You know it won\u2019t go well. The kid\u2019s not quite in the corner, not quite in the shadows, with the gothic hair and iron piercings and eye shadow. He\u2019s tall and gaunt, hollow-eyed, maybe hollow-souled. You can never tell these days. He\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
You go to the guy. He\u2019s 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\u2019re 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, \u201cWhat\u2019s your pleasure?\u201d<\/p>\n
He\u2019s nervous and he\u2019s 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\u2019s placed a silver dollar on the cloth. It was the perfect size to hide in the bottom of the jigger; you wish you hadn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
\u201cDice,\u201d you say, holding out your hand. He turns the jigger over, spills the two iron dice into your palm. They\u2019re 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\u2019re loaded, it\u2019s not heavily, and it\u2019s rather evenly. The kid\u2019s game is something else.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
You give the kid the dice and pick up the jigger. It\u2019s hollow and empty and you could crush it in a fist. The kid\u2019s grin widens as he slams his jiggers on the table.<\/p>\n
The dice are thrown.<\/p>\n
He lifts the jigger. \u201cTen,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
You grin. You accept the dice, drop them into the jigger you\u2019ve been manipulating in your hand, and give them a good shake.<\/p>\n
\u201cDouble,\u201d 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\u2019s not sure, but he can\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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\u2019s 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\u2019t yet know what he\u2019s lost. But he feels it. The tiny crowd has already dispersed; no one will admit seeing what they saw.<\/p>\n
You glance back at the kid, stone now, fused with the side of the building, eyes still moist, mouth slightly ajar, nose askew.<\/p>\n
You manipulate the metal dice in your palm and take to the shadows.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"