Chapter 57 - Because We're Birdbrains
I wondered what a small neighborhood casino would look like.
And what kind of person the dealer Marcello mentioned was.
Let's go see for ourselves.
I led the members, who were about to enlist in boot camp, to the casino.
When they complained about not having enough money to bet, I handed out two dollars each.
"Today, I'm going to turn this into a hundred!"
"Gotta earn some brownie points for my mom before enlistment."
"What's life, anyway!?"
Gavin and a few others shouted boldly, but Drift, who was confident about becoming a military driver, had some concerns.
"But what if they recognize us? We robbed them twice—if they hear our voices, we could be screwed."
"If that happens, just play dumb. What are they gonna do? If they hit me, I'll just say thank you. If they shoot me, even better."
Honestly, sometimes I can't tell if these guys are brave or just stupid.
Of course, I was counting on that.
Right now, the entire US is focused on entering the European War. The newspaper headlines are filled with stories about the first draftees reporting to boot camp
But what if a soldier about to enter boot camp gets killed in a casino?
Not only would the police get involved for violating the Selective Service Act, but Army investigators would step in as well. To monitor and protect other draftees, they'd likely raid every casino in Manhattan.
And if they caught the killer, they'd slap on an additional charge of wartime obstruction, which could mean the maximum possible sentence.
Anyway, whether we died here or on the battlefield, we were draftees with nothing left to fear.
That mindset and attitude became clear right at the casino entrance.
"Don't stop us. I brought my life savings to make one last bet before I ship out."
"..."
"When we clean you out, don't get in the way—keep those doors wide open."
Laughing, we waved off anyone blocking the door and walked right inside as if we owned the place.
I was the only one who got stopped.
"And you? Who are you supposed to be?"
"What do you think? I'm here to gamble."
Gavin glared sharply and said,
"He's with us. We're going all in today, so don't try to stop us. You guys don't pick and choose your customers, do you?"
Because of the rivalry between Naples and Sicily, they were actually wary of Italian customers.
Besides, it was ridiculous for these guys—who barely had any capital to operate—to be picky about who walked in. Soon enough, they stepped aside and pointed toward the basement stairs.
"Okay, let's go!"
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
Excited, I slowly followed behind the other members as they hurried down.
When the iron door opened, the casino we entered was thick with cigarette smoke and had a gloomy atmosphere.
The people inside were so absorbed in their games they didn't even notice us walk in.
Roulette, poker, three-card, faro, craps.
As we walked past the tables, people started glancing at me one by one.
"Looks like we've got a friend who's realized cards are better than mahjong. You'll learn a lot more soon enough."
An old man chuckled as he downed his whiskey. The reactions around us were similar.
It wasn't exactly mockery or jeering—
They were just curious about a new Asian face showing up among the regulars.
I wandered around the tables, pretending to be a clueless newbie, but finally stopped when I reached the craps table.
Craps is a game played with two dice.
Like the other casinos in Tenderloin, it was also the most popular here.
The rules are simple.
You roll two dice, and depending on the numbers, you win or lose.
When the shooter—the person rolling the dice—makes their first toss (the Come out roll), getting a 7 or 11 means an instant win, while rolling a 2, 3, or 12 means an immediate loss
If you roll a 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, or 10 here, that number becomes the 'point.'
At this stage, you roll again—if you get a 7, you win; if not, you keep rolling until you hit the point number.
Players place bets based on whether they predict the shooter will win or lose.
A bet on the Pass Line is betting on a win, while those betting on Don't Pass Line are wagering on a loss.
Because you only need two dice to play craps, you can often spot people playing in the streets.
"I'll be the shooter this time."
"Oh, looks like you've got a good feeling. In that case, I should bet on a loss."
"Damn."
The person rolling the dice—known as the shooter—is always one of the players.
This shooter placed 50 cents on the Pass Line.
Some people followed his bet, while others bet on the opposite side, the Don't Pass Line, and the betting amounts on the Don't Pass Line were roughly double.
Looking tense, the shooter blew on the two dice, then threw them onto the table with a shout.
"Come out roll!"
Everyone's eyes followed the dice as they clattered across the table.
Eventually, the two dice added up to seven.
Cheers and groans erupted at the same time.
"Shooter wins."
With the shooter's victory, the Pass Line won.
At the craps table, the dealer's role is split between the Box man, who supervises the game and handles the money and bets, and the Stick man, who uses a long stick to collect the dice and bets.
At Tenderloin, there would usually be three dealers crowding around the craps table, but here, a single person managed everything.
His face was expressionless—his eyes were exhausted, weighed down by dark circles. The dealer with curly hair used a stick to rake in the dice and the lost bets.
