Chapter

13

The casino was jammed with a Saturday night crowd of hopefuls. As we walked into the density of people crowded around the tables, I had my first sense of what it was like to have less. It was apparent who had it and who didn’t.

There were what I suspected to be the usual groups of college age boys drinking beer and vicariously enjoying the winning and losing of the real risk-takers. They were tell-tale with their hungry looks and “weekend” dollars tucked away safely in their pockets. Some wore that pathetic look of hoping that the female hanging onto them with their micro-minis and bulging blouses wasn’t going to cost them more than they had.

And, of course, there were the older couples, the ones I’d seen nailed to their slot machine stools earlier, the ones who’d taken a break from the nickel and dime dream machines to wander over and get high with the college boys watching the winning and losing of high rollers.

But the actors who held my attention were the dealers. They all seemed to wear a conditioned professional gaze of disengagement. Of course, in fact, that was not the case, as they were expected to be highly attentive to their skilled duties of taking in more than they gave out. Nevertheless, their eyes—that deep part of their eyes that seemed to be so easy for me to read right now—betrayed the facade that was continually monitored by the cameras in the ceiling and the ever-present pit bosses. The dealers were the unfortunate, I thought; the ones spending endless hours handling the savings and fortunes of people who had it to give and loose. Every day of their working life, they fingered chips worth thousands, sometimes millions. I pictured these dealers as just working stiffs; people who made a living wage, went home to their moderate life styles where they eked out some fun money for a movie after the bills were paid. But that wasn’t what they were all about. These robotic-like workers impressed me as the real tragedies of the gambling world. I could see the sense of rage hiding behind their anesthetized eyes. Eyes that were haunted by the dreams of having lots of money and being on the other side of the tables. This was a torture for them. It wasn’t easy for me to watch.

“Let’s try our luck,” I said to Sara.

I sat down at a blackjack table that had an interesting player on the far corner. The man of about sixty was sitting in front of a huge stack of chips. Loss of hair had obliged him to a toupee that could stand to be replaced by some of the winnings stacked before him. Obviously, he had either won big, or was just starting his evening. By the look of his drunken eyes, I chose to believe the former.

The dealer had a haggard slouch to her shoulders.

Standing a few feet away was a Pit Boss whose look suggested he might be running in a replacement any minute.

The others at the table were having a good time, but none apparently had matched my corner friend’s damage to the dealer.

I took out a hundred-dollar bill and passed it to the dealer. The pit boss slithered over immediately, and cordially shaking head at me, leaned in and whispered, “I’ll run the tab, Mr. Stevens. Just a hundred to start?”

I was surprised, and I wasn’t surprised. A new belief system was beginning to form that said I would continue to run into people who knew me, no matter where I went or what I did. Something was instinctively taking me to them.

I thanked him and was just about to place my bet, when a glass of brandy was slid under my arm by the cocktail waitress.

“I’m sorry this took so long, Mr. Stevens,” she whispered, “but Mr. Orlando told me you would probably go directly to the Baccarat room and...”

The pit boss stepped over again, “Enough Anise. I’m sure Mr. Stevens wants to get on with it. Right Mr. Stevens? Something for the lady?”

“Sara?” I asked.

“Some sherry would be fine, thank you.”

“Sorry for the confusion,” I said to the waitress.

She took a glare from the pit boss and was off.

I plastered on an engaging smile and leaned back to Sara with a quiet “Bring me luck so I can stay with blackjack, honey, because I don’t know a thing about Baccarat.”

The first half-hour, I found myself winning some, losing some. My drunken friend in the corner was continuing to win big. This was after a new dealer had been brought in, no less, a girl who could have passed for a twin sister to Woody Allen. She had that same vulnerable look as Woody, but—and this was a big but, —she handled the cards like they had been in her hands since birth. The only problem was, this wasn’t her night either.

The pit boss was pacing now with an ever-watchful eye on her.

I figured my corner friend was four to five thousand ahead. The two to three-thousand-dollar pile of chips in front of me said I was making the ten-dollar ante work often enough for me as well. The other players had come and gone, taking more than they left behind. Now the dealer was faced with handling all her losses through the two of us.

Sara nudged me and whispered, “I notice he tips her every once in a while.” I nodded and continued.

The next hand, she dealt me two aces. I remembered my TV instruction and split them. In the next thirty seconds, one brought in twenty-one and the other a twenty, which beat the dealer. The table watchers let out a cheer. The dealer pushed the winnings of over three thousand toward me as I stood up to leave. She was not in good shape. As her replacement stepped in, I slipped her five one-hundred-dollar chips. Even though I’m sure her schooling had dictated she not show much emotion, it was evident she was grateful.

“Mr. Stevens,” the voice from behind called out.

I turned to be greeted by none other than Mr. Benoit. Even though his manners were obviously more formal on the floor, I couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been standing there, peering at my ass, as it were.

“Mr. Benoit.”

My rear was safe, however, as he was all over Sara. Apparently, he had been turned on, rather than off, by her altercation earlier when we checked in. The look in his eye told me he more than appreciated the thought she was a he, not a she.

So, there I was. Having come away from the table unscathed, I just wanted to cash in and maybe take in the show and enjoy some time alone with Sara. But Mr. Benoit had other ideas. I was about to defend Sara’s manhood.

“Not to intrude,” Benoit said, but Mr. Orlando was delighted on hearing of your unexpected arrival and wanted me to extend his well wishes and good luck. He’s terribly disappointed that his obligations in Atlantic City will extend beyond your stay with us this weekend, but he wanted to make sure you were being taken care of in the best Mirage tradition.”

His furtive little eyes grabbed a quick look at Sara again before he offered what he must have considered his best hand. “I’ll be only too happy to provide anything the hotel has to offer, complimentary of course. Perhaps Ms. Reynolds would like a private facial, massage, hair? Anything at all.” 

“Mr. Benoit, would you please convey my thanks and appreciation to Mr. Orlando for his superb hospitality, but Ms. Reynolds and I haven’t seen each other for weeks, and this short weekend was a sort of be together- avoid too many crowds—win a little money—drink and be merry—enjoy each other getaway. You understand, don’t you Mr. Benoit?”

“Of course. Of course. Absolutely,” he said. He was getting the point. “You know where to ring me if you want anything, anything at all.”

As we walked away, he insisted on cashing me in to save us the inconvenience of standing at the window. “You two run along. I’ll cash this in for you and deposit it in your safe.” He quickly fingered the chips. “My, my.  We were modestly lucky tonight, weren’t we?”

I thanked him and headed for the elevators. This was just another confirmation that having money automatically meant all kinds of people wanted to be part of it, regardless of how. Among other things, Mr. Benoit was the epitome of vicarious living on other people’s money. He was someone we wouldn’t miss at all when we left.

While we were still there, however, we wanted to enjoy ourselves and right then, all we wanted to do was barricade ourselves in the suite for the next twenty-four hours and play dead. That wasn’t going to happen.