He licks his lips and tries not to appear desperate. The place is quiet except for the clink of glass, the murmur of croupiers, the infrequent squeal of a winner. The evening is wrapped in ice and green felt and the white coats of the large men who drift around the edges of the room and occasionally make a determined foray into the crowd, emerging with an oddly silent, white-faced person sagging between them, on his way out.
He licks his lips again and blows on the dice. "Come on," he whispers urgently, "Baby needs a new pair of shoes."