"Any Seven"
by Michael Dell

The casino was clearing out. Stragglers, insomniacs, and pros were the only ones left roaming the floor. The tables were doing modest business. Shining rows of slot machines were left empty. The crowds would be back soon. But for now, with her watch ready to trip four in the morning, Stella Stanton felt as though she owned the vibrant, glittering scene around her.

The business trip was over. She'd be on a plane back to Minneapolis at six. Three days in Vegas and she hadn't stepped foot in a casino. Until now.

Stella wasn't much for gambling or wild nights. That's one of the reasons they chose her for the assignment. She was a hard worker. Always had been. And she did what was expected of her. She'd return home with her mission accomplished. They'd shake her hand and tell her what a good worker she was.

But Stella had a secret. She had a new dress. Actually, it would need more material for Stella to consider it a dress. It was quite revealing, almost shockingly so. She would never dare such a thing back home. Yet she bought the dress specifically for the trip, along with matching heels and bag, knowing all along she'd never wear it. She packed the dress and brought it with her, knowing all along she'd never wear it. She hung it in her hotel closet, knowing all along she'd never wear it. Yet there she was, lying in bed, alone, on the night before she was to return home. All the work had been done. She was wide- awake. And the dress was in the closet.

It was 3:30 in the morning by the time she summoned the courage to step into the elevator. The doors shut, reflecting a bright red glow along their inner metallic surface. She watched the little yellow light hop. Was she really going to do this? It seemed like such fun when she was back in the room. Now it was something different. It was real. She felt naked. She felt like a whore. When in Rome, she thought, dress like a Roman whore. She tugged unsuccessfully at the hem of her dress. It wasn't going to get any closer to her knees. The light stopped. The doors opened.

Stella flowed into the exploding colors and sounds of her fantasy. She could feel people looking at her. Men. She was turning heads. She raised her chin and stuck out her chest. Her stride lengthened. Let them look.

She paraded through the casino with graceful limbs and wanton eyes. Sadly, there was no one but sloppy drunks and middle-aged conventioneers to appreciate the show. Feeling somewhat defeated, she settled at a blackjack table. It wasn't long before she had lost $60 and her sense of adventure. She was doing her best to ignore the crude advances of a chubby fellow in a fez hat when she heard applause erupt from a table across the room.

A crowd was gathering. Stella got there in time to get a position along the rail. There was an incredibly handsome man standing at the end of the table, three full racks of chips stacked one on top of the other marking his place. He was surrounded by well-wishers and shouts of encouragement, yet no one touched him. They kept a respectful distance. The man, dressed in the kind of stylish tuxedo Stella thought only existed in movies and magazine covers, wore no expression at all on his strong, chiseled face. His short, coal black hair was slicked to perfection, his jaw hardset, his emerald eyes studying the table before him. Stella had never seen such a man. He was clearly different from the noisy rabble around him, different from even herself.

The stickman called for bets. Stella knew nothing of craps, but she knew enough to bet the same as the man at the end of the table. Her six remaining chips joined his on the seven.

Once all the bets were placed, the stickman pushed a pair of dice to the man. He reached down and seized them with a natural ease that could have only been gained through years of practice. The man shook the dice a few times in his right hand, his golden cufflinks signaling each movement of the wrist, and sent them bouncing the length of the felt.

"Seven. Winner," called the stickman.

More cheering. Stella involuntarily let out a squeal of approval. Winning was fun. The prudent ones that had bet with the man were laughing and counting their new riches. Those that bet against him cursed under their breath and either left the table or doubled their previous wager in an act of stubbornness. The man's expression never changed.

Bets were placed. Once Stella saw that the man left five chips on seven, she allowed half her winnings to stay put. Several others followed her lead. There were still a few that resisted the man's charm.

"Seven. Winner."

Stella clapped her hands with delight. As everyone else greedily gobbled up their winnings, she watched the man at the end of the table. He still didn't move. There wasn't a trace of a smile. The dealer pushed the man's winnings to him, leaving the same amount as the previous two bets on seven. Stella didn't have the guts to let it ride. She pocketed half the chips.

