With an eight hole–card and a queen showing, with the dealer showing a four up, Kostner decided to let the house do the work. So he stood, and the dealer turned up. Six.
The dealer looked like something out of a 1935 George Raft film: Arctic diamond–chip eyes, manicured fingers long as a brain surgeon’s, straight black hair slicked flat away from the pale forehead. He did not look up as he peeled them off. A three. Another three. Bam. A five. Bam. Twenty–one, and Kostner saw his last thirty dollars—six five–dollar chips—scraped on the edge of the cards, into the dealer’s chip racks. Busted. Flat. Down and out in Las Vegas, Nevada. Playground of the Western World.
He slid off the comfortable stool–chair and turned his back on the blackjack table. The action was already starting again, like waves closing over a drowned man. He had been there, was gone, and no one had noticed. No one had seen a man blow the last tie with salvation. Kostner now had his choice: he could bum his way into Los Angeles and try to find something that resembled a new life…or he could go blow his brains out through the back of his head.
Neither choice showed much light or sense.
He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his worn and dirty chinos, and started away down the line of slot machines clanging and rattling on the other side of the aisle between blackjack tables.
He stopped. He felt something in his pocket. Beside him, but all–engrossed, a fiftyish matron in electric lavender capris, high heels and Ship n’ Shore blouse was working two slots, loading and pulling one while waiting for the other to clock down. She was dumping quarters in a seemingly inexhaustible supply from a Dixie cup held in her left hand. There was a surrealistic presence to the woman. She was almost automated, not a flicker of expression on her face, the eyes fixed and unwavering. Only when the gong rang, someone down the line had pulled a jackpot, did she look up. And at that moment Kostner knew what was wrong and immoral and deadly about Vegas, about legalized gambling, about setting the traps all baited and open in front of the average human. The woman’s face was gray with hatred, envy, lust and dedication to the game—in that timeless instant when she heard another drugged soul down the line winning a minuscule jackpot. A jackpot that would only lull the player with words like luck and ahead of the game. The jackpot lure: the sparkling, bobbling many–colored wiggler in a sea of poor fish.
The thing in Kostner’s pocket was a silver dollar.
He brought it out and looked at it.
The eagle was hysterical.
But Kostner pulled to an abrupt halt, only one half–footstep from the sign indicating the limits of Tap City. He was still with it. What the high–rollers called the edge, the vigerish, the fine hole–card. One buck. One cartwheel. Pulled out of the pocket not half as deep as the pit into which Kostner had just been about to plunge.
What the hell, he thought, and turned to the row of slot machines.
He had thought they’d all been pulled out of service, the silver dollar slots. A shortage of coinage, said the United States Mint. But right there, side by side with the nickel and quarter bandits, was one cartwheel machine. Two thousand dollar jackpot. Kostner grinned foolishly. If you’re gonna go out, go out like a champ.
He thumbed the silver dollar into the coin slot and grabbed the heavy, oiled handle. Shining cast aluminum and pressed steel. Big black plastic ball, angled for arm–ease, pull it all day and you won’t get weary.
Without a prayer in the universe, Kostner pulled the handle.
She had been born in Tucson, mother full–blooded Cherokee, father a bindlestiff on his way through. Mother had been working a truckers’ stop, father had popped for spencer steak and sides. Mother had just gotten over a bad scene, indeterminate origins, unsatisfactory culminations. Mother had popped for bed. And sides. Margaret Annie Jessie had come nine months later; black of hair, fair of face, and born into a life of poverty. Twenty–three years later, a determined product of Miss Clairol and Berlitz, a dream–image formed by Vogue and intimate association with the rat race, Margaret Annie Jessie had become a contraction.
Maggie.
Long legs, trim and coltish; hips a trifle large, the kind that promote that specific thought in men, about getting their hands around it; belly fiat, isometrics; waist cut to the bone, a waist that works in any style from dirndl to disco–slacks; no breasts—all nipple, but no breast, like an expensive whore (the way O’Hara pinned it)—and no padding…forget the cans, baby, there’s other, more important action; smooth, Michelangelo–sculpted neck, a pillar, proud; and all that face.
