Bad Throw

You know it won’t go well. The kid’s not quite in the corner, not quite in the shadows, with the gothic hair and iron piercings and eye shadow. He’s tall and gaunt, hollow-eyed, maybe hollow-souled. You can never tell these days. He’s got a little fold-up table topped with black velvet, and upon this fabric, two gleaming dice call out to you. They wink, a trick of the inconsistent light. They hum.

You go to the guy. He’s got a cheap aluminum jigger in one hand, and plays it across his fingers as adeptly as any magician with a coin. Another sits on the cloth. They’re slightly oversized, big enough to hold the two dice, and to shake them, and to throw them. He flashes a greasy, uncomfortable smile your way, and says, “What’s your pleasure?”

He’s nervous and he’s sweating, just along the forehead. He scoops the dice into the jigger, rattles them a bit. The metallic clicking reminds you of machine shops and six-shooters. He’s placed a silver dollar on the cloth. It was the perfect size to hide in the bottom of the jigger; you wish you hadn’t missed the trick. His fingers are dexterous, if bony, and on his right hand he wears no rings, no jewelry whatsoever, nothing that might interfere with the game.

“Dice,” you say, holding out your hand. He turns the jigger over, spills the two iron dice into your palm. They’re solid. The pips are colored black, and total seven on all opposing sides. You turn them over, as flashy as the kid in black. You roll them across your knuckles. You decide the weight distribution is almost proper; if they’re loaded, it’s not heavily, and it’s rather evenly. The kid’s game is something else.

You fish a coin from your pocket, a second silver dollar, and drop it perfectly atop the one already there. Kennedy stares back at you and winks. Another trick of the light.

You give the kid the dice and pick up the jigger. It’s hollow and empty and you could crush it in a fist. The kid’s grin widens as he slams his jiggers on the table.

The dice are thrown.

He lifts the jigger. “Ten,” he says.

You grin. You accept the dice, drop them into the jigger you’ve been manipulating in your hand, and give them a good shake.

“Double,” you say, producing another, identical coin, adding it expertly to the stack. Odds are against. You know the odds. He matches the wager with a nervous grin. He’s not sure, but he can’t back down. Not now that a small crowd has gathered. You shake the dice, give them a little twist, put down the jigger and immediately remove it. Six and a five.

Whispers flutter through the crowd. You slip the coins, one a time, from the cloth to your fingers to your palm, then to your jacket pocket. You give the kid a wink.

He stares as you walk away. You feel his eyes on your back. You feel his soul through his eyes, and all the few years he’s had, the depths of his despair and the insincerity behind it. You hear his heartbeat, which rockets now, sounds almost like metal dice in a cheap jigger. You smell the salt of the tear rolling down his cheek. He doesn’t yet know what he’s lost. But he feels it. The tiny crowd has already dispersed; no one will admit seeing what they saw.

You glance back at the kid, stone now, fused with the side of the building, eyes still moist, mouth slightly ajar, nose askew.

You manipulate the metal dice in your palm and take to the shadows.