by Steve Fisher
She’d returned the following Saturday, at a time when he was busier than usual, and he wondered vaguely how she could afford it—now that it wasn’t free any more. But he would have forgotten her existence that day except that she hovered around the gambling pit, playing a nickel slot machine, or just walking through, and he became aware of her eyes on him. There was something sexy about it, or at least he’d thought that then. So at four he asked if she wanted to see the sights, then drove her around in his car, ending up at Lake Mead. He took her for a speedboat ride, and she’d screamed like a delighted little girl. Then, in the middle of the lake, he’d cut the motor and made a pass at her right there in the bottom of the boat. She fought him desperately. The floor boards were flooded and her dress was soaked. It had ended in a state of chaotic clumsiness with him holding her pinned down until she agreed at least to give him one lass. It was a maidenly kiss, and he’d released her. No apology, no words then; he couldn’t wait to take the boat in and get her back to the casino and be rid of her. He might never have seen her after that, but a block before they reached Rainbow’s End, with still not one word exchanged between them, she had looked over shyly and said:
“I’m sorry.”
He’d laughed. She was sorry! He’d said: “I almost forgive you.”
“I suppose I’m a prude.”
“No, there are just some girls who don’t care for that sort of thing in the bottom of a wet boat.”
But why had she come back again last weekend, hanging around, haunting him: her eyes frightened, as if she were having a struggle of some kind with herself? He’d managed to stay away from her; if she’s working herself up to something, he’d thought, let her make the advances. His one concession was to walk her back to her room on Saturday night. It was the only time they were alone. He held her arm, guiding her, and felt the tenseness in her. But when they reached the room door, she just turned and looked up, as if she were terrified, and said;
“Good night, Joe.”
And went in, closing the door. He’d shrugged.
He climbed to his feet now, moved into the pit, again feeling the eyes of security men following him. So she’s back for the fourth time? Well, let’s get it over with. I need a little amusement. He walked outside to the pool area.
Now in the growing darkness of the summer night, floodlights were on, and the pool was crowded with swimmers. Sunny was seated at a table on the terrace, sipping a tall lemonade. He sat down opposite her and she looked up in half shock and surprise.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“Looks like you can’t stay away from this place.”
She flushed. “I like it. As a matter of fact, I’m staying ten days this time.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “School’s out now.”
“So you’ve got time on your hands?”
“Yes. I’ve been saving up for a vacation and, well, this is as good a place to spend it as any.”
He was conscious of her perfume now. It wasn’t the best, but it was effective. She was wearing a blue jersey sweater, her breasts firm and sharp against it. There was something wholesome about her. You didn’t see this kind of girl very often. Not in this town, at least. She was special. Well, that’s why he was here. He knew all the other variants of female.
“Were your fourth-graders sorry to bid you goodbye, teacher?”
“I don’t think so.” She paused. “Why do vou make such a point of calling me ‘teacher’?”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s because I didn’t meet many of them when I was a kid. Didn’t get very far in school.” She smiled. “One wouldn’t know it.”
He almost laughed. “That’s a quaint way of saying it.”
“What is?”
“ ‘One wouldn’t know it.’ Sort of formal.”
“But correct.”
“Oh, I grant you that.”
“And I’m not as quaint as you think.”
“Careful, teach—I remember you from someplace. Where was it—Lake Mead? Bottom of a wet boat?”
She was angry now. “Was that quaint?”
“Maybe not. But it brings me to something I want to ask. Aren’t you just a little afraid to spend ten days here?”
“Why?”
“You figure it out.”
She looked at him. “Big man of the world.”
“I don’t terrify you?”
“Not exactly. But I’m curious. What’s it like being you?”
“Funny question. You want a funny answer?”
“No—-seriously. What are your friends like? Close friends? And what do you do for—” she broke off.
“—kicks, isn’t that what you were going to say?”
“What are your recreations?”
“You cleaned that up in a hurry.”
“In other words you refuse to answer on the grounds that it’s none of my business?”
Voice a trifle hard now, he told her: “A casino owner doesn’t have time for friends—or recreations.”
“What does a casino owner aim for—if anything?”
“To win—and keep winning.”
“What about the future?”
“More of same.”
“Isn’t it a little lonely that way?”
“How can a man be lonely in a place that’s always full of people?”
“Easy,” she said.
“Well, let me worry about it.”
“All right, Joe, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about you. Wondering about you.”
“Is that why you came back?”
“I don’t know why I came back.” She caught her breath. “What do you think about me?”
“Nice. Period.”
“That all?”
“The rest’ll keep.”
“You mean there’s more to come?”
“That’s up to you.”
People were laughing. Men with strong physiques were doing fancy dives off the high board. Shapely girls in scanty bathing suits were watching, applauding, cheering them on. It was very hot and no one really noticed as stars filled the desert night.
“You’re so cold,” Sunny said, “that I find myself wondering if you’re really human.”
“Now you’re getting there,” he snapped, “what I really am is an animal. I bite, scratch and rut. So you’d better keep your distance.”
