by Steve Fisher
“Don’t you now?”
He looked at her. “I’m wondering.”
She didn’t feel the sun now, and she was no longer conscious of the stifling, baked air that was so hard to breathe. “Why, Joe?”
He jumped up. “Let’s go in the water.”
He held out his hand and she took it and he pulled her up; they walked into the water together. It was crystal clear and almost warm—yet cool enough to be refreshing. They walked out shoulder deep.
“This is better,” he said.
“Much better.”
“I feel alive again.”
“So do I.”
He held her at arm’s length, inspecting her, then pulled her to him and they kissed deeply. Afterward he said: “Know what I’ve been thinking?” He paused. “I’m almost afraid to say it out loud.”
“Please say it out loud.”
“That maybe I’d like to quit—quit and get out. Quit the worry, the fuss, the bother; quit the kind of thing that’s going on now—a marathon crap game with a casino for the winner. Quit the whole flipping mess.”
The word offended her. “Joe—”
“And get a boat,” he went on, “a hell of a boat; trim, streamlined. As a kid, I always used to think of boats. I had a little collection of them. Dimestore stuff. Do you know it hasn’t occurred to me in all this time since I’ve had a lot of money that I could buy one—that I have enough to buy one and live on it and pay a crew and go any goddamn place I want to in the world? Do you know that hadn’t occurred to me until I met you—and not even then—not until just the past day or so. And do you know why? Don’t talk. Just let me tell you why. How can you think of buying a big yacht and living on it alone? Wouldn’t that be the most idiotic thing you ever heard of? A man going around the world all by himself—seeing the sights of this whole cockeyed world alone?”
She whispered: “I love you.”
But he was almost in a trance. “I’d go to the usual ports, of course, all the places everybody else has been except me—Bermuda, Rio, Hawaii—but other places, too. Far places. Arabia. Hong Kong. Istanbul. And Athens. I’d love to see Greece with you, Sunny! I’d like to look at the world with you. You’re a schoolteacher, you could teach me about it—and there are things I’ll teach you.”
“It sounds beautiful, Joe!”
“It sounds insane. But I want to do it. Do you know if Bello breaks me, I won’t be able to? But he won’t. Hasn’t a chance. Will you come with me—on a slow trip all over the oceans that’ll last for the rest of our lives?” He peered at her. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not—it’s just—I’m so happy!”
His voice was warm. “I’m happy, too. I’m not sure I’ve ever been happy before—really happy.”
“I want us to be happy together. To be everything together.”
“Everything?”
“Yes!”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
She was staring at him. “Yes!”
“In every way there is?”
“In every way there is.”
“Now?”
“Joe, I—”
He said: “I’ve just proved you a liar.”
“No, you haven’t! In every way there is—now!”
“Take off your bathing suit!”
“Here?”
He nodded.
“Won’t somebody—”
“Nobodv’11 see.”
She reached around to unzip it, and then he helped her, peeling it off her chest; she was breathing hard, her breasts bobbing in the semi-warm water. He kept pulling at the suit, sliding it off her hips, then made her step out of it. He tossed it ashore. Then, a moment later, his trunks followed. Sunny was quivering now as he approached. She closed her eyes, and felt his hands on her hips. Now, suddenly, she half screamed, her whole body shaking.
His hands still on her hips, he lifted her up and carried her to the beach and lowered her and himself to the sand; and then she was writhing, moaning, eyes still closed, pain shooting through her.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, darling.”
“Hurt?”
“No, everything’s lovely.”
He was very gentle now and kissed her mouth, her neck, her ears; and all at once she forgot the pain, it wasn’t there; and she clutched at him, pulling him closer to her, and she thought she was going to faint.
“Oh, Joe—”
“I love you,” he said. “God help me, Sunny, I love you, I really love you.”
“I love you, too!”
“We’re fine now, aren’t we?”
“Yes, darling—everything’s fine—except—I’m running out of breath.”
“I want you to run out of breath.”
“Am I—am I supposed to talk to you?”
