A Game of Chance
Otto Metzger was a desperate man. In less than twenty-four hours he would more than likely be dead. He owed the mob fifty thousand dollars, and he had no way of repaying it. In a last desperate effort to get out of the mess he was in, he had pawned everything of value he owned and gone to Las Vegas, hoping to run up a winning streak to the tune of fifty thousand. Unfortunately, he was not a lucky man. His current situation was proof of that.
Otto lit the last of his cigarettes and sat back in his threadbare La-Z-Boy recliner—the sole piece of furniture left in the dingy studio apartment. The blinking neon light from the bar across the street and the glowing end of the Marlboro provided the only illumination in the small, dark room. Even if Otto hadn't pawned the lamp, it wouldn't have done him much good since the power company cut off the electricity two weeks earlier.
As he watched the bar's sign blinking on and off, Otto wondered how "the boys" would exact their payment. He knew it would be too much to hope for that they'd use a single shot to the head. No, they would want to set an example. They would take their time killing him, extracting as much pain and fear from the ordeal as possible. When they were done, they'd dump his battered body in an area where it was sure to be found. How else could it serve as a deterrent to others who might foolishly borrow money they couldn't repay?
Otto smoked the cigarette down to the filter and then threw the butt onto the linoleum floor. He wished he had a radio or television to help pass the time, but such simple luxuries others take for granted were long gone from his life. He could remember a time, not too long ago, when he had a wife and a daughter and owned a house in the suburbs with a two-car garage and a swimming pool. Sylvia had stuck with him for many years and had tried to help him overcome his addiction to gambling, but in the end, she left him, taking their ten-year-old daughter with her. Otto never blamed her. After all, he lost one job after another and got deeper into debt. Their cars were repossessed, and the bank foreclosed on their mortgage. He was spiraling down an abyss of self-destruction, and his wife and daughter had been in danger of being sucked down with him.
While strolling down memory lane, Otto dozed off. He was awakened by footsteps in the hall outside his door.
They're here already, he thought with a stab of pure terror.
It was not that he was afraid to die. In a way he welcomed death. He was only afraid of the agony he would have to endure before his body, at last, gave up the ghost.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Mr. Metzger," a voice called softly, "Are you in there?"
The handle turned and the door opened. The silhouette of a lone man appeared in the doorway. Otto took hope. With only one hitman, maybe his end would be a merciful one.
"There you are, Mr. Metzger," the stranger said as light from an unknown source suddenly flooded the apartment. "I almost didn't see you sitting over there." The man looked around the shabby room and added with an amused smile, "Now that I've had a good look at this place, I can't say that I blame you for preferring the dark."
The doomed man stared up at his guest. He was no common street thug, no goon who had been sent to break Otto's legs. Nor was it likely that he was a professional hitman. The expensively tailored suit his guest was wearing was not one to be worn to an execution.
"You were expecting someone else, weren't you? Perhaps someone wearing brass knuckles?"
"Frankly, yes."
"I think you watched too many James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart movies when you were a kid."
"You mean you haven't been sent here to claim a pound of flesh?"
The man laughed heartily, but there was little humor in the sound.
"Otto, my boy, your flesh isn't worth fifty thousand dollars a pound! Besides, I'm not here on behalf of the Romano family. I'm what you might call an independent contractor."
"Well, then, just who are you and what do you want?"
"I am Satan, a.k.a., the devil, and I have come here because I want your soul."
"Yeah, right! Where are your horns, pitchfork and cloven foot? Where's your red cape?" Otto asked facetiously.
"Why must humans always resort to unflattering stereotypes? Look, I am who I say I am. You want proof?"
With a snap of his fingers, the mysterious stranger metamorphosed from an urbane gentleman to the Halloween caricature of the Prince of Darkness. Flames surrounded the figure in the red cape and licked at his pointed tail.
"Is this more convincing?" the devil asked, and then just as quickly he resumed his previous, innocuous appearance.
"Let's assume you are who you say you are," a shaken Otto reasoned, "why would you want my soul? As you said yourself, I'm hardly worth fifty thousand dollars."
"Your hide may not be worth the money, but your soul is priceless. After all, the human body has a very limited lifespan, but the human spirit goes on throughout eternity."
"Why me, though? Haven't you got better fish to fry? Why not seek the soul of some important statesman or a brilliant scientist?"
