to make his bet, then slid fifty onto Red. Barbara just got in her bet on Black before Derek waved his hand over the board to stop the betting. The ball clattered from slot to slot, and finally settled on 13—Black 13. Dimsberg was nearly apoplectic watching his money change hands to her again.

  Barbara knew her toxic presence was affecting Dimsberg’s luck—he should have left, but pride was rooting him to the spot. “Let’s see if you can hang with me, then,” he said angrily, and pushed all of his remaining chips—over $200—onto Even. Barbara looked at the board and saw the last six rolls, including the three she’d won on, had turned up Odd—surely, an even number was due at some point. Yet she hardly hesitated in fading Dimsberg’s bet once again, moving all her chips onto Odd.

  She stared at the ball as it rolled around the spinning wheel—the ball one way, the wheel the other. Eventually, it lost its battle with gravity, rattling from slot to slot as the wheel began to slow. Barbara closed her eyes, awaiting the pronouncement from the dealer.

  “Black 17!” Derek announced.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw Dimsberg, chipless and red-faced, and he looked as if he were about to overturn the wheel. As she collected her money, he rose painfully from the table and limped off. She watched him head toward the lounge, his shoulders stooped and quivering with anger.

  “Boy, you sure did a number on him,” Derek said.

  “Thanks. I think my work here is done. Can you color me up?”

  “Of course.”

  While Barbara waited for her chips to be counted down, her mood of triumph began to dissipate. She had to admit she felt slightly guilty about what she’d just done to Dimsberg—perhaps she’d gone too far. No doubt he had come to the Royal expecting to remain unseen, to gamble his small stakes anonymously for a couple hours, enough to satisfy his craving without losing (or winning) very much, or drawing undue attention to himself. But then she had come along and their rivalry had caused him to bet recklessly—now he was out of money. She collected her three black $100 chips from Derek, tossed him two redbirds, and decided maybe she would head over to the lounge and see how Dimsberg was doing.

  “Did you come to gloat?” he asked when she found him sitting by himself at the bar. He had a glass of soda in front of him, a forlorn, untouched straw in it.

  “Actually, no,” Barbara said. “I came to apologize. Can I sit here?”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “I seem to be hearing that a lot lately,” Barbara said, climbing onto the stool next to him. When the bartender came by, she ordered a gin and tonic, but Dimsberg refused her offer to buy him a drink. “I’m sorry,” she said after the bartender had left. “I shouldn’t have sat down at your table. And I shouldn’t have played against you the way I did. That was uncalled for.”

  “Really?” Dimsberg said. “Or are you here because you feel guilty?”

  “I do feel guilty—that’s true,” said Barbara. “But I’m not as bad a person as you think I am. And I don’t think you’re as bad a person as you think I think you are.”

  Dimsberg looked at her sideways. “You certainly have a way with words.”

  She laughed. “You want to know h
ow sorry I feel?” She reached inside her purse, felt inside for the three black chips, and placed them on the counter. “Here’s your money back, Dimsberg. Take it.”

  “No,” Dimsberg said. “I won’t. You won those fair and square.”

  “You won’t take them?”

  “I accept your apology,” Dimsberg said. “But not your charity.”

  “Well, if that’s the way you feel.” Barbara took the three chips into the palm of her hand. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these now.”

  “I know what I’d do if I were you,” Dimsberg said. “You’re hot—obviously. I’d keep gambling and see how high I could go. Maybe you won’t ever lose again.”

  Barbara laughed again, and this time Dimsberg almost reciprocated, although he restrained himself to a smile. “Thanks for the great advice, oh vaunted leader,” she said. Then she added, more seriously: “And your advice has helped me a lot, Dimsberg—please believe that. I left Gambling Help because I was good again, and I wanted to feel that way on my own.”

  “Fair enough. I might leave myself one day—but I still have a long way to go, as you can tell.”

  “I wish you the best, Dimsberg, and I hope you get as clean as you want to be. I know we can’t be friends. But we don’t have to be enemies. Can we at least be cordial when we see each other at the club? I promise I will.”

  “All right,” Dimsberg said. “It’s a deal.” He paused and watched her finish her drink. Then he said, “Are you a hundred percent sure we can’t be friends?”

  “Yes,” Barbara said. “At least 97 percent sure.” This time they both laughed. She left some money on the counter to pay for their drinks, then stood and hugged his bony shoulders. “Good-bye, Dimsberg,” she said. “I’ll see you at the club.”

  He doffed an imaginary cap to Barbara as she left the lounge. When she looked back, he was sitting straighter than before. Then he inclined his head and began sipping from the straw.

  For the next several hours, Barbara prowled the tables, moving from game to game whenever she felt herself beginning to cool off. For the most part, she kept winning. From one Blackjack table, she won $350. From another, $220. She took these winnings to the Roulette tables and doubled them by betting exclusively on Odd. Then she began to play Baccarat, a game she hardly knew. Here, she won another $500. At this point, she was betting $50 to $100 per hand. Finally, with over $1,200 in front of her, Barbara decided it might be time to cash in. She kept $1,000 behind and, for the first time that evening, she placed a $200 wager. Impulsively, she bet on Tie—an outcome which had yet to come up during her play at the table—and then proceeded to watch as the Player’s hand was flipped over to reveal a 7-Deuce for 9. Then the Dealer’s hand was flipped over, revealing a King-9—another 9!