By the way, a common craps scam happens right at this moment, when the stick is used to collect things. This is when the dice can be switched out.
The swapped dice contain a device inside to adjust the weight, making it possible to control which numbers come up.
For example, say the shooter wins three times in a row. Statistically, the chance of a loss is higher next, so people start betting on the Don't Pass Line.
And that's when the dealer swaps in the loaded dice to make the shooter win a fourth time.
Of course, the more the same result repeats, the higher the probability it appears rigged, and the bigger the bets get. At this point, the dealer endures intense stress from having to face the anger of those who lose—just like now.
"Shit, it's been seven rounds in a row where it's a 7 or 11. Does this make any sense? Dealer, come on, tell me! You screwed with the dice, didn't you?!"
An enraged customer glared fiercely at the dealer.
In larger casinos, there are employees—so-called shills—planted among the players. They play the role of mocking angry losers, calling them idiots, and smoothing things over.
But here, there's nothing like that.
The dealer has to handle everything alone.
The other staff members just watched, waiting to see what the angry customer would do next.
In fact, it was actually better for the staff—meaning the gang members—if the customer started making a scene and breaking things, because that gave them an excuse to take even more from him. These were the typical tricks used by small-time thugs running underground casinos.
While the furious customer was shouting at the dealer, a group of rough conscripts swaggered over, lazily scratching themselves.
"Hey, if you lost your money, just get lost."
"Did the dealer throw the dice himself? What are you whining for?"
"And who the hell are you to butt in, you bastards?!"
"Oh, look at this guy, gonna take a swing at me? Go ahead, hit my right cheek. I'll stick out my left for you next."
They pretended to care about keeping the casino in order.
Gavin drove the troublemaker away from the table and took over their spot himself.
"I'm settling things right here! Let's go!"
The rest of the members prowled around the place, wandering into employee corridors and getting thrown out, stirring up the casino like outlaws
I stared intently at the face of Lenny Goldstein, the exhausted craps dealer.
When our eyes met, he gave me a faint smile—a resigned, sorrowful one he wore out of obligation.
I didn't join the game; I just watched. I wanted to smack the back of Gavin's head for losing four rounds in a row, but I held myself back.
Is he even human.
"Man, screw it. I don't care anymore."
Gavin pushed all his remaining money—seventy cents—onto the Pass Line.
***
It was 2 p.m.
It was about time to head over to the Hell's Kitchen Gunsmith for firearms practice.
I took the money from my pocket and made my first and last bet, on the opposite side of Gavin.
"Five dollars? What kind of lunatic is putting a curse on me...?"
Gavin, turning around irritably, locked eyes with me. He twitched his lips and struck a grim, determined pose, signaling he was going all in.
"I'm winning this one."
"We'll see."
"Dealer, roll the dice!"
Gavin stood up and reached out his hand The Dealer flinched and handed over the dice.
Hooo— Ptui, ptui.
Disgustingly, Gavin even spat on the dice, then closed his eyes as if in prayer.
By now, the other Members had gathered around, watching the game unfold with great interest.
"Here goes! Give me a 7, 11!"
At last, with a shout, Gavin threw the dice.
One die rolled and landed on a 1. The other die came up 2.
"Three. Shooter loses!"
The Dealer swept up the dice and Gavin's money on the Pass Line with his stick. Immediately after, he distributed the winnings on the Don't Pass Line to the bettors at one-to-one odds.
"They always say Marcello wins when he's here. Looks like it's true."
As the Dealer set five dollars down in front of me, he glanced nervously in my direction.
Meeting his gaze, I set aside one dollar out of my ten as the Dealer's tip.
"Let's go, it's time."
I patted Gavin's shoulder as he clutched at his hair in frustration.
Gavin let out a groan, but it was actually the Dealer who seemed more flustered by my suggestion.
He glanced around at the other staff, then ran his hand wearily over his face.
***
A secret office inside the casino. As soon as the Ireland crew left, Lenny Goldstein was summoned by the Boss.
"Are you an idiot? Can't even roll the dice right? Do you realize how much you just lost us?"
Pacífico, the Neapolitan gang member, had placed a steel pipe on the desk as he berated Lenny.
"They were first-time customers. I was just trying to let them win a little. That's how you get regulars..."
"Regulars, huh? Sure, you're right. They do get hooked after a win. Even if they lose everything today, they'll be back for that thrill tomorrow. Am I wrong?"
But this wasn't the time for that.
"We might have to shut down tomorrow, so what's the point in making regulars? Huh? Didn't I tell you to squeeze out every penny you can, even if it's just one cent?"
"...I'm sorry."
Suddenly, Pacífico nodded.
"If you're sorry, I'll dock it from your pay."