"Such distinctions as wealth, genius and social prominence are only important here on earth. As the saying goes, death is the great equalizer. In the vast expanse of time and space, one soul is worth the same as another. Now, try to look at it from my point of view. What could I offer to a man such as Bill Gates or Warren Buffett—or even Derek Jeter, for that matter? You, on the other hand, are a desperate man. You're like a Kmart blue light special to someone like me, or an item on the McDonald's dollar menu. I know your first instinct is to refuse, but I'm willing to bet that once your friends from the Romano family show up, you'll beg me to cut a deal with you."
"Let me get this straight, your darkness. In exchange for my soul, you give me the fifty thousand I owe the Romanos."
"Not quite. I'll lend you the money, but you'll have to repay it."
It was Otto's turn to laugh.
"Take a good look around you. Where am I going to get the money to pay you back?"
"That's where our deal comes in. I give you what you've always wanted: luck."
"Luck?"
"Yes. Why don't we take a minute and go over the terms of our agreement, shall we, Mr. Metzger? First, the Romanos."
The devil reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two stacks of thousand-dollar bills.
"Second, I bestow upon you the gift of luck. At every game of poker, every spin of the roulette wheel, every roll of the dice, you'll win. Then, after you pay me back my fifty thousand dollars plus ten percent interest"—here the devil smiled again. "All the money you win will be yours."
"And in exchange, I get to burn in hell for all eternity, right?"
"Fire and brimstone? Really, Mr. Metzger? Stereotypes again. These Christian Sunday school ideas of good and evil, heaven and hell are grossly exaggerated."
"I'll be honest with you, Satan. I don't trust you one bit. You have a reputation for dirty dealing and going back on your word. I can't help feeling there's a catch somewhere."
"What do you want, a written guarantee? I'm not a lawyer, you know, although I have dealt with quite a few of them through the years. If ever there was a profession whose members were ready to sell their souls, it's the law."
"So, what you're saying is that I just have to trust you."
The devil smiled and nodded.
"I'm afraid so. Make up your mind, Mr. Metzger; you haven't much time. There are four men headed for the staircase as we speak, and they're not Jehovah's Witnesses."
Otto could hear the heavy footsteps approaching.
"Metzger," a deep base voice called. "Joey Romano wants his money."
The door burst open, and four men built like New York Giants linebackers or professional wrestlers entered the room.
"Made up your mind yet, Mr. Metzger?" the devil asked.
The four men took no notice of him.
"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
The biggest thug answered him, "What? Are you joking? You borrowed fifty big ones, and it's time to pay up."
"I wasn't speaking to you," Otto explained. "I was talking to ...."
"Ah, Otto," the devil interrupted, "they can't see me or hear me."
"You ain't gonna get out of this mess you're in by acting crazy," the thug said. "You got the money or not?"
"I need a little more time."
"Sorry, Otto, time's up. Nothin' personal."
The thug reached into his pocket and pulled out a blackjack. The other three thugs, equally armed, descended upon him.
"Okay, okay," Otto cried, as the blows began to rain down on his body. "Take my soul, but get me out of here."
The devil snapped his fingers, and the four muscle-bound hulks were knocked on their asses by an invisible force, which reminded Otto of a scene from Star Trek.
"Give them the money," the devil instructed him. "It's in your back pocket."
* * *
Much to Otto's surprise, the devil kept his end of the bargain. Satan not only loaned him the money to pay off the Romano family, but he also provided him with a new suit, a ticket to Atlantic City and a generous stake on which he was able to build a vast fortune.
At first, the thrill of winning was exhilarating. Otto bet and won vast sums. As though he possessed the Midas touch, he never lost. One thing about casinos, however, is that they don't like big payouts, and they become extremely suspicious of people with long winning streaks. Eventually, it got to the point that whenever Otto entered a casino, security men kept him under close surveillance. Their continual presence made him feel threatened. It was like the Romano family all over again, only these thugs were better dressed. So, he wandered from casino to casino, from Atlantic City to Reno, to Las Vegas, to the Indian reservations, and the bets he placed were limited to modest amounts.
Still, Otto managed to amass close to a billion dollars in a relatively short time. He bought himself a large ranch in Nevada midway between Reno and Vegas and an estate in northern New Jersey, in driving distance from the casinos in both Atlantic City and Connecticut. He even tried his hand at the tables in Paris, London, Singapore, Monte Carlo and Macau.