“No,” he said, “there are times when you won’t be able to. At least I hope there will be.”
“I think I’m reaching one of those times.”
“We both are.”
Twenty-one
7.22 P.M.
Mai was at the piano. He’d been there about ten minutes when a girl in a tight silk dress sat down on one of the stools—a thin wisp of a thing, completely unpretty, with big eyes and garish lipstick. She was hardly settled when a uniformed casino policeman walked up, helped her down again, and then catching her elbow moved away a few feet and spoke firmly. She left without fuss, heading for the nearest exit.
Prostitution in Las Vegas is strictly controlled and she was evidently an “outlaw”—trying to do a little hustling on her own. Most of the big sporting houses are in a nearby small town that can be reached by taxicab for a flat two dollars and a half; and the girls, once you get there, wall entertain you for prices that range from ten to fifteen to twenty dollars. There are several houses in Vegas, too, on the outskirts, but not as fancy; and the talent is usually inferior to that found in the bawdy-gaudy salons of the small town. But the highest-class and highest-priced whores are right in the Strip casinos—call girls who will come to your room for fifty dollars and stay the entire night if you double the ante.
The customer beside whom the wispy little “outlaw” had briefly sat down was a Big Man on a small scale. He wore an almost offensive green suit, with a red-checkered flannel hunting shirt, and had money spread out on the piano bar before him in the shape of a fan—hundred dollar bills, fifties, twenties, tens and ones: the idea being, apparently, that he didn’t like to fish for his wallet every time the cocktail waitress brought him a drink. But he didn’t fool anybody, particularly Mai, who had seen his type before—and was always embarrassed for them.
“My name’s Si Shelby,” he said, standing and reaching over the piano to shake hands with Mai, who had to stop playing for a moment, get up and let his hand be gripped. “I’m from down L.A. way.”
Mai mumbled that he was glad to meet him, sat down, and resumed playing.
Shelby was a big man, with a broad face and bright, sharp eyes. He was a year or two this side of forty, his wavy brown hair thinning on top. If you could stomach his overbearing manner, he was vaguely handsome, and made a great effort to be flamboyant, likable—good fellow to everybody.
“I’m in the used car game.”
Mai felt he had to speak, and asked: “How is the used car business these days?”
“Making nothing but money,” Si Shelby said, “nothing but money—hand over fist.”
Mai didn’t know why, but he felt the man was a terrific liar. People who make big money usually play it down or complain about the tax bite.
Shelby shoved a dollar bill toward him. “Play My Melancholy Baby.”
Mai pushed the dollar back and a couple on the other side of Shelby, too embarrassed to stay any longer, got up and left.
“No tips,” Mai said.
Angry now, nervous and upset by Shelby, he began to play the request. And Dee appeared—the same as last night. It was as if he had blown a whistle for her. She found an empty cocktail t
able for two near the piano and sat down. Over at the crap table, Bello had his back to them, and seemed deeply engrossed, while Joe scowled at almost every roll of the dice. Mai smiled openly at Dee, and she smiled back, then averted her eyes.
“Five . . . five a point. Will he or won’t he five?” (“Phoebe, dice! One time! Little Phoebe!”) “Six, the point is five.” (“This time, dice!”) “Seven, loser. Line away. A brand-new shooter. Do or don’t come. Will he or won’t he? Who wants the odds on craps or eleven? Coming out now—Ee-o-leven! Pay the line . . .”
Mai had turned back to the keyboard when he saw the house resident physician approaching—Doc Hoffman: husky, tanned, wearing a suit and tie. Mai knew him casually and liked him. He was off duty now, and took a stool at the piano.
“Is there anything special you’d like to hear?”
“No, you name it.”
Mai started into a medley and played and sang for several minutes, now and then sneaking a half smile at Dee. Doc Hoffman wasn’t just enjoying the music, he was practically living it—and Mai knew he was a real fan. He slacked off, strumming the ivories with light instrumental music.
“Doc, you live in Las Vegas all the time?”
