Martingales by James William Ferguson
It was the first time I had ever been in Las Vegas, the first time I'd played a Martingale, and my eyes had been riveted to the flashing roulette wheel for more than three hours. Finally, hearing the whispers behind me, I turned and saw the crowd, six deep, straining to see the play. I was shocked. I had not realized the magnetism a betting system exerts on a gambling crowd.
"How're they doing?" someone whispered.
"Great. They're 'way ahead."
I caught the quick smile of a young blond woman wearing a mink stole near me. In the desert. In July, at 120 degrees. The madness of crowds....
Not only that, the whispers were wrong. We were losing heavily. We 'd suffered several runs of three and
four and some of five against us. I glanced at my best friend — he had the gambler's hands and placed the bets, while I kept track of the math — and nodded. He took out the last of our stash, three crisp new hundred-dollar bills, and threw them on the table.
Our college summer adventure — the dream of Mexico, the sea at Mazatlan — all rested now on the power of the Martingale.