Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes (21 page)

“Crap,” the man muttered to himself. “Whatever happened to ‘finders keepers'?”

“Whatever happened to ‘you knock the lady down, you help her up'?” I countered with my own mutter.

“What did you say?” The man turned to me and now I could see him clearly for the first time, how disheveled he looked with his shirt half hanging out of his pants, a porkpie hat jammed on his head.

“You knocked me over.” I stood my ground.

But apparently my problems were secondary and I was incidental.

“Did you see what that jerk just did?” he said to me, muffling his angry voice enough so the pit boss wouldn't overhear him. “He stole my chip!”

“Well, actually, I think he fairly successfully proved, even if he was a bit rude about it—”

“That was my chip! My last chip!”

“Oh, I'm sorry, but—”

“I was going to use it to stage the biggest comeback this town has ever seen!”

“Well, yes, I'm sure it would have been—”

“Hey, have you got some cash on you? You got a spare chip?”

“Well, no, I don't have any chips. I just got here and—”

“What about the cash then?” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, come on.”

“Are you trying to
mug
me in the middle of a casino?”

“Mug? What are you talking about? I just figured, since it was your fault I lost my chip—”

“
My
fault?
Your
chip?”

“Of course.” He looked a combination of shocked and hurt. “If you hadn't gotten in my way, I would have seen the exact denomination of that chip I lost and then that shyster could never have stolen it from me. I'll bet he goes out for drinks after work tonight…on me.”

“I'm sure there must be rules that govern what a pit boss has to do when he finds a chip—”

“Come on, come on. Are you going to give me that fiver to make up for screwing up my night?”

“When did we agree on a fiver?”

“You're not going to just give me a handful of change, are you? I suck at the slots.”

I was in a quandary. A part of me, the part with gumption, wanted to tell Mr. Porkpie to go scam someone else. But another part of me, the betting part, admired the idea of someone who could actually believe that all it would take would be five dollars to rebuild his fortunes and stage the biggest comeback Vegas had ever seen. Really, it took big balls to be as big of a jerk as this guy was being and it merited some kind of reward.

Reluctantly, I reached into my bag, located my purse. Then I opened it just the tiniest of cracks, for fear that if he saw what I had inside it, he'd be hitting me up for something bigger than a fiver.

“Thanks,” he said, with apparent relief when I handed over the bill. Now that he had what he wanted, the tension in his expression eased as though we'd gone from being sort-of adversaries to being sort-of friends. “You know,” he confided, “it really was my own damn fault.”

“That's right,” I said righteously, glad he was finally admitting it. “If you hadn't created so much bad karma by knocking me over—”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Get over it already! I meant I should never have forsaken my cardinal rule.”

“Which is?”

“Always keep a fiver in your sock and you'll always have something to start over with.”

“But what if you lose that fiver? That's what you're going to do now, isn't it, gamble some more?”

“Details. And, anyway, who said I was going to lose?”

“Well, you could.”

“And all I'm saying is, missy, you should always stash a fiver in your sock and no matter what happens, somehow, you'll be okay.” He glanced down at my feet, took in my Momo Flats. I'd worn the shoes for luck and, inside them, I was sockless.

“Oh,” he said. “I guess it doesn't apply to dames.”

“Who calls women
dames
anymore?”

But he ignored me. “Just put a fiver in your bra, missy, and you'll always do okay.”

He was an odd person to be taking advice from, but it didn't seem prudent to be ignoring obvious omens and as soon as he walked off to stage his comeback, I hightailed it to the nearest restroom and stuffed a fiver in my Victoria's Secret. Hey, it didn't pay to be too careful, I thought, jiggling my shoulders around a bit as I tried to get used to the feel of the crisp money scratching against my boobs before hitting the casino again.

Where was Billy?

“Would you care for a drink?”

No, the speaker wasn't my purported date for the evening. It was a cocktail waitress in full casino mufti: towering heels, bustierlike leotard, hooker makeup and a feather or two.

“How do you walk in those things all night?” I asked, looking at her feet.

“Honey, if my bunions could talk, they'd say, ‘Cut it out, bitch,' but lucky for me, they can't talk or I'd be out of a job. Every time I turn around, they'd be flipping off some bozo or another.”

I giggled. “Can toes flip someone off?”

“Believe me, when toes have been abused as much as mine have, they become capable of just about anything.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Are you kidding me?”

I shook my head.

“Well, let's see…” She consulted the high ceiling, perhaps reading the smoke signals from all the cigarettes. “Medical school lost my application, being a call girl might involve some daytime work and I hate to work a split shift, and I'm not smart enough to take the dealer's course.”

“If you're smart enough to remember who gets which drink, I'd think you'd be smart enough to remember the basic rules of blackjack from the dealer's standpoint. It's pretty easy—draw to Sixteen, stand on Seventeen, if the player gets Twenty-one you pay back three to two and if the cards in the chute get low, reshuffle.”

“Too many numbers.” She shrugged. “Besides, it's not like I really remember everyone's drinks.”

“You don't?”

“Hell, no. Oh, sure, I listen as well as I can, but mostly I just count how many people give me orders, then I order that many drinks from Charlie the bartender. And if Mr. Gin & Tonic ends up with Mr. Rum & Coke's drink, who's there to complain?”

“You mean the customers don't mind?”

“Nah, so long as it's a guy and he hasn't lost too much, I just wiggle a feather or two at him and he takes what ever I give him.”

