“For he had the touch, and a golden arm. ‘Hold me up, Arm,’ he would plead, trying for a fifth pass with the first four still riding, kiss his rosary once for help with the faders sweating it out and zing—there it was, A Little Joe or Phoebe, Big Dick or Eighter from Decatur, double trey the hard way and dice be nice—when you get a hunch bet a bunch—bet a dollar and then holler—make me five to keep me alive—it don’t mean a thing if it don’t cross that string—tell ’em where you got it and how easy it was.”

—Nelson Algren, from The Man with the Golden Arm, 1949. He was a card dealer, of course, but he becomes a junkie.