Sin City (24 page)

“Let's move,” I say. “Try the quarter machines instead. These dollar ones are probably rigged. They're losing us a bomb.”

I call the change-girl over (more black-lace thigh and cleavage), change a wodge of dollar bills for quarters. I fill two plastic pots with them, entrust the lighter one to Norah, coax her to another stool.

“Go on, love, have a bit of fun for once. See if you can win us both a fortune.”

I start shovelling in my own coins, pulling the handle harder for each one. I'm losing losing losing losing losing. Luck can change, though. Victor told me that himself. Just last year, an unemployed divorcée who'd lost a breast to cancer won one million, two hundred and fifty-seven thousand, four hundred and thirty-two dollars in the Hilton Super Pot of Gold Slot Championships. That so impressed me, I remember all the figures, even down to the last two dollars. I cross my fingers, lose. Lose again. Lose, lose, lose. It's just not fair. I must have won by now, on any law of averages. I try another machine. Some of them are definitely unlucky. I heard a woman swear at one in The Four Queens, Downtown, even kick and punch it. She was dressed like a queen herself, in a designer gown and diamonds and little white kid gloves so she wouldn't get her hands soiled handling coins; but you should have heard her language. Filthy dirty.

“Let's go back,” says Norah. She's breathing down my neck, still has all her quarters. I just don't know what's wrong with her. She won't eat in the restaurants, won't risk a nickel on the slots. It's as if she feels nothing's really hers. She'll be punished if she swallows half a pea, damned in hell for losing that one buck. Even now, she's handing me her pot. I play her quarters for her, losing every time, really zipping in the coins because I know she's tired and dying for her bed.

“Slow down,” warns the woman next to me. “If you play so fast, the machine can't pay, even if you do win. It takes a few seconds for the coins to drop. You might have won a jackpot, but you played right through it; didn't give it time to show, or give the bell a chance to ring.”

I stare at her in horror. Victor told me just the same. He laughed, in fact, because I was so keen to get the coins in, I forgot to pull the lever. There are just four quarters left in Norah's pot, none at all in mine. I've poured all Victor's money down the drain, whereas if I hadn't been so stupidly impatient, I might have made myself a millionairess. I play my last coins very very slowly, give the machine all the time it needs to ring and win.

It loses.

A bell
is
ringing, very loud and shrill. I glance round, see people rushing over to the progressive dollar slot machines which we've just left ourselves. “Quick!” I say to Norah. “Someone's hit the jackpot.”

A dumpy balding man in a short-sleeved nylon shirt and pea-green slacks is in a clinch with his slot machine, stroking it, caressing it, feeling up all its bumps and curves. “We got it!” he keeps yelling, as he turns back to his friends. “We got it! We got the son of a bitch.” Now he's hugging all his friends, whirling them around, doing a sailor's horn-pipe solo on the carpet. I edge a little closer. He's won twenty thousand, six hundred and eighty dollars. The figures are lit up and flashing on and off, the bell still pealing out, the old crone playing next to him yelping with excitement, crowds of strangers pushing, shoving, “aahing”. The whole casino seems to have come alive. Security guards appear from nowhere, tower above the little chap. He's a winner now, worthy of protection. Already he's handing out largesse – ordering drinks for everyone, tipping the waitress before she's brought a thing, calling up champagne, cigars.

More people scurry over. Two men in dark blue jackets pump him by the hand, ask for proof of his identity, pass him pen and paper. He starts filling in some form or other, still not concentrating. He keeps pummelling his own chest, mock-wrestling with his buddies, yelling out “Oh, boy” and “Jeez!”, as if he's just too freaked and high for longer words.

There's no sign of any money yet, though I hear him say he'd like some of it in cash, instead of one big cheque. I wait, breathless and keyed-up, almost as excited as if I'd won myself. He's just a nobody, a Mr Something Jones – I missed the Christian name – and yet he's made it. Twenty thousand dollars just like that. Sheer luck, that's all it was. I'd better stay around. Luck's infectious. The drinks have come now, scores of them. He hands me a tall glass, thick with ice and fruit. At least he's noticed me. I'm the only under-thirty female in the swelling crowd around him. Some aged harridan is pushing to get closer, but I block her way. Gotta be tough in Vegas.

Norah's out of it, drooping by a cardboard tree right over by the wall, but glancing at me anxiously as if she's scared she'll lose me in all the press of bodies.

“Come over here,” I mouth.

