Page 38 of Lost Souls

Noreen stares at the dealer with an intensity that Arnie has never seen before, taking even the gaunt employee and his corpulent patrons by surprise.

“Twist!”

The dealer looks confused.

“Hit me, Noreen,” explains Arnie, pushing the chips out onto the table.

“You really are a pervert, aren’t you?” she mutters, before asking the dealer to twist again.

“Like I did last summer,” mutters an elderly gentleman sitting nearby, smiling leerily at Noreen, which she ignores, as he is being odd.

Robotically, the dealer delivers a third card. He and Arnie can see instantly that she has reached the magical number, and pretty soon Noreen is up to speed.

“Pontoon!” she screams, which means absolutely nothing to anybody around the table, who all wonder why she is into bridges.

Having screamed sufficiently, Noreen Millburn now begins to jump up and down, clapping her lake-ravagedhands in delight. Arnie simply stares at her, not quite believing his eyes. He has seen elements of this fervour before, when Noreen has been droning on about all the noble things she would like to do in this world, most of them involving colostomy bags or prosthetics, but he never expected to witness it at a worn-out blackjack table in the ass-end of Las Vegas. Whilst it may not be bringing her any closer to loving him, or saving his miserable life, he finds himself strangely warmed by this. And surprisingly heartened.

Shepherding the precious pile of winning chips closer towards them, he grins at her.

“See, Noreen? Gambling is a wonderful thing. Think of all the good you can do with this.”

Her pale-blue eyes begin to sparkle. “You’re right, Arnie!”

For some reason, Noreen begins to look around the drab casino. Her glance falls on a glassy-eyed, raddled-looking woman in her forties, hovering some distance away. She is wearing a glitzy, very low-cut top, an extremely short, tight skirt and black fishnet tights that end in bright-green high heels curling dangerously into each other as she manoeuvres between the tables and the human lard.

The woman smiles hopefully but unsuccessfully at various men in turn as she approaches Arnie’s table. Noreen immediately grabs all her chips and thrusts them into the stunned woman’s vermilion-nailed hands.

“Here you are, dear. You buy yourself some good warm clothes. I have heard that even deserts can get cold at nights.”

Before this lady of the desert night can fully grasp the kind sentiment and, more importantly, its physical manifestation, Arnie briskly grabs the charity chips back from her and scurries off with Noreen to the nearest cashier.

Once he has the winnings safely stuffed deep in her bag, he hustles a bemused but considerably richer Noreen out of the casino and into the darkening alley. Cries of ‘Indian giver’ and ‘asshole’ ring in his ears.

“I forgot to tell you, sweetheart,” he explains to his charge, “helping the downtrodden is frowned upon in Vegas. It’s the American way. Go figure.”

Noreen simply nods, prepared to be surprised by nothing in this strangest of all possible worlds.

“Now let’s go and get you all dolled up. As befits a companion of Arnie Garth.” He pauses for a moment. “And there are… perfectly adequate places right around here.”

He suddenly finds himself, with a shiver, recalling the poor fat guy on the gurney and wonders what he, Arnie Garth, will be gripping onto when it’s his turn to die. Which looks like it could well be in just a couple of days. He really hopes it’s something softer than the handle of a flashing Las Vegas slot machine.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Do not dress in clothes made of leaves when going to put out a fire.

(Chinese Proverb)

Despite his bestendeavours and entreaties – indeed, begging might not be too harsh a word – Arnie Garth has found himself encroaching on the one place he least wants to be at this daunting time, this particular week. This wretched evening. The celebrated Las Vegas Strip, as night (and NECA) approach.

Looking all around him, he steps tentatively out of the fashion shop into which Noreen had only minutes ago dragged his sorry arse. In fact, she had yanked him with all her strength and a capacious bag brimming with those black-and-white dollar things the lovely casino people had just handed to her.

On his way here from that same casino, Arnie had wisely managed to find himself a large but cheap hat, practically a Stetson, that at least affords him some sort of camouflage, coming down as it does over his balding head and right to the bridge of his nose.

“It’s almost as if you don’t want people to see you, Arnie,” Noreen had said, peering under the massive garment into his shifty little eyes.

“Actually, you’re right, Noreen,” admitted the lavishly be-hatted man, a tad ruefully. “See, in my business, you get crazy autograph hunters and wannabe movie stars hounding you all the time. 24/7 and more. ‘Sign this for my citizenship teacher, Mr Garth. Can I play Archbishop of Canterbury in your new film, Mr Garth?’”

“You must show me one of your movies one day.”