William F. Buckley Jr. by Brothers No More

lost; put up most of his remaining francs, lost. He told the croupier he would be back, he was going to the bar to have a drink. The croupier nodded. A little less deferentially than before, Danny noticed.
    The bar, with its gilt trappings, smoky mirror and tiny lit oil paintings of turn-of-the-century French Riviera, was not crowded, but the half-dozen men and one woman who sat on the fancy stools or stood alongside, drinking champagne, were animated; all of them, it seemed, talking at one time. Danny went to the corner and ordered a whiskey, pulling out one of his two remaining bills to pay for it.
What in the hell do I do now?
Henry would be here the day after tomorrow. But there was no way Henry would arrive carrying three hundred and fifty dollars. Fenniman was the only hope. Would he succeed in scratching up the money?
    He noticed the man with the goatee and the cigarette. He was of course dressed formally, wearing black tie like everyone else, but there was a red sliver on the vest pocket that suggested a decoration of some sort. And he acted the grandee in his gesture to the man at the bar. Danny thought his face unappetizing, even rancid. Still, he was happy for any distraction and clearly the man was summoning Danny’s attention.
    The count, or whatever he was, approached him and said fraternally, in an English heavily handicapped by the French accent, that he had been observing Danny’s table and had remarked an extraordinary coincidence—but would Monsieur not join him ina whiskey? My treat? Danny nodded and the count signaled to the bartender.
    What was the coincidence? Danny asked.
    “That you haff been loossing consistently, even while Madame Déboulard hass been winning consistently.”
    “She the lady over there, on my right?”
    He nodded, extending his long fingers in the direction of the gaming room. “I am Paul. Paul Hébert, at your service. I try to do what I can to make Madame Déboulard comfortable.”
    Danny put his glass down on the bar and extended his hand. “You undertake to make the lady comfortable. Does that include making the right numbers turn up on the wheel?” He smiled and downed his drink.
    Paul Hébert shrugged his shoulders and lit another cigarette. Danny tried to blow the count’s smoke away. The tobacco smoke around the bar seemed static. There was no current of air, though the temperature was comfortable.
    “I am begging your pardon about that.” Paul Hébert waved his right hand about fussily, to help fan away the smoke. “But on ze, er, mattair of making Madame Déboulard happy, it iss just possible you have something that can be of service.”
    Danny looked at him concentratedly. He paused for a moment. Then, “Like?”
    His eyebrows told Paul Hébert, who perhaps wasn’t a count after all, that Danny had a good idea what he had that might be of service to a slightly older woman.
    “
Exactement.
” Paul Hébert confirmed Danny’s suspicion, sipping from his glass of champagne, his eyes on Danny.
    Well
, Danny thought. He had read about such situations. For a moment it crossed his mind that maybe the roulette wheel
was
, somehow, fixed.
    Impossible.
    But it was one hell of a coincidence. He had lost practically every time, while the beautiful blonde had won practically every time, he could not help notice. He felt beads of sweat on his brow. He leaned over the bar and finished his drink.
    What exactly were the alternatives? Jail? Workhouse? The guillotine?
    “I don’t give my, er, talents cheaply.” His voice was a little hoarse. He paused, and cleared it. “As a matter of fact, I have never done it … commercially before.”
    “Maybe that is why you haff attrack Madame so much. On zee other mattair, Madame Déboulard iss very generous.”
    “Like how generous?”
    “For the evening, seventy-five thousand francs.”
    “I require exactly twice that,” Danny said, breathing deeply; $425—he did the quick arithmetic—would take care of him. But surely