ties drank cheap beers. Fleshy women in capri pants hunched over the slots. It was an older crowd, locals mostlyâtourists rarely left the Strip. The old sawdust floor had been replaced with carpet, the main room tarted up with chandeliers, yet the Lariat had remained low-profile, one reason heâd chosen it. Certain people were unlikely to venture here. Another reason, equally important: its blackjack tables ran on Strip rules. The dealer drew to 16, and stood on a 17. The rest of downtown played old-styleâthe dealer hitting a soft 17, a shady rule that favored the house.
Sandy sipped methodically at his martini, stirred, two olives, dry and cold. He had given precise instructions, like the customers he himself hated, the turkeys who rattled off entire recipes as though the barman had never mixed a drink. But tonight he had no choice; the drink had to be perfect.
Protocol.
Drink in hand, he scoped out the floor. Ten blackjack tables against the far wall, four cameras trained on them from above. Just as he remembered, the corner table was in a blind spot. He hadnât played the Lariat in years, but his memory was precise in these matters. If he stationed himself at the far end, his face would be hidden in shadow. An unnecessary precaution, maybe, but he played better when he wasnât being watched.
Gonif: a thief, a swindler. He had looked it up.
He reached into his jacket for the new wallet from Marnie, soft blond leather with rawhide stitching, heavy against his heart. Inside was his bankroll from Myron Gold and, tucked into a hidden compartment, the two twenties from Joyce. Her birthday card had come a day early, his sister punctual to a fault. Her baby, too, would arrive on time, if it hadnât already. (The actual due date had slipped his mind.) But a first baby at Joyceâs age was risky, something he hadnât understood until Vera Gold explained it. Now he found himself worrying about Joyce, a strange reversal. It was Joyce whoâd always looked after him. Whoâd looked after them all: Lucy, their baby sister; Dorothy, their crazy one. Sandyâs worries were confusing and, he hoped, unnecessary. Joyce had more reliable people to lean on. Her husbandâsolid, dependable Edâwas surely up to the job.
To Joyce. To her health, he thought, raising his glass. It was as close as he could come to prayer.
T he corner table went hot, cold, hot. Sandy settled in, his nerves humming. The cards revealed themselves in canny combinations, tens and threes, threes and tens. It took him a moment to grasp the connection: the third of October, the beginning of his Jesus year.
By eleven oâclock he was down a hundred. Again and again he hit on 13; again and again the face cards found him, inscrutable queens and smirking jacks.
(The king looked somber, disappointed. Gonif. Of course, he wasnât talking about money.)
âYouâre killing me,â Sandy muttered to the dealer. In an hour it would be the fourth of October. If the pattern shifted, heâd be even further screwed, forced to hit on 14.
He found the thin metal disk in his pocket, kept there for emergencies. It was smooth and flat, smaller than a quarter. Carefully he nursed his drink. His fellow players were two gruff men in Western wearâstrangers, probably, but alike as brothers. Beside them sat an old babe, Spanish-looking, and what might have been her daughter, both heavily made up and enormously fat. Downtown: no sharks in suits, no beauties showing cleavage. Nothing here to rattle him, no distractions from the game.
Then, suddenly, the juice found him. He drew one sweet hand and then another. Face cards arrived in decorous pairs, like dinner guests.
King and queen.
Queen and jack.
He was about to pony up again when he glimpsed Marnie across the room. Heâd left her at the bar with a rum and Coke, hoping the scene would bore her into surrender, until he could put her in a taxi back to the motel.
Sandy sipped methodically at his martini, stirred, two olives, dry and cold. He had given precise instructions, like the customers he himself hated, the turkeys who rattled off entire recipes as though the barman had never mixed a drink. But tonight he had no choice; the drink had to be perfect.
Protocol.
Drink in hand, he scoped out the floor. Ten blackjack tables against the far wall, four cameras trained on them from above. Just as he remembered, the corner table was in a blind spot. He hadnât played the Lariat in years, but his memory was precise in these matters. If he stationed himself at the far end, his face would be hidden in shadow. An unnecessary precaution, maybe, but he played better when he wasnât being watched.
Gonif: a thief, a swindler. He had looked it up.
He reached into his jacket for the new wallet from Marnie, soft blond leather with rawhide stitching, heavy against his heart. Inside was his bankroll from Myron Gold and, tucked into a hidden compartment, the two twenties from Joyce. Her birthday card had come a day early, his sister punctual to a fault. Her baby, too, would arrive on time, if it hadnât already. (The actual due date had slipped his mind.) But a first baby at Joyceâs age was risky, something he hadnât understood until Vera Gold explained it. Now he found himself worrying about Joyce, a strange reversal. It was Joyce whoâd always looked after him. Whoâd looked after them all: Lucy, their baby sister; Dorothy, their crazy one. Sandyâs worries were confusing and, he hoped, unnecessary. Joyce had more reliable people to lean on. Her husbandâsolid, dependable Edâwas surely up to the job.
To Joyce. To her health, he thought, raising his glass. It was as close as he could come to prayer.
T he corner table went hot, cold, hot. Sandy settled in, his nerves humming. The cards revealed themselves in canny combinations, tens and threes, threes and tens. It took him a moment to grasp the connection: the third of October, the beginning of his Jesus year.
By eleven oâclock he was down a hundred. Again and again he hit on 13; again and again the face cards found him, inscrutable queens and smirking jacks.
(The king looked somber, disappointed. Gonif. Of course, he wasnât talking about money.)
âYouâre killing me,â Sandy muttered to the dealer. In an hour it would be the fourth of October. If the pattern shifted, heâd be even further screwed, forced to hit on 14.
He found the thin metal disk in his pocket, kept there for emergencies. It was smooth and flat, smaller than a quarter. Carefully he nursed his drink. His fellow players were two gruff men in Western wearâstrangers, probably, but alike as brothers. Beside them sat an old babe, Spanish-looking, and what might have been her daughter, both heavily made up and enormously fat. Downtown: no sharks in suits, no beauties showing cleavage. Nothing here to rattle him, no distractions from the game.
Then, suddenly, the juice found him. He drew one sweet hand and then another. Face cards arrived in decorous pairs, like dinner guests.
King and queen.
Queen and jack.
He was about to pony up again when he glimpsed Marnie across the room. Heâd left her at the bar with a rum and Coke, hoping the scene would bore her into surrender, until he could put her in a taxi back to the motel.
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