Certainly not smart like me, he thought. At least he had a chance to win. Adriana, he felt, was a born loser.
Before he could analyze the absurdity of his conclusion, the cabin attendant came by to collect his glass and have him fasten his seat belt for takeoff.
By the time the 747 was well airborne, and Harvard had another martini, then hors d’oeuvres and a glass of champagne, then an excellent dinner of veal cutlets with a 1982 Château Margaux, he had been awake for some thirty-two hours and was physically spent. With a set of headphones in place, Mozart sonatas selected on the audio, the volume turned down to its lowest audible level, and a sleep mask on, he closed his eyes and went into a long, deep sleep. By the time he awoke, ten hours of the thirteen-hour flight had passed.
“So you’re not dead, after all,” Adriana said from across the aisle when he removed the sleep mask.
“I’m not sure yet,” Harvard replied. He looked anxiously toward the forward section of the cabin.
“It’s on the left, and it’s unoccupied,” Adriana said.
Quickly retrieving his shaving kit from the carry-on, Harvard hurried toward the lavatory.
Fifteen minutes later, he returned, shaved, hair combed, teeth brushed, relieved, and more than ready for the black coffee he was brought.
“Only a person who leads a decadent life can sleep that soundly for that long,” Adriana accused lightly.
“Are you speaking from experience?” he asked.
“Definitely. So tell me, since you’re not going to Monaco, what are you going to do in Nice?”
“But I am going to Monaco,” he said. “I’m just not going for the film festival.”
“What then?”
“To gamble.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very.” His eyes locked onto hers. “You’re not the only one who’s an embarrassment to their family, Miss Marshall.”
Adriana stiffened just enough for it not to go unnoticed. “Exactly what does that mean?” she asked, her voice taking on an edge.
“It means that while you romp around the world spending your father’s hard-earned money associating with personality washouts, I squander my father’s hard-earned money across gambling tables frequented by equally worthless individuals who, like myself, contribute absolutely nothing worthwhile to mankind. We’re meaningless, you and I. Totally insignificant. It’s interesting that you like trivia so much — because you are trivia, just as I am.”
Adriana glared at him icily, sculpted lips compressed in anger. “Why don’t you go to hell, Harvard,” she said tightly.
“All in good time,” he replied.
Adriana stalked down the aisle away from him.
The Air France 747 set down at Nice International Airport just before noon. Deplaning, filing through Immigration, claiming baggage, and proceeding through Customs, Harvard and Adriana were never more than thirty feet apart, but they neither spoke nor looked at one another. To a degree, Harvard regretted what he had said to her; it had been boorish and unnecessary, and the only way he could explain it to himself was to rationalize that Adriana lived as she did because she was shallow and without character, while he was in a sense compelled to the life he led by some inner obsession, some psychological addiction over which he had no control, like the weakness that drove an alcoholic. Absent the force that generated his compulsion to gamble, Harvard was certain he would have been every bit the respectable, successful business executive his brothers were. The logic of that reasoning was all that allowed him to keep from despising himself.
As Harvard left the Nice arrivals terminal, he saw Adriana and her group dividing themselves between two gleaming white limousines. Putting the woman and their encounter out of his mind, he boarded a tram with his bags and several minutes later debarked on a rental lot where he signed for a red Audi convertible. Soon he was hugging the coastal road above the Cote d’Azur and the glistening Mediterranean, heading south out of Nice toward Monaco and Monte Carlo. Halfway along on the twenty-mile drive, he passed both white limousines. They had tinted windows, so he could not tell whether Adriana Marshall was looking out at him or not, and in any case he kept his eyes straight ahead. Already Adriana was beginning to move to the back of his mind as he started thinking about the games of chance that awaited him in the great marbled, mirrored, chandeliered casino called Monte Carlo.
Within an hour, Harvard had cruised down the wide, colorful Avenue de Monte Carlo and swung into the entry drive of the magnificent Hotel de Paris. Crossing the ornate lobby, momentarily crowded with motion picture people between screenings, he was thankful he’d had the foresight to make a confirmed reservation before leaving Chicago, and realized he was fortunate to have found a vacancy at all. As he registered, he said to the desk clerk, “I have a large cashier’s check that I’d like to have cleared for casino play as soon as possible.”
“Of course, sir. Let me get the concierge for you.”
The check was turned over for approval and Harvard given a receipt. “Your funds should be available through the concierge desk by six P.M., Mr. Harvard.”
A bellman showed Harvard to a luxurious mini-suite on the third floor, facing the broad boulevard and the shining sea beyond. When he was alone, he stepped out onto his small balcony to look across the street at the casino. A sense of anticipation trickled down his spine and made him shudder slightly. Then he glanced down and saw Adriana Marshall alighting from one of the white limousines at the hotel entrance. At once, his sense of anticipation vanished.
Turning back into the hotel room, Harvard found himself hoping that the encounter with Adriana was not going to bring him continued bad luck.
Just after six that evening, fortified by a light, early dinner ordered from room service, Harvard donned what he perceived to be his lucky white dinner jacket and went down to the concierge desk. On duty was an attractive, dark-haired young woman in a black tail coat, pinned to which was a brass name tag reading: GEORGETTE MANON. Identifying himself, Harvard obtained a validated note of credit from the hotel to the casino for twenty thousand American dollars in French francs, with the amount charged against his now-verified credit.
“Good luck at the tables, sir,” said Georgette Manon as she handed him the credit note.
“Thank you very much,” Harvard replied, pleased. He considered it a good omen to be wished luck by a total stranger.
Crossing the brilliantly lighted Avenue de Monte Carlo, Harvard entered the foyer of the opulent casino, paid his ten-franc entry fee, and proceeded onto the impressive expanse of the casino floor, relieved to see that it was busy but not as overly crowded as the film festival event might have suggested. At a convenient cashier’s cage, he changed his note of credit for a rack of thirty-two five-thousand-franc jetons, or playing chips. Then, turning to survey the floor, he quickly chose a boule table where only one other person was engaged in play.
Boule is a high-risk game of roulette. There are only nine numbers on the wheel. Even numbers — two, four, six, and eight — pay seven-to-one on a bet, as do odd numbers — one, three, seven, and nine. Number five on the wheel takes all bets for the house. Players may also bet red or black, odd or even, or split combinations of two-four-seven-nine or one-three-six-eight.
Harvard played boule for nearly an hour and a half, wagering against a short Arab croupier with the name HABIB on his casino badge. First winning, then losing, then winning again, then losing again, Harvard finally began to lose steadily. By seven-thirty, the entire twenty thousand was gone, his jeton rack empty.