Seventeen Black

A moss green covered bottle, inscribed with gold lettering 1950 Macallan, a shot glass at $6000 a dram, sits in front of me. In my breast pocket, a clear sandwich bag, inside close to 1/2 ounce of good cocaine, inside the bag a straw, so I can bend my head and snort right out of the baggie.

Outside a 1962 Ferrari GTO in the parking lot. Sitting inside it a deep l y tanned, yellow haired, beauty, rented just for the occasion. Waiting. . .

A roulette wheel spinning, with a soft click click, smoke curling gently from a cigarette in my hand.
The ball is spun, with a thud, then the voor or voor or. Voor room, click click, SEVENTEEN BLACK. Before the dealer even knows the winning number, I have "topped" the 17 with an orange chip, no one at the table has seen a thing. The pit boss smiles weakly at me as the dealer slides 176 black hundred dollar chips at me.

I'm a master at sleight of hand, "topping" is almost.a lost art. . .almost