In Sydney the blackjack dealers placed the cut card two decks from the end of the shoe, which meant that counting was pointless, and anyway Lucky didn’t think he possessed the ability to count. You had to count on a regular basis, you needed time to practise at home, and time at the table, and supposedly he’d quit gambling, he didn’t have that kind of time. He needed to get his franchise restarted. The dealer kept staying on soft seventeen. Lucky’s long hands moved like the feelers of an insect edging up the wall. At $17,000, a waiter asked if he required a complimentary drink. The dealer asked if he’d like to take a break. The player next to him asked Lucky his name. Lucky said his name was Vasilis because he didn’t want any lame jokes about luck around the table. He nodded a lot, his tongue tied like a person who needed to keep eating. The dealer changed. The new dealer called him Darling, called him Hon, called him Mister. She blew her first hand and Lucky reached a total of $31,200. Not a restaurant yet but part of a restaurant. Which part?

Then the dealer killed him. When he fell to $9000 or so, he heard someone behind him say, ‘Old mate’s lost it’.

The dealer took all his money in six hands. Now she called him Sir. Spectators, a handful, fled in terror towards the roulette tables. A waiter asked if Lucky required a complimentary taxi home.

At home he went to the bedside drawer and took out his address book, found the number and dialled, as he’d promised to do on bad nights like this. He closed his eyes, his flat dark except for the kitchen light, and he pressed the receiver to his ear. To Lucky, the ringtone sounded gravely expressive, already a type of message, a distress signal of someone stranded in an idea. His Gambling Anonymous sponsor was Thanh Truong, a forty-three-year-old building manager in Alexandria. Thanh wouldn’t answer, because he never picked up the phone after 9.30 pm, but Lucky left a message saying he’d call again tomorrow, it wasn’t urgent, nothing to worry about. Calling the number was his way of saying, I’ve stopped. This is the last of last times.

Chapter 9: 1945–1946

1945–1946

1.