Filled with renewed optimism, I took my alter ego’s suggestion and headed for LB’s. No sooner than I sat down, and those chips were burning a hole right through my pocket as I was chomping at the bit to get back to the craps table. When my bone-in filet, Beluga caviar, French Bordeaux, and piping hot Grand Marnier soufflé arrived, it could have been a can of Spam, a bottle of apple cider vinegar, and pie crust stuffed with used Pennzoil since I gulped it down faster than the last recruit in a Parris Island chow hall.

            After finishing my epicurean dinner in Happy Meal fashion, I made another pit stop for an out-loud pep talk with the man in the mirror. “Let’s go, big guy. It’s halftime at the Super Bowl and you’re down a hundred to nothing. Your body’s been beat to a pulp—everything, that is, but your balls. Don’t go eunuch on me now. Get your game face on; start with small bets, and go kick some ass! 

            It was ten o’clock.

            No sooner than I got to the craps table did I shout, “Give me $15,000 each on the six and the eight and $500 each on the hard ways,” as I plopped down the entire $32,000. True to form, my balls trumped my brains as I galloped out of the gate faster than Secretariat on his record setting run at Churchill Downs. Don’t do it. My voice of reason cautioned. There is another way out of this.

            “No, there isn’t,” my alter ego explained. You need $550,000 in seven hours—that’s $80,000 an hour. Get in the zone and it’s just a walk in the park, baby, just a walk in the park. Now, keep that mule loaded and roll some sixes and eights!”

            After a seven-hour up and down roller coaster ride, come five o’clock in the morning my bankroll was stuck at a measly $50,000. I was stuck, too: between panic and pity—$500,000 was beaucoup bucks and, now, it would be virtually impossible to win. With only sixty minutes left, $50,000 to my name, and non-negotiable bet limits, the deck was stacked against me.

            In a desperate attempt to change my luck, I passed the dice to a lady standing at the other end of the table. Playing with a $50 bankroll, all she was hoping for was a free ticket to the all-you-can-eat buffet. “Fire it up,” I told her, as she chucked the dice down the table. 

            “Nine . . . the point is nine!” the stickman shouted.

            “What the hell, give me $24,000 each on the six and eight,” I told the dealers—I was rapidly running out of time. “I might as well go out the way I came in—balls to the wall.” I looked at the shooter. “If you hit either one, I’ll replace your pass line bet with a $100 chip and put a $1,000 chip on your odds.”

            “Are you fo’ real?” she inquired. She was a heavy-set African American housekeeper that worked for another casino.

            “Oh, yeah, he’s for real,” the stickman replied. He knew I had a history of giving the occasional shooter more money than they could earn in a whole year.

            “Numbers, lady, just give me numbers,” I said, as she threw the dice, again.

            “Eight!” was the call.

            True to my word, I tossed her a “pumpkin”—slang for an orange, $1,000 chip—and replaced her pass line bet with a black chip. I then put $10,000 apiece on my five and nine. “If you roll the nine, at 3 to 2 odds, that’s $1,500 on the back and $100 on the pass line, you can keep it all, including the $1,100 I’m giving you to start with.” I told her.

            “You jokin’, ain’t ya’?”

            “No, darling, I’m not joking.”

            “Well, hell, then; let’s roll that nine,” she hollered as she chucked the dice down the table.

            “Winner, nine!” the stickman shouted.

            “Oh, my word!” she screamed. “How much did I win?”

            “Twenty-seven hundred dollars.”

            “That’s all mine?” she asked, bug-eyed and mouth, wide open.

            “Yes, ma’am, that’s all yours,” I replied. “I want you to put $1,600 in your pocket and promise me that, no matter what happens, you will take it home.”

            “Oh, I promise. Heaven’s sake, I ain’t never seen that much money in my life!”

            “Now, put another $100 chip on the pass line and shoot again.” An instant later, the dice came to a stop.

            “Nine! The point is nine!” the stickman shouted. “Make your come bets, place bets, and hard ways!”

            “Nine seems to be your number, girlfriend. Roll it again,” I said, as I tossed her another pumpkin to put behind her pass line bet. “Don’t think about the money; just shoot.”

            As the dice rolled to a stop, “Eight!” was the call.