"Seven. Winner."

The screams were of pure joy. Men and women alike were jumping in the air with glee. The room was alive. All save for the stoic figure at the end of the table. Stella split her chips.

"Seven. Winner."

"Son," shouted an old man, "I don't know who you are, I don't know where you came from, but God bless you!" The old man was stuffing his coat pockets with plastic money. "God bless you!"

"Something ain't right," growled a man next to Stella. He was a funhouse mirror of a man, every bit as short and stubby as the shooter was elegant. His greasy hair was pulled across a barren scalp; wire-rimmed glasses pinched his nose, and a bushy mustache crowded his upper lip. He wore an ill-fitting suit that was short in the arms and reeked of cigar smoke. Stella inched away from him as he bet four chips on the field. She made her usual half wager.

"Seven. Winner."

"Hold it!" screamed the man to Stella's left. It was a struggle hearing him above the triumph of the crowd. "Don't touch those dice!"

A man in a suit and tie appeared over Stella's shoulder. "Is there a problem, sir?"

"You bet your ass there's a problem," bellowed the protester, turning to face the table boss. "Those dice are crooked." He pointed angrily to the man in the tuxedo. "He's made twelve straight passes. A seven each time! Something ain't right!"

"I assure you, sir, there's nothing wrong with the dice," said the table boss.

"Who cares if there is?" asked the elderly gentleman from before. "Just shut up and bet seven, ya big dummy."

Stella grinned.

"Because I don't like cheating, win or lose. And something ain't right, I tell ya. He's a cheat!"

Upon hearing the slur, a hush fell over the table and all eyes turned to the man in the tuxedo. He appeared almost bored with the display.

"If this game is on the up and up, let me roll those dice," demanded the protestor.

"You can't break his hot streak!" snapped the old man. Voices from all counties were heard in support. Stella, and the man in the tuxedo, remained silent.

The table boss looked to Stella's hero. He merely gave a slight nod of his head.

"Very well, sir," consented the table boss. The stickman swept the dice to the protester.

"Aw, don't let 'em do it to ya, son!" chirped the old man. His plea went unacknowledged.

The protestor examined the dice carefully. He held them in the clumsy fingertips of each hand and tried as best he could to judge their weight. Then he flipped three chips on seven.

"Place your bets," announced the stickman.

The man in the tuxedo didn't budge. Stella, and just about everyone else at the table, decided to sit this one out. The old man defiantly placed two chips on any craps. He snarled to the protestor, "You're a born loser if I ever saw one."

The protestor shuffled the dice furiously in his hand. "Come on seven."

"Craps. Loser."

The old man's laughter drowned out all other noise. The protestor glared daggers. The stickman returned the dice to the man in the tuxedo, who motioned for his usual bet to be placed on seven.

"I don't know how you're doing it," snarled the protestor, counting off a stack of chips. "But no one can roll thirteen sevens in a row." He slammed his bet on the field.

"Watch! You just watch and see!" roared the old man. "He can do it! That boy down there is a winner, a natural born winner he is. Not like you, ya big dummy."

Swept up in the moment, Stella put all the money she had remaining on the table on seven. She tried not to think of exactly how much was there. She kept telling herself that even if she lost it would be worth the experience.

"Seven. Winner."

Stella nearly fainted. The dealer piled her winnings in front of her in four neat trays. The loudmouth left in a huff. Everyone else was in full celebration.

This time when the dice were pushed towards the man in the tuxedo he made a subtle movement with his left hand. He picked up his chips and started to leave.

"New shooter," announced the stickman.

"Don't quit now, boy, you've got 'em on the run!" shouted the old man. "Give me those dice, sonny. I'll keep it going. I can't lose tonight!"

Stella's hands were shaking as she lifted her chips from the table. She had to hurry. "Hey, wait up..." The man in the tuxedo didn't react. Stella pursued him as best she could. Her dress and heels weren't made for running. And she didn't want to spill her winnings.

"Hey..."

She was finally able to overtake him. They conducted a hurried conversation while walking. "I just wanted to thank you. You won me enough rent money for a year."