“But the women do mind?”

“It all depends.” Another shrug. “Some do, some don't. I think some of the ladies like the feathers, too.”

“Have you seen a gorgeous guy in a tux? Tall? Blond hair? Talks with a slightly British accent?”

“You mean Mr. Club Soda?”

I had no idea, but it sounded like Billy, at least when he was gambling.

But how did she remember
his
drink when she couldn't remember anyone else's? Oh yeah, that's right: Billy's charisma
was
memorable.

“Okay,” I said. “That's him.”

“Last time I saw him, he was down that second aisle over there—” she pointed “—third blackjack table on the left.”

“Thanks.”

“So, do you want that drink?”

“Sure.” I thought about it. “Can I get a diet cola with lime squeezed into it.”

“I don't see why not. Just don't be upset if I come back with a Seven-Up with lemon in it. Or if I don't find you again. That sometimes happens, too.”

As she went off to maybe get my drink, I looked for Billy down the second aisle at the third blackjack table on the left. But Billy wasn't there.

Where was Billy?

I circled the entire blackjack area, weaving in and out between the tables, but I couldn't find him anywhere. Maybe, I started to think, I kept just missing him? Maybe, as I was desperately searching to find him, he was desperately searching for me?

That's it, I thought, coming to a stop with my back to the blackjack table that was most centrally located. I would just stand there and wait until he showed up. The Native Americans, formerly known as the American Indians, used to say that if you stayed in one spot long enough, eventually the whole world would come by. I didn't actually believe this was true—I mean, what were the chances that the Dalai Lama or the Pope or Tom Jones was going to just walk by?—and I wasn't even sure the Native Americans had ever really said or believed that. It was just something I'd read in a book. All I knew was that despite the fact that I wasn't burdened with the towering heels of the cocktail waitress, and even though I was wearing my gloriously comfortable Momo Flats, my dogs were tired after a day of travel and now a night of standing. Surely, if I just stayed in one spot and didn't move, surely if Billy was looking as hard for me as I was looking for him, the man of my dreams would find me right where I was standing.

“Delilah?”

Well, that wasn't Billy. Billy never called me by my given name. But it was obviously someone who knew me. I put together the surprising and the inevitable even as I whirled around and saw…

“Chris!”

It was Furthest Guy from the Yo-Yo Man commercials, aka Chris Westacott, only he was looking like I'd never seen him before. Rather than the scruffy hair and clothes I expected upon recognizing his voice, based on his appearance in Atlantic City, his hair had been recently trimmed so that all of the wave I remembered was gone and he was attired in the same outfit as the dealers: black pants, shiny cummerbund, white shirt with blouson sleeves. But before I could ask the obvious question of “What are you doing dressed like that?” he came at me with one of his own.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I looked pointedly around me: at the casino in general, at the blackjack tables in specific.

“Oh. Of course,” he said, seeming disappointed.

“It's just a short trip,” I said. “I'm here until Monday. But what are
you
doing here?”

“I work here,” he said. “This is my day job. Well,” he laughed, “except for the fact that I do it at night. But I'm just getting off duty. Want to have a drink?”

“I'd love to, but I'm—”

“Just one,” he said, “and it doesn't even have to be an alcoholic drink. I've got to get home and practice.”

“Practice?”

“Yeah, you know, practice? My yo-yoing.”

“Oh, of course, but—” And then I stopped myself. I'd been about to say thanks, but no thanks, that I was waiting to find the friend I'd come with. But then I realized how silly that was. I'd been looking for Billy for how long now? My feet were so tired I needed to sit down, but if I sat down at one of the tables, I'd have to gamble and I just wasn't ready to gamble yet. So what was so wrong about having a quick drink with a sort-of old friend and resting my dogs for a bit? I could always go back to not finding Billy later.

“Sure, why not?”

“Great, I'll just go change real quick. Don't want my bosses to think I'm drinking with customers while on the job. Don't move.”

I obeyed the instructions not to move, which gave me a few more minutes to wait for Billy, but by the time Chris returned in jeans and a light blue button-down shirt, Billy still hadn't come back.

“Ready?” he asked.

He took me up to the Mix Lounge, which had wall-to-wall black leather with red lighting.

“Mmm,” I said, “it's very, um…”

“Cozy?”

“Well, maybe in a sadomasochistic way.”

“True,” he laughed. “But it's as far away as I can get from work and still be in the same building.”

“Do you think they have Diet Pepsi Lime here?” I asked.

“If they don't,” he said, “I'll make sure they do such a good job of imitating one, you won't know the difference.” And when the bartender asked what we wanted, he made a persuasive case for the bartender to do just that.

“I heard Tom Jones is supposed to be here later on this weekend,” he said, raising his voice to shout over the sound of music that had suddenly started to pound, “but tonight we're stuck with the DJ.”

Ha! I knew if I stayed in one place long enough, eventually Tom Jones would show up. Maybe the Dalai Lama and His Holiness were soon to follow?
Not.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.

“Sure.”

So I asked him the same question he'd asked me just a short time ago. “What are you doing here?”

“Having a drink with you.”

I playfully punched his arm. “Besides that. I mean, what are you doing working here?” I remembered what the cocktail waitress had said earlier. “Did medical school lose your application? Would being a call girl eat up too much of your daytime hours? Heels too tough on the feet to be a cocktail waitress?”