Within moments they were all locked behind large doors in a well-appointed room just off the casino floor.
The sudden silence was rather overpowering as a half dozen rather senior-looking Borgata employees ushered them all to chairs.
"We're back in control," said one. "I thought I'd seen it all, but that was different."
Maggie shifted herself on the soft leather couch, moving away from Saint Just. "Not if you lived in my world lately," she muttered, glaring at her hero. "And all for what? I know I did something right, when all three lines had the same thing on them, but all that showed up in the little box listing credits won were a bunch of three's. Or maybe Es. They kept flashing on and off. And so, what? I won a little over three thousand dollars? That's great, it really is, even if it punches holes in my theories that nobody really wins—but why the big fuss?"
Saint Just coughed slightly into his hands. "You didn't win three thousand dollars, Maggie."
She shifted on the couch, to look at him. "Oh, okay, we won three thousand dollars. You and Sterling will get your cut. Jeez. But I still don't see why we needed lights, camera, action—and balloons. I think we could have safely dispensed with the balloons."
Saint Just could see that she was clearly woozy, her eyes slightly unfocused. It might have been better if she hadn't taken that pill. "Are you in pain, Maggie?"
"God, yes, my leg still hurts. I probably let it hang too much today, in the car, and here, too. I wonder if these people would mind if I sat sideways and lifted the cast up onto the back of the couch."
There was, Saint Just was about to say, only one way to find out. But Maggie had already lifted her leg onto the back of the couch.
"Ma'am?"
Maggie looked up at the rather tall blond woman who had entered the room. "Sorry," she said, lowering her leg.
"That's quite all right, if you'd be more comfortable that way. But I overheard you a moment ago, and I think you should know that you didn't win three thousand dollars. Big-Wheels-o'-Bucks is a progressive slot, connected to many casinos. You played the maximum amount and won the progressive jackpot. So, not three thousand and change, but three million and change."
"Oh, I did not. That's ridiculous." Maggie retorted rather angrily, but then grabbed Saint Just's hand. "I did? We did? Holy—that is, Alex?"
"Beside you, as always, my dear," he told her. "Sterling? That was an exceedingly brave thing you did, shielding Maggie from that ridiculous man. I am once again forever in your debt."
"Oh, right," Maggie said, blinking rather furiously. "Sterling, you saved me, you really did." Then she looked back at Saint Just in a panic. "That man! I stole his machine. I stole the winning machine! Oh, Alex ... and pooh on him, he tried to run me over. And me an invalid, for crying out loud. Three million dollars?"
"Excuse me?" the blond woman inquired. "Are you referring to the gentleman who attacked you? May I ask how you stole his machine?"
But Maggie wasn't really listening anymore, as anyone could plainly see. Her eyes had gone rather wide and unblinking, her expression amazingly blank; her hands were twisting together in her lap, and she had begun to mumble.
It was Saint Just's opinion, gained from watching medical documentaries on The Learning Channel, that she'd slipped into some sort of shock. She probably shouldn't be disturbed, as that could be injurious to the poor thing.
Then Maggie began to smile, rather inanely. Smiling, and chanting quietly, "Three million dollars. Three million bucks. Three million smack-a-roos. Three million. Three million? Three million ..."
It was left to Saint Just to explain the contretemps, and the woman visibly relaxed. "Unless you physically removed him from the chair while he had credits on the machine, then used them to win the jackpot, he has no claim. And our eye in the sky caught everything, and I'm sure will prove what you're saying is true. We're holding the gentleman in another room. Do you wish to press charges?"
"Three mill—what? Oh, God, no," Maggie said, slumping back against the soft leather. Saint Just was pleased to see that she'd begun to blink once more. "It's probably more than enough that I ruined the poor guy's life."
"All right, then," the blond woman said, accepting a rather thick stack of forms from the man who stood behind her. "On behalf of the Borgata, let me congratulate you on your truly spectacular win. There are just a few formalities we'll need to go over ..."
When Saint Just next pulled his gold pocket watch from his pants pocket, two hours had slipped by, and Maggie was signing yet another paper after posing for photographs with Borgata officials who stood on either side of her holding up the large check, now made out to Margaret Kelly.
He would not admit that he was bored with all the excitement, but there was really precious little to do once Sterling had an ice bag on his shin and Maggie had been taken off for photographs. The baccarat tables still called to him, but he was rather loathe to present his face in the casino. Most especially now that one of the casino employees had been kind enough to turn on the television set so that he could see the entire happy event replayed on the local six o'clock news.
Someone had been very adept with a camera phone, and there were lovely still pictures of Maggie swinging at her attacker, of Saint Just swooping her up into his arms and carrying her to safety.
As heroes will do.
There had also been a live interview with the gentleman in the mobile cart, one Henry Novack, of Weehawken, who seemed quite able to stand on his own two feet as he roundly accused Maggie of stealing his jackpot. He was going to contact a lawyer. He was going to sue.
Poor Maggie. Life never seemed to be an unmitigated joy for her. There was always something or someone lurking about to throw a spanner in the works, even in the best of times.
But now he was here with her, the perfect hero, the knight in shining armor she'd dreamed of since shortly after puberty. He would slay her dragons, stand in front of her or watch her back. Whatever she needed, and even if she didn't need him, or want his heroics.
Because that's what heroes do ...
"And we had this one lady who used to toss pixie dust in the air before she hit the button when she thought she was due to be lucky."
Saint Just had snapped out of his reverie. "I beg your pardon, Miss Hatchard?"
The young woman who had obviously been assigned to babysit Saint Just and Sterling had been prattling on to his friend for some minutes, but this last statement caught Saint Just's attention.
"Oh, yes. Pixie dust. Pretty, sparkly stuff, except that she made a mess from one end of the casino to the other. We finally had to ban her. That was a shame, because she used to make dozens of brownies for us on holidays. Like I was telling Sterling here, we get them all in here at one time or another. People who rub the screen, like, you know, caress it? That's creepy. And then there's those who prop photos of their kids on the screen. But it's the ladies who put photos of their dead husbands up there that get me, though. It's like, you know, hey, George, look what I'm doing with your 401k. That'll teach you to play golf every weekend and leave me home alone with the kids. It's like, well, like payback, you know?"
"Forgive me, my dear, for not really attending. Everything you've said is fascinating. I once had the acquaintance of a gentleman who believed his fairly homely pug dog brought him luck at the tables. Took him everywhere. The dog eventually grew aged and died, and the gentleman had him stuffed, still brought him to the clubs, much to the consternation of the other members."