There was sudden white anger on his face. And she said: “I didn’t mean—”
But he was on his feet, kicking back the chair. “You heard me—stay here at Rainbow’s End—but keep the hell away from me. That’s fair warning.”
“Joe—where are you going?”
“Where else? Back to my cage.”
He moved away very fast.
Three
When a shooter throws out his very first roll, either seven or eleven will win—they are “naturals”; but should the numbers two, three or twelve turn up, he loses—they are “craps.” Any other number that shows on the first roll is called a “point” (“Six, six a point, do or don’t, will he or won’t he?”) which must occur again before seven in order to win. After once making a “point,” no other numbers (such as two, three, twelve or eleven) can interfere but the seven. If seven is thrown before making the “point,” he loses the dice, which are given to the next player, in clockwise rotation.
Now, a few minutes after midnight, the first floor show in the dining room was over, and so was Mai Davis’ session at the lounge piano. A trio, which—as prices go—was a much cheaper act, had taken over in his stead. And at the other side of the room, the buffet supper counter was open, dispensing smoked turkey and other edibles. Mai was seated at the far comer of the bar among the ten showgirls who had come off stage still in make-up. The contracts that paid them each a hundred dollars a week stipulated that in order to “dress the room up,” they had to appear in the casino among the customers. So they always sat over here in a group. Yet, strangely, and to some of the girls disappointingly
, they weren’t often sought out. Statistics had long ago proved that for a male the attraction of a dice table was greater than that of sex.
Not that the girls didn’t often have some stray Lothario, or stage-door Johnny buzzing around them; they usually did. Tonight it was the General—or at least that’s what he said he was. He was dressed like a millionaire playboy, slacks, tweed jacket, open-collar sports shirt, and expensive leather sandals. Mai had met him twice before and had always found him entertaining. Over six feet, broad-shouldered with a handsome young-old face, shiny, well-combed black hair, a square jaw and abounding energy, he overflowed with big-time conversation that never stopped. The incessant chatter was laced with humor, and punctuated every now and then by an impressive statement: “I’m thinking of moving here. It’s a coming place. I’ve put fifty thousand in with a group that’s going to build a casino.” Or: “I’m going to see if I can get a license to start dog racing in Las Vegas. There ought to be a fortune in it. I used to raise greyhounds in Florida.”
Mai Davis didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but the General put on a good show, and with such a friendly and good-humored flourish that he was constantly fascinated. The General claimed that he was here in town with his daughter and his mistress, and each girl was nineteen years of age, a circumstance that both amused and pleased him. Mai had met the daughter a few nights ago. She was nineteen and looked it, shy, naive, well-brought-up, on vacation from a college in the East. She seemed overwhelmed with her parent, but tried not to show it; she did her best to appear as madcap as he, but after drinking three champagne cocktails became ill and sleepy and excused herself to go back to the room. The General had looked after her sadly and said: “I really have to take care of that girl, now that her mother’s dead.” The nineteen-year-old mistress, if one really existed, Mai had yet to meet.
Right now the General was walking up and down, talking to the girls, making jokes; and he had insisted on buying everybody drinks, which reminded Mai of an incident that had occurred the last time he had been with him. The older man had been drinking double shots of whisky with no chaser and they were telling on him. Mai had had a feeling he didn’t really know what he was doing, so had suggested that he try a single shot mixed with water and soda. ‘That way you’ll last longer,” he had explained. “I like to hear you talk, and I don’t want you to pass out on me.” The General had cheerfully followed the advice, did last longer, and tonight was holding a mixed drink. Which only meant he hadn’t been an experienced drinker. To drink slowly and somewhat mildly was something you told to an eighteen-year-old, not to a mature man. And Mai didn’t know why he was here tonight mingling with the girls. If he really had a young mistress, his interest couldn’t be more than superficial.
“I’m going to speak to Joe about rearranging the show,” the General was saying; “There’s no reason he can’t give each of you—maybe on alternating nights—a two-or three-minute solo of some land to demonstrate what you can do.”
The chorus girls, their faces glowing with heavy pancake make-up, and exaggerated dark green eve-shadow, listened skeptically. Mai felt they needed all that makeup to achieve the seductive, stunning effect they were supposed to have without it. Eight of them w ere medium tall, two were little ponies, all of them had ample breasts and good bodies, yet they were just passably pretty, and seemed somehow countrified and scared, as though they didn’t belong in show business. It was an impression you got even when you saw them on stage.
“There are the happy, corn-fed future mothers of America,” somebody had told Mai. “They’re young, and having a fling at trying to become Marilyn Monroes. But inside of two years they’ll all be married and settled down.” And Mai, knowing these kids even better than his friend, had to agree.
“I’m serious!” the General insisted. “If you don’t think so, I’ll call him over here right now.”
“No, don’t,” one of the ponies begged. “He’ll say we put you up to it.”
“All right,” the General agreed. “But I’ll speak to him first thing in the morning.”
