Free Billy Phelan's Greatest Game by William Kennedy Page A

poker, blackjack, roulette. I can deal, handle the stick.”
    “How good are you?”
    “Haven’t you heard?”
    Bindy chuckled.
    “I’ll ask around someone who has. See Lemon Lewis.”
    “All right, Bindy, fine. Obliged. Can I touch you for fifty?”
    Bindy chuckled again. Billy’s got brass. Bindy reached for the roll and plucked a fifty out of the middle.
    “Use it in good health.”
    “Never felt better,” said Billy. “I pay my debts.”
    “I know you do. I know that about you. Your father paid his debts, too. We played ball together when we were kids. He was one hell of a player. You ever hear from him?”
    “We don’t hear.”
    “Yeah. That’s an odd one. See Lewis. He’ll fill you in.”
    “Right, Bin.”
    Billy saw Lewis an hour later at the bar in Becker’s and got the word: You deal at Riley’s.
    “What about transportation?” Billy asked. “How the hell do I get from Albany to Saratoga every night?”
    “Jesus, ain’t you got a car?”
    “Car? I never even had roller skates.”
    “All right. You know Sid Finkel?”
    Billy knew Sid, a pimp and a booster and a pretty fair stickman. Put his kid through dentists’ school with that combination.
    “Look him up. I’ll tell him to give you a lift.”
    “I’ll half the gas with him,” Billy said.
    “That’s you and him. And don’t forget your source,” and Lemon hit himself on the chest with his thumb.
    “Who the hell could forget you, Lemon?” Billy said.
    It went fine for Billy for two weeks and then came the Whiteman scene and Billy went from Riley’s to the Chicago Club, on earlier hours. The Club got a big play in the afternoon, even
though the horses were running at the track. So Billy had to find new transportation because Sid Finkel stayed on nights. Was Billy lucky? He certainly was. Angie Velez saw him dealing at the
Chicago Club and when he took a break, she asked him for a light.
    “You weren’t out of work long,” she said.
    “Who told you I was out of work?”
    “I was there when you gave it to Whiteman. Funniest damn thing I’ve heard in years. Imagine anybody saying that to Paul Whiteman. You’re the one with the hillbilly band. I
laughed right out loud. He gave me an awfully dirty look.”
    Billy smiled at this new dish. Then he asked her name and bought her a drink and found she was married but only dabbled in that. Hubby was a gambler, too. Brought her to Saratoga for a week,
then left her there to play while he went home to run his chunk of Rochester, what a town. No town like Albany. Rochester is where you might go on the bum, only might, if they kicked you out of
Albany. Billy couldn’t imagine life outside Albany. He loved the town. And half-loved you too, Angie, now that you’re here. “Are you a spic?”
    “I’m Irish, baby. Just like you. One of the Gagen girls. My old man’s a Cuban.”
    She was playing kneesies with him by then.
    “You keep that up, you’re liable to get raped.”
    “Room two-forty-six in the Grand Union.” And she proved it with the key. That was the beginning of Billy’s private taxi service between Albany and Saratoga for the rest of the
month. Other things began that season in Saratoga: Billy’s reputation as the youngest of the hot numbers at any table, never mind the game. Big winner. I could always get a buck, Billy said.
What the hell, I know cards and dice.
    Of course, at the end of the season Billy was broke. Playing both sides of the table.
    Now Mildred Bailey was all through and Clem McCarthy was barking in with the race results on WHN, and can you believe what is happening to Billy? Friar Charles wins, the son of a bitch,
five-to-two, the son of a bitch, the son of a bitch! Martin Daugherty, what in Christ’s name are you doing to Billy Phelan?
    Here’s how it looked to this point: Martin bet ten across the board on Charley Horse, who wins it, four-to-one; puts a tenner across also on Friar Charles and now wins that one, too; and
has a third tenner