"Can we have two beds?" Quinn said to the woman as Tim handed his comp invitation across the counter.
"I'll see what I can do, ma'm." She checked her computer screen. "Yes. That will be no problem."
"No problem for you, maybe," Tim muttered.
Quinn laughed.
*
As soon as the bellman was gone, Quinn tossed her bag onto the king-size bed near the window.
"I've got this one!"
Tim dropped his on the other. "Then I guess this one is mine."
Compared to the rest of the hotel, Quinn thought the room was rather ordinary. Almost a relief not to see minarets on the bedposts.
"We can unpack later," she said. "Let's go downstairs. I'm not underdressed, am I?"
He laughed. "No way. There's not much in the way of a dress code on the gaming floor."
"Good. Are we ready, then?"
She was getting into the mood, giving in to a growing excitement. She couldn't help it. She wanted to see the casino and try out Tim's plan.
"Fine with me," Tim said. "But how about a quickie before we hit the tables?"
She could tell he was kidding—well, half kidding. And she was almost tempted...
...No foreign entanglements...
She played indignant and pointed to the door. "Out."
"For good luck?"
"You told me you didn't believe in luck."
He hesitated. "I did, didn't I. Why do I say things like that?" Then he brightened. "But I'd sure as hell consider myself lucky if—"
She pointed to the door again. "Out!"
*
Quinn was taken aback by the casino's gaming floor. She'd expected the flashing lights and the noise, the bells, the clatter of the slots, the chatter of the voices, but she wasn't prepared for the crowd, for the ceaseless swirl of people, and the layer of smoke that undulated over the tables like a muslin canopy.
She paused at the top of the two steps that led down to the gaming floor, hesitant about mingling with the flowing crowd. Everyone down there seemed to know what they were doing, where they were going. Suddenly she felt a little lost. She grabbed Tim's arm.
"Don't lose me."
He patted her hand where it gripped his bicep. "Not a chance."
He led her gently into the maelstrom.
"First we'll take a walk, get you oriented, then we'll find us a table and relieve Mr. Trump of some of his money."
Quinn couldn't say exactly what she had expected to see in a casino, but this was not it. Not by a long shot.
But it was absolutely fascinating.
She had always been a people watcher, and this was a people-watcher's paradise.
First they had to wade through the phalanxes of slot machines with their dead-eyed players, most of whom seemed old, and not too well dressed. Each stood—except for the ones in wheelchairs—with a cup of coins in the left hand, and a cigarette dangling from the lips as they plunked in coins and pulled the lever with their right hand. The machines dutifully spun their dials, and then the procedure was repeated. Endlessly. Robots playing robots. Even when the machines clanked coins into the trays, the players showed no emotion.
Quinn had a sense of deja vu, and then she remembered an old silent film, Fritz Lang's Metropolis, in which laborers in the city of the future were shown working the machines of the future, pulling levers with soulless ennui.
But this was no dank subterranean factory. Dozens of huge, magnificent chandeliers were suspended in recesses in the mirrored ceiling. Lights flashed everywhere.
She heard excited shouting from a group of men crowded around a table.
"What's that?"
"Craps. I've tried to learn that game for years but I still don't understand it."
"They sound like they're having fun."
"That's because they're winning. But you can lose your shirt before you know it in that game."
She followed him to the blackjack section, aisles of curved tables, some full, some empty.
"Can we get a non-smoking table?"
"That's not one of my criteria," Tim said, "but I'll try."
"There's nobody at that one," she said, pointing to a table where a female dealer stood with her hands behind her back, staring blindly ahead over an empty expanse of green the color of sunlit Astroturf. She wore a purple vest festooned with gold brocade over a white shirt fastened at the throat with a gold broach. All the dealers, male and female, were dressed identically. "We could have it all to ourselves."
"We don't want it all to ourselves," he said. "It'd take forever to work through the shoe."
"But she looks lonely."
"Quinn..."
"Sorry."
They wandered up and down the blackjack aisles. Quinn watched Tim's eyes flickering from table to table, searching.
"What are we waiting for?"
"I'm looking for the right table," Tim said. "It's got to be nearly full and the dealer is just starting a new shoe." He stopped, staring. "And I think I just found it."
He led her to the right.
"But it's only got one seat."
"That's for you."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll be standing right behind you, teaching you the game, waiting for another seat to open up."
Quinn saw cigarettes in the hands of two of the four players already at the table.
"About that non-smoking table?"
"Quinn..."
"Sorry."
*
As Tim pulled out the end seat on the dealer's right and held it for Quinn, he scanned the cards on the table. This was the first hand. He'd seen one of the players placing the yellow cut card and had moved quickly, despite the table limits: minimum $10 / Maximum $500. He would have preferred something higher. Once the cards already played were photographed and filed in his memory, he squared Quinn at the table and dropped twenty one-hundred-dollar bills on the table.
"Hundreds," he said, and waited for Quinn's reaction.
As the dealer called out, "Two thousand in hundreds," she didn't disappoint him: She nearly gave herself a whiplash as she snapped her head around to look at him. Tim winked, pushed the black-and-green chips in front of her, then moved behind her where he had a good view of the table.
The other players were three deadpan middle-aged men with drinks in front of them—scotch or vodka on the rocks, Tim guessed—and an elderly, chain-smoking woman with orange hair.
"What do I do now?" she said.
"Bet a hundred. Put out one chip."
"That's a hundred dollars!"
"Please do it, Quinn." He winked at the dealer, a pretty blonde wearing a ton of eye shadow. "She's a beginner." The dealer favored him with a tolerant smile.
Quinn slid the chip forward and was dealt an eight and a ten. The dealer had a king showing.
"What do I do now?"
"Stick."
The dealer turned over a nine and raked in Quinn's chip.
"What happened?"
"We lost."
"We lost a hundred dollars? Just like that?"
Down the table, one of the other players groaned softly.
"Put out another chip."
"How about half a one?"
"Quinn..."
"Sorry."
She placed the chip and got a four and a five in return. The dealer had a seven showing.
"What do I do now?"
"Take a look: The very best she can do is eighteen. Since that's over sixteen, she has to stick. You're a sure loser with what you've got, so take another card when she comes around to you."
The dealer looked at Quinn, her eyebrows raised questioningly.
"I'll take another card, please."
Tim said, "Real gamblers say, 'Hit me,' or just tap their cards."
Quinn tapped her cards. "Hit me. Please."
Tim scanned the cards showing and noticed an indulgent smile on two of the other players.