Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes (13 page)

“I'm reading my book.”

“But aren't you going to read it to yourself?”

“I have to read aloud. It's the only way I can concentrate.” He went back to his book. “If the
player
has a
soft
Eighteen, meaning
an
Ace and
a
Seven—”

“But why are you reading it aloud like that?”

“Like what?”

“You hit
every
third word
with
emphasis. It's…
annoying.
”

“Now you know why Betty kicked me out.” He shut the book. “She says it makes her crazy, but it's the only way I can read. If I told you that in the first place, you probably never would have believed me.”

“Do you and Betty, uh, go to Atlantic City often?” I was back to making small talk again, anything to avoid having him read out loud anymore, since Betty was right: it
was
annoying.

“Since retiring, only every weekend,” he said.

“And she kicks you out every weekend?”

“Pretty much. But at least she doesn't carry a gun anymore. The time I lost the thirty thousand dollars, she nearly shot me.”

“You lost thirty thousand dollars?”

“Did you hear me say she nearly shot me?”

Of course I heard it. Hey, I'd have nearly shot him, too. Of course, back in the day, Black Jack Sampson had probably lost that much on a single jaunt. Maybe. Possibly. I'd never really given it much thought, until now, how much my dad might have lost in a single go, how much my mother put up with.

“Betty pulled her gun on me and I was sure I was a goner when she cocked the trigger.”

“So what did you do? How did you get out of it?”

“I pointed out the obvious. I said, ‘Betty, I
won
thirty thousand
dollars
the week
before!
'”

“You mean you won thirty thousand dollars one week and then turned around and lost it the week after?”

“Pretty much.”

It was a lot to digest. I couldn't imagine winning that much, losing that much. If it were me, I'd have used the money for a round-the-world cruise or the down payment on a house. Of course, then Hillary would have to help me out with the mortgage.

“You're a professional gambler,” I said finally.

“Pretty much.”

“But then what are you doing reading
Blackjack Winning Basics?
”

“Didn't you see? It's written by Tony Casino. And even an expert like me needs to bone up now and then.”

When I debarked, Hillary was waiting for me, a handsome man at her side. He was well over six feet tall, his Adonis hair curling over the collar of his shirt. If Hillary's life were a romance novel, he'd be on the cover and her bodice would be ripped.

“This is Biff Williams,” she said, introducing us.

Biff?

“After you deserted me,” Hillary said, “he asked if he could sit with me.”

“We have a lot in common,” Biff said, looking at her with more fondness than a mere hour of knowing a person should bestow. Then he offered her his arm. As casual as if she did it every day, Hillary took it.

“We both work in jobs where we have patients,” Hillary said. God, could she simper any more?

“We both want to see Scotland someday,” Biff said. What was with all this “we” crap all of a sudden?

“We both have Warren Zevon on our iPods,” Hillary said.

“But we'd never plug in while talking to each other,” Biff said. “Oh, and neither of us likes to gamble.”

“We sure don't,” Hillary said.

“We don't?” I said, stunned. “Then what are
we
doing here?”

“I just like bus trips,” Biff said.

“Me, too,” said Hillary.

“We thought we'd just stroll along the boardwalk,” Biff said, “enjoy the sights, grab some lunch together.”

“We thought we'd go to Ripley's Believe It or Not! Museum,” Hillary said.

“We thought we'd go to the Absecon Lighthouse,” Biff said. Apparently, since they weren't listening to their iPods together,
we'd
been reading the same guidebook.

“We thought we'd go to the New Jersey Korean War Memorial,” Hillary said.

“Definitely,” Biff said.

“Grab some dinner together, too,” Hillary said. “We'll meet you back here at the bus when it's time to go.”

As I watched them walk off, they looked so good together, so
right.
Damn! Where was Betty and her gun?

Hillary had hit the jackpot. Without even having a pair of Jimmy Choos on her feet, she'd hit the jackpot.

W
hen Hillary had previously expressed concern that the cost of the bus trip would eat into my two-hundred-dollar Atlantic City stake—“Really, Delilah, I could just drive us,” she'd said. To which I now thought, “Ha! And miss the chance to meet Mr. Wonderful Biff?”—I'd told her what my dad always said, that places like Foxwoods and Atlantic City and Vegas
paid
you to gamble. Even as I'd said it, I doubted the veracity. How could that be? But as I took my first stroll along the boardwalk—not all four miles of it, but enough—my pockets fat with the complimentary coin rolls and food chits the bus driver had handed out on behalf of the casinos, I realized that once again Black Jack was right.

A part of me felt as though my gal pal had ditched me. What did Mr. Wonderful Biff have that I didn't have? Oh, yeah, right: muscles, a good-paying job, a penis. Plus, he wasn't neurotically obsessed with the acquisition of expensive shoes. But then a part of me recognized my ditched feeling for what it was. I was jealous, jealous that someone else was with Hillary, jealous that Hillary had someone else to share the glorious day with.

