My blackjack game had just gone dead. It was a Saturday night, about two-thirty in the morning. It was just starting to quieten down. I was happy. I had pumped cards all night, and was pleased to have a break. Then she walked up.
“Hi!” she said, with a smile, and a distinct stagger.
“Hi!” I replied, with a smile, all the time thinking “get lost”.
“So where did everyone go?” she asked.
“Probably to bed.” I shrugged. “It’s getting late.”
“Can I get a cocktail?” she ignored my subtle hint.
“Cocktails!” I bellowed.
“Okay Shirley”, she said reading my name tag, “let’s play some cards!” She clicked the fingers on both hands.
“Okay.” I said, secretly meaning, “get lost!” I waited for her to buy in with cash.
“So where are my chips?”
“You didn’t give me any money yet.”
“No, no, where are my chips?” she looked around the table.
“I’m sorry?” She was obviously drunk as a skunk.
“I left them right here!” She tapped the betting spot in front of her. “I had over two hundred dollars!”
“I think you’re at the wrong table.” I guessed. I’d never seen her before in my life.
“No! You were dealing to me!” She patted the table. ‘I was right here all night!”
I started thinking back to who was on my game before it went dead. It wasn’t one of those games where the same players sat there all night, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t one of the people who had been at my game.
“I think you’re at the wrong table.” I told her again.
“No!” She was adamant. “You were dealing to me. I was right here!”
“I don’t think so. Maybe you…”
“Listen bitch! You think I don’t know what you people do! You wait for us to go to the bathroom, and then steal our money!” She was leaning across the table snarling at me. “Where’s my f**king money?” she was salivating.
“Floor!” I called out. I started clicking my fingers trying to get someone’s attention.
“Joyce?” A voice called from the table next to mine. “Why are you over there?”
She turned, and peered. A man, who I assumed she belonged with, was beckoning for her to come and sit in the seat next to him.
“Oh.” she said. “This is not my table.” she rose and staggered to the next one.
Will, was the dealer. He was black, stood about six foot five, two hundred and fifty pounds. I’m white, five foot five, a hundred and fifteen, with red hair. Guess we all look the same after a few Bahama breezes!