Streaking. Brian Stableford
In a way, he did. But in another way, he didn’t.
He did because he knew that this would be his farewell to the playboy lifestyle. He might recover some of the threads, but it would never be the same even if he did, because he wouldn’t be the same. Once Daddy was dead, he’d be the Earl of Credesdale—no longer a son fighting for scraps of his a fortune that really belonged to his father, but his own man, in control of his own destiny. He would never again be the person he was now, and he couldn’t deny a certain urge to celebrate that conclusion.
On the other hand, he had just been informed that other eyes were following his luck, not merely watching it but weighing it, not merely marveling at it but wondering what could possibly sustain it. In circumstances like that, scoring a spectacular win might qualify as an extremely undiplomatic thing to do, perhaps a stupid thing to do.
His father would have been horrified by the fact that he was even thinking about it—but Canny wasn’t sure whether that qualified as an argument against or an argument for.
What the hell, he thought, eventually. He was daring me, wasn’t he?
The potential seemed to hang most heavily of all above the roulette table, and it drew him with smooth efficiency while he put up no resistance. Stevie Larkin, the English football player Meurdon had referred to as Canny’s “friend” was one of three team-mates playing the roulette wheel. They were sitting to the croupier’s right, directly across from a trio of models, one of whom was said—if only by the tabloids—to be one of the ten most beautiful women in the world. Although the club the footballers played for was Italian, the other two were Croatian and Algerian; at the top level, the sport was a perfect model of twentieth-century globalization.
Canny had been casually acquainted with Stevie Larkin for a couple of years, because the footballer had sought his help as a translator at various Mediterranean social occasions. Stevie certainly seemed to think of him as a friend, even though the footballer was a Lancastrian and Canny was a Yorkshireman—which would have made them implicit rivals in their own land almost as surely as the fact that Canny was about to succeed to an earldom while Stevie hailed from an insalubrious area of a small industrial town. They had hardly exchanged five words tonight, but as soon as Stevie saw Canny gravitating towards the roulette table he nudged the Croatian and begged him to surrender his seat so that Canny could sit next to him.
The Croatian obliged, although he seemed a rifle resentful. So did the Algerian, who was currently serving as his companions’ French translator—having presumably been brought along in the faint hope that he might be able to act as a go-between assisting one or both of his team-mates to pick up something tasty. Any of the models they were currently ogling would doubtless have done very nicely—although the footballers had probably no chance there, especially with Lissa Lo. Canny couldn’t believe that Stevie could possibly think that one of the ten most beautiful women in the world would give him a second glance; unlike some of his ilk, the Lancastrian had his delusions of grandeur under control.
Canny sat down beside Stevie and said hello.
Stevie eyed the tray of chips as Canny set it down in front of him, but didn’t comment on their value. For once, he had something else in mind. “Called into the headmaster’s study, were you?” he said. “Caught cheating again?”
“Phone call from Mummy,” Canny reported, laconically. “Daddy’s taken a sudden turn for the worst. Got to go home and inherit the estate. No more carefree playboy lifestyle for me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, mate,” Stevie said, repentantly. “Didn’t realize it was serious. If you have to get away, go.”
“Can’t get a flight out till morning,” Canny told him, tersely. “Won’t be able to sleep. No mad rush. Might as well finish up here.”
“Right,” Stevie said, uncertainly.
“Next time you see me I’ll be the Earl of Credesdale,” Canny said, reflectively. “But friends like you can call me my lord.” As he spoke, he counted off a thousand Euros in chips, then reached out and put the entire stack on zero.
It was the sort of gesture that could precipitate a moment’s silence almost anywhere else in the world, but this was Monte Carlo. Everyone on the table saw what he did, but there wasn’t a single sharp intake of breath. The croupier didn’t even blink.
“I know you’ve had a shock, Can,” Stevie murmured, “but don’t you think you’re overdoing the symbolism just a trifle?”
“Symbolism?” Canny queried. “I thought you left school at fifteen without a single GCSE.”
“We all have our own personal sports psychologists these days,” the footballer told him, as the wheel spun. “Used to be we only got counseling when we got transferred—nowadays it’s every time we lose. I know what symbolism is, mate—and you just lost a grand. Only Euros, but even so....”
The croupier called the number, and raked in Canny’s chips with practiced ease.
Entirely casual, Canny thought. As if it were as natural as breathing.
He counted out another thousand, and placed it in exactly the same spot.
“I get it,” Stevie said. “You called a cab, didn’t you? You only have time for three shots, so you cut your stash in three. It’s a penalty shoot-out—all or nothing.”
Canny was slightly surprised by Stevie’s ready interpretation, but he met the younger man’s blue eyes with his own darker ones with carefully-feigned frankness. “That’s absolutely right,” he said. “The sports psychology is really paying off.”
He looked away from Stevie as he caught something in the corner of his eyes and directed his gaze at the far side of the table. The three models were all looking at him, trying not to be obvious but not quite contriving to hide their fascination—even Lissa Lo.
Canny had never attempted to be the womanizing kind of playboy that Stevie Larkin thought he ought to aspire to be, but he knew that he was going to miss the presence of beautiful women—not as much as the click of chips and the rustle of cards, but enough to leave a gap.
If he decided to follow the dictates of family tradition, he was going to have to get married now. According to the advice of the records, he’d already put it off too long for his own good. If the records were mere legends—a tissue of hopeful fancies and silly mistakes—it didn’t really matter what advice they offered, but whatever else Daddy found the strength to say to him, he was bound to get an earful on that subject, and then some.
Canny knew that Daddy wouldn’t approve of the way he was betting now. Daddy had always advised him to go slow, to be modest in his aims and modest in his gains. It’s a gift, Daddy had told him, time and time again, and it has to be treated with due respect. Don’t try to test the limits. You had your ration of playing the fool when you were a boy. You have to be a man now. Don’t risk bringing the lightning down. Collect the house percentage, little by little. Don’t ask for too much too quickly. When freaky things start happening, you never know when they’ll stop.
“Don’t bring the lightning down,” Canny murmured, while everybody placed their bets on rouge and noir, pair and impair, or bet on batches of four or eight numbers. There were a dozen other bets on individual numbers, but all of them were ten-Euro bets—there wasn’t a single hundred, let alone another thousand. Lissa Lo hadn’t bet at all; she was still watching him.
“What’s that, mate?” Stevie asked. “Storm coming?”
“Just symbolism,” Canny assured him. He wondered whether Henri Meurdon was watching him on the screen in his inner sanctum—and whether, if so, he was mildly disappointed that Canny had broken his pattern and his image by accepting his playful dare.
The wheel spun. The ball dropped. Canny lost.
He watched Lissa Lo collect forty Euros, and add it carefully to a stack that must have been worth more than a thousand. Had she started with half as much or twice as much? Her expression gave