Outthrust chin, perhaps a tot too much belligerence, but if you’d walloped as many gropers, you too, sweetheart; narrow mouth, petulant lower lip, nice to chew on, a lower lip as though filled with honey, bursting, ready for things to happen; a nose that threw the right sort of shadow, flaring nostrils, the acceptable words—aquiline, patrician, classic, allathat; cheekbones as stark and promontory as a spit of land after ten years of open ocean; cheekbones holding darkness like narrow shadows, sooty beneath the taut–fleshed bone–structure; amazing cheekbones, the whole face, really; simple uptilted eyes, the touch of the Cherokee, eyes that looked out at you, as you looked in at them, like someone peering out of the keyhole as you peered in; actually, dirty eyes, they said you can get it.
Blonde hair, a great deal of it, wound and rolled and smoothed and flowing, in the old style, the pageboy thing men always admire; no tight little cap of slicked plastic; no ratted and teased Anapurna of bizarre coiffure; no ironed–flat discothèque hair like number 3 flat noodles. Hair, the way a man wants it, so he can dig his hands in at the base of the neck and pull all that face very close.
An operable woman, a working mechanism, a rigged and sudden machinery of softness and motivation.
Twenty–three, and determined as hell never to abide in that vale of poverty her mother had called purgatory for her entire life; snuffed out in a grease fire in the last trailer, somewhere in Arizona, thank God no more pleas for a little money from babygirl Maggie hustling drinks in a Los Angeles topless joint. (There ought to be some remorse in there somewhere, for a Mommy gone where all the good grease–fire victims go. Look around, you’ll find it.)
Maggie.
Genetic freak. Mommy’s Cherokee uptilted eye–shape, and Polack quickscrewing Daddy WithoutaName’s blue as innocence color.
Blue–eyed Maggie, dyed blonde, alla that face, alla that leg, fifty bucks a night can get it and it sounds like it’s having a climax.
Irish–innocent blue–eyed innocent French–legged innocent Maggie. Polack. Cherokee. Irish. All–woman and going on the market for this month’s rent on the stucco pad, eighty bucks’ worth of groceries, a couple month’s worth for a Mustang, three appointments with the specialist in Beverly Hills about that shortness of breath after a night on the hustle bump the sticky thigh the disco lurch the gotcha sweat: woman minutes. Increments under the meat; perspiration purchases, yeah it does.
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, pretty Maggie Moneyeyes, who came from Tucson and trailers and rheumatic fever and a surge to live that was all kaleidoscope frenzy of clawing scrabbling no–nonsense. If it took laying on one’s back and making sounds like a panther in the desert, then one did it, because nothing, but nothing was as bad as being dirt–poor, itchy–skinned, soiled–underwear, scuff–toed, hairy and ashamed lousy with the no–gots. Nothing!
Maggie. Hooker. Hustler. Grabber. Swinger. If there’s a buck in it, there’s rhythm and the onomatopoeia is Maggie Maggie Maggie.
She who puts out. For a price, whatever that might be.
Maggie was dating Nuncio. He was Sicilian. He had dark eyes and an alligator–grain wallet with slip–in pockets for credit cards. He was a spender, a sport, a high–roller. They went to Vegas.
Maggie and the Sicilian. Her blue eyes and his slip–in pockets. But mostly her blue eyes.
The spinning reels behind the three long glass windows blurred, and Kostner knew there wasn’t a chance. Two thousand dollar jackpot. Round
and round, whirring. Three bells or two bells and a jackpot bar, get 18; three plums or two plums and a jackpot bar, get 14; three oranges or two oranges and a jac—
Ten, five, two bucks for a single cherry cluster in first position. Something…I’m drowning…something…
The whirring…
Round and round…
As something happened that was not considered in the pit–boss manual.
The reels whipped and snapped to a stop, clank clank clank, tight in place.
Three bars looked up at Kostner. But they did not say JACKPOT. They were three bars on which stared three blue eyes. Very blue, very immediate, very JACKPOT!!
Twenty silver dollars clattered into the payoff trough at the bottom of the machine. An orange light popped on in the Casino Cashier’s cage, bright orange on the jackpot board. And the gong began clanging overhead.
The Slot Machine Floor Manager nodded once to the Pit Boss, who pursed his lips and started toward the seedy–looking man still standing with his hand on the slot’s handle.