            “Yes! Press my five and nine all the way up to twenty thousand each, and press her pass line bet another hundred bucks and her odds another one thousand dollars,” I told the dealers. Just like that, I had $24,000 each on the six and the eight and $20,000 each on the five and the nine—all too familiar territory.

            “Oh, my God!” she screamed, “How much money is that, sugar?”

            “Don’t ask; just keep shooting, sweetie. You’re doing great,” I told her.

            “Next roll, “Eight!”

            “Yeah baby!” I shouted, as I instructed the dealers to give me $10,000 each on the four and ten and increase her pass line bet to $300 and her odds to $3,000. “Stay calm,” I told my new accomplice as she prepared to throw the dice again.

            Next roll: “Eight!”

            Next roll: “Eight, again!”

            “Hell, Yes!” I shouted.

That was four times the eight had hit without the assassin showing up. It was also the first time all night I had hit a streak with the maximum of $24,000 on the six and eight. “Press my four and ten to $20,000 each,” —things were heating up in a hurry. With $20,000 already on the nine, I increased my pass line bet to $1,000 and placed $10,000 on my odds.

“What’s your name, shooter?”

            “Yolanda,” she replied in a thick Cajun accent.

            “Yolanda,” I said calmly, “I’m pressing your pass line bet to $500 and your odds to $5,000.”

            “Oh, good Lord! What if I roll a seven?”

            “Remember our deal? You’re going home $1,600 richer no matter what happens. I’m in a hole the size of Texas, and I need your help to get me out.”

            “Damn, sugar.” I’d piqued her curiosity. “How much ya’ need?”

            “Trust me, Yolanda, you don’t want to know. You just concentrate on rolling that nine. When you do, you’re going home with $15,500.”

            “Good heavens! I gotta go pee—” she shrieked.

            “Not yet, girlfriend—hit this nine first; then you can go pee all you want.”

            Little did she know that her next roll was “the hump roll”—the hardest roll to get past. The hump roll is the fifth roll in succession—and the roll when the assassin seems to appear most frequently. Mathematical probability puts that occurrence at the sixth roll; but in my twenty years of experience, which included thousands of rolls with tens of millions of dollars hanging in the balance, the assassin always seemed to show up one roll prematurely—especially when there was heavy artillery on the line. However, once a shooter gets over the hump, there was no telling how long a roll could last.

            “Stay with it, Kevin,” I said to myself as she threw the dice again—my arch nemesis, the abominable seven, was due at any moment. To prolong the torture the first one landed—a five; but the second one wouldn’t settle—it was in a tight spin. As it spun, the stickman borrowed an idiom from the blackjack table: “Insurance, anyone?”

            Yeah, I thought, I wish I could take $550,000 worth and just go home right now. It finally stopped on a three. “Eight!” was the call.

            “Yes, baby,” I said, in a sigh of relief. As I drew my next breath, I began putting together my “make me or break me roll”—in poker terms, I was all in. I increased my pass line bet to $10,000 and my odds to $20,000, then I threw more chips to Yolanda and instructions to the stickman: “Press her pass line another $200 and her odds another $2,000.”

            “Hit this nine, girlfriend, and you’re going home with $20,500.” I told her. “And, if you roll the four or the ten first, I’ll give you a $5,000 chip to add to the $1,600 in your pocket.”

            “Damn! What’s your name, Sugar?”

            “Kevin.”

            “Kevin, honey . . . you are killin’ me!”

            “You’re doing great, Yolanda,” the box man told her. “Just keep rolling numbers for the man.”

            Acting on a hunch, I put $20,000 in the field just before she threw the dice.

            “Three, craps! Pay the field,” the stickman hollered.

            Bulls eye! My hunch had been right—she’d finally rolled a field number. I stuck another $20,000 in the field. “Come on, dice—anything but the assassin,” I yelled.

            Yolanda hurled the dice down the table with laser-like concentration.

            “Two, craps! Pay double in the field!” the stickman shouted in amazement.