The day was indeed one of those gorgeous ones that lately had become typical of September, with a clear sky, temperatures in the low eighties and zero humidity, boats speckling the seascape of the ocean the city was named for, a strong sun shining overhead. In fact, it was too gorgeous a day to spend holed up in some smoky casino. I mean, I already had a pair of Jimmy Choos; Hillary had given me the ones I'd bought her. So what if they were the Momo Flats and not the Ghost, they were still Jimmy Choos. Hadn't that been my original goal? There was just one problem. How could a girl, a girl like me who had never been known to eat just one potato chip or confine myself to just one anything, ever stop at just one pair? Still, I tried to resist the pull of temptation. Maybe I should do something else with my hours there? Maybe I should visit one of the video arcades? Maybe I should visit one of the XXX girlie shows? Maybe I should get my cards read, my palm read, my fortune told? Maybe I should
pawn
something?

Oh, hell.

I ducked into the very next casino.

But as I made my way through Caesars Palace, I found it too intimidating—all those Roman columns, all those togas—and I ran right back out again. It was just too formally and obviously a gambling place, when compared with the relative casualness of Foxwoods, and I just wasn't ready for it. Besides, my dad had advised against jumping into the first casino and sitting down at the first table I came across. I wasn't supposed to jump at all. I was supposed to
feel
my way into it.

So I jumped into the curiously shaped Borgata, its two thousand-plus rooms making it way too big, and back out again. I jumped into the Sands, its puny five hundred rooms making it way too small. Then I jumped into the Showboat Casino Hotel and actually stayed for more than a minute. With its faux riverboat facade, it was just right, the whole instantly making me sad about New Orleans and glad about the Young Elvis. I was sure that when night came, with its red-painted exterior all trimmed with lights, the place would look just like somewhere on the Mississippi that Mark Twain might hang out in.

This would be the perfect place for me to gamble, a place that felt somehow both racy and literary at the same time. I could probably spend the whole day there. I'd just walk my way through the lobby, make my way toward the casino…

“Has your eye recovered yet?” a vaguely familiar voice asked as I felt a gentle hand rest on my arm.

I spun around to see Furthest Guy. Gosh, he was cute.

“Furthest Guy!” I blurted without thinking.

“Huh?”

“Oops, sorry, I mean Chris. Your name is Chris, right?”

“How did you know?”

“Um, your sign. When you were appearing at Foxwoods? You had a sandwich-board sign set up on an easel there.”

But he didn't seem concerned with that anymore.

“I've been worrying about you ever since that night,” Chris said. “You took quite a shot in the eye with that yo-yo, but then you disappeared so quickly afterward.”

“See?” I said, tilting my face so he could see my profile. “It's fine now. By the next day, there was hardly any mark there at all.”

“I was still worried,” he said. “I've had a few accidents while performing before, but I've never actually injured a spectator.”

“Well, there's always a first time for everything,” I said brightly, tritely, regretting the words just as soon as I'd foolishly uttered them. “Hey, what are you doing here?” I thought to change the subject. “Are you in town to do some gambling?”

“I'm working,” he said, holding up his other hand, the one that hadn't been on my arm. In it, resting there innocently as if it would never slam some unsuspecting spectator in the eye, was a yo-yo at peace. “I'll be performing here in a little while.”

“Wow, that's so cool!” I said. “I can't believe you play with yo-yos for a living! I mean, I know I saw you doing it at Foxwoods, but I figured it was just a hobby or a little side thing.”

I didn't mean to sound condescending, I swear, I'd just never met a professional yo-yoist before. Still, I could see where my words could give offense. But if he saw it that way, he didn't let on, although he did look dismayed.

“I guess what I said was misleading,” he said, “when I said I was working here. I actually have a different day job.”

I couldn't stop myself from thinking that was a good thing because the way he had trouble controlling his yo-yos, cool as it might be to become friends with a professional yo-yoist, I was tempted to counsel him not to quit his day job.

“I'm on my vacation right now.”

He played casinos on his vacation?

“I started my vacation last weekend with that performance at Foxwoods. I've played a different place every night since then.”

“All casinos?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I've done a few conventions, too. The Shriners thought I was great. Or at least they did until I walked the dog right into some guy's lap.”

“I thought you said you'd never hit a spectator before?”

“I haven't. Didn't you just hear me say the dog walked?”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, the Showboat is my last gig for this trip. But, hey, I've been practicing that move I hit you with the other day. Want to see it?”

“Um, no, thanks. I don't want to get hit again.”

“I didn't mean I've been practicing hitting people. I meant I've been practicing how to do the trick
without
losing control,
without
hitting anybody.”

Before I could stop him, he'd taken several steps away from me. Somehow, instinctively, the passing crowd knew to grant him a wide berth as he began to spin his yo-yos.

He was poetry in motion. The yo-yos twirled and zinged away from him at his command and, when he wanted them to, they came back home.

