Kasey Michaels - Bowled Over

"Yeah, thanks," Maggie said, scowling at the machine, now showing ninety-one credits, as Sterling had been busily pressing the Max button. "This is looking better and better, isn't it? Sure, I believe I could win. And my foot could magically heal itself overnight so I can dance the lead in the Nutcracker. Go away, Alex. I'm not fit company."

Meanwhile, back at the—oh, right.

We already did that one ...

He picked up the photograph, recognizing the woman he'd seen parked at the curb, in the No Parking/Loading Zone out front.

Pretty girl.

Too bad for her, huh?

And not much more time to get what he came for.

Nice of Evan to tape that note to his door, though.

Nicer of him to keep a key stashed under the mat.

Schmuck.

Okay, okay, luck is good, but luck runs out. Nobody lives eight miles from Atlantic City without knowing that one, right?

So get what you need and go. Don't think, just act. The first act, that leads to the second act, that leads to—oh yeah. Time to boogie.

Get the show on the road.

Four more hours, that's all.

Four more hours, and it's party time.

Now, where the hell does he keep it ... ?

Alas, dear reader, this is the last time we will delve into the twisted mind of our Shadowy Figure. Because said Shadowy Figure isn't kidding—no more thinking of any great consequence is going to happen inside that particular brain any time soon.

Figuratively, from this point on, it is as if Shadowy Figure's mind, like Elvis, has left the building.

Saint Just strolled casually but purposefully toward the well-appointed baccarat tables, his first and only previous visit to a modern day casino still a fond memory, and with every confidence his luck would likewise be "in" today.

He'd only just bowed politely to the dealer, his hand reaching inside his cashmere sports coat for his billfold, when ... well, when all hell seemed to break loose around him.

Bells rang. Lights flashed, strafing wildly across the unadorned ceiling. People began running from everywhere, and all seemed to be headed in the same direction.

"My immense powers of observation to one side," he joked to the dealer, "it would appear that something's happened?"

"Yeah, you could say that. Somebody hit a big one. From the way people are running, I'd say it's probably the Big-Wheel-o'-Bucks machine. Sir? Why, thank you sir."

Saint Just had already tossed a twenty-dollar tip on the table and joined the herd of people making their way back across the floor to where he'd left Maggie and Sterling.

He was stopped by a man wearing a jacket with the logo Security on the breast pocket and told that he could go no farther.

"Yes, of course," Saint Just said, craning his neck to see what he could see. "But I left my friends at those machines, and I wonder if you could answer a question for me, my good sir?"

"Sure. You think they won?"

"I have no idea. Is it possible that the winner is sporting a black orthopedic cast on her left leg, and accompanied by a congenial, pudgy, balding man wearing an astonished expression?"

"Yeah, that's them. Well, that's her, because she was the one at the machine. Why don't you come with me, sir. I'll get you through to her."

Smiling quizzically, Saint Just followed the security man, who was now following a small gaggle of casino employees, two carrying copious numbers of balloons, the rear brought up by a third man who was doing his best to make his way while holding onto a ridiculously large facsimile of a check.

A check with no name written on the Payee line.

A check with Three million two hundred eighty-three thousand dollars written on the Amount line in fairly impressive calligraphy.

Saint Just smiled.

And then he saw Maggie, and he began to laugh.

She was still sitting where he'd left her, and the stunned-ox expression she wore was absolutely priceless.

She saw him, and began waving to him frantically, calling his name as if she might be drowning. Which, for Maggie, was probably how she felt.

He'd almost gotten to her when his ankle was clipped by the wheel of a motorized cart and he turned to his left to see the man they'd encountered earlier, bullying his cart through the crowd.

His expression was neither astonished nor of the stunned-ox variety.

It was more like that of a rabid boar crashing through the undergrowth, and all but foaming at the mouth.

"That's mine! That's mine! She took my machine! I told you guys, and you wouldn't do anything. Now look! That bitch took my jackpot!"

"Excuse me," the security guard said to Alex before taking off after the man who had now somehow gained possession of the oversize check and was swinging it above his head, clearly in an attempt to attack Maggie physically.

But Saint Just was faster, and had already grabbed hold of the check at the other end, deftly pulling it from the man's hands.

Which only momentarily diverted the fellow, who was now aiming his cart directly at Maggie.

Maggie sort of eeked, and quickly moved her casted foot out of the line of fire.

The motorized cart seemed to go into second gear.

Sterling, who'd only recently vowed to never be a hero again, manfully leaped in front of Maggie, taking the full force of the oncoming cart, and then folded like a broken flower when Saint Just reached into the cart and turned off the power.

At which point Maggie pushed herself up on one foot, held onto the back of the chair for balance, declared, "You ran into my friend!" a heartbeat prior to delivering (Saint Just knew from watching HBO Fight Night ) what was a stunning right cross directly to the flabby jaw of her attacker.

Women screamed.

Men laughed.

Camera phones flashed.

Saint Just swooped Maggie up into his arms and she held on tight. "Look what I did. I hit that stupid man. This is all your fault," she told him, in typical Maggie-style. "Sterling? Are you all right?"

"As rain, Maggie, thank you," Sterling said, behind her.

Security personnel surrounded the main participants, hauling the man in the cart—now bleeding profusely from the nose—away from Saint Just, the recovering Sterling, and K.O. Kelly herself, while others formed a phalanx to lead the way out of the crowd.

Within moments they were all locked behind large doors in a well-appointed room just off the casino floor.

The sudden silence was rather overpowering as a half dozen rather senior-looking Borgata employees ushered them all to chairs.

"We're back in control," said one. "I thought I'd seen it all, but that was different."

Maggie shifted herself on the soft leather couch, moving away from Saint Just. "Not if you lived in my world lately," she muttered, glaring at her hero. "And all for what? I know I did something right, when all three lines had the same thing on them, but all that showed up in the little box listing credits won were a bunch of three's. Or maybe Es. They kept flashing on and off. And so, what? I won a little over three thousand dollars? That's great, it really is, even if it punches holes in my theories that nobody really wins—but why the big fuss?"

Saint Just coughed slightly into his hands. "You didn't win three thousand dollars, Maggie."

She shifted on the couch, to look at him. "Oh, okay, we won three thousand dollars. You and Sterling will get your cut. Jeez. But I still don't see why we needed lights, camera, action—and balloons. I think we could have safely dispensed with the balloons."

Saint Just could see that she was clearly woozy, her eyes slightly unfocused. It might have been better if she hadn't taken that pill. "Are you in pain, Maggie?"