            “Fuck, yeah!” I hollered. I couldn’t believe she rolled a two right after the three—that was a quick $40,000. Like a Venus flytrap, the field is deceptively alluring—for suckers that is. At first glance the probability of hitting one of seven numbers: 2, 3, 4, 9, 10, 11 and 12 out of eleven looks pretty high, but like an intoxicating Femme Fatale, looks can be deceiving. The other four numbers: 5, 6, 7, and 8 can be hit a total of twenty ways whereas the field numbers only have sixteen ways to appear—hence a sucker bet. Even so, I’d just made $60,000 on it, back to back! At that point, I instinctively knew it was time to turn up the heat.

            “Press my pass line bet to the maximum $20,000 and put $10,000 each on all the hard ways. Press Yolanda’s pass line bet to $1,000 and her odds to $10,000; give her $600 each on the six and the eight and $500 each on the outside (4, 5, 9, & 10).” No holds barred, that was every chip to my name. Normally, I would have tipped the dealers by then, but I didn’t want to jinx what was shaping up to be a paragon roll.

            With maximum bets on all the numbers, I found myself in a 3-T moment—Titanium Testicle Territory. “Come on, nine!” I shouted, as she hurled the dice again.

            “Four . . . the hard way,” was the call.

            “No way!” I shouted. “She hit the hard four?” She hit the hard four, the stickman confirmed. “Hell yes, Yolanda! That’s how you roll a four!”

            My heart was pounding as the dealer plopped twenty-one blue chips and four pumpkins right in front of me. “$109,000, Kevin. Spend it wisely,” he chuckled. “And this is for you,” he told Yolanda as he dropped one blue and four pumpkins in front of her.

            “Oh, my God!” she screamed, as the perspiration around her neck began trickling down her body.

            “How much money is that?”

            “Nine thousand dollars,” the box man answered.

            “That’s $9,000!” she shrilled.

            “Put that in your pocket with the other $1,600 and don’t stop playing—we still need more numbers!” “Raise her pass line bet to $1,500 and her odds to $15,000.” I looked Yolanda right in the eyes: “Hit this nine, girlfriend, and you’ll pocket another $40,500.”

            “Goodness gracious. I don’t know if my body can take this anymore . . .”

            “Welcome to my world, Yolanda . . . Welcome to my world.” Then, in an impromptu move that even had me questioning my own sanity—granted, it was a little late by then—I shouted, “Give me $5,000 each on the two and twelve.”

            “What! Are you insane?” the dealer standing beside me inquired.

            “No bet!” the box man promptly stated. “The max is $2,000, and that’s already been doubled for you, Kevin.”

            “I’ve made that bet on previous trips,” I pleaded, “and you guys didn’t hesitate to snag it when I lost.”

            “I can’t authorize it, either, Kevin,” the pit boss said with authority. He was standing right behind the box man.

            “What say you?” I asked the shift manager, who had authority over the pit boss.

“I know you get special exceptions, Kevin, but only the casino president can make that decision, and he’s at home sleeping.”

            “Call him!” 

I seldom exercised my high-roller privileges, but this was one of those rare instances where I had no choice. Reluctantly, the shift manager picked up the phone in the pit and had the casino operator dial the president’s home.

            “I’m sorry to wake you, sir, but we’re in the middle of a roll, and Kevin Lehmann is requesting a $5,000 hop wager on both the two and the twelve.” Silence. “Yes sir, but he claims we’ve booked that bet it in the past.” More silence. “He’s up approximately $300,000.” Silence. “Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you so early,” and he hung up the phone. “You have a bet Kevin,” he confirmed, before he looked at the box man and said, “Book it!” 

            At 72 to 2 odds, that bet was like playing Russian roulette with a thirty-six round revolver packed with thirty-five bullets. In addition, I upped the ante even more by placing another $20,000 in the field, hoping to continue the streak. “3-T, baby!” My alter ego cheered, “No balls, no fucking glory!”

            “Come on, Yolanda! Snake eyes or boxcars, girlfriend . . . snake eyes or boxcars.” Like a torrent river, blood rushed through my veins at death-defying velocity—ricocheting at every turn—while my heart pumped at maximum capacity—the assassin was long overdue. With a bladder that was about to burst, a colon that was about to blow, and lungs that were begging me to breathe, I felt like a human volcano about to erupt. So many hours, so much pressure . . . and my impending fate rested on the shoulders of a born-and-bred Louisianan maid.

            As the dice tumbled down the table, I closed my eyes. Jesus, don’t let it be a seven, I prayed in silence as if the rail were a makeshift altar. Mercy, God, have mercy! At moments like that, I realized the difference between praying in a casino and praying in a church—in a casino I really meant it. I kept my eyes closed until the stickman made the call.

            “Wow . . . two! Snake eyes. Pay double in the field.”

            Holy-Mother-Mercy-of-God! Thank you, Jesus!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. “You hit it, girlfriend! You fuckin’-A hit it,” I screamed, as I ran to the other end of the table to give Yolanda a bone-crushing hug.

            That was a whopping $190,000 on one roll—$150,000 on the two and $40,000 in the field since it paid double on the two and twelve. I was now at $500,000—only $50,000 short of my goal. I’d done this by ignoring every rule in the book; as a matter of fact, I wasn’t just defying the odds—I was flat out insulting them. And, in a brazen display of balls and bravado, I defiantly kept my bets up.

            “Press her pass line bet to $2,000 and her odds to $20,000.” Be it altruism or narcissism, I thought, I’m not breaking karma now. “Hit this nine,” I told Yolanda, “and you’re going home with $63,000.”

            “Come on, Girlfriend!” I shouted, as she prepared to throw the dice. “Roll that $63,000 nine!”

            Pumped with adrenalin, she sent those polka-dotted bones flying right off the table and onto the floor.

            “Same dice!” I quickly shouted.

            “It’s your call, Yolanda,” the stickman advised her. “Do you want the same dice or new ones?”

            “Whatever my man across the table wants,” she replied.

            “Same dice,” I affirmed. Changing dice during a hot roll was a surefire way to squelch it. “Come on, baby . . . hit your $63,000 nine,” I hollered, as she chucked the dice down the table.

            “Four . . . the hard way!” 

            “What? Are you shittin‘ me? Hell, yes! Oh, hell, yes!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice still hoarse from the previous roll. With $10,000 still on the hard four from the first time she hit it—that was another $109,000 right behind the $190,000 I had just won on the snake eyes.

            “Oh, my God . . .” I said in a sudden epiphany. “It’s over . . . It’s finally over . . .” That roll put me at $630,000 and Yolanda at $17,000. I couldn’t believe it. I had turned a $32,000 credit card advance into a $630,000 boon—a 2000 percent return in just a few hours. In other words, I had just pulled a major miracle out of my ass.

            “Take all my bets down,” I instructed the dealers.

            “Dude, are you insane?” my alter ego flared up. “She’s on the roll of a lifetime—you can’t stop now. She’s over the hump. You need to ride this roll all the way to Ft Knox!”

            Don’t do it, big guy, my voice of reason quickly retorted. Variance was your ally and a trend was your friend. Your ass was headed for a prison cell not even ten minutes ago. Don’t get greedy—go home.

            “Oh, give me a fucking break,” my alter ego argued. “Carpe Diem! If you pull your bets down now, you know damn well she’s going to roll for another hour. Go for it! This is your 3-T moment, baby . . . purely, Titanium Testicle Territory!” “You’re on a roll, Kevin. Are you sure you wanna take em’ all down?” the dealers asked me.

            “Shit . . . keep em’ up.” I replied. “That’s my man!” my alter ego erupted. “Take em’ to the cleaners! This is your house! In another hour you’re gonna own this joint . . . lock, stock, and barrel!”

Don’t do it, big guy! my voice of reason pleaded. You know what’s coming. You’re flush. Live to play another day. In yet another battle between my balls and brains—but one in which my brains actually triumphed—I listened to my voice of reason. “No, scratch that” I told the dealers just before Yolanda chucked the dice again. “Keep my bets off and color me up.”

            “What about the bets you made for her?” the box man inquired.

            By that point, Yolanda was so saturated in sweat that her pinstriped uniform was sticking to her body. “Keep her bets up,” I replied, after spending a moment to collect my thoughts.

            Only thirty minutes earlier, Yolanda had been jumping for joy, having never seen $1,600 in her life. But, now, I saw an innocent and naïve woman ensnared by the allure of fast and fleeting fortunes. My life was already a category 5 toricane (my interpretation of a blended F5 tornado and a Category 5 hurricane) carving a path that was steered by drama, dresses, and drawstrings.

