James Swain: Gift sense

Visibly shaking, Nola clapped her hands and stepped back from her spot. Sensing trouble, Fontaine put his arms around the fortress of black chips in his possession and pulled them close. Tossing Nola a hundred-dollar toke, he said, "Thanks, honey."

Sammy plucked the chip out of the air. Sammy's eyes were as smooth as glass, and he breathed heavily through his crooked nose.

"I know you," Sammy declared.

Fontaine's eyebrows shot up inquisitively. "Stonybrook, class of '76?"

Sammy shook his head violently.

"Poughkeepsie High, class of '72?"

"Don't think so," Sammy snapped.

"You want me to guess," Fontaine said innocently.

"I know you from the road," Sammy said. "You're a hustler."

An ugly look clouded Fontaine's handsome features. Nola felt the whisper of intuition crawl up her spine. There was something familiar about him, yet she couldn't place what.

"You calling me a faggot?" Fontaine spouted angrily.

"No," Sammy replied. "I'm calling you a cheat."

In another lifetime, Sammy had earned his livelihood ripping off casinos. At sixty, he'd retired to Palm Springs, become a full-time drunk, and squandered his money. After cleaning himself up, he'd come to Las Vegas and auctioned his ability to spot other hustlers to the highest bidder. He'd gotten religion and was not ashamed to rat on players he'd known from the road.

Fontaine pointed an accusing finger at Wily. "First, this bozo has me frisked; now you're calling me a crook. The problem with this place is you're just a bunch of sore losers."

Fontaine began stuffing stacks of black chips into his pockets, but Sammy grabbed his arm.

"You and I worked together… your laugh hasn't changed."

"My laugh?" Fontaine shook free of his grasp. "Touch me again and I'll knock you into next week."

Sammy backed up. Wily barked into a walkie-talkie and two beefy security guards came charging across the floor. Jumping to his feet, Fontaine grabbed the back of his chair.

"This is going to make a great lawsuit," he announced.

Nola swallowed hard. Now Fontaine's voice was starting to sound familiar. It was spooky; she knew him, yet she didn't know him. Perhaps their paths had crossed back in Queens. That's it, she thought, when we were kids.

"You're real cute," Sammy said, eyeing him cooly. "Sooner or later, I'm going to remember where I know you from. If you're smart, you'll get out of my casino while you still can."

"I won this money fair and square," Fontaine shouted indignantly, still holding the chair. "Pay up, or I'll call the police and have you arrested."

"You'll do what?"

"You heard me. For stealing."

"Get him, boys!" Sammy bellowed.

The security guards' names were Hoss and Tiny. In their formative years, they had played football at Michigan State, both all-American. Fontaine was a lot smaller than the quarterbacks they'd run over during their heyday, and they brusquely wrestled him to the floor and emptied his pockets.

"Count those chips," Sammy ordered.

A mob had formed around the blackjack pit and Nola combed the familiar faces of her coworkers. It happened every time: one little fracas and everyone but the crippled change girl came running. She watched Fontaine being pulled to his feet, his pockets hanging inside out. He flashed her a funny grin, and Nola flipped him the bird.

Then Hoss and Tiny dragged Fontaine across the casino and out the sliding front door, tossing him harshly onto the pavement like the sack of human garbage that he was.

Wily let her go home early.

Nola changed into jeans and a faded polo shirt in the employee lounge, then exited through the casino, waving to a couple of dealers she knew on her way out. Passing the sea of slots, she stopped at an alcove near the front entrance that housed the most famous slot machine in Las Vegas. Its name was One-Armed Billy and its progressive jackpot currently stood at a cool twenty-six million. Billy stood nine feet tall and took only five-dollar tokens, and Nola had seen countless little old ladies hang monkeylike on Billy's arm to set the reels in motion.

"There you are," Nola said.

Joe Smith sat on a high stool beside Billy, looking bored out of his mind. Proportionately, Joe was the right person to be guarding Billy, as he was easily the largest casino employee in the world, standing seven feet tall and weighing three hundred pounds. Nola planted a kiss on his ebony cheek.

"Heard you had trouble earlier," Joe said.

"Man, did I ever," Nola replied. "I thought the guy was going to break a chair over Sammy Mann's head."

Joe said, "Sounds like it got pretty wild."

"You should have come running. Everybody else did."

"I'm sure Surveillance got it on video."

"Maybe they'll let you check it out for the night."

"You mean like Blockbuster?" he asked.

"Yeah, like Blockbuster."

Joe found this amusing and his whole body shook with laughter. He'd played hoops at University of Nevada, Las Vegas for three seasons before his inability to read and write was noticed by an English professor not in tune with the university's athletic program. The Acropolis had hired him the day he'd been kicked out of school, and he'd been married to One-Armed Billy ever since.

"So what was this guy doing that got him bounced?" Joe asked.

Nola shook her head. "I've never seen anything like it. He must've won eighty percent of his hands."

"Wow," Joe said.

"But Sammy said he was cheating, and he should know."

"You're right about that," Joe said. "Sammy can smell a hustle a mile away. How's biz?"

"Crummy. Got any ideas?"

Joe scratched his chin. "Well, maybe Nick should put new greeters in the fountains."

"Try telling Nick that," Nola said.

The greeters were the brainchild of the Acropolis's flamboyant owner, Nick Nicocropolis. Originally, Nick had wanted to put ancient statues from Athens in the fountains that lined the Acropolis's entrance. The Greek government, which had to approve the deal, had howled. Undaunted, Nick had commissioned a famous sculptor to carve toga-clad statues of his ex-wives-two beauty queens, two showgirls, a stripper, and a retired hooker who'd run for mayor and gotten six votes-and had put them out front instead. At night, colored water sprayed them in orgasmic bursts, raising the ire of women's groups across the nation.

Nick had loved the bad publicity. Soon the greeters became the casino's motif and popped up on doorways, matchbook covers, cocktail napkins, even gaming chips.

That had been eight years earlier. Las Vegas catered to families these days, and Nick's big-titted harem was a big no-no. The Acropolis needed a new gimmick, in a hurry.

"Well, I'd better run," Nola said. "You take care."

"Drive safe," Joe said.

Home sweet home was a development on the north end of town called the Meadows. Never buy a new house in Las Vegas, someone once told her. Nola hadn't listened, and now she regretted it, her place worth less than what she'd originally paid for it.

She pulled up her driveway and hit the automatic door opener. Over the years, boyfriends had left punching bags and barbells and other testosterone-producing equipment in her garage, leaving barely enough room for her car. She squeezed in and rested her head on the steering wheel as the door fell and her garage grew dark. Please God, she prayed, no more days like this.

Her first stop was the refrigerator. Her choices for lunch were endless: cold pizza, cold spaghetti, cold Chinese, half a turkey sub, and Schlitz beer. The sub had the most potential, and she took it out of the fridge along with the mustard.

The answering machine was blinking. Either Sherry Solomon, her best buddy and fellow dealer, had heard the news and wanted to know the gory details, or her boyfriend had called to talk dirty. She hit the replay button and the melodious sound of Frank Fontaine's voice sent a shiver down her spine.