"Kevin O'Donnel Jr. - The Hand is Quicker" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

My series of somersaults was ending. With practiced ease I slapped my feet down and leaned
backwards just a bit so I wouldn't fall flat on my face. Then I did the same with the other me, and slipped
us both back to my body so I could see through eyes again. My hearing snapped back quickly, and I
could tell from the murmur of the other bettors that I'd made my point. My eyes focused just in time to
see a handтАФlarge, suntanned, callused, and somehow competent lookingтАФscoop the dice up.
"Harry, check these," I heard a graveled voice say. The hand with the dice swung a few inches
through the air and opened over another hand, this one pale and slender, with long and delicate fingers
that reminded me of a piano player I once knew. The dice dropped and I knew that I could be in a lot of
trouble very soon.
I let my eyesight wander up from the dark hand to the rumbling voice. I studied the curly black hair
on the back of the hand, the starched cuff of the astonishingly white shirt, the smooth silk of the black
tuxedo, and the bulge at the shoulder that suggested I had best be quiet and well-mannered to this
individual. Then I looked at the face. As bronzed as the hand that had taken my dice, it was flat,
wrinkle-free, andтАФif you allow me to ignore the polite smile that everyone knew was there only for
showтАФicily expressionless.
"Sir?" I asked inquiringly. "We would like to speak to you for a moment, Mr.тАФ?" The voice was
quiet, and as polite as the smile, but a dual air of authority and menace hung behind its soft words.
"Mr. Jones," I offered helpfully. "Mr. Irving Tecumseh Jones." I paused for a moment and became
aware of the others pressed against the table. Many were curious, a few were concernedтАФbut all were
relieved that I was being removed. I smiled sadly and agreed it would be convenient to speak to him.
We stepped away from the table and I heard the now empty dice clatter their unguided way across
the green felt. We said nothing to each other as we moved slowly through the crowded casino; there
really was nothing to be said.
His office was quiet after the dull roar of the gaming rooms; the air was fresher, though it still
smacked of the machines that had processed it. My husky guide waved me into a soft leather chair, and
moved around the broad mahogany desk to his own seat. During the short silence that followed, I
glanced around the room. There were several nice paintings that I perhaps unjustly assumed to have safes
behind them, and quite a few long bookcases stuffed with fat works on statistics and probability theory.
The rest of the office was done in soft pastels and natural wood, a decoration scheme so carefully
planned that it was difficult to notice the room had no windows. Or it would have been difficult, were I
not feeling so ensnared.
The manager broke the silence at last. "Mr. Jones," he began in a confident voice, "our table man tells
us that he thinks there's something a bit unusual about yourтАФahтАФperformance with the dice. I'd like to
ask you some questions."
"What is this?" I demanded, trying to throw him off balance. "I meanтАФ"
"Please, Mr. Jones. First, how much have you won tonight?"
"Ten thousand dollars, butтАФ"
"Ten thousand dollars. I see." He sounded like a jury foreman pronouncing the word "guilty."
"Now wait one minute," I protested. "That was pure luck. I won that moneyтАФ"
"Mr. Jones, if our table man is correctтАФand he usually isтАФyou have neither lost more than twenty
dollars nor won less than a hundred dollars on any single throw."
I felt sick. I'd been afraid that they'd notice me if I just kept winning, so I'd made sure to lose
frequently; however, I couldn't bring myself to throw away too much of that good green stuff. I'd tried to
disguise it by continually changing the intervals and amounts, but they'd found out after all. Shit. "So what
the hell does that have to do with anything except my luck?"
"Mr. Jones, it makes us very suspicious when something like that happens. The odds, you see, are
highly against it." He waved his hand at the shelves of math books and leaned back in his chair. "So, Mr.
Jones, we're trying to find out how you did it. Unless you'd care to tell us, and save us all that trouble?"
He raised his eyebrows in query. I shook my head. He shrugged, and pressed a button on the chrome
panel inserted into his desk. A muted chime sounded, and immediately a respectful voice answered: