Free Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes by Lauren Baratz-Logsted Page B

talisman!”
    I looked over at The Voice sitting next to me and the cards on the green table in front of him.
    He had blackjack, too.
    It’s the other name of the game, baby.
    For the next hour, we played side by side. We each lost a few, but mostly we won, and I quickly realized he was a more adventurous gambler. I was adhering strictly to what my dad had told me in terms of strategy: when I increased my winnings at the table by fifty percent, I increased my bets to double; but when the ten-value cards and Aces were being used up rapidly, I reduced my bet to the minimum. The Voice, on the other hand, while keeping a close eye on what I was doing, steadily increased his bets. This meant that when we won, he won bigger; but when we lost, he lost bigger, too.
    When the dealers changed shifts, I took the opportunity to count my chips and was surprised to see I was up to over seven hundred dollars; I even had a fair number of green chips now, valued at twenty-five dollars, that I’d been using for my bets for the last few hands.
    â€œDon’t you realize it’s bad luck to count your winnings while still at the table?” The Voice said, leaning in to whisper from the side.
    â€œWell, but how else will I know…?” I let my voice trail off, recognizing how absurd it would be to utter the complete thought, “But how else will I know when I’ve won enough to buy some Jimmy Choos?” The way I figured it, at the rate I was going, in another hour I’d have enough money to buy the shoes I so desperately wanted.
    There was no time for that now, though, because the new dealer was the dealer from hell.
    If the last dealer had looked like Danny Bonaduce all grown up, the new one was a thin Asian woman, resembling no one so much as that villainous lawyer who used to be on Ally McBeal. In fact, there was something about her that rattled me so much that when she dealt my hand—a Queen and an Eight—I got so nervous I started tapping my finger on the table, using the universal sign for “hit me,” and before I knew it I’d busted at Twenty-eight.
    Ouch!
    Then The Voice busted, too.
    And we kept on busting until I was down to just over five hundred dollars.
    Even though this was in no way going to get me the Ghost I wanted, and fighting the compulsion to stay right where I was every second, I pushed away from the table.
    â€œOh, no!” The Voice said, placing a restraining hand on my arm.
    My, his hand was beautiful, like a world-class pianist’s. And I’d bet my last five-dollar chip those nails weren’t acrylics.
    â€œYou can’t leave now!” The Voice said.
    Oh, how I would have liked to stay, if only just to please him. But I had to go. I was following my dad’s rules. “When you start to lose, walk away,” he’d told me, making the point that in some games quitters actually stood a better chance of prospering, at which point I’d pointed out that wasn’t it cheaters that didn’t prosper anyway? Whatever. Sure, if I stayed, I might win some back, maybe I’d win more than some. But the cards had turned cold on me and if I stayed, I could lose everything. Then where would I be? Besides, I was still ahead by over four hundred dollars from when I started. Washing windows, it took me a few days to earn four hundred dollars.
    â€œSorry.” With reluctance, I peeled his fingers off. He had some grip! “I really do have to stop now.”
    â€œHow about just one more—?”
    But the dealer from hell cut him off.
    â€œBet?” she commanded me, pointing one talon at the table in front of me.
    â€œNo, thanks.” I forced myself to be firm. “No.”
    â€œBet?” she commanded The Voice, shifting her finger to him.
    The Voice smiled ruefully before pocketing his chips. Even though his losses had been more spectacular than mine, his wins had been that much more so, and I figured he had at least a