play.
A dollar sign came up.
Then another. And another. And another.
And …
yes.
A red light atop the machine began to blink on and off; bells went off and sirens wailed. A fire-engine light whirled on top of the machine, flashing crazily. From all over the betting area—from all over the terminal!—people were running toward Parker to see what he'd won.
Parker couldn't help it. He leaped into the air. “Holy shit! I just won twenty thousand dollars!” He grabbed Anna and gave her an exuberant kiss.
“Congratulations, guy,” Cammie smirked. “You're buying dinner tonight.”
“Lobster, baby, nothin' but lobster,” Parker declared. “So how do I collect?”
An overweight woman in an I WENT TO VEGAS AND ALL I'VE GOT LEFT IS THIS STUPID T-SHIRT! T-shirt sidled up and pointed to the sign above the machine. It read, ATTENDANT PAYS ALL WINS OVER $500.
“You wait for the guy to pay,” she told him, her accent thick and Southern. “Dang, I've never seen anyone win that much before!”
Parker craned around, looking for the attendant. Meanwhile, the crowd of travelers edged closer to him, peering at the machine, marveling at his good fortune.
A gaunt older woman with an unfortunate bulbous nose in a gray uniform lumbered over to him. Her name tag identified her as Arlene Spector. She peered at the five-dollar-sign screen in real amazement, then inserted a key into the machine that turned off the bells and whistles.
“Wow, sir. You really hit it.”
“You're the attendant?” Parker asked.
She nodded. “Damn, I been working here for six months and I never seen anyone hit it before.”
Parker threw his hands in the air. “Must be my lucky day!”
“You can say that again,” Arlene agreed as she took out a form and wrote some codes from the winning machine on it. Then she propped an OUT OF ORDER sign on the machine and shut off the bells and whistles. “Come with me, sweetheart,” she told Parker. “We're going to the office so you can collect.”
“Can we come with him?” Adam asked.
“You'd better,” Arlene bantered easily, “if you want him to buy you dinner before he escapes into the night.”
The crowd of tourists around them laughed heartily, then parted so that the slots attendant could lead newly famous Parker and the others deep into the bowels of the airport. They trekked through a red high-security door marked NO ADMITTANCE ! and then down a narrow corridor.
“Surreal,” Parker muttered.
Finally, they came to a utilitarian room with two desks, some computer equipment, and a row of wooden chairs against the wall. Behind one of the desks sat a late thirties-ish gaunt-faced blonde with serious roots in a gray uniform. Her face was spackled with makeup, her lips outlined in an entirely different color than her lipstick.
“Who's the lucky winner?” she asked as Arlene led the kids into the room.
“That'd be me,” Parker declared, oozing cool.
Man, this was so amazing. Screw
Everwood.
All he could have gotten for the gig would have been scale—the Screen Actors Guild minimum—plus ten percent. It would have only come to a small fraction of his win.
“Name, Mr. Winner?”
“Parker Pinelli.”
“Parker ‘The
Man
’ Pinelli,” Adam teased. The others chuckled and gathered around.
The woman fixed her a steady gaze on Parker, her face impassive. “I'll need to see some identification, Mr. Pinelli.”
Parker flashed his perfect smile again. The signs posted by the slot machines very clearly stated that you had to be twenty-one to gamble. He had this covered.
Even as he felt his friends' eyes on him, he opened his wallet. Removed a perfect falsified California driver's license he'd had made after his minor humiliation at Chippendales. Took three steps toward the desk and tossed it to her.
“Here ya go.”
The woman studied it—it identified him as Parker Pinelli of Beverly Hills, California, but gave his age as twenty-two. Then she looked up at Parker, who was
A dollar sign came up.
Then another. And another. And another.
And …
yes.
A red light atop the machine began to blink on and off; bells went off and sirens wailed. A fire-engine light whirled on top of the machine, flashing crazily. From all over the betting area—from all over the terminal!—people were running toward Parker to see what he'd won.
Parker couldn't help it. He leaped into the air. “Holy shit! I just won twenty thousand dollars!” He grabbed Anna and gave her an exuberant kiss.
“Congratulations, guy,” Cammie smirked. “You're buying dinner tonight.”
“Lobster, baby, nothin' but lobster,” Parker declared. “So how do I collect?”
An overweight woman in an I WENT TO VEGAS AND ALL I'VE GOT LEFT IS THIS STUPID T-SHIRT! T-shirt sidled up and pointed to the sign above the machine. It read, ATTENDANT PAYS ALL WINS OVER $500.
“You wait for the guy to pay,” she told him, her accent thick and Southern. “Dang, I've never seen anyone win that much before!”
Parker craned around, looking for the attendant. Meanwhile, the crowd of travelers edged closer to him, peering at the machine, marveling at his good fortune.
A gaunt older woman with an unfortunate bulbous nose in a gray uniform lumbered over to him. Her name tag identified her as Arlene Spector. She peered at the five-dollar-sign screen in real amazement, then inserted a key into the machine that turned off the bells and whistles.
“Wow, sir. You really hit it.”
“You're the attendant?” Parker asked.
She nodded. “Damn, I been working here for six months and I never seen anyone hit it before.”
Parker threw his hands in the air. “Must be my lucky day!”
“You can say that again,” Arlene agreed as she took out a form and wrote some codes from the winning machine on it. Then she propped an OUT OF ORDER sign on the machine and shut off the bells and whistles. “Come with me, sweetheart,” she told Parker. “We're going to the office so you can collect.”
“Can we come with him?” Adam asked.
“You'd better,” Arlene bantered easily, “if you want him to buy you dinner before he escapes into the night.”
The crowd of tourists around them laughed heartily, then parted so that the slots attendant could lead newly famous Parker and the others deep into the bowels of the airport. They trekked through a red high-security door marked NO ADMITTANCE ! and then down a narrow corridor.
“Surreal,” Parker muttered.
Finally, they came to a utilitarian room with two desks, some computer equipment, and a row of wooden chairs against the wall. Behind one of the desks sat a late thirties-ish gaunt-faced blonde with serious roots in a gray uniform. Her face was spackled with makeup, her lips outlined in an entirely different color than her lipstick.
“Who's the lucky winner?” she asked as Arlene led the kids into the room.
“That'd be me,” Parker declared, oozing cool.
Man, this was so amazing. Screw
Everwood.
All he could have gotten for the gig would have been scale—the Screen Actors Guild minimum—plus ten percent. It would have only come to a small fraction of his win.
“Name, Mr. Winner?”
“Parker Pinelli.”
“Parker ‘The
Man
’ Pinelli,” Adam teased. The others chuckled and gathered around.
The woman fixed her a steady gaze on Parker, her face impassive. “I'll need to see some identification, Mr. Pinelli.”
Parker flashed his perfect smile again. The signs posted by the slot machines very clearly stated that you had to be twenty-one to gamble. He had this covered.
Even as he felt his friends' eyes on him, he opened his wallet. Removed a perfect falsified California driver's license he'd had made after his minor humiliation at Chippendales. Took three steps toward the desk and tossed it to her.
“Here ya go.”
The woman studied it—it identified him as Parker Pinelli of Beverly Hills, California, but gave his age as twenty-two. Then she looked up at Parker, who was
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