"—just the two of us," she continued, "alone."
Hank swallowed with difficulty. And stayed. Who wouldn't?
So I put him up at my apartment. At first he demurred.
"I don't wanta be no expense to you, Jim," he protested.
But he wasn't. Because one night I took him to the College Clubbe, a gambling joint on the outskirts of town. He looked awful in a rented dinner jacket; the smartly garbed croupiers laughed when he walked into the casino. But he who laughs last, laughs last. We moved to the roulette table and watched for a few minutes.
Finally red came up three times running. So when the croupier called for bets, I laid a couple chips on the black. Hank frowned. As the white ball rattled around in its groove he reached out suddenly, moved my chips to the other side of the board, to the red.
I said, "Hey, wait a minute, guy! Don't be a—"
Then the ball stopped rolling and the attendant purred, "Twenty-one red, passé!" and raked to my little bet an equal number of chips.
I pointed at the neat, even rows of chips and bills stacked before the croupier.
"You see that stuff, my friend? That's money, not hay. You may be a genius at some things, but this is the old gambola. A risk any way you look at it. Lay off my bets!"