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"You want the window seat?" I asked as we boarded the plane.
An odd look crossed his face. He mumbled a gruff "You take it," grabbed my overnight bag and hoisted it into the compartment. By the time he lowered himself into the seat beside me, I was almost done straightening and rearranging the in-flight magazines. I pulled an overlooked empty peanut bag from under the seat in front of me, then glanced around for a place to put it.
The light came on for us to fasten our seat belts. As I reached for mine, I noticed Jack's hands as he fastened his, fingers trembling slightly. I looked at him, but his gaze was down, intent on securing the belt.
We listened through the obligatory safety spiel, then the plane began takeoff. As I shifted, getting comfortable, I happened to glance Jack's way. He'd gone dead white...almost as white as his knuckles, gripping the chair arms like they might fall off if he let go.
"You're afraid of flying," I murmured, lowering my voice. "Why didn't you say--?"
"No choice. Too far to drive."
"Can I get you any--?"
"Talk to me."
That was one thing I could manage, so I did.
Once in Vegas, we had to make a few stops. First to a safe drop where Jack kept disguises and equipment, including guns. Then to a hardware store, where I could find the material I needed to carry out our plan.
The Fortuna was the kind of casino frequented by three types of gamblers: old pros who hate the glitzy big operations, problem gamblers kicked out of the big operations, and lost tourists. It was off the Strip. Dated from when the mob ruled Vegas, it looked as if it hadn't been renovated since, and wore its age like a badge of pride. If you wanted flashing lights and fruity drinks and gorgeous girls you went elsewhere. The Fortuna was for gambling.
As we moved through the room, I was struck by the difference between the Vegas I'd seen in advertisements and movies, and the reality. Maybe somewhere on the Strip there were casinos filled with handsome couples, grinning and cheering and having the time of their life, but here gambling seemed more a life sentence than a vacation. Those sitting at the antiquated slot machines looked like extras from a zombie flick, eyes glazed, faces ashen as they fed the coins and pulled the handles. The tables weren't much better, everyone crowded around, expressions solemn, gazes fixed on the worn green cloth. At some tables, only the tinkle of the dice and the murmur of the dealers' voices broke the quiet. Then we came along...
"But you promised," I squealed as Jack dragged me to the blackjack table. "I wanna see Celine."
Jack leaned down to my ear and hissed loud enough for everyone around to hear. "Shut the fuck up, or the only thing you'll be seeing is the inside of the hotel room."
I sniffled. Jack laid down a hundred-dollar bet and tried to snake his arm around my waist, but I sidestepped away.
"Come on, baby," Jack said, his hand sliding to my rear. "Gimme some luck."
"You said this trip was for me."
"You give me a couple hours and we'll see Celine, Newton...Hell, you can play with the fucking white tigers if you want, okay, babe?"
He started playing...and losing, a hundred bucks at a time, then two hundred. He won the odd hand, but most of his money went back to the dealer. Wasn't long before a server sidled up with a tray of free drinks...the least they could offer for such a generous donation.
"Uh-uh," I said, patting my still-flat stomach. "No booze for this baby. I got six more months and I'm sticking to it."
Jack gave a proud papa grin and patted my stomach. "That's my girl." He shot the grin around the table. "Our first...and I'm here to win a room full of baby furniture."
A murmured round of congratulations on the first point, tainted with skepticism on the second. The server returned with a soda for me and a Scotch for Jack. He made a show of taking a big gulp, but very little of the liquid left the glass before he surreptitiously slid it aside. My soda was supposed to be Coke. Judging by the taste, though, they'd substituted a no-name brand, then further cut costs topping it up with tap water.
After a few more rounds, Jack's luck changed. Drastically. I knew he was cheating--that was the plan--but I have no idea what he did, only that he started winning big and winning often--too big and too often to be healthy. All eyes were already on us, with our role-playing, and he hadn't won more than his sixth round before a beefy hand closed on his shoulder.
"A word with you...sir," the guard rumbled.
"Sure," Jack said. "If it's congratulations."
Another guard flanked him, and both took hold of his upper arms to escort him away.
"Oh no," I moaned as I scampered after them. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't."
"Shut the fuck up," Jack hissed over his shoulder.
"You promised!" I whacked him with my purse. "'Not this time, babe,' you said. 'I'll play straight, babe.' You don't know how to play straight, you no-good..."
And so we left the casino floor and headed for the security wing, Jack under armed guard and me running along behind them, alternately sobbing and railing. As we passed through the doors, a desk guard leapt up, probably to tell me to wait outside. Then he apparently decided this was one domestic dispute he didn't want to get in the middle of, sat down and busied himself with his logbook.
