He separated the chips into four neat piles. He pushed a pile each at the two women, one to the man. The last he kept for himself.
"Place your bets, folks," he repeated.
Nobody did, but that was okay anyhow. Grinning happily, he made bets for them. One of the women—the one that was redheaded—looked to him as if she might be a plunger. He shoved her pile of chips over onto zero and then he gave her a friendly little wink. The other woman was the careful type, he thought. Her chips—not all of them, of course—he shoved for red. He disposed of the man perfunctorily: ten dollars on plain number nine. His own bet was due a little more deliberation. He carefully spread around five hundred dollars until the strip looked as if eighteen people were playing it all at once.
The effort made him sweat. He reached for his bottle, emptied it, then dropped it on the fallen croupier.
"Folks," Gannett said in an apologetic tone, "you'll have to pardon me a minute. It seems I'm out of fuel. Don't go away; I'll be right back."
Everybody was agreeable. Gannett went back to the bar, went around behind it.
He said to the barman: "I got a party out there, Doc. A big party, see? The house might stand to make a mint. How's about drinks?"
The barman considered it. The barman was still considering it when Gannett went back to the wheel with a fifth of scotch and four glasses and a dish of olives. He made drinks. In each one he put an olive. By this time, of course, he was getting a little loud, but nobody could blame him for that. When the drinks were made and placed before the two women and the man, he was ready. He grinned around, rubbed his hands together and winked a sly little leering wink at the redhead.
The wheel spun, stopped. Zero. The redhead had brought down the house.