Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

Bunny is not alone. There are thousands of women and who knows how many men who, given the choice, would take a cackling ghost in the attic to a squeaking mouse in the bedroom. It is unlikely that anyone has ever died of musophobia or phasmophobia. Let us hope not; there are already enough goofy ways to die. And Elizabeth “Bunny” Watson Ainsworth didn’t die of her phobia. But it was close, a narrow squeak.

The tale moves to a casino in Las Vegas, the date September seventh, 1993. Lady Luck, a fickle creature who had fallen under the spell of that charming scoundrel Tony Gregory, abruptly deserted him for another scoundrel, and by the time Tony realized that his luck had run out, the casino had two hundred twenty thousand dollars’ worth of his markers (casino I.O.U.’s).

Back in the primitive 1930’s when all gambling was illegal — and sinful — when the riffest of the riffraff controlled it, a Tony Gregory would have been in serious trouble. Oh, he would have been given a couple of weeks to pay up “or else.” A standard “or else” involved concrete shoes and the nearest body of water.

My, how the world has changed. Gambling flourishes, is legal in forty-eight states (the two sanctimonious holdouts are Utah and Hawaii), is enveloped in a halo of respectability. States have their own lotteries; casinos are managed by MBA’s from prestigious universities and are highly regarded by mutual funds, but like their illegitimate forebears, they are in business to make money. When you lose — especially if you are a premium player like Tony Gregory (premium players number thousands, wager a hundred thousand to two hundred thousand dollars per visit) — you are expected to pay up. In Tony’s case the casino was “lenient”; he was given a year, charged a modest eight point seventy-five percent interest.

But if by September seventh, 1994, the markers were still unpaid, the casino would reluctantly institute legal proceedings to collect — reluctantly because the gaming industry does not like to admit that now and then a player loses. Being sued would devastate Tony. His name would be posted in casinos not only in Las Vegas but in Atlantic City, London, Monte Carlo, everywhere. Losing his good name, publicly branded a welsher, his markers not worth the paper they were written on, was unthinkable.

“It’d kill me,” he moaned time after time as the weeks flew by, the outlook growing worse. “Like the fellow says, if you lose your good name, you’re done, finished, kaput. Think what Big Mo and Vince and Slim and all the other fellows would say. I let them down, made it tougher for them to give markers.”

For the record, the fellow who first placed a high value on one’s good name was The Preacher, son of David. In Ecclesiastes 7:1 he spoke: “A good name is more precious than ointment.” Shakespeare agreed. “Who steals my purse steals trash, but he who filches from me my good name leaves me poor indeed.”

By June 1994 Tony Gregory was a miserable human. Not only was disgrace looming ever closer, but he was undergoing excruciating withdrawal symptoms, for he was hopelessly addicted to the whirl of the wheel, the turn of the cards, the throw of the dice.

He was living incognito in a New Jersey motel on the cash from his last pawnshop transaction (a diamond ring he had taken as collateral for a four thousand dollar loan made to a rich playboy who finally ran out of money, never redeemed the ring). His only remaining asset was a jeweled watch (six thousand five hundred dollars F.O.B. Fifth Avenue, New York City, on a trip there to celebrate a big winning streak back in 1990).

He had been frequenting the lobbies of the luxurious New York hotels in a desperate search for a rich widow, any rich woman. But his bad luck continued.

Then, because of a noble gesture, his luck changed. It happened when he was on the way to Pittsburgh to visit the legendary Pittsburgh Will, famous as the player who broke the bank at Monte Carlo way back in 1934. Tony had lost track of Will, assumed he was long gone. Imagine his amazement while listlessly watching a TV program called “Old Age Is Getting Older” to see Will about to be interviewed, the occasion Will’s one hundred fifth birthday.

If the announcer hadn’t said that “our next guest is the famous Pittsburgh Will, a legend in gambling circles,” Tony would never have recognized the frail, wizened little man.

In a wheelchair, a nurse hovering behind, Will was ready, the nurse indicated. So was the smiling interviewer, a svelte young female whippersnapper not a day over forty.

“How does it feel to be all of a hundred and five?” she asked old Will in a throaty, gushy voice.

“Rotten,” croaked Will, “it stinks.” Oops. Silence. Loud silence.

Then, “Now, you don’t mean that, do you?” asked the interviewer gamely.

“The hell I don’t,” rasped Will. “Wait’ll you get to be a hundred and five. It ain’t no picnic.” Cringing, the interviewer gave up.