A long-legged, muddy blonde named Kate (who, nurturing a dream of becoming a musical comedy star, had given herself the professional name of “Kiki”) was seated next to Mai, a spot she reserved for herself whenever he joined them. She was garbed in flats, black matador pants that were tight across the hips, and a red midriff blouse; her hair, worn in a horsetail, was tied with a red scarf. She was pleasant, and more sexy than the others, but she’d never make it to the musical comedy stage; and at the moment he’d have been happier with her if she washed off the grotesque make-up.
“Who is this crazy character?” she said, indicating the General.
“He’s a nice guy, Kiki,” Mai told her. “Harmless.”
A few minutes later the General was whispering in her ear. After that, he whispered into each girl’s ear, one by one. Mai was puzzled.
“What’s the pitch, Kiki?” he asked.
“He wants to go to bed with somebody.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No.”
“Then he must be. That’s the type of joke he thinks is funny.”
Kiki wasn’t convinced. “Honey, soon as the second show is over and I’m free—why don’t we go out somewhere?”
“All right with me,” Mai told her, “only be sure you wash all that make-up off.”
“Oh, Mai, why?” she complained. “It makes you seem more glamorous if they see you out with a showgirl.”
He felt this was asinine, typical amateur showgirl thinking. He said: “According to your standards. I’m ten times as glamorous as you are. Now are you going to clean up or not?”
“All right, Mai, don’t get sore.”
A few minutes later she and the other girls headed for the backstage dressing room. It was time to get ready for the second floor show.
Four
Except for silver dollars, you do not play at any of the tables with actual money. The money is exchanged for chips which are made of a pressed rubber as hard as wood, and are very light. A piece of paper pasted in the center of the disc-shaped chip bears the name of the casino, and the worth of the tab: $5, $25, S50 or $100, a different color for each denomination; an invisible indigo dye is impregnated into each one, which discourages counterfeiting. The chips are interchangeable from one casino to another, and are accepted in stores, markets, restaurants, barber shops and garages. They are, in fact, a legal tender in Las Vegas, on an even par with U.S. currency.
Joe was holding a ten dollar chip in his hand, examining it against the overhead light. With him was Sprig, his top security man, and Clarence Henry, the floor manager now on duty. They were in Joe’s small but elaborate, leather-encased office. It was well past midnight now, and the gambling pit just beyond the paneled door was crowded almost to capacity.
“It’s a phony all right,” Sprig said.
Joe was frowning. “No trace-back at all?”
Clarence Henry shook his head. He was a man in his forties; neat, mild-looking, wearing glasses, he could have passed for a small business man from the Midwest. “We found them in the counting room.”
“An even dozen,” Sprig said. He was tall, lean, gauntfaced and blond. He was not only an experienced investigator, but one of the toughest men alive.
“I’ve alerted the tables,” Clarence Henry went on, “the boys are watching for them now.”
Joe took the chip back. “What worries me most is that it’s so good. An almost exact duplicate of ours.”
“I’ve doubled security,” Sprig reported.
Joe looked at him thoughtfully. “Can you triple it?” Sprig asked: “You think it’s that serious?” Counterfeiters made forays against them every now and then, but the danger of being detected was so great, it was usually a hit-and-run operation that never netted them enough for the casino to become alarmed. Yet Joe was now showing alarm. He looked at his two employees.
“I think it’s started.” He flipped the chip up
, caught it. “With a ten dollar chip—or rather, twelve of them.”
Sprig said: “I didn’t expect them to go this route.”
“They won’t,” Joe told him, “it’s a diversion. They’ll play around with this for a while, then hit somewhere else. I’m not sure, but I think all hell could break loose tonight.”
Sprig whistled. “I’ll call my outside people. Security’ll be tripled inside of an hour or two.”
Joe nodded. “Hop to it.”
As Sprig walked out the door, the telephone rang. It didn’t ring in here unless it was something important and the operator knew the person calling. Clarence Henry waited while Joe picked up the receiver.
“Yeah?” Joes face was impassive as he heard the message; and he hung up without making any reply He looked at Clarence.
“Guess who just checked in to one of our best cottages?”
“I couldn’t,” Clarence said.
“Bello.”
“Well, he isn’t—he couldn’t be tied up with—”
“Hell, he couldn’t!” Joe snorted. “He’s a professional gambler. He doesn’t care whose money he uses. Maybe they aren’t even telling him. They could say it was a group of prosperous grape growers who want to have a fling!”
“But—”
“The timing,” Joe said, “this isn’t just a guess. Anyway, he’s never stayed here before. Avoided me like a plague on all his other visits because I’m outside the syndicate and the boys in the syndicate are his buddies. Checking in here is the same as making a formal announcement that hostilities are about to commence.”
Clarence Henry shook his head grievously. “I sure hope you’re wrong.” He just stood and looked at the boss, and then when time and silence seemed to be hanging too heavily between them, removed his glasses and polished them—just to be doing something. Joe had begun to pace. At last he turned to the floor manager.
“Well, what are you standing here for? Get back on the floor!”
“I wanted to ask you about the girl—Miss Guido.”
Joe was in a foul mood. “What about her?”
“Been trying to see you since early tonight.”