The token payment—twenty silver dollars—lay untouched in the payoff trough. The balance of the jackpot—one thousand nine hundred and eighty dollars—would be paid manually by the Casino Cashier. And Kostner stood, dumbly, as the three blue eyes stared up at him.
There was a moment of idiotic disorientation, as Kostner stared back at the three blue eyes; a moment in which the slot machine’s mechanisms registered to themselves; and the gong was clanging furiously.
All through the hotel’s Casino people turned from their games to stare. At the roulette tables the white–on–white players from Detroit and Cleveland pulled their watery eyes away from the clattering ball and stared down the line for a second, at the ratty–looking guy in front of the slot machine. From where they sat, they could not tell it was a two grand pot, and their rheumy eyes went back into billows of cigar smoke, and that little ball.
The blackjack hustlers turned momentarily, screwing around in their seats, and smiled. They were closer to the slot–players in temperament, but they knew the slots were a dodge to keep the old ladies busy, while the players worked toward their endless twenty–ones.
And the old dealer, who could no longer cut it at the fast–action boards, who had been put out to pasture by a grateful management, standing at the Wheel of Fortune near the entrance to the Casino, even he paused in his zombie–murmuring (“Annnnother winner onna Wheel of Forchun!”) to no one at all, and looked toward Kostner and that incredible gong–clanging. Then, in a moment, still with no players, he called another nonexistent winner.
Kostner heard the gong from far away. It had to mean he had won two thousand dollars, but that was impossible. He checked the payoff chart on the face of the machine. Three bars labeled JACKPOT meant JACKPOT. Two thousand dollars.
But these three bars did not say JACKPOT. They were three gray bars, rectangular in shape, with a blue eye directly in the center of each bar.
Blue eyes?
Somewhere, a connection was made, and electricity, a billion volts of electricity, were shot through Kostner. His hair stood on end, his fingertips bled raw, his eyes turned to jelly, and every fiber in his musculature became radioactive. Somewhere, out there, in a place that was not this place, Kostner had been inextricably bound to—to someone. Blue eyes?
The gong had faded out of his head, the constant noise level of the Casino, chips chittering, people mumbling, dealers calling plays, it had all gone, and he was embedded in silence.
Tied to that someone else, out there somewhere, through those three blue eyes.
Then in an instant, it had passed, and he was alone again, as though released by a giant hand, the breath crushed out of him. He staggered up against the slot machine.
“You all right, fellah?”
A hand gripped him by the arm, steadied him. The gong was still clanging overhead somewhere, and he was breathless from a journey he had just taken. His eyes focused and he found himself looking at the stocky Pit Boss who had been on duty while he had been playing blackjack.
“Yeah…I’m okay, just a little dizzy is all.”
“Sounds like you got yourself a big jackpot, fellah,” the Pit Boss grinned. It was a leathery grin; something composed of stretched muscles and conditioned reflexes, totally mirthless.
“Yeah…great…” Kostner tried to grin back. But he was still shaking from that electrical absorption that had kidnaped him.
“Let me check it out,” the Pit Boss was saying, edging around Kostner, and staring at the face of the slot machine. “Yeah, three jackpot bars, all right. You’re a winner.”
Then it dawned on Kostner! Two thousand dollars! He looked down at the slot machine and saw—
Three bars with the word JACKPOT on them. No blue eyes, just words that meant money. Kostner looked around frantically, was he losing his mind? From somewhere, not in the Casino room, he heard a tinkle of rhodium–plated laughter.
He scooped up the twenty silver dollars. The Pit Boss dropped another cartwheel into the Chief, and pulled the jackpot off. Then the Pit Boss walked him to the rear of the Casino, talking to him in a muted, extremely polite tone of voice. At the Cashier’s window, the Pit Boss nodded to a weary–looking man at a huge Rolodex card–file, checking credit ratings.
“Barney, jackpot on the cartwheel Chief; slot five–oh–oh–one–five.” He grinned at Kostner, who tried to smile back. It was difficult. He felt stunned.
The Cashier checked a payoff book for the correct amount to be drawn and leaned over the counter toward Kostner. “Check or cash, sir?”
