Aiding and Abetting

Carl Wycliffe looked like a caricature of a vagabond as he dragged himself into the office of Mark Fredericks. The visor of his John Deere cap protruded like a diving board, and his wizened face was shaven in patches. His plaid flannel shirt was buttoned unevenly, his chinos were unzipped, and about six inches of his rope belt dangled from his midsection, giving the initial impression that something far more disturbing was exposed. He sniffed, and tugged at his pants with one hand.

"Mr. Fredericks?" he asked.

With practiced professionalism, Fredericks stood and glided around from behind his desk to greet his visitor. Extending a hand at the end of a dark blue sleeve, he shook firmly, gushing congeniality.

"Mr. Wycliffe. Welcome." His manicured fingers instinctively adjusted the red silk tie framed by the triangle of his $150 blazer. Hit with the stark sartorial difference between the men, Wycliffe lowered his eyes.

Fredericks downplayed the gesture, motioning to a chair in front of his desk. "Please sit, Mr. Wycliffe."

Wycliffe did, glancing nervously around. "Ain't this supposed to be a support group?"

Fredericks laughed, not unkindly. "The support group meets downstairs, Thursdays from seven to nine." He resumed his seat opposite Wycliffe. "Now," he began. "tell me what's troubling you."

Wycliffe's haggard blue eyes moistened. "I was in A.C. last week, at the blackjack table. The nickel table." He swallowed hard, then hesitated until Fredericks nodded encouragingly. "I had a $25 bet. Dealer had a jack and a two showing, and I had a seven and a three." Again he faltered, but regained his composure. "I-I shoulda walked away long before. When I had the three hundred I started with."

"So what did you do then?"

"I asked for a hit. Got a five. Then I asked the dealer for another card. It was a king. At least I had $25 to buy gas for the trip home. " Wycliffe hung his head. "I've lost just about everything because of my gambling. I don't know what to do."

Fredericks was silent for a long time, digesting Wycliffe's confession. Finally he said, "I understand, Carl. May I call you 'Carl?'" Wycliffe nodded. "You have a problem, but I think that I can help you. That's what I do."

Wycliffe turned just a bit hopeful. "Really?"

Fredericks slid open the center drawer of his commodious desk, and extracted a small square package. "First of all, you should have doubled down." With the dexterity of a juggler, Fredericks opened the package and popped out a deck of playing cards. "If you had another twenty-five, you would've gotten that five, and the dealer would've gotten the ten. He would've busted."

Wycliffe looked astonished. "But I thought that . . ."

The maudlin façade was gone. "Thought what? I said I would help you, and I will." Shuffling the cards, he placed a queen of hearts and a second face down in front of himself, and flicked a pair of sixes, diamonds and spades, to a bewildered Wycliffe.

Fredericks beamed. "Perfect, Carl. Now, whaddya do?"

The gambler studied the pair of sixes. "Double down?"

Fredericks shook his head. "Not when there's a chance you could bust. You wanna split." He slid the two sixes apart, and placed two more cards above them, a four and a five of hearts.

"Incredible! Come on, Carl; this is a no-brainer!"

Wycliffe grinned fiercely. "Now I double down!"

Fredericks slapped a single card perpendicularly across each set. Ten and king of spades. Both men whooped simultaneously, then high-fived each other.

Fredericks wiped his brow. "That's what I'm talkin' about!" Neatly collecting his cards, he said, "Now, let's go over a few rules."

Folding his hands patiently, Wycliffe listened as his new mentor summarized the basic blackjack strategies.

Fredericks leaned forward. "Do you follow?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Let's see. Dealer has a two showing, you have eight. What do you do?"

"Hit me."

"Dealer shows a ten, you have 17."

"Stand."

"Dealer 16, you 11."

"Double down!"

"Yes!"  

Leaning back in his leather office chair, Fredericks folded his arms behind his head. Suddenly he returned to an upright position. 

"What casino do you play at?"

Wycliffe blinked. "The Pyrite Palace."

Fredericks slapped his forehead. "The Pyrite Palace? The name should tip you off. Go to The Centurion. They only use six decks instead of eight, and if you catch the bus from Sweeney's Mini-Mart on 5th and Lombard, you get your entire $20 back, plus a $10 food coupon. No worrying about driving or buying gas. And lay off the nickel tables. That's kid's play."

Tears of joy stung Wycliffe's eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Fredericks."

"Please. Mark."

Wycliffe sniffled. "Thank you, Mark. Do I owe you anything?"

Fredericks shrugged. "$25, if that's okay."

Wycliffe withdrew five five-dollar bills from a creased wallet and set them on the desk. Tipping his John Deere cap, he turned to go, then stopped, and faced Fredericks again.

"Is there anything else I should know, Mark?"

"Do you play roulette?"

Wycliffe nodded. "Sometimes."

"Come back next Monday at about three."

Wycliffe smiled. In another 15 seconds Fredericks was alone in his office again, but his solitude was short-lived. Five minutes later, a dumpy, disheveled woman of about 60 waddled into the room. In her hand she clutched a brown leather purse.

"Mrs. Smedley?"

She nodded sadly.

"Have a seat."

She did. Then with a huge sigh, she recounted how she had lost over $1,000 last month betting on the Daily Number.

"I understand, Mary," he said. "May I call you 'Mary?'"

A nod. Fredericks continued.

"The state lottery pays 500 to one on the Daily Number," he explained. "But a bookie will give you 600 to one odds. Now how does that sound?"

Mary Smedley sat up straight. She smiled.

Copyright Allan M. Heller