"The glass eyes, you understand," Sterling explained. "They were rather, um, protuberant. Always thought they were staring at me, didn't I, Saint Just?"
"Yes, Sterling, thank you. But that was another time, another place. Miss Hatchard, do you know if Maggie will be allowed to leave soon?"
"I'll just go check," the young woman said, quickly getting to her feet and heading for one of the other rooms in the large suite of offices.
"What's a troll, Saint Just?" Sterling asked, still holding the ice bag to his shin.
"A troll, Sterling? Why, I believe those are most unfortunate fellows who live beneath bridges. Something like that. Why?"
"Because back when you weren't really attending, Miss Hatchard said that some people stick little trolls on top of the slot machine they're playing. For good luck, you understand. But if trolls are forced to live beneath bridges, I can't see how they'd be much help in the good luck department, can you?"
"I don't know, Sterling." Saint Just stood, and began to pace. "I believe I'd be more interested in where anyone locates a troll in the first place. How do you feel? Better?"
Sterling put down the ice bag. "Oh, yes, much better, thank you. It was a trifling thing, really, and I'm sure if I'd thought about it sufficiently I wouldn't have tossed myself in that man's path. I'm not a hero, Saint Just, much as Maggie says I am. I just don't think quickly enough to save myself."
"Anyone else, Sterling, and I'd say you were angling for a compliment. But you are a hero, my friend, in every way. Ah, and here comes our lady of the moment. Maggie? You were featured on the local television news an hour ago."
Maggie's expression instantly went from happily dazed to completely panicked. "No! Oh, God, I didn't sign any release to have my name and face shown. I know I didn't. They wanted me to, but I'm not a complete idiot. Those photographs were just for the Big-Wheels-o'-Bucks people. They promised to block out my face if they show the pictures. Who needs the world knowing you just won three million dollars? Which I get in yearly increments for twenty years, and that's after the Feds take a big chunk straight off the top. Not that I'm complaining. Did you see the broadcast?"
"There's quite a lot to address in all of that, but let's begin with the most important question. You are yet to be called anything but the lucky winner. That, I would say, would be the good news."
Maggie hopped over to him. "And the bad news?"
"Sales of camera phones have climbed into the stratosphere, I would say. If we were to piece together all of the various photographs I've just recently seen displayed on the television screen, I believe the result would be a movie taking us from your initial confusion, to Mr. Henry Novack's shouted accusations and attempt to run you over with his electric cart, to the moment I, well, the moment I rescued you from the fray. Oh, yes, and one fairly magnificent photograph of you in the act of punching Mr. Novack."
"Oh, God. I'm a dead woman," Maggie said, bowing her head over the walker, and looking rather abject for the winner of a three-million-dollar jackpot. "You know it's only a matter of hours before someone sees my face and recognizes it. And my mother? What's she going to say? No, don't suggest anything. I can already imagine what she's going to say: 'Margaret? Can't you do anything without making public spectacles of us all?' I think I'm going to be sick."
"Ah, yes, but not now, my dear. Miss Hatchard has promised us all a most wonderful repast at the restaurant of your choosing. I've taken the liberty of narrowing those choices down to one owned by Bobby Flay, who I enjoy watching on the Food Network, and—"
"I want to go to the buffet. I want coconut macaroons. I'll go nowhere that doesn't included coconut macaroons. I have earned some coconut macaroons."
"I don't think it would be comfortable for you in such a public area, Ms. Kelly," Miss Hatchard supplied helpfully. "But I'm certain I can get you a nice bag of macaroons to take with you. If you're positive that you won't accept the Borgata's hospitality and a complimentary suite for the night?"
Maggie looked at Saint Just, who merely shrugged his shoulders. "No steps, Alex," she pointed out. "Everything free. I'm tempted. But no. We have to go back to Dad's, right? He's probably wondering where we are, and my cell phone doesn't work in here, which means nothing, because I forget his number at the apartment anyway. What time is it? I'm sure my pill's through my system now—I hurt bad enough again to know it's gone—so I'm safe to drive. We'd better go, right?"
Minutes later, they were back in the Taurus, Sterling reading all the signs, Saint Just studying Maggie's face in the darkness inside the car.
"You're feeling guilty, aren't you, my dear? Happy as you are, and I'm sure you're over the moon, as are we all, you're feeling guilty."
She shot him a quick look, eased across the wide intersection and onto Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard. "Don't be ridiculous. Guilty? Why should I—oh, all right, yes. I feel guilty. I'm Irish, I'm Catholic—I'm good at guilt. I have, over the years, elevated guilt to an art form, I know that. But, Alex, he called it his machine. He probably played it every time he came to the casino, just waiting for it to pay off—and I come hopping in and win the whole jackpot. On Christmas Eve, no less. That poor man."
"That poor man, Maggie, called you an unpleasant name and not once but twice attempted to run you down with his motorized cart. Not to mention his clear intent to behead you with that oversize check."
"Well, yeah, there is that," she said, turning onto Atlantic Avenue, so that Saint Just felt fairly certain they'd make it back to Ocean City without a detour into Pennsylvania, or some such thing. "You said his name, didn't you? What is it?"
"Henry Novack, a fairly innocuous name. Why?"
"I don't know. I thought maybe I could send him some money. What do you think?"
"I think the day has been too much for you, my dear. That would be tantamount to admitting that he deserves the money, and not you. You did nothing wrong. The machine was there for the taking, and you took it."
"And we're splitting the winnings three ways, I know. I can't believe this has happened to me, to us. I've never even won a door prize or a free ham, for crying out loud. If only I could have remained the anonymous winner. It's like I told them all, who cares if some famous author—yes, I said that, much as I hate saying stuff like that—wins a jackpot? I know I wasn't all that choked up when J-Lo's mom won a big jackpot here in Atlantic City. Them what has, gets, that's probably what I said—and she only won two-point-four million."
"Only, Maggie?"
"Yeah, well, you know what I mean. It's only a good story if some retired kindergarten teacher wins big and says she's going to pay off the mortgage on her house and set up trusts for her six grandchildren before joining the Peace Corps, you know? People will hate me for winning."
"Fame and fortune. Such terrible curses. Such a burden you carry, Maggie," Saint Just said, motioning for her to pay attention, as they were nearing the turnoff leading up to the bridge into Ocean City.
"Go ahead, mock me. And remember that this money isn't coming to us in one huge lump. And I already know what I'm doing with mine. I'm giving it to someone who deserves it. Someone who, through no fault of his own, has no income at the moment. I'm giving my yearly share to Sterling."
"I beg your pardon?" Sterling said, leaning front as far as his seat belt would allow. "Me?"
"A splendid idea for both of us, Maggie," Saint Just agreed, delighted for his friend. "Sterling deserves to live in the style to which he was accustomed in our books. A yearly allowance is just the thing."