Suddenly, there's a ripple through the crowd, like a strong breeze blowing through a wheatfield; then wheat changes into water as it parts like the Red Sea. I've no eyes for Norah now. Every head, including mine, is turned towards the uniformed official who is striding through the gap just opened up. The money – on its way!

The official hands it over, not to Mr Jones, but to the sultry carousel girl with liquorice hair and eyes who stands above the row of slot machines. She gives him first the cheque, then counts out the cash very carefully and solemnly – an impressive pile of hundred-dollar bills. There's almost total silence now, save for the swiftly rising figures of the count. This is a sacred moment and the casino's congregation reverence it. Never before have I seen so much money in one small and dirty hand.

I glance behind me, terrified that some hit-and-run man may be waiting to dart in. No – they've thought of that. Three security guards are already hovering, fingering their guns. The final eighty bucks is paid. The crowd lets out its breath. They've all just won that jackpot in their minds, and half of them are spending it already. There's an orgy going on while young men test-drive Porsches, women overheat in minks, old crones move their cats and budgies into luxury bungalows with live-in nurses. I've bought a house myself (twelve bedrooms and an indoor swimming pool), and I'm just strolling through the stables inspecting my thoroughbreds and telling my chauffeur I prefer the white Rolls to the silver one, when Jones picks out two hundred-dollar bills and hands them to the carousel girl. She murmurs “thanks” as if they were two mere lousy quarters. Two hundred dollars just for counting out the cash and she's not even all that struck. I vow to take a job here, write in for an interview tomorrow. I'm desperate for cash. Norah and I have got through all our money in just four days, not to mention Victor's.

People are swarming up to Super-Jones, shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, making little jokes. He's kissing two change-girls now, has his arm around the waitress. He's only about five foot five (and that's in Cuban heels), has age spots on his hands, and a roll of fat between his collar and his neck, and yet he could be a top rock-star for all the adulation he's receiving. I suppose money makes you tall and handsome, as well as just plain rich. He's never going to notice me, with all those crotch-length skirts and wired-up cleavages. I step out of the crowd.

“Thanks for the drink,” I say. It was quite some drink, a tumbler-sized cocktail with at least three different liquors in it; must have given me new courage.

“Say, you from England, honey? I just love that accent.”

They all just love that accent. Being English here is like having a gold American Express card; it opens doors. I murmur a few words, trying to sound more Princess Di/Sloane Ranger than Portishead – though I doubt if most Americans have a clue about the difference.

“Where you from?”

“London. Just off Sloane Street.”

“Great to meet you. I'm Milt Jones.”

“What Jones?”

“Milt. Short for Milton.”

“Like the poet?”

“Poet?”

“You know,
Paradise Lost
. John Milton.”

“No, I'm not John. Milt's my first name. Milton Sherwood Jones. Jones is Welsh. My great-great-grandfather came from Wales. And my grandma came from Ly-cester.”

“Leicester.” I correct his pronunciation.

“What?”

“Oh, forget it.” I feel a nervous tugging at my sleeve. “Er – this is Norah.” I wish now I'd left her safe in bed. I can see Milt's friends eyeing her with a mixture of distaste and curiosity. Her Crimplene's really filthy now, the jacket buttoned up wrong, and the rain has done nothing for her hair.

“Hi, Norah. This is Gabe. That's Eddie in the stetson. Wayne's the ugly mug, and this tree-trunk here is Shorty.”

We all laugh save Norah, who looks scared out of her wits. I say “hallo” for both of us, save my broadest smile for Wayne who's actually quite dishy. Milt hands me a new drink, another whopper.

“What did you say your name was?”

I didn't. Names are still a problem. Will Norah call me Jan and land me in it? I'm sick of Jan, to tell the truth. She's only brought me trouble. Yet Carole's so damned dull.

“Er … Atalanta,” I blurt out. God knows why. Blame three different liquors. I can't even remember who she was, except definitely a goddess and extremely beautiful. I think she won a golden apple; won something, anyway – and I like the names of winners.

“That's some name, kid.”

Kid, when I'm a goddess. “My father chose it,” I say nonchalantly. “He was a Professor of Ancient Greek.”

I can see they're impressed – not just Milt, but all the friends and hangers-on as well. (My father sold shirts and ties and handkerchiefs in an old-fashioned menswear shop, where he worked for twenty years. The only Greek he knew was “humus” because when my mother was too bad to cook, he bought it from the Cypriot take-away and we had it on Ryvita with a pot of tea and Kit-Kats.) Anyway, it's worked. I've been admitted to their circle, two arms linked in mine now, Wayne's eyes on my skirt slits, which he obviously approves of. He offers me a fat cigar. Why not? I'm down to my last Marlboro.

