Theo seemed to hesitate, his eyes flicking toward Jonah then back to me. “Have a good time,” he said. He turned abruptly, leaving Jonah and me alone.
I watched Holly jog to catch up to him.
“Have he and Holly been together long?” I asked.
“By his standards, yes.”
“Oscar and Dena are wonderful people.”
Jonah made a face. “They’re like a bad Vaudeville act.”
I laughed. “Come on. I promised Theo we’d only stay an hour in the casino.”
“Jesus, he’s ridiculous.”
I slid a hand into the crook of his elbow. “He’s his brother’s keeper.”
The casino was a short walk from the restaurant. We stepped inside the slightly dim space where most of the illumination came from slot machines, row upon row of them. A legion of glowing, flashing lights. Cones of bright light blared down on the blackjack tables, reflecting off the dealers’ white shirts and the white cards on green felt.
“What’s your poison?” Jonah said. “Blackjack? Roulette? Poker?”
“Blackjack,” I said.
The casino was crowded and we had to amble far down the line before finding a table with one open seat, immediately to the dealer’s right.
“It’s a five-dollar ante,” Jonah said. “Go for it.”
“There’s no room for you.”
“I’ll watch and coach from afar.”
“I don’t need coaching.”
The eyebrow went up. “The seat to the dealer’s right is the most important seat at the table. You up for that kind of serious responsibility?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I was born ready.” I made to sit down then paused. “Wait. The face cards are worth ten, right?”
Jonah laughed and I took the vacant seat. He stood behind to watch the hand in progress play out.
To the dealer’s left sat two young guys who looked serious about their five dollar antes. Beside them, two older ladies chatted nonstop and played almost as an afterthought—counting their cards’ totals and hitting or staying automatically. Beside them and to my right sat an older gentleman in a ten-gallon cowboy hat and a denim button down shirt. He pulled a packet of Marlboro Reds from the front pocket.
“Sir,” I said. “I’m going to win one hand and then go. Would you mind not smoking until then? Please?”
He eyed me through grizzled skin scrunched up around his eyes, and laughed. “You’re in the hot seat, girlie. You know how to play to win?”
“Watch me,” I said. As the cowboy put his smokes away and I leaned back into Jonah. “How do you play to win?”
“You need chips. Lay your money on the table.”
I put a twenty-dollar bill on the green felt. “I’ll take one chip,” I told the dealer and he gave me one blue-and-white striped chip with a 20 embossed in gold on the front.
“It’s only a five-dollar ante,” Jonah said.
“Go big or go home, right?”
“You got that right, girlie.” Cowboy pulled a red fifty-dollar chip from one of several small towers of chips, and set it as his ante. “Do right by me now, hotseat. I’m countin’ on ya.”
Jonah snickered from behind me.
I leaned back. “Double down on eleven, right?”
“Oh, now you want coaching?” He clucked his tongue.
The dealer—an expressionless man in his late twenties—deftly slid cards out of a chute to each one of us, face up. He dealt himself one down, one up—a three of clubs.
The rest of the players got lucky: nothing lower than seventeen, and Cowboy split his eights, laying another fifty-dollar chip beside his first. He was rewarded with two eighteens, and crowed at his luck.
I was dealt a three of diamonds and a two of hearts.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I muttered.
Cowboy made a face at my cards. “Not good, girlie.”
“You’re telling me. Hit.”
A two of spades.
“Hit,” I said again.
The five of clubs.
“Shit.”
The rest of the table began to grumble.
Jonah leaned over me. “You have twelve. Dealer is showing thirteen—probably.”
“How do you know? Are you the Rain Man?”
Jonah’s grin colored his words. “No, but I’m an excellent driver.”
“Ha ha. Help.”
Jonah crouched down so that his chin hovered just above my bare shoulder. His breath was warm on my neck, sending pleasant little shivers skimming down my spine.
“It’s a safe strategy to always assume the dealer’s downcard is worth ten. More of those in the deck.”
“Okay…”
“So he’s got thirteen, we assume. You have twelve, and your next card’s going to be a face card—”
“How…how do you know?” I tried to keep focus, but God, Jonah smelled good. And his hand rested on my back, his thumb rubbing a soft circle. I didn’t think he even knew he was doing it. I squeezed my legs together.
“Probability,” he answered. “You’ve taken a lot of small cards. Good chance the next one is worth ten. Let the dealer bust with it. Don’t hit.”
The sentiment was vehemently echoed by the other players. “Don’t hit.”
“It’s probable, not definite.” I looked around the table. “Sorry, guys, but I can’t sit on this pathetic twelve.”