"What?"
"You said you're sorry. Was that just talk? Are you going to change your story now, college boy? Or should I bring your whole family here and put them to work?"
Son of a bitch.
Lenny clenched his teeth hard.
"Oh, what's this? Can't even keep your face in check? If you don't want to die, smile, you bastard."
Pacífico pressed the end of the steel pipe hard against Lenny's chest.
Lenny forcibly pulled up the corners of his trembling lips into a smile. He barely held back the tears welling up in his eyes.
Maybe he should have just gone to college and lived like an ordinary student, worked a legal job even if it paid less.
None of this would've happened then.
But part of him resented that idea.
His passion for math was already gone.
Landing a corporate job or becoming a professor and leading a mediocre life didn't suit him.
He had no interest in honor.
Right now, even in this moment, what squirmed inside Lenny was his craving for money.
I won't let myself fall apart this easily.
If I can just get through this crisis, I'll start over.
Telling himself this was the only way Lenny managed to survive each day.
He left the office and walked over to the Craps Table.
When he made eye contact with the other dealers, they all wore bitter expressions.
If the dealers had even a shred of hope, it was that the casino owner might change.
Everyone was secretly wishing for the Sicily gang to kill Boss Pacifico.
***
On the way to visit the Gunsmith in Hell's Kitchen, each person talked about what they'd seen inside the casino.
"There was a door at the end of the casino. When I tried to go in, some guys desperately blocked me."
"I tried to get in there too but was stopped. I caught a glimpse and saw there was an office and some stairs going out the back."
"So that's probably where the gang members come and go."
They quickly mapped out the casino's layout in their minds, then the group stopped by a pharmacy for a moment.
"Is someone sick?"
"No, I just need to buy a few chemicals."
At pharmacies in this era, you could get ahold of pretty much any common chemical.
He grabbed some potassium nitrate and sodium bicarbonate, then looked for sorbitol refined from sugar, but it wasn't something you could easily find in stores yet.
He settled for ordinary sugar instead.
"What are all those for?"
"You'll see soon enough—once on the battlefield."
"!"
He left them wondering, just as he was about to pay for his things when a poster behind the pharmacist caught his eye.
A man was carrying a fish, advertising a supplement made from cod liver oil, rich in vitamins A and D—the kind kids often take.
You might doubt the effectiveness of supplements in this era, but if you consider that it's made from natural ingredients rather than synthetic vitamins, it's not a bad choice.
I should give some to Roa and Liam.
***
When they reached the alley where the Gunsmith was, they pulled up their scarves and went inside—only to find those punks they thought were gone had gathered there in numbers.
Some familiar faces suddenly stood up from their seats.
Just as expected—these blockheads never learn, even after that beating...
"Marginals!"
"Hello, sir!"
Suddenly, they all rushed forward and greeted him.
From the back, Gavin and the other members waved their hands and stepped up.
"Quit hanging around here and get to work, you punks. Yolyn, when do you get home?"
"... I'm planning to go back today."
"Tom, what's your older brother been up to lately"
"I haven't seen him in a long time either. But that guy... I mean, that gentleman over there."
One of the guys who got beaten up earlier awkwardly pointed at me. Gavin just shrugged and answered,
"He's our Boss."
"What!?"
Now that I think about it, Hell's Kitchen is Marginals' turf.
We all sort of know each other, at least by association.
As the Kids gasped in shock behind me, I walked up to the steel door of the Gunsmith, and the members spoke in nostalgic tones.
"A few years ago, we were just like them."
"Yeah. Back then, no one could step foot into this alley without our say-so."
"If anyone tried, we'd smash them to pieces—who did they think they were."
They all squared their shoulders, puffing themselves up.
Suddenly, I couldn't help but ask,
"Why do you even guard the alley?"
"… Because it's our alley?"
"That's right. It's our territory."
To me, their answer just sounded like, 'Because we're birdbrains.'
Thud, thud.
When I knocked on the steel door, a pair of eyes appeared, scanning us up and down before narrowing in a frown.
"So these are the out-of-season birdbrains you brought, huh."
"See, I knew you'd think the same thing as me."
"Aw, come on, old man—that's harsh."
"We've grown up, you know."
"Believe it or not, we'll be soldiers soon, soldiers."
Clang.
The door opened, and the Gunsmith looked at each of us in turn, giving a small nod.
"Well, you are old enough now to head off to war."
Inside, through the crack in the door, a pair of eyes flashed—Hazel was staring intently at the envelope I held.
Then she pointed back and forth between the envelope and herself.
If it's a gift, it's a gift.
After all, we'd be making smoke grenades together.
Clang.
The steel door closed, and we moved down to the shooting range on the second basement level.