Detective

asked. To tell the truth, not only had I never been in an illegal gambling joint before, I had never been in a legal one, either. My entire gambling experience consisted of poker. I did know, though, that in roulette you bet on the numbers, on red or black, or odd or even, or something like that, and I figured I could fake my way through it, whereas, if Murphy got me at the crap table, I’d be lost.
    With some relief, then, I followed Murphy over to one of the roulette tables, and we elbowed our way into positions by the board and watched as the ball revolved around the wheel and settled in number five.
    “Five, black, low and odd,” said the croupier, or something to that effect. I know five is low and odd, but whether it’s red or black I don’t remember. At any rate, whichever it is, he said it, and then raked in over three-quarters of the outstanding bets.
    Murphy pulled out a wad of money and I followed suit, peeling five twenties off my roll and trying to look as if this was just the tip of the iceberg in terms of a sizable bankroll. Murphy bought ten-dollar chips, so I did too, though my heart longed for fives. We began placing bets around the table and, to my great relief, in the beginning I won a little. Nothing much, of course—I’d miss on the number but hit red or black, or odd or even, and I did it often enough that my bankroll began to grow a little. As soon as it did, I began exhibiting the poor gambler’s signs of nervousness, cashing in chips, leaving myself short and having to buy new ones, pulling money out of different pockets, counting it, putting it back. This is bad form, I know. In the song “The Gambler,” Kenny Rogers says, “Never count your money while you’re sittin’ at the table,” but I think that’s bullshit. I’ve found from playing poker that the best procedure is to count your money all the time, over and over again, keeping up a running patter about how poorly you’re doing and how much you’re losing. I’ve found that by doing this, no one ever has the faintest idea how well I’m actually doing and, even in games where I’ve been the only winner at the table, I’ve been able to cash in and leave with everyone thinking I was over a hundred dollars down. I don’t mean to give the impression that I usually win at poker—I don’t, I usually lose. All I’m saying is, the few times I have won, I’ve found this procedure to be fundamentally sound.
    Sound or not, it was irritating Murphy, even more so because he happened to be losing.
    “What’re you cashing in for?” he groused. “You only have to keep buying new ones.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “I’m a lousy gambler. But I really love the game, you know.”
    “Yeah. I know what you mean,” he said.
    The croupier swept away all of Murphy’s bets and paid off two out of three of mine, even and the first twelve numbers. I’d lost on red.
    A tall, thin man with razor-cut black hair, a soap opera star plastic profile, and a six hundred dollar suit with white shirt open at the neck displaying a bunch of gold chains, threaded his way through the crowd to Murphy’s side.
    “Hey, Murphy,” he said, clapping him on the back. “How’s it going?”
    “Bad, Tony,” Murphy said. “Can’t get a nibble.”
    "Your luck will change,” Tony told him. “Who’s your friend?”
    “Tony, this is Nathan Armstrong, a business acquaintance from Miami. Nathan, this is Tony Arroyo. This is his little club.”
    “Ah, Bambi,” I thought to myself as I smiled and shook his hand.
    “Armstrong’s a business acquaintance of Marty Albrect’s,” Murphy added by way of explanation.
    It seemed to me Tony’s eyelids flicked before he smiled and said, “Oh yeah? How come you didn’t bring Albrect along with you?”
    Murphy looked at him. “Oh. You haven’t heard.”
    “Heard what?”
    “Jeez, Tony, I hate to tell you this. Albrect’s dead.”
    “What? Dead? You’re kidding.”
    “No, I’m not. He was killed. Just last night. Shot to death in a parking lot.”
    “Oh, my God,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Well, it figures. I used to warn him. He was never careful, you know. Always flashing a wad when he was flush. Always talking too much. I knew he was going to get rolled one of those nights. It had to happen. You can’t say I didn’t warn him.”
    “Sure, Tony,” Murphy said. “I heard you say it.”
    Listening to the conversation convinced me of two things. First, if Tony was involved in