Michael Connelly - Murder in Vegas

Three more throws and he hit his point, raked in his chips. People laughed, thanked him; he’d done well for some. And for himself, oh yes, oh yes.

Hours, many more hours it went on like that. Sometimes it was other people, sometimes it was the woman like him or itwas him, sprinkling the dice like confetti over the green felt, bouncing them off the rails, everyone drawing breaths, holding them, puffing them out. The dealers passed chips out and repossessed them, piles of red chips and black ones, green and purple, orange and gray, rising and falling around the table like some lunatic living bar chart. The boxman, the stickman and the dealers rotated out, replaced by others. The floor boss stayed And the whole thing was in slow motion and fast-forward simultaneously, around Taylor everything whirling and dinging, in front of him everything sweeping and clicking, and also everything crystal clear and completely under control.

Control. No such fucking thing, Taylor thought, his stomach knotting, his heart pounding, his face the familiar thrilling struggle between the mask and the mile-wide grin. No such fucking thing, and pass those dice to me, baby, send them over here. He held them in his hand, shook them, felt the edges, put a big pile on the pass line (oh, he was up, he hadn’t counted lately but he was way up, and so was the woman beside him, they’d been lucky for each other, it sometimes worked that way) and as he threw he was clobbered by it, that smothering gray wave.

It broke over him, a tsunami, the kind caused by trouble on the ocean floor, no storm, no atmospheric disturbance, something deeper, more fundamental. He’d seen a film once, a wave like this, not even tall, a few feet but totally unstoppable, covering a Japanese island, one shore to the other, slowly, on a clear fine day. He thought of that film whenever this happened, all those people on the sand, people who’d been warned but hadn’t left because they didn’t believe it could happen like this. Taylor believed. Here, now, it wasn’t day and it wasn’t fine-it was night and Christ, it was the Trop-but this wave covered Taylor just the same. The lights were still blinking, but through sludgy water, the bells dinged but far away, as if over the sea. Taylor, weighed down, couldn’t move, struggled to breathe.

He closed his eyes.

And heard a whoop, and opened them.

The dice had settled. He’d thrown a seven. He’d hit again.

The tsunami drained away and was gone. Lights and sounds were clear again, but not with the microscopic clarity of the rush. He could breathe, but his heart wasn’t pounding, his skinhad no tingle. His face was neither marble nor fireworks, just his face, stubble, weary eyes, the sour-sweet taste of scotch.

And though he hadn’t counted for a long time now, he gave the pile in front of him a practiced glance and knew he’d made Bennie’s money back.

Taylor was tired, tired.

If the dice weren’t his he’d have walked away right then, racked and cashed out and left the neon and the goddamn blinking lights behind, oh yes, he was ready, but you can’t do that, you can’t do that. He bet the pass line, but not high, didn’t lay odds. The come out roll made five the point, and he hit it in four throws. That was it. He was done.

Taylor had colored up by now, long since really, his early multi-colored pile of chips mostly gray, sprinkled with orange. He racked them. The woman beside him racked hers, too, and they headed together to the cashier’s cage. The floor boss walked with them. People made way for them.

“Jack Taylor,” he said to the woman as they walked. Not, You’re lucky for me, or, you’re my lucky charm, not a pick-up line, just his name, he felt she deserved that.

“Angel Dale.”

“Angel?”

She gave him a dark look, daring him. You’re my angel, you look like an angel, you throw like an angel, he was sure she’d heard it all, all so idiotic, and not so long ago he might have said it himself, he hoped he wouldn’t have but he wasn’t sure.

“Just,” he said, “you look more like Jane. Ann. Mary.”

She smiled. “Tell my folks.”

“You up?” Taylor asked. He and Angel walked between rows of fifty-cent slots, like passing through an Alice-in-Wonderland honor guard of people’s backs.

“Enough.”

Enough, Taylor thought. How right you are.

He cashed out, Angel too. $402,500, a nice win at the Trop but not earthshaking. The floor boss walked away with a solemn congratulatory nod.

“Where are you staying?” Angel asked.

“I’m not.”

Angel nodded. Just came to play, she knew about that. “I’m at the Luxor.”

They walked outside, Taylor braced for a blast of hot desert wind but getting just exhaust, spray from the Tropicana fountain, recorded birdsong, and disappointment. His own, or what was in the air? He wasn’t sure. Angel tipped her head toward the footbridge that would take them over the highway to the Luxor, letting him know.

“Wait,” he said. “Another minute.” It wasn’t even a minute. The men in polo shirts and khakis materialized and approached.

“That’s Bennie’s,” one said, pointing to Taylor’s bag.

Taylor handed it to him.

The men looked surprised; Angel looked surprised.

“Tell Bennie, ‘Fuck you,’” Taylor said.

The man with the bag opened it, checked for the money. This easy, it had to be a trick, Taylor knew he was thinking that. “No trick,” said Taylor. The man closed the bag, nodded, walked away. The other man glared at Taylor another little while, brow furrowed. Surprised, and angry, also, that one, lost his chance to break some bones. Too bad, thought Taylor, but that’s Vegas for you: a mile-high pile of lost chances.

Actually, Taylor was surprised, too. Not surprised that he’d given over the bag so easily, no argument, no tightening of his grip, no pang at such a huge stake slipping from his fingers. Surprised, though, that he’d been able to use it in the way he’d hoped, and not told himself he’d hoped, to fill it with his debt to Bennie and send it on its way, with Bennie’s people, without him.

The people climbed into a cab. Taylor watched the doors slam and then he turned away. Maybe they drove off, red taillights dwindling as they headed for the airport. Maybe they sat in the driveway all night, and maybe they beamed back to the mothership.

He didn’t give a damn.

“Jack?” It was Angel, a few paces away, her eyes wary. Maybe he wasn’t what she thought he was. What she was. Oh, but I am, he said, silently, this time he knew that, Oh, but I am.

He told her. “From Bennie. My bookie. I’m into him.”

“For all that?”

“Just about.”

“You know them?”

“No.”

“How do you know, then? Where they’re going? They could skip.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You’ll be on the hook.”

“God,” Taylor said, “it’s hot out here.” This because a blast of dry desert wind had broken over them, the grit riding on it scouring the fountain mist and the car exhaust out of the air, blowing away everything fake, the birdsong and the forced smiles and Bennie’s goddamn money, his goddamn money.

Taylor turned, faced into the wind. Daybreak, the sun just cracking the sky above the low hill behind the airport (the sun heading to Vegas from New York, just like he had! He wondered, did it hate it when it got here, too?) and already too hot to breathe.

Angel smiled at him. “The Luxor’s cool. A little too cold, even.”

The sun found her, outlined her for him, a fierce glow edging her black hair, her curved hip, her supple wrist. Ah yes, the sun was doing its job here, just like he had, but it was angry. Didn’t want to be here. Angel raised a hand to shadow her eyes, and he looked into them, so like his.