News from Heaven by Jennifer Haigh Page A

Now she was attracting lots of attention, from the men, anyway. Nothing could distract the old babes at the slots. In her strapless dress, she belonged at the Sands or Caesars. For the chintzy Lariat—its chandeliers dusty, its walls dark with cigarette smoke—she was like visiting royalty, the best-looking girl the place had seen in years.
    Sandy turned his back slightly, hoping she hadn’t seen him. To his dismay, she headed in his direction, teetering on high heels.
    Not now, he thought, counting furiously. Please, not now.
    A moment later she lurched toward him. “There you are. I lost you,” she said thickly. Her eyes were bleary, her makeup smeared.
    He spoke in a low voice. “Baby, are you okay?” Could she possibly be this tight on one rum and Coke?
    â€œI drank too much. Some guy kept buying me drinks.” She glanced over her shoulder. At one of the baccarat tables, a man in a Western hat was watching them intently. It was a look Sandy recognized, known to bartenders everywhere: the hillbilly stinkeye. A drunk itching to pick a fight.
    â€œOh, Jesus.” Sandy ran a hand through his hair. Now, of all times? The juice surging, the whole table waiting on him. And yet he owed her.
    The count fell out of his head.
    â€œCash me out,” he told the dealer. “Sorry, buddy. I gotta go.”
    O utside, he led her to the taxi stand. “I’m sorry,” she said, her hand low on her belly. “I ruined everything.”
    He could not disagree with this.
    â€œDo you feel sick?” he said.
    â€œI’m so tired. Aren’t you tired?” She leaned against him briefly, her hair fragrant, as though the stale casino air had not touched her. Sugar and flowers. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”
    Well, he was up—a little. He could walk away with cash in his pocket: five hundred bucks to catch up on some bills, plus enough for a nice dinner. He could end his birthday in bed with Marnie, the girl who loved him. What was wrong with that?
    Marnie sighed. “Can’t you just quit?”
    It was a question he’d been asked many times—by Vera Gold, his brother, George. Tonight, like every night, walking away was theoretically possible. But he’d spent three hours at the table, sweating, his pulse racing. He had invested other people’s money, his own time and anguish; lost everything, then won it all back. It seemed worse than foolish, it seemed somehow wasteful, to leave holding exactly what he’d brought.
    And back in L.A., Myron Gold was waiting: Gold the human cash register, tracking every cent he’d borrowed, no longer so blind, maybe, to the precious thing he’d stolen outright. Booby traps were everywhere—hidden pits of quicksand, the ground sinking around him. And yet, at the table, Sandy had beaten the odds. In just a few hands, he’d won back all he’d lost and more. If he could accomplish that much in a matter of minutes, what did the rest of the night hold?
    â€œBaby, I can’t,” he said. “You understand, right?”
    She nodded almost imperceptibly and stepped into the taxi. From the window she waved goodbye.
    T hat first night at the Beehive, he’d noticed her immediately, though Donny Valentine did his best to hide her. The two sat, always, at a secluded corner table. Donny came up to the bar and ordered their drinks. Then one night Donny kept her waiting, and Marnie herself approached the bar. She ordered a rum and Coke and fished a dollar in quarters from a little straw purse.
    â€œI’ll need to see some identification,” Sandy told her sternly, a game he played with the young ones. “Just kidding,” he whispered when the color drained from her face. “I’ll make you anything you want.”
    In a single night he knew everything about her: her teenage reign as Dairy Princess; the conviction of all Winthrop, Ontario, that she was destined to be a star.