Spoonbenders

“Wait, there are parts you don’t know?”

“This way,” Buddy said, ignoring Frankie’s panic. The big man pushed through the crowd, Frankie following close in his wake. They were aiming for the middle of the boat, but walking in a straight line was impossible; they kept getting diverted by banks of machines, all clanging, beeping, and flashing for their attention. You could almost fool yourself into thinking you were in a tiny Vegas casino, if not for the customers, who were 80 percent midwestern shit-kickers: John Deere caps and St. Louis Cardinals T-shirts, flip-flops and basketball shorts; even guys in overalls. If the taxpayers of Alton, Illinois, were expecting high rollers, they were in for a disappointment. None of these yokels were James Bond.

Buddy checked his watch, then led them up the grand staircase to the A deck, where they found an array of blackjack tables, a long craps table, and two roulette tables. At the chips window Frankie handed over his life savings—two thousand and five hundred dollars—and the woman handed him back a crushingly small stack of chips in a plastic tray. The entirety of his hopes and dreams was smaller than a box of Girl Scout cookies.

“Where’s yours?” Frankie asked his brother.

“You don’t need any more,” Buddy said.

“According to the vision,” Frankie said.

“Right,” Buddy said.

Chips in hand, they walked up to the tables. “Which one?” Frankie asked.

Buddy frowned at him.

“Which roulette table?” Frankie clarified.

Buddy studied them both, and then pointed to the one on the left.

“Are you sure?” Frankie asked. “Because you don’t look too sure.”

Buddy said nothing.

They approached the chosen table, Frankie’s fingers tight around the tray of chips. Only one other customer stood at the rail. The croupier, a tall black woman, called for bets. Frankie looked at the wheel and froze, his heart pounding. Frankie grabbed his brother’s arm and yanked him back into the crowd.

“What the fuck is that?” Frankie demanded. Buddy didn’t know what he was talking about. “That wheel! It’s too big!”

Buddy shrugged.

“And the ball’s bigger, too!” Frankie said. “I don’t even know how much it weighs! Why didn’t you tell me they came in different sizes?”

“It’s all going to work out,” Buddy said.

“What fucking use is a fortune-teller who can’t tell me how to win the fucking fortune!”

Buddy grabbed him by the shoulders. “Listen to me.”

“What?”

“Stacks of chips. Piled high. That’s what I saw.”

The steam whistle blew, and the floor trembled. The boat was under way for its hour-long cruise.

“Now is the time,” Buddy said. “Right now.” Buddy was so intense. And talkative. He’d barely spoken since Mom died, and now he was issuing orders like General Fucking Patton.

“Okay,” Frankie said. He took a breath. “You saw the stacks, though, right?”

“Shut up,” Buddy said.

Frankie moved up to the table but did not signal to bet. A couple more players had joined in, a woman in a low-cut tank top and her lower-browed boyfriend. The Cro-Magnon placed a couple of twenty-dollar chips on red, and the croupier called for last bets.

Then the spin. At least the sound was the same as the church set in his garage. Frankie kept his eyes on the white pill racing along the track.

“Be the ball,” Buddy said in his ear.

Love the ball, Frankie thought.

Of course the casino wouldn’t let him touch the pill. He’d have to befriend it from a distance. “Who’s a good boy?” he said under his breath. “You are. Yes you are. Land on black for me, okay? Black, black, black…”

The croupier glanced at him, then looked back to the table and called, “Black! Twenty-six!”

The Cro-Magnon grunted. Frankie smiled. “Good boy,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later, Frankie and the pill were the best of pals.

Mitzi sat behind her desk, hardly anything visible but that wizened face and a pile of hair, like a shrunken head. “What, no gifts?” she asked.

Frankie tried to smile.

“Because I got to tell you, that philo-ultra-magic whatever put me regular as a Swiss clock.”

“Really?” He felt an egg-sized warmth high in his chest. Hope, or heartburn, or both. “I’ll bring some over next time.”

“And what do you got for me this time?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, but words failed to arrive. He lifted his hands. They hovered there for a second, and then settled nervously on his knees.

Mitzi didn’t seem surprised. She’d probably read the news on his face as soon as he walked in her door.

“You’re at forty-four thousand, five hundred and eleven,” Mitzi said.

Jesus, the interest was killing him. “I know,” he said.

“And seventy-eight cents.”

His hands came up again, failed to get any lift, and came down hard. “I know that’s serious money.” He took a breath. “I was just wondering, maybe you could—”

She cut him off. “I can’t do anything for you, kid. You did this. And now it’s out of my hands.”

“I just thought that maybe, I don’t know, since we’ve known each other so long, you could maybe talk to Nick Senior? Put in a word?”

Mitzi stared at him. “A word? What word would that be? ‘Abracadabra’?”