I wasn't the only one who clapped, but I'm sure I was, no doubt, the only one who jumped up and down like a cheerleader on methamphetamines when she did so.

“Omigod, Chris! That was wonderful!”

Only the fact that I didn't really know him prevented me from throwing my arms around his neck in a solidarity hug.

“Thanks.” He blushed a bit. “Like I said, I've been practicing.”

“How much do you practice?”

“When I'm not working my day job? Eight hours a day.”

“Eight…?”

God, talk about your obsessions.

“And when you are working your day job?”

“Six, still sometimes eight.”

“Wow.” I was impressed, although it was hard to say with what, either his sheer determination or his sheer folly.

“Ever since that night at Foxwoods, I've been working nearly every minute on that move. I just never wanted to hit anyone in the eye like I hit you again.”

“That's, um, very conscientious of you. But don't you ever take breaks?”

“Oh, I'll take more breaks, once I master all the moves. But see this.” He demonstrated some kind of move. I had no idea what I was supposed to be seeing, all I knew was that the string somehow got wound up all around his forearm and that whatever I was supposed to be seeing, it sure as hell wasn't that.

“I'll get the hang of it one day,” he said.

“Has your eye recovered yet?” a vaguely familiar voice asked as I felt a gentle hand rest on my arm.

Chris had spoken the exact same words just a short time ago, but his lips weren't moving, so unless he was a better ventriloquist than he was a yo-yoist, that wasn't him talking. Besides, the voice was all wrong. This time, the voice came from The Voice.

“Billy! What are you doing here?”

Even though it was still just late morning, he had on a tuxedo. I guess some people take their gambling very seriously.

I wouldn't have thought Billy Charisma capable of blushing, but blush he did.

“I overheard you and your friends last week,” he said to me. “Outside in the parking lot at Foxwoods. I know I shouldn't have been eavesdropping, but I couldn't help but hear you say you were coming here.”

“But I never said I was coming to the Showboat. I merely said I was coming to Atlantic City.”

“I know,” he said, “which is why I've spent all morning going into every hotel on the boardwalk in the hopes of finding you.”

“Into every…? But isn't that a little excessive?” The word
stalkerish
came to mind, but
excessive
would have to do.

“I had to find you again,” he said. “I haven't had a night like we shared in Foxwoods in such a long time, but I didn't know how else to find you and I just had to.”

It still sounded excessive, but it also sounded kind of nice. I guessed he was right. That time we'd spent together had been pretty special.

“Ahem.” Chris cleared his throat.

“Ahem.” Chris cleared his throat again.

“Oh,” Billy said, “you again.” Then he insinuated his body so that he was standing between us, with his back to Chris. He put his hands on my shoulders. “You're such good luck for me, Baby. Come on.” He took my hand, pulled me toward the entrance, now the exit. “Come with me to Caesars Palace.”

“Aren't you going to stick around and see me perform?” I heard Chris shout after us.

“Sorry, pal,” Billy answered for me. I'd never been with a man who answered for me before and it felt oddly exhilarating. “She's with me.”

Still…

“You never said what your day job is,” I shouted over my shoulder.

“You never said what your name is,” Chris shouted back.

“It's Delilah,” I shouted, “Delilah Sampson.”

“That's a beautiful name,” Chris shouted.

And then I was out the door, into the sunlight, on the boardwalk and on my way to Caesars Palace.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!”

I tried to get Billy to stop pulling me.

We'd just entered Caesars and were rapidly moving through the Temple Lobby, a dramatic four-story atrium designed in the likeness of the Forum of ancient Rome, and I realized that if I didn't get Billy to stop pulling on my arm right then, he'd pull me right into the casino part of the resort. Of course, being in a casino had been the whole point of my trip, but it wasn't supposed to go down like this.

On my third “Stop!” he turned around.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“A lot!” I said, trying to catch my breath. He hadn't been running, only walking at a brisk pace, but his legs were about a foot longer than mine and I'd had to scamper like a puppy to keep up.

Once upon a time, I'd been a runner, an obsessive runner sometimes going for two hours at a shot, but Hillary had put a stop to that by doing an intervention when I dropped down to eighty-seven pounds. In the dressing room of a petite store, where the salesgirl had told me I could get size double or triple 0 in the city since the size 0 jeans I had on were sliding off my hips, Hillary had used a three-way mirror to show me that it was possible to visibly count the vertebra in my spine. Even I conceded it was gross and then Hillary put me on notice. “Like countries that aren't allowed to have a standing army once they've done something too destructive, you can never run again.”

“I'm pretty sure,” I'd pointed out, “that all those countries are allowed to have standing armies again. And, anyway, what exactly would a non-standing army be?”

“I don't care,” she'd said, “you're cut off.” And I'd listened.

I'd listened so well that after my brief sprint behind Billy down the boardwalk, I was still out of breath.

“Are you asthmatic?” he asked, concerned.