The doctor nodded. “I haven’t been anywhere else in six years.”
Mai gazed at him curiously. “How can you stand it? It’d drive me crazy if I was here that long.”
Doc Hoffman shrugged. “I think it’s paradise.”
“You have to be kidding.”
“No. To salve my conscience for having things so good, I spend two hours every morning in the free clinic at the hospital. Directly after that, two hours in a little office I have downtown with a private practice. The rest of the day is my own. The casino pays my room and board, and I’m on hand from about four in the afternoon until midnight. After that, I can be reached wherever I go.”
Mai nodded. “Yeah—but the same rat race, day after day; the same dice chant—”
“You get accustomed to it. Besides, I don’t gamble, so there’s no attraction. They hate me for not gambling, but what are they going to do? I like to swim. I see all the fine shows and date an interesting variety of beautiful women this town is full of. Hell, I live off the fat of the land. How could anybody, anywhere, have it so good?”
Si Shelby interjected: “I’m sold. I was going to head for Mexico City—but now I’ve definitely decided to stay right here.” The cocktail waitress arrived, and he told Diane: “Drinks for everybody at the piano. See what they’ll have, honey.”
Mai and Doc exchanged looks, but didn’t protest; whenever a big spender wants to buy for the house it’s less wear and tear if you merely accept. And now the tall, very lovely Kitty Erin was sitting down on the stool next to Doc. She nodded at Mai, smiled. Si Shelby stared at her rudely. And when Diane returned with the drinks, said:
“One for her, too.”
The TV actress looked over at Shelby, smiling thinly. “Thank you, but no.” Her voice was soft.
“But I’m buying a round for the whole piano,” Shelby explained.
She shook her head, then quietly gave her order to Diane.
“Eight, the hard way. Eight, eight a point—Six, the point is eight—Eight, easy eight. Eight, the winner . . . ” Cottontop approached the piano now, looking excited. The little breakfast room waitress, garbed in a sleeveless red summer dress, had appeared out of nowwhere. She was clutching an autograph book in her hand. She climbed up on the last empty stool and peered past Shelby and the Doctor toward Kitty Erin. Mai sensed she was going to talk no matter what he was trying to do with music, so he took a brief break, sipping the highball Shelby had bought for him.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Miss,” Cottontop said, “but aren’t you—don’t tell me, it’ll come to me in a second! You’re on TV a lot. And your name is—would you sign my book, Miss Erin?”
With everyone staring at her, Kitty Erin squirmed uneasily. “All right.”
Cottontop climbed off the stool, and came around to her, thrusting the book forward. “Write ‘To Cindy’—that makes it more personal. ” Then, before the actress could write anything, she went on: “Why don’t you get in the movies, too? You’re wonderful. I mean you’re so young and everything.”
“Thank you. I’ll talk to my agent about it.”
She at last began scribbling in the autograph book, and at the same time the loud-speaker in the casino began to page: “Mr. Rock Hudson, you are wanted on the telephone in the lobby. Mr. Rock Hudson...” Cottontop’s head jerked up. For a moment it seemed as if she would yank the book away from Kitty Erin, but she somehow managed to contain herself for another half second. Then, when the book was handed back, she mumbled a fast, “Thank you very much,” and darted toward the lobby telephones.
“A real character,” Mai said.
“I knew I’d seen you somewhere,” Si Shelby said. “TV, huh? My name’s Si Shelby, Miss Erin.”
She ignored him. “Mai, remember that song I used to request so much in Palm Springs?”
“Angel Eyes?”
“That’s it. Will you play it?”
“Sure will.” He fingered through the intro, then began to sing.
Try to think that love’s not around,
Still it’s uncomfortably near . . .
Cottontop returned in a dirge of disappointment and sat down next to Shelby. “He didn’t show up. He isn’t even in the casino. Can you imagine that—Rock Hudson isn’t even in the casino!”
My old heart ain’t gaining no ground,
Since my Angel Eyes ain’t here . . .
