Sweet, but bitter, as well. Bitter because someone had to win, someone had to lose, and he had been the loser. Bitter because, after the loss, he had realized for the first time that the cards had been stacked against him. Bitter because, despite all the promises, the team was never the same after that. And bitter because of what happened to the Poodle.
Other half of my life it seems
I'm driving up some icy hill
Sliding back more than I'm making up,
Cursing the cold and the chill.
Humming along, The Prisoner would rest, allowing himself the luxury of those bittersweet memories, and after a while he would sleep. It was always a peaceful sleep, with none of the horrors that visited him in the night. He was aware of this difference, and it was one of the reasons that he allowed himself the monthly luxury. He was a man of dedication, and he knew that such memories defined a weakness within him, but he was willing to trade the weakness for the sake of sleep.
11
IT took Vince over a week to get to Carmine Giardelli, and during that time he cooled his heels at the Royal Buccaneer Hotel in Atlantic City. The gambling czar was unavailable. He was in Vegas for the weekend. He was in Miami on urgent business. He had to go to San Juan for a day. And so on. Mr. Giardelli would be back in Atlantic City shortly, Vince was told, just be patient.
Patience was too much to expect, but Vince had played the game, he had waited, and now Giardelli was back. Vince paced the length of the living room as he waited for the summons to see the big man, his shoes sinking into ankle-deep carpet, his fingers curled around a pony of brandy that was almost as old as he was. His suite at the Royal Buccaneer was middle-America's vision of what Atlantic City was all about. It had a sunken marble bath, a sunken marble living room, and sunken marble windows that opened onto a sunken marble sea. It had a candy-cane couch, a heart-shaped waterbed, and a spiral staircase that went nowhere. It had black and red flocked-velvet wallpaper, crimson drapes, and a walk-in closet big enough to hide a hippo. It had a faux Monet in the bathroom, a faux Van Gogh in the bedroom, and a lithograph of Elvis over the chrome and onyx bar. It had the style and warmth of a scream in the night, and it was all on the house.
Everything was on the house; Vince was comped. The suite, his food and drink, the services of a butler should he wish them, all came to him with the compliments of the management. Only the highest of rollers were comped that way, high credit, low risk players who could be counted on to drop a bundle at the tables two times out of three. For the Royal Buck, as for any other casino hotel, it was simply good business to comp the heavy hitters, and it was good business to comp a distinguished visitor, as well. Vince was distinguished. He had been sent by Lewis Whitney, he was there to see Carmine Giardelli, and that was enough to get him the same sort of treatment that would have been lavished on an Oklahoma oil man who bet with both hands.
Giardelli's man arrived promptly at nine. His name was Anthony, and he was young and round-faced. His suit was made of shantung silk, his shoes had been made on the bench, and his cologne was a breath of fresh mint. He smiled easily.
"Are you comfortable here?" he asked. "Everything to your satisfaction?"
"Everything's fine," Vince assured him.
"Mister Gee wants you to be comfortable. Anything you want, just ask for it."
"I'll do that. When do I see him?"
"In a minute, I have to go over you first. Nothing personal, just part of the routine."
Vince moved his feet apart, and held out his arms. Anthony's fingers probed quickly and expertly for weapons or wires. Close up, his minty cologne had an overtone of freshly cut grass. "You're hard as a rock," he said. "You work out?"
"When I can."
"I never seem to find the time,"
"What's the cologne?"
Anthony looked surprised and pleased. "Kentucky Spring. You like it?"
"It's you. It is definitely you."
Carmine Giardelli was the lay-off man for every major sports book between Washington and Toronto. Anything that the local book couldn't handle, anything too big or too complex, went to Giardelli, and "laying it off with Carmine" was a stock expression in the business. He didn't handle horses, but in football, basketball, baseball, and hockey Giardelli was to the local bookmaker what Lloyds of London was to the insurance underwriter. He was the specialist, he handled the overflow, he made the books balance.
Giardelli kept a penthouse apartment at the Royal Buck. It was soberly decorated, with none of the glitz of the luxury suites downstairs. Anthony led the way to a room that was bare except for a Ping-Pong table. Giardelli and a woman were playing, both standing back from the table and slamming power shots mixed with cute little slices. They grunted when they hit the ball, their faces ran with sweat, and their Reeboks squeaked on the floor. Giardelli wore only shorts. He was a tall man in his sixties with a lined face and lively eyes. The woman wore shorts and a halter top. Her lithe body said that she was about twenty, but her face swore that her body was lying. They both saw Vince come into the room, but they didn't stop playing. They were good, reminding Vince of the films he had seen of the Chinese masters of the game. The rally went on until Giardelli's backhand clipped the edge of the table, and fell away for the point.
"Seventeen-sixteen," he announced. He glanced at Vince. "Be right with you. I'm on a roll here."
"Roll, my ass," said the woman. Her voice was hard and edgy.
"Take your time," said Vince.
The action surged back and forth, and the score went to twenty-nineteen, Giardelli up. He said to Vince, "Just another minute while I put her away."
"Put your money where your mouth is," said the woman. "Fifty says you don't make it."
"We already got fifty on the game."
"Another fifty on the point."
"Sucker bet. You got it."
Giardelli stepped back to serve. The woman reached behind her back, and untied her halter top. She pulled it over her head, and let it drop to the floor. She moved up and down on her toes, ready to receive, and her breasts bounced with the motion. Anthony, beside Vince, made a sound deep in his throat. Vince glanced at him. His lips were tight with disapproval.
Giardelli grinned, and said, "Forget it, Shelley, it's not gonna work."
Shelley snapped, "Shut up and serve."
"They're cute, but I've seen 'em before."
"Serve."
"Take more than that to…"
"Serve, God damn it."
Giardelli served. The ball broke sharply away from Shelley's forehand for an ace. She waved at it futilely, then slammed her paddle on the table in disgust.
"Bingo," said Giardelli. "Pay me."
Shelley threw her paddle at him. It hit him in the forehead, and bounced to the floor. She marched out of the room.
Giardelli called after her, "Hey, you owe me a cee," but she was gone.
"You're bleeding," said Anthony.
There was a cut over Giardelli's left eyebrow, oozing blood. Anthony grabbed a towel from a hook on the wall, and dabbed at the cut. Giardelli pushed him away roughly.
"It's nothing," he said.
"There's blood all over your face." Anthony tried to dab again.
"Leave it alone," Giardelli ordered. He took the towel, and pressed it to his forehead. "That is one hell of a woman, but she sure is a lousy loser."
"Better let me put something on that cut."