“The eighties were righteous, man!” Bobbing his head in time with the music blaring from the overhead speakers, the man plucked two five dollar chips from the rack in front of him and leaned into the craps table to press them firmly into the field, centering them on the twelve.
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the guy, Shane lifted his hands into the air above his head and smiled.
“Hands up, boss. Dice are coming.”
Two red cubes rocketed down the table, the sharp points digging at the green, felt covering. Tumbling and bouncing, the dice grazed across the back of the man’s hand on their way to the back wall.
Way too slow, guy.
“Five, fever! No field!”
“C’mon, man! Get your hands outta the way!”
The shooter pressed both hands to either side of his backwards baseball cap, the scriptic M above the bill facing away from the game.
“Sorry, man. They didn’t touch me, I swear.”
Shane locked up the ten dollars from the field and focused his eyes on the passline behind it. Historically, the shooter was short tempered. He had a history of bullying other players and arguing with the staff over one dollar bets. The guy in front of him liked to play chicken with the dice. Last second betting, sometimes just tossing his chips down, letting them scatter toward the field in a way that made them seem like dice magnets. He always caused a seven out. Tightening his lips to keep the smile from getting out, Shane gripped the wooden rail and waited. It was just a matter of time.