Kostner felt buoyancy coming back to him. “Is the Casino’s check good?” They all three laughed at that. “A check’s fine,” Kostner said. The check was drawn, and the Check–Riter punched out the little bumps that said two thousand. “The twenty chartwheels are a gift,” the Cashier said, sliding the check through to Kostner.
He held it, looked at it, and still found it difficult to believe. Two grand, back on the golden road.
As he walked back through the Casino with the Pit Boss, the stocky man asked pleasantly, “Well, what are you going to do with it?” Kostner had to think a moment. He didn’t really have any plans. But then the sudden realization came to him: “I’m going to play that slot machine again.” The Pit Boss smiled: a congenital sucker. He would put all twenty of those silver dollars back into the Chief, and then turn to the other games. Blackjack, roulette, faro, baccarat…in a few hours he would have redeposited the two grand with the hotel Casino. It always happened.
He walked Kostner back to the slot machine, and patted him on the shoulder. “Lotsa luck, fellah.”
As he turned away, Kostner slipped a silver dollar into the machine, and pulled the handle.
The Pit Boss had only taken five steps when he heard the incredible sound of the reels clicking to a stop, the clash of twenty token silver dollars hitting the payoff trough, and that goddammed gong went out of its mind again.
She had known that sonofabitch Nuncio was a perverted swine. A walking filth. A dungheap between his ears. Some kind of monster in nylon undershorts. There weren’t many kinds of games Maggie hadn’t played, but what that Sicilian De Sade wanted to do was outright vomity!
She nearly fainted when he suggested it. Her heart—which the Beverly Hills specialist had said she should not tax—began whumping frantically. “You pig!” she screamed. “You filthy dirty ugly pig you, Nuncio you pig!” She had bounded out of the bed and started to throw on clothes. She didn’t even bother with a brassiere, pulling the poorboy sweater on over her thin breasts, still crimson with the touches and love–bites Nuncio had showered on them.
He sat up in the bed, a pathetic–looking little man, gray hair at the temples and no hair atall on top, and his eyes were moist. He was porcine, was indeed the swine she called him, but he was helpless before her. He was in love with his hooker, with the tart whom he was supporting. It had been the first time for the swine Nuncio, and he was helpless. Back in
Detroit, had it been a floozy, a chippy broad, he would have gotten out of the double bed and rapped her around pretty good. But this Maggie, she tied him in knots. He had suggested… that, what they should do together…because he was so consumed with her. But she was furious with him. It wasn’t that bizarre an idea!
“Gimme a chanct’a talk t’ya, honey…Maggie…”
“You filthy pig, Nuncio! Give me some money, I’m going down to the Casino, and I don’t want to see your filthy pig face for the rest of the day, remember that!”
And she had gone in his wallet and pants, and taken eight hundred and sixteen dollars, while he watched. He was helpless before her. She was something stolen from a world he knew only as “class” and she could do what she wanted with him.
Genetic freak Maggie, blue–eyed posing mannequin Maggie, pretty Maggie Moneyeyes, who was one–half Cherokee and one–half a buncha other things, had absorbed her lessons well. She was the very model of a “class broad.”
“Not for the rest of the day, do you understand?” she snapped at him, and went downstairs, furious, to fret and gamble and wonder about nothing but years of herself.
Men stared after her as she walked. She carried herself like a challenge, the way a squire carried a pennant, the way a prize bitch carried herself in the judge’s ring. Born to the blue. The wonders of mimicry and desire.
Maggie had no lust for gambling, none whatever. She merely wanted to taste the fury of her relationship with the swine Sicilian, her need for solidarity in a life built on the edge of the slide area, the senselessness of being here in Las Vegas when she could be back in Beverly Hills. She grew angrier and more ill at the thought of Nuncio upstairs in the room, taking another shower. She bathed three times a day. But it was different with him. He knew she resented his smell; he had the soft odor of wet fur sometimes, and she had told him about it. Now he bathed constantly, and hated it. He was a foreigner to the bath. His life had been marked by various kinds of filths, and baths for him now were more of an obscenity than dirt could ever have been. For her, bathing was different. It was a necessity. She had to keep the patina of the world off her, had to remain clean and smooth and white. A presentation, not an object of flesh and hair. A chromium instrument, something never pitted by rust and corrosion.
I Have No Mouth & I Must Scream Page 13