He finished the song, and was taking another sip of his drink when he heard the remarks of men who were moving past.
“Joe’s had it—really had it. I predict he’ll lose this place inside of another twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah—Bello’s in stride tonight, no doubt about it. He’s going in for the kill.”
It tensed Mai; he gazed over at the main crap table, noticed the furrows on Joe’s face.
“Vegas,” Doctor Hoffman was saying to Kitty Erin, “fun place of the world.”
Twenty-two
Although the house frowns on a stickman using the vernacular of the players: “Box cars”—for two sixes; “Big Dick” for ten; “Quinine” (the bitter dose) for nine; “Phoebe” for five; “Little Joe” for four; “Snake eyes” for two ones—he is permitted to make a litany of his chant: give rhythm, poetry, even a hit to the unending flow of calls. “Coming out, bets down, Ee-o or any . . . ” And without changing his frozen expression lace in subtle humor. If one or both dice fly up into the wooden rack, its “No good in the wood,” or hop skip into the glass dice bowl: “No roll in the bowl.”
But tonight nothing was funny to Bello. His face was like granite. He had shaved, changed clothes, looked almost refreshed: but deeply angry. And the dice are sometimes slave to an angry and unfrightened player—they were tonight. Joe hadn’t seen the last tally, but Bello was close to a million dollars into him.
“I’m doubling all of my bets,” the big gambler said suddenly, the words rumbling out. He addressed the box man without looking at Joe. The moneyman started picking up special chips to add to Bello’s bets already on the board, but checked with Joe before putting them down. Joe withheld his decision and now Bello glared at him. “What’s the difference whether I take it from you fast or slow?”
“Policy.”
Bello snorted. “A word to hide behind.”
The crowd was silent, fascinated. The dice chant stopped an instant, then started up again as Joe scowled at the stickman. But it was the faces around the table that won for Bello.
“Double Mr. Bellos bets,” he instructed the box man. “Six . . . the point is six, six will win. Eight . . . the number is six. Place your come and field bets. Four, six is the point. Who wants the hard way?” (“Five—on the hard six! Come on, dice—three and three me!”) “Five—and the number is six . . .”
Bello caught Joe’s eyes again. “It�
�s only money.”
Joe’s quick temper flared. “You want it now?”
“And quit the game?” Bello shook his head. “You should be that lucky.”
Joe studied him, “What’s the needling for?”
“Needling?”
“Something’s bothering you.”
“Not the dice. They’re performing beautifully.”
“What is it?” Joe demanded.
Bello didn’t speak for a moment, but his eyes were locked with Joe’s. “Six, six the winner. Pay the board. Coming out again, the same lucky shooter. Get your bets down . . . ”
“Policy,” Bello said, giving Joe back his word. “I don’t like the way you run your business.”
Joe was almost livid. “Suppose you explain?”
“You don’t know about it?”
“Know about what?”
Both men were keeping their voices low and the conversation strictly personal even though separated by the crap table; an eavesdropper would have to strain to hear. “Ask your top dog security man.”
Joe relaxed some now. “He takes care of his business, I take care of mine.”
“You tell him to stay out of my life.”
“Didn’t know he was in it.”
People began glancing toward them now, wondering what was going on, and there was a momentary silence until this outside interest waned.
“Seven—seven out—seven loses. Clear the board. Coming out with a new shooter. Who wants the odds on eleven? Insurance against any craps? Coming out, bets down, do or don’t . . . Four. Four a point. Get the odds on four . . . ”
Bello said: “He tipped me off my girl was meeting somebody this afternoon.”
“Did you a favor then.”
“One of your employees—is that a favor?”
“You insinuating that Sprig arranged it—planted him there?”
“Oh, Mr. Sprig is above that, I suppose?”
“He certainly is.”
“I don’t think so.”
Joe was angry again. “Who forced her to meet somebody—Sprig?”
“Nobody. She was willing. That’s why he was able to damage me. He knew he could damage me. He saw a situation and used it.”