Sadly, his great wealth failed to bring him happiness. With no "gamble" in his gambling, even the excitement of being dealt a winning hand at poker or blackjack began to wane. Otto passed each day like a stage actor starring in a long-running play. He knew the lines and steps by heart, but there was no longer any feeling in his performance.
Disheartened, Otto began pondering the meaning of life, doubting it was possible for any person to be truly happy. He once had a wife and child he loved, but that hadn't been enough, for he also wanted material wealth. Now he had money and all that it could buy, and he wasn't happy because he had no one with whom he could share his good fortune.
"That's the catch, isn't it, old chap?"
It was a voice he'd heard only once in his life, but it was one Otto was not likely to forget.
"It's always the same with you humans: want, want, want. You want fame, you want fortune, you want love, and you're never happy with any of them. You always discover that they don't make a damned bit of difference in your pathetic, meaningless lives."
"I guess there'll be hell to pay now," Otto laughed dryly.
"Very good. I like a man with a sense of humor," the devil admitted. "But don't worry; I haven't come for you yet."
In truth, it didn't matter to Otto whether the devil took him now or later. There was nothing that made his life worth living.
"Tell me, Otto, would you be willing to trade your homes, cars and money for a chance at true happiness?"
"Would I ever!"
"One of my talents is the ability to manipulate time. How would you like to be given a second chance at being a husband and a father? I would see to it that you had a good job and enough money to lead a comfortable life."
"Yes. Yes. Get me out of this boring existence, please."
"There is, however, one condition. You'll have to give up gambling for good. If you so much as go to a church bingo game or buy a raffle ticket, the deal is off. Got it?"
"I don't give a damn about any conditions. Just give me the chance to be happy for once in my life."
"Good luck, Mr. Metzger," the devil said with a hellish grin.
Then he once again snapped his fingers, and Otto found himself twenty years younger.
* * *
Otto's second chance at happiness resulted in domestic bliss. He forgot how beautiful and desirable Sylvia had been in her early twenties and how much he had adored her. Although he went back to a younger self, he retained the memories of his later years. To everyone else, however, those years had never taken place. Otto thanked God—or rather, the devil—that Sylvia had no knowledge of their first attempt at marriage and its grim failure.
He relived the birth of his daughter, this time fully appreciating the miracle that it was. As Otto held the tiny infant in his arms, he swore that things would be different. He would do nothing to jeopardize his family's happiness this time.
As the couple's tenth wedding anniversary approached, Sylvia planned a special celebration. Two days before the big event, she handed her husband an envelope. Inside was a Hallmark card containing two bus tickets to Atlantic City.
"What are these for?" he asked uncertainly.
"My parents are going to babysit, and you and I are going to take the bus down to the Trump Taj Mahal."
"That's very thoughtful of you, darling," he said cautiously, not wanting to hurt his wife's feelings, "but wouldn't you rather go to New York and see a show?"
"We always go into the city on our anniversary. Let's do something different for a change. Come on, it will be fun. We even get a complimentary buffet with the price of the bus ticket. How can you beat that?"
Against his better judgment, Otto agreed to go. On the bus ride down the Garden State Parkway, he tried to bolster his self-confidence.
I can go there and not gamble, he told himself over and over again.
By the time they arrived at the casino, he had managed to convince himself he could actually do it.
"It's such a beautiful day," Otto said cheerfully as he and Sylvia got off the bus. "Let's take a stroll along the boardwalk."
The best way to fight temptation, he thought, was to avoid crossing its path.
After forty minutes of slowly strolling down the boardwalk, staring at the Atlantic Ocean on one side and a row of casinos and shops on the other, Sylvia grew bored.
"Why don't we take a ride on the Reading Railroad? Maybe we'll pass GO and collect two hundred dollars," her husband laughed.
"Even playing Monopoly would be more exciting than this. Let's go inside. The bus company gave us each ten dollars to gamble with," she said, taking two rolls of quarters out of her purse. "What do you say we splurge and shoot the whole twenty dollars? Then we can eat until our zippers burst."
"Here we go," he mumbled under his breath as he followed his wife inside the casino.
"Isn't this exciting?" Sylvia asked and stopped to watch players at different games.
There was only an unintelligible grunt from her husband.
"I don't know anything about gambling," she admitted and asked him many questions about craps, blackjack, roulette, poker and baccarat.
Fascinated though she was, she held on to her money until they arrived at the slot machines.
"Look at that woman over there. She's playing two machines at once!"
"I know," Otto said with disgust, remembering his own weakness. "That's because she can't throw her money away fast enough on one."