"You're welcome," replied the man, never looking her direction.

Stella thought he was even more handsome up close. "How do you do it?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

She was trying to think of something, anything, to keep him talking. "Do you do this sort of thing a lot?"

"Yes."

They reached the cashier's window. The man placed his chips on the counter and pushed them across to an elderly woman behind the glass partition.

"Thank you, Mr. Charles."

"You're welcome, Maxine."

He turned and began to walk away without his money or even so much as a receipt. Stella did a double take. "Aren't you going to...?" He kept moving. Stella pranced after him. She'd cash in later. She knew what she had to do next. Normally she wouldn't think of doing such a thing. She was glad she was wearing the dress. "Listen," began Stella as she reached his shoulder. "Would you like to get a drink or something? My name's Stella, by the way. You know, in case you were wondering or..."

He still didn't look at her or even slow his pace. "No thank you, Stella. I'm grateful for the offer, but I can't."

Undaunted, Stella took another swing. "Are you sure? Because I'm just in town on business. I really don't know anyone here." The man stopped. Stella's heart skipped. "I'm leaving tomorrow," offered Stella as invitation. He produced a quarter from his pocket and pulled the arm of a slot machine. He started to leave while the tumblers were still spinning.

"Don't you want to see if you win?" She took the first few steps after him but froze when she heard the clanging rush of silver. "You won!" cried Stella after the man in the tuxedo. "Don't you want your money?" She looked back to the machine and saw what seemed like millions of quarters pouring from its mouth. They were spilling onto the floor. The man was gone. She hurried to the machine and began scooping quarters into her already plump handbag.

"Let me help you with that," said a voice. Stella looked up and saw a man in tan slacks and a dark blue golf shirt. He looked to be in his mid-50s. He had an old gray fedora on his head and a rolled up newspaper under one arm. He knelt beside Stella and began dropping quarters into a paper bucket.

"Thank you, but it's not really my money." She motioned down the row of machines. "That man that was just here..."

"It's your money now, Miss. If he wanted it he would have stayed. And don't take it too hard."

"Take what too hard?" Had he seen?

"He doesn't keep company with anyone." He had seen. Her embarrassment began to swell. "Trust me, it wasn't personal." Stella didn't say anything. She went back to throwing the last of the quarters into the bucket. "But I'll take you up on that drink offer." Stella didn't know what to say. She was beginning to regret wearing the dress. "Oh, don't worry, Miss, it's nothing like that," assured the man with a gentle tone. "I just thought you could use the company."

"Thank you, but I should really be getting home."

"Suit yourself." The man handed her the bucket. She had to hold it with both hands, her nearly overflowing handbag clutched between her elbow and ribs, the rest of her chips still resting at her feet. "I just thought you'd like to hear his story. Have a good night." The man tipped his hat.

"You know him?" called Stella at his back.

"Sure do," smiled the man. "But it will cost you that drink."

Curiosity carried the day. "Deal." Stella was struggling beneath the weight of her winnings. All told, she had won $16,140. The dress had done its job.

They found a quiet corner in the hotel bar. The man sat opposite Stella. He removed his hat, placing it over his newspaper on the unused portion of the table, and extended a hand. "The name's Henry Barnett."

Stella accepted the greeting. "My name's..."

"Stella," interrupted the man. "I heard it from before."

An arm appeared to place napkins. "What can I get you?" asked a waitress in a short black skirt. Stella blushed at the thought that her own skirt was even shorter.

"A martini, please. No olive."

"A martini drinker, are we?" smiled Henry. "Make it two. And I'll take her olive."

Stella waited until the waitress drifted away. "So how do you know him?"

"Who?" asked the man, stretching a sly grin. Stella gave an angry stare. "Oh, him..." laughed the man. "You got a little thing for him, don't you? Most women do. I first saw him about three years ago."

"Here in Vegas?"

"Yeah. I retired and came out here. I was thirty-one years in the shoe business. I can tell a person's shoe size just by looking at them. A seven, right?"

"Six and a half."

