The Wildcat accepted the invitation. Here was a chance to retrieve the price of the drinks. He walked over to the corner. "Whah at's de bones?"
In allowing his opponent to supply the weapons he had committed a serious technical error, but the only other dice in the crowd were the taper cubes belonging to the Mud Turtle, and the Wildcat knew that the production of these dice in that congregation would probably result in his immediate disintegration under the blades of some hungry social razors.
The boy on the opposite side of the table spoke. "Shoots fifty dollahs!"
"You sho' starts blooded." The Wildcat peeled fifty dollars from his roll. "You'se faded. Roll 'em."
The boy rolled them, and an ace-dooce bloomed under the electric light.
A grunt of disappointment went up from several interested veterans of the Banded Brothers gathered around the table, and the rabbi plunged his way into the crowd. He used a few words not commonly included in a rabbi's vocabulary. "Git out o' de way. Gimme dem dice. How come you makes dis mistake?" He took the dice from the loser. "Wilecat, Ah shoots fifty dollars!"
The Wildcat divided his winnings and laid fifty dollars on the table. "Rabbi, roll 'em."
The rabbi breathed a fervent prayer upon the speckled cubes and cast them away from him into the outer darkness. "Freckle tops, git right! Bam! I reads seven. Lets it lay. Shoots a hund'ed!"
"Roll 'em, you'se faded." The Wildcat trimmed himself for another hundred.
The rabbi made another throw. "Luck dice, ketch dat Wilecat. Whuff! An' dey says five an' a six. Dey sho' is lucky."