"Seventeen, red," fat Dorlup proclaimed to the croupier in a Reno gambling joint.
The wheel spun, the ball clicked, rattled, jumped with it.
"Seventeen, red," declared the croupier in an awed voice as he raked a tall stack of chips toward the one Dorlup had placed in the red seventeen. Dorlup gathered the stack in with his pudgy arms and deposited it carelessly in the growing mountain of chips nearby.
"You're wonderful," the honey-blond solidio actress told him, squeezing his arm to add emphasis.
There was no shaking Beti, not since that day, months ago, when she had steered Dorlup into the Automat in New York. Since then he had been across the country three times, and she with him. He had gained a lot of source material for his solidio, and it amused him after a few days when he realized Beti was spying on him for someone. He didn't care, since he had nothing in particular to hide. And, anyway, there were certain joys of which Beti was truly the mistress, despite the vacuum which seemed to exist inside her skull.
"You are wonderful," Beti said again.
Dorlup patted her hand without real affection. "Everyone in here thinks I have a system. The system to beat the game, I might add. There is only one system. I know that system. Roulette wouldn't have a chance where we come from."
"It all rides on eight, black," Dorlup told the croupier.
"All?" The man's polish had cracked.
"All."