Henry cocked his head to one side in knowing disbelief. "Yeah, six and a half. My mistake." The drinks arrived. Henry's had two olives. They each took a sip. Henry pursed his lips. "Good martini. Where was I?"

"The shoe business," supplied Stella.

"That's right. I was in the shoe business for thirty-one years. But I sold the stores when my wife passed. It will be five years this March." He lowered his eyes and made a sign of the cross over his heart.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you." He took another taste of his martini. "So about four years ago I moved to Vegas."

"Where were you from?" asked Stella, feeling genuine affection towards her new companion.

"Indiana. Yourself?"

"Minneapolis. I go back tomorrow, or I guess later tonight."

"Must be cold up there now."

"Very."

"The weather out here is beautiful. Can't beat it. It can get awfully hot in the summers, but that's why the casinos are air-conditioned."

"You spend a lot of time in the casinos?"

"What else is there for an old man like me to do? It takes the days as well as anything else. In fact, it was in this very casino that I first saw your Mr. Charles."

"Do you know his first name?"

"No. I doubt Charles is even his real name."

"Does he own the place or something? He didn't even cash in his chips."

"He never cashes 'em. Not anymore. He could own this place if he wanted. He could own all of Vegas."

"What is he? A professional gambler?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Henry, taking one of the two olives into his mouth. "It's the closest thing he does to a profession. But it's not his stock in trade."

"What is?" asked Stella.

"Luck."

"Luck?"

"I reckon your Mr. Charles is the luckiest man alive. He's a freak of nature really."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he always wins. I've been watching him now for over three years. I've never seen him lose. It doesn't matter what the game is - craps, roulette, blackjack, poker - he never loses. Why I even saw him take $2500 off a man by calling a coin flip twenty-three times in a row. Twenty-three! And mind you, it wasn't a trick. It was a different coin each time. Yet he kept calling it - tails, tails, heads, tails, heads, heads, heads - twenty-three straight times. He would have kept going, too, if anyone had been stupid enough to keep betting him."

"I don't believe it."

"I saw it with my own eyes. That was back in the early days. He was a lot different back then. He didn't look like Cary Grant, kind of scraggly even. He'd be in here every night winning money. He never won so much to anger anyone. He never crossed that line. He was smart about it. Soon I was seeing him at all the casinos. He'd win money at the tables and then almost as much in the bars. He would bet on anything. He once bet a guy which drop of condensation would reach the bottom of a beer mug first."

"And he won?"

"Of course he won! He always wins. I told you before; I've never seen him lose. Three years and I've never seen him lose."

"Have you ever talked to him?"

"I've tried, same as you. Nothing. He only spoke to make a wager. I was impressed you got as much out of him as you did. But if he won't talk to a pretty little girl like you what chance do I have? But I've watched him. I've studied him. Why I bet I know him better than anyone else around here."

"And you've never seen him with a woman?"

"I've never seen him with anyone, man or woman. He's always alone. But don't kid yourself; the women go for him in a big way. You weren't the first, kid. You won't be the last, either. But he never gives them the time of day."

"He has to be rich."

"Yeah, he has to be. But I don't think he cares. Money doesn't mean a thing to a man like him. What's money when it has no value? It's like water to him. Whenever he needs it he just turns the faucet and out it comes. All he has to do is buy a lottery ticket or roll the dice."

"It looks like he spends a lot on clothes."

"That's the casino. He never used to dress like that."

"What do you mean?"

"He works for the casinos."

"So they let him win?"

"No, nothing like that. He wins on his own. But about a year or so ago he got tired hustling money in barrooms and nickel and diming the casinos. He went to every place in town, hit 'em big, and cut a deal. They thought he was some highroller, so they probably would have comped him everything anyway. But he worked an angle. They agreed to give him a suite at every hotel. They pay for his food, his clothes, any expenses he might have."

"And he just agrees not to break them?"

"It's more than that. He's kind of like a walking advertisement. He goes from casino to casino. He spends a couple nights here, a couple nights there. He bounces around. He gambles a little, nothing major. And he always wins. Joe and Sally America see him winning and think they can win, too. It gives the common man hope. But they can't win like him. Eventually they lose. He never loses. He gets them all stirred up and then he floats away. They lose their money. He gives his back to the casino. And so it goes."