"I'm going to give my luck a try," Sylvia announced and gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek. "Wish me luck."
She took a quarter from her roll, placed it in the slot and pulled the lever. The result was a cherry, a lemon and a bell.
"So much for beginner's luck."
Another quarter, then another and another. Sylvia managed to make her ten dollars in quarters last for nearly two hours. She won a little money but eventually lost more than she won. Otto was content to stand at her side and watch her play. He even handed her his roll of quarters.
"Here, when you've used yours up you can spend mine."
Eventually, however, the inactivity got to him.
"Why don't we go eat now?" he suggested.
"Now? But I'm on a roll. I'm up four dollars and twenty-five cents. I can't quit now. If you're tired of standing around watching me, why don't you be a dear and go get me a drink?"
As he made his way across the room, Otto kept his eyes cast down. He didn't want to see those awful one-armed bandits beckoning him. A few feet away from the bar, he spotted a coin lying on the floor. He stooped and picked it up; it was a silver dollar lying heads up.
It's a good omen, he thought at once, but then he chided himself for his superstition.
Otto stood up and attempted to put the coin in his jacket pocket. That was when he saw the progressive slot machine. The jackpot amount of one million dollars flashed like a strobe light. The silver dollar began to radiate a tingling warmth in his palm. Like a man possessed, he approached the vacant machine.
It's not really gambling, he reasoned with himself, since it's not my money.
Otto placed the silver dollar in the slot and pulled the lever. It seemed to operate as if in slow motion. Bar ... bar ... Otto held his breath ... seven.
"Damn it!" he swore.
Unmindful of the consequences, he reached into his pants pockets and took out his wallet.
* * *
Sylvia had finally had enough. She was hungry and tired, and her upper arm was beginning to ache from its unaccustomed activity.
Where's Otto with my drink? she wondered as she searched the room for her missing husband.
"There you are," she called to him once she tracked him down. "I see you decided to play after all."
Otto didn't answer. He was too busy putting silver dollars into the slot machine and yanking the lever. Before the last symbol appeared, he was ready to insert more coins. Sylvia stared in astonishment as her husband lost more money in a few minutes than she had lost all evening.
"I think you've spent enough now, dear," she gently cautioned.
"Are you crazy? Look at the jackpot. I'm gonna win it. I can feel it."
"At the rate you're going, you're not even going to break even."
"Leave me alone, Sylvia. You're ruining my concentration."
"Concentration? Otto, what's gotten into you?" she cried.
"I'm gonna win if I have to stay here all night. All weekend, if necessary!"
He spent the last of his cash and took out his credit card. Sylvia tried to reason with him, but he pulled away from her.
"Let go of me," he said angrily as he headed toward the cashier's booth for more silver dollars.
Sylvia sadly turned away from her husband. As she did, she spied a well-dressed, darkly handsome man staring intently at Otto. The man had an enigmatic smile on his face that sent a shudder through Sylvia's nervous system.
He must be with the IRS, she thought. If he is, he'll be disappointed. There's no way Otto is going to win. The dapper tax collector will have to go away empty-handed.
Suddenly, the man turned to Sylvia, and as though he had read her mind, said, "Whether they win or lose, I never go away empty-handed."
Perspiration beaded up on Otto's forehead as he frantically loaded silver dollars into the slot machine, but eventually, the wheels kept spinning and didn't stop.
"No! The machine can't be broken. I've got it warmed up. I'm so close. I can feel it."
Otto tried the lever again. One wheel stopped. It was a six.
Six? he wondered.
In all his years of gambling, he had never seen a six appear on a slot machine. A seven, yes, but not a six! The second wheel stopped. Another six. Otto could feel the jackpot coming up. The third wheel stopped. Six.
An alarm rang throughout the casino, and lights started flashing above Otto's machine. As people turned in its direction, the progressive slot machine started paying out the jackpot in silver dollars. This was a clever distraction to get everyone's attention since no slot machine would dispense one million dollars' worth of coins.
"Otto, you did it!" Sylvia exclaimed.
However, her husband was no longer at the slot machine. In fact, an exhaustive search revealed no trace of him anywhere in the casino. Gone, too, was the handsome, well-dressed man who had been watching him so intently. The mysterious stranger, like Otto Metzger, disappeared into thin air, leaving behind a smoldering spot on the carpet where he had been standing.
And I thought black cats were supposed to signify bad luck!
