The head-on collision with the cart turning into the aisle wasn't horrendous, but it was definitely humiliating, causing Maggie to paraphrase in her best Dustin Hoffman/Ratso Rizzo voice: "Hey, I'm driving here."
The man mountain on the other cart backed up a good three feet ... and rammed her again, hard, as if they were on bumper cars at one of the small amusement parks on the Boardwalk. "Get out of my way, wise mouth. That's my machine, and if I don't get it because of you, I'm going to run you over like a bug."
Maggie looked to her left and right. To her left were six empty machines. A like number of the same machines were to her right. But the guy seemed to have his eyes on the second machine from the end on the right. "Which machine? I don't see a name on any of these machines. Or is your name Big-Wheels-o'-Bucks? No? I didn't think so. Back up, buster."
"Maggie, I think you might have been in the wrong," Alex told her in his best-accented English, placing his hand on the handlebars. "Excuse us, sir. My friend here is still learning how to navigate."
"Yeah? What was your first clue, Jeeves?"
"Now, now, no need to take umbrage. If you'd be so kind as to reverse your conveyance just a tad more, we'll move on now. Won't we, Maggie?"
"The hell we will, Jeeves," Maggie said, feeling suddenly stubborn. She hadn't had the best day. Face it, she hadn't had the best week, or even the best month, as someone had tried to kill her not so long ago. Tomorrow was Christmas, and it didn't look to be any better than any other day in her recent memory.
If this guy wanted to make himself a target for all her pent-up anger, she was more than willing to take out her miserableness on him. She'd already had a good cry, more than one good cry. That was enough with the pity parties! Maybe it was time figuratively to punch something ... and the bozo on the go-cart was as good as anything else.
She grabbed onto the back of the nearest seat and held on as she planted her right foot and hopped around until she could sit in the chair. "This is my machine. I'm staying right here."
"You can't do that! That's my machine! I play that machine every time I come here."
"Yeah? And like I said, I didn't see your name on it. Still don't. So, the way I see it, I'm sitting here, and that makes it my machine," Maggie said, settling herself. She felt stupid, mulish, but the man was really getting on her nerves. What did it matter which machine he lost his ten bucks in, anyway? She shot her left arm into the air, palm up. "Alex, give me some money."
"I'll be back with an attendant to boot you out of here. And you'd damn well better not win while I'm gone," the fat man said, beep-beeping as he backed up and tore off in the opposite direction, all but leaving skid marks on the carpet.
"You just go do that, see if I care," she called after him, and then lost her smile, because she was pretty sure she'd already lost her mind. "God, what have I done?"
"You've a heart of gold, Maggie," Alex told her, bending to kiss the nape of her neck as he inserted a bill into the machine. "But I don't believe this particular side of you is very appealing."
She sagged in the chair, all the fight gone out of her. Her casted leg hurt, her right foot felt black-and-blue from hopping on it for days on end, her arms seemed as weak as the proverbial wet noodles, her palms were throbbing from holding onto the walker—and she was pretty sure she was developing calluses.
She'd kill to take a real shower rather than washing at the bathroom sink, body part by body part, then balancing on one foot at the kitchen sink to wash her hair, half the time missing with the sprayer and having to one-handedly wipe down the cabinets when she was done.
And she refused to take any more pain pills because they made her feel too good, and if she could get addicted to cigarettes, maybe she was an addictive personality, or whatever, so she'd flushed the pain pills.
Except for two of them. They were in her purse. Lurking there, the way her cigarettes used to lurk there, calling to her.
And her leg ached like a son of a—
Maybe if she only took one? She could still drive back to Ocean City in a couple of hours, if she only took one.
Leaving her one more for Christmas Day and the Kelly family dinner. Painkillers should be de rigueur for Kelly family dinners.
Oh yeah. All in all, she felt like crap. She'd been really rude to that idiot on the go-cart. Hell, in the mood she was in, she probably would have beat up Santa Claus if he'd looked at her crooked. "I know, I know. That was inexcusable, even if the guy is a card-carrying jerk. Call him back, Alex. You know I don't gamble. He can have his damn machine."
"Nonsense. Just because you were rude does not excuse his boorishness. The initial collision was an accident, most probably your fault, but an accident nonetheless. It was he who backed up to give it another go, hit you again. You stay here with Sterling, gamble away my money, and I'll seek out the baccarat tables, all right? I think it's safer for yourself and possibly the general population if you remain in one place."
Maggie nodded, feeling heat come into her cheeks. "It was seeing Tate in the limo, Alex. Showing up like the Grand Poobah with his friends who will be sleeping in my bed. I think that one put me over the top. That and Mom knowing I'm in a leg cast, and kicking me out, sending me to stay in Dad's second-floor apartment anyway. There's a certain lack of maternal caring there, Alex. Definitely."
"Take people as they are, my dear, rather than hope they'll live up to your expectations of what they should be, and your own life becomes less stressful."
She searched in her purse for the small bottle of water that she always carried, and then spoke to Alex around the pretty hot-pink pill she'd plopped onto her tongue. "Yeah? Where did you read that?"
"It may have been the Cryptoquote in this morning's newspaper, actually. Now, are you comfortable?"
She swallowed the pill, instantly regretting having done so. "I haven't been comfortable since this cast went on, but I'm all right. I'll just sit here, put my leg up on the end seat, and if the guy comes back, I'll move to another machine in the row. I only came here for the macaroons, anyway." She leaned forward to inspect the machine. "But maybe I'll lose your money for you, just because I'm taking you as you are. How much did you put in here, anyway?"
"The first bill I found," he told her. "A one hundred dollar bill."
Maggie's eyes threatened to pop out of her head as she saw a number one followed by two zeroes lit up in red on the Credits line of the machine. "A hundred bucks? Are you nuts? Get it out of there. How do you get it out of there?"
"It's all right, Maggie," Sterling said, sitting down beside her. "Look, they're only nickels. And the operation of the machine itself is quite simple. You just press the button labeled Max Bet, although I have no idea who Max is, do you? He may have invented the machines, don't you think? At any rate, just push the button, and the machine does everything else. Isn't that correct, Saint Just?"
"It is. However, this isn't a nickel machine, but a dollar machine. The maximum bet, as I have deduced, is three dollars."
Maggie held her hands out in front of her as if figuratively backing away from the machine. "There is no way I'm going to play three dollars at one time, Daddy Warbucks, even with your money. No freaking way."
"So speaks the woman who just bought a several million dollar house in order to prove that she's gained confidence in her own worth and that of her career."
"Don't use my own words on me, Alex. Gambling is stupid. How do you think they build casinos like these? I'll tell you how. Because the only people that really win in casinos are the people who own them. Now get that money out of there. Look for a Refund button, or something. There must be a way to get it out of there."