By ten-fifteen I had busted through my bankroll and was mournfully hanging, like a disconsolate teenager, around the nickel slots.
The only thing more pitiful than stories of great gambling winnings are stories of great gambling losses, so I’ll spare you the details of the debacle, but let me just ask one question: Why is it that whenever you jump-raise your blackjack bet to a level higher than you should, you end up with a pair begging to be split, and then, after you’ve doubled the already stupidly high bet, why does the dealer always seem to pull that six she needs to turn a dead fifteen into a killer twenty-one? Why is that? Why? Answer me that. Does that seem fair to you? Or does it seem fair that Beth, who as far as I knew had never played before, who was merely following the rules of the little yellow strategy card instead of well-honed instinct, was doing spectacularly well, her stack of chips rising and turning colors while mine dwindled and disappeared? It was almost enough to make me lose faith in my lucky jacket. Almost.
So I was mournfully hanging around the nickel slots, feeling like I was living dangerously if I punched the “bet max” button and put a quarter on the line, when I saw it.
A flash of sparkly color. Gold lamé. My jacket.
Just the sight of it on someone else cheered me. It was like finding a grade school soul mate in the glittery wasteland of the new Vegas. Only someone who appreciated the Vegas I had first known could appreciate that kind of jacket. I wondered if my friend was having any better luck with his jacket than I was with mine. Maybe I had taken the wrong jacket off the rack, maybe the lucky one was the one he took. Good for him. Maybe I should pat him on the back, just for laughs. Without anything much else to do, I followed the flash of gold through the pink sheen of the Flamingo’s casino. I glimpsed it snaking in and out among the craps tables, and I kept after it. I could only catch sight of it here or there, losing it among the crowds or in the aisles. Who was he? I wondered. A hard-core gambler or a tourist like me? His hair was black, I could tell, there was a cigar, but I never got a clear glimpse of him. And strangely, as I hurried to catch up, the jacket seemed to hurry away from me.
I sped up my pace. Past the craps tables, the blackjack, the Let-It-Ride, the big wheel. I could only now catch glimpses of the jacket rushing out of this crowd, around this row of tables, catch a glance of its reflection in the shiny side of a slot machine.
Who was in the jacket? Did he know me? Who did I know whose taste was as tacky as mine, and why was he avoiding me?
I had a final glimpse of gold slinking out the corner doors to the Strip, but when I stepped out into the thick night air with its crazed electricity, he was gone.
“IS THAT him?” asked Beth.
“No, I told you, he was a smarmy-looking man.”
“He looks smarmy.”
“That’s not smarmy, that’s just old.”
“He has a mustache.”
“So did Stalin,” I said. “But he wasn’t smarmy.”
“Maybe we have a different definition of the word.”
“But only one of us is right,” I said, “and that guy is not smarmy. He looks like Art Carney.”
“I always thought Art Carney looked a little smarmy. When was Hopkins leaving for lunch?”
“They said he leaves about twelve-thirty. We have time yet.”
“Is that him?”
“What are you, kidding?”
“Maybe you’re right. It’s hard to be smarmy shaped like a fire-plug.”
“So how much did you win?”
“A few hundred, nothing much. Maybe ten.”
“A thousand? You won a thousand? And you’ve really never played before?”
“Well, maybe a little in Atlantic City.”
“Ah, so now we get the truth.”
“A few jaunts now and then with an old boyfriend.”
“Which one?”
“Dieter.”
“Dieter, the German computer scientist. Dieter was smarmy.”
“So that’s what you mean.”
“I didn’t know Dieter liked the cards.”
“He played slots. I suppose your jacket wasn’t lucky after all.”
“Oh, no, the jacket was lucky, but I wasn’t. It did okay for you while you were sitting next to it.”
“Yes, it did.”
“And I won a pot on the nickel slots.”
“They make you sign a W-2 on that one?”
“Wait a second.”
“Is that him?”
“Wait a second.”
“Now, he’s smarmy.”
“There we go. Yes, that’s our boy.”
We were in a strip-mall parking lot off Paradise Road, just west of the Flamingo, watching from the convertible, with its top up, as Gerald Hopkins left the bank. I had stopped at the bank earlier in the morning to scope out what he looked like. Then I made a call from Hailey’s cell phone to say I’d like to meet with Mr. Hopkins after lunch and to ask about his normal lunch hours. The bank people were ever so helpful. Everything was done to ensure that when we walked in with Hailey Prouix’s identification card and safe-deposit key, Gerald Hopkins, who asked me to give his regards to Hailey, would not be in the bank. I was hoping that when he left for lunch he wouldn’t be walking to the Indian restaurant a few doors down for the $5.95 buffet and a quick return. I almost willed him into the parking lot and, thankfully, he obliged. There was a white Cadillac a few rows down and he opened it with his key and ducked inside. A few seconds later he passed right by us on his way out of the lot and onto Paradise Road.
“How do I look?” said Beth, with her hair now back and the glasses on.
“You look great,” I said, “just great. Now let’s hope that no one’s reported yet to her Vegas bank that Hailey Prouix is dead.”
WE SAT at a desk and waited as the service specialist went off to get the card for the safe-deposit box. Beth fingered the key, trying to hide her nervousness. The woman, a Mrs. Selegard, heavy and smiling, talking all the while to her friend at the other desk, hadn’t blinked when Beth gave Hailey’s name and the box number stamped on the key.
“Here it is, Miss Prouix,” said Mrs. Selegard as she came back with the card. “I’ll need to see your identification and then have you sign.”
Beth reached into her bag, pulled out a wallet, unfolded flap after flap as if searching for something long hidden away. I thought she was laying it on a bit thick, but finally she pulled out the driver’s license and Mrs. Selegard started taking down the information.
“Do you have a home here, Miss Prouix?” asked Mrs. Selegard offhandedly.
“No, I live in Philadelphia. But my parents live here and I keep some things for them.”
“I hope they’re in good health.”
“Still,” said Beth, rapping on the wooden desk.
“We have experts in estate planning if they’re looking for someone to talk to.”
“Thank you, but I think they have a lawyer here working on it.”
“Good, that’s smart. No reason for Uncle Sam to get more than he must. I see, Miss Prouix, that your license has expired.”
“Has it?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Selegard looked up at Beth. “A year and a half ago.”
“I gave up my car when I moved to Philadelphia, so I suppose I hadn’t noticed.”
“You should take care of that.” Pause. “It says here your eyes are blue.” She looked at Beth for a moment. “They don’t look blue.”
“In some lights they’re bluish,” said Beth.
Mrs. Selegard examined the ID again and then Beth’s face. “Well, in some lights,” she said, “I’m a size six.”
The ladies laughed at that, sharing a little piece of vanity among themselves. I could tell that Beth wasn’t a natural at playacting. She was giving too much information, seemed to have an answer to everything when answers weren’t required. If it were me with the fake ID, I wouldn’t have been chatty with the account-executive lady, I’d have acted as if none of it was any of her damn business. But I had to admit, the “In some lights they’re bluish,” line was genius.