I sip my gin, puff out clouds of smoke. Life's looking up, no doubt about it. I just wish Norah didn't seem so jumpy. These guys won't eat her, for God's sake. A rather sweet old grandpa-type with silver hair and glasses is even trying to talk to her. I flash him a big smile. If Norah's happy, I can relax a bit myself. Milt's still playing winner, mopping up more fans, dishing out the drinks. Their fawning seems to turn him on.

“How about some dinner?” he suggests. It must be two a.m. at least, so they've probably eaten, most of them, but this is swinging Vegas. Why stop at just one dinner?

“Great idea,” I say, pushing right up front again. I don't want to lose this wonder-guy, though it's a shame about the trousers. That green's okay inside a pod, or jazzing up boring pie and chips, but not on human legs. If he'd done his shopping at my father's store, he'd have been persuaded into quiet grey serge or sensible brown worsted. Never mind. I feel exceptionally forgiving at the moment, and also rather peckish. “Yeah,” I say, waving my cigar. “A celebration dinner. Fabulous!”

A strand of Norah's dripping hair snails across my cheek. I turn to face her. “What?” She's whispering in my ear and I can't hear a thing for all the whoopee.

“I'm not hungry, Jan. I'm not allowed to eat.”

“Yes, you are, love. That was just the first two days. In fact, you ought to try and eat now, or you'll start keeling over. You can always order something plain.”

“It's not dinner-time. It's bedtime.”

“Ssh,” I whisper back. If Milt's just won twenty thousand odd, this may be the most expensive lavish dinner we've ever seen or dreamed of. Norah shouldn't miss it. She's missed too many things in life already, always cowering in a ward or shut away. This is her chance to live it up for once, build some memories, before the walls close in again. Okay, I could take her back, or put her in a cab, but she's been cooped up in the Gold Rush all damned day.

“Look, just have some soup, love, or just one course or something. I'll sit next to you – okay? – tell the waiter you're not feeling all that great.”

You can't have soup or only just one course. It's a Moroccan feast, ten courses, and a chef who gets insulted if you don't have second helpings of them all. And I'm not sitting next to Norah. I tried my best, but Milton split us up, insisted he sat next to me; then Wayne flopped down the other side, with Gabe and Eddie opposite. No one's sitting actually – not on chairs – there aren't any, and no knives and forks or spoons. You eat with your fingers and recline on silken cushions. It's part of the attraction. The restaurant is a sultan's tent, a replica, with no boring inessentials like ceiling, walls or windows, just purple silk billowing in folds. The floor is spread with oriental carpets and there are gleaming copper kettles dotted all around.

When we first came in, a sort of Moroccan-style Lolita picked up a kettle and went all round the table, pouring warm rose-scented water over everybody's hands, then dried them with pink towels. It took her ages. There are thirty in our party. Once he'd won, Milt was like a magnet, his cash attracting groupies. I'm the number one, though, all his own kudos spilling over onto me. The two of us are sharing one large cushion at the far end of the knee-high coffee table, his bulging wallet swelling out his trousers like a trophy, badge of rank. It's strange how it attracts me. I keep looking at it, checking on it. It's not just cash as such – it's power, authority, my power as well as his. Waiters are kowtowing to me, Moroccan nymphets simpering, dusky youths plying me with wine.

It's a Moroccan wine, called Sidi Mustapha, which is the same name as the chef. (Well, not the Sidi bit, just the Mustapha.) He's a sweetie, Mustapha, keeps lumbering out of the kitchen in his tall white hat and apron, hugging guests at random, begging them to eat more, praising his own cooking to the skies. He was really upset because Norah wasn't eating, wouldn't touch his couscous. She wasn't all that keen on scooping up a soggy mess of chickpeas with her hands, and she doesn't fancy raisins mixed with meat. It's even worse trying to eat salad with your fingers. We had this huge great bowl of it, with a really oily dressing which dribbled over everything. I swilled down three big helpings before I discovered there was something called
cilantro
in it – Chinese parsley, an aphrodisiac. It's affected me already, or maybe it's the booze, or hunky Wayne, who keeps leaning over, asking me to wipe my greasy fingers on his jeans.