Henry finished his martini. Stella took another long sip of hers. "What about you?" she asked. "Why don't you bet what he bets? You could win a fortune."

Henry's empty glass found the table. "Who says I didn't? I've got enough money in the bank to support my grandchildren's grandchildren. But there comes a point where it's almost like stealing. What's a gamble without the risk?"

"Why don't more people follow him?"

"How much did you see him win tonight?"

Stella recalled his meager stack of chips next to her small city of plastic on the final bet. "Come to think of it, he never bet more than $100 on any roll. But he still hit thirteen in a row."

"And that's all anyone else will remember, that some good looking guy in a tux had some luck at the craps table. He always leaves before the house loses too much. And those people will probably never see him again. They'll be back where they came from soon, filing papers or digging ditches, but they'll always have that memory of winning money in Vegas. And they'll want to come back and try their luck again. But he won't be there next time. He'll be somewhere else. He doesn't come around as often as he used to. You were lucky yourself tonight. This was the first time I had seen him in weeks. I won my money off him early, before the fancy suits and haircuts."

"He never got mad at you for following him around?"

"We kind of have an understanding. I helped him out of a jam once in the early days when one of his barroom bets went sour. He never came right out and thanked me, but one night when I got home I found an envelope in my coat pocket. It had twenty grand in it. No note. No explanation. No nothing. But I knew it was from him. His way of saying thanks."

"Beats a card."

"That it does. Whenever he saw me after that he'd sit in and show me the way. Never spoke one word to me, but I'd follow his lead and win a bundle."

"That was awfully nice of him."

"He's got a kind soul. Tormented, but kind. You can see it if you ever look him in the eyes. There's something going on in there. People are scared to approach him now with the way he dresses. And even if they do, he's cold as ice. If he sees someone getting too close to him, he'll just disappear. Go somewhere else."

"If it's not for the money or the women, why does he do it? He doesn't seem to get any enjoyment out of it at all."

"What's to enjoy? He knows he's gonna win."

"Then why does he do it?"

"I've thought about that a lot over the years. I've gone over every possible motive and there's only one that makes sense." Pause for effect. "He does it to forget."

"Forget what?"

"A loss. You never forget losing. He's trying to win enough to erase the memory of a loss. But it'll never happen."

"What did he lose?"

"Ah ha!" Henry sat bolt upright and pointed a finger in the air. "That's the big mystery!" The storyteller folded his arms in front of him on the table, leaned forward, and whispered, "But you wanna know something?"

Stella copied Henry's movement, leaning forward and yielding her undivided attention.

Henry surveyed the bar with a cautious eye, checking over both shoulders before returning to Stella. "I know! I know what it is he lost."

Stella was eager to hear the rest. Henry sat back in his chair. Stella did the same. But Henry failed to elaborate any further. Stella watched as he rose, slipped the newspaper under his arm, and carefully adjusted his fedora.

"Thank you very much for the drink, Stella. Have a safe trip back to Minneapolis." He touched the brim of his hat and gave her a meaningful smile. He was whistling to himself as he exited the bar.

Stella paid the check, leaving behind a healthy tip for the waitress. She could afford it. Mr. Charles would remain a mystery. It was better that way. Soon all she'd remember is that she saw a good-looking guy in a tux have some luck at the craps table. She decided to walk back through the casino on the way to her room. The lights were still flashing. The tables were filling up. She was thinking about what she'd do with her winnings. She could get her car fixed. Hell, she could buy a new one. She would buy gifts for her parents and sister. She could even buy another new dress. Save the rest for a rainy day.

She was about to press the button for the elevator when she caught a glimpse of a tall, crisp figure by the roulette wheel. She stood at a safe distance and watched him place his bet. He put it on a single number; she couldn't see which. The wheel was spun. His back was to her. His posture was flawless; feet spread, shoulders wide, hands clasped behind his waist. She could see the expectant faces of the others at the table, the dreams of a life improved by the drop of a marble. They never stood a chance.

"Nineteen. Winner."