            Yolanda was just a tropical wave—for now. If she hit that nine, though, she could be well on her way to becoming a toricane herself. Like a meth addict hooked on her very first experience, that was one train to doomsday Yolanda need not be on. 

            “Give me a $5,000 Big Red,” I told the shift manager who was peering over the box man. If I could have wagered $100,000 right then, I would have.

            “Bet, Kevin.” He confirmed with a startled look on his face.

             As the dice went tumbling down the table, I knew the outcome before they came to a stop. “Seven, out,” the dealer muttered—He was sympathetic over the fact that Yolanda hadn’t rolled that $63,000 nine. “Take all bets and pay the Big Red.”

            Good call, my voice of reason cheered, good call!

            Timing is everything in the game of craps, and this was a perfect example. “Big Red” is a nickname for the assassin seven, and it paid four to one when you bet it “hopping”—a hunch it would appear on the very next roll. However, I hadn’t been driven by odds during that final throw; no, my reason for making that bet was far more significant.

            The move had been driven by fate—Yolanda’s fate.

            After the table was cleared and prepared for the next shooter, Yolanda, still trembling from all the pressure, walked up to me and gave me a genuine Creole hug. “Thank you, Kevin—$17,000 is mo’ money then I ever had in my life.”

            The disappointment of not hitting that $63,000 nine didn’t even enter her mind. Not unlike a few personal acquaintances, many casino patrons I have encountered over the years—particularly ones that had a long roll on which I made a lot of money—developed a sense of entitlement, especially the more I gave them. Yolanda’s sheer naivety and gracious spirit, on the other hand, touched me. “What’s the most money you’ve ever won?” I asked her.

            “Kevin, honey, til ta day, I ain’t never won nothin’ in my whole life.”

            “You know that bet I made on Big Red just before you sevened out,” I said, as I stuck four $5,000 chips in the palm of her hand.

            “Yeah?” 

            “That was a hedge bet I made just for you, in case you didn’t roll that nine. You’re taking home $37,000, girlfriend.”

            “Oh my word!” she gasped. “Who are you, Kevin?” “It beats me, but if you figure it out before I do,” I jested, “could you let me know?” “No, fo’ real . . . who are you?” she asked in all her southern charm. “I’m just a sinner with more balls than brains.” “Well, you’z a saint in my book,” she said, as she threw her arms around my neck and whispered, “I love you” in my ear. “I love you, too, Yolanda.” I reciprocated . . . “I love you too.”

            I thought about telling Yolanda—that she couldn’t have the extra $20,000 unless she promised me not to gamble for the rest of the year. But that would have put conditions on a random act of kindness towards a stranger who had come through for me in a clutch. It was up to Yolanda to determine how she would move forward after what was arguably the most pivotal moment in her life and how she would spend that $37,000.

            After I traded my chips for cash, I tipped the table crew $10,000 and paid another visit to the porcelain throne—only this time it was that private bathroom in the VIP lounge. As usual, my intestines were in knots and my organs were in shut down mode—my body’s defense mechanism for dealing with extreme stress—and I couldn’t secrete a thing. Upon exiting the bathroom, I was escorted by a swarm of security guards and a host of casino personnel to the underground garage. There, my modified, fire-engine-red Ferrari Modena with parchment leather interior and a stainless steel shifter awaited my return.

            “Hello, gorgeous,” I said, as I shut the door and placed a nylon bag stuffed with six thousand Benjamin’s on the passenger seat. Every cell in my body collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

            It was six o’clock.

Barring any traffic jams or accidents, I had just enough time to cover my ass and repeat my insatiable appetite for living on the edge, time and time again. After all, this high-rolling rebel was back in the chase: the chase that is . . . for that ever-elusive orgasm of life.

            Hardwired into my DNA were a voracious appetite for risk and rebellion and an entrepreneurial drive for power and prestige. But lurking beneath my appearance of rectitude was a taste for the taboo and, hanging by a thread, a mere modicum of conscience that was all but consumed in a blazing inferno of disparate desires.

            An epic battle between love and lust, greed and grace, and truth and deceit, my precarious life began as a young foster child entrenched in another battle: a battle of the beleaguered and the survival of the fiercest.

Continue to Chapter 2 »