Wanting to believe that Earl Tunley in his cowhide boots, black silk shirt and Armani-style jacket, Earl Tunley with his hot, quick hands and mouth was truly from Council Bluffs, Iowa; for she had the idea that a man who sold TV and video equipment in Council Bluffs, Iowa, was a man you could trust. And he’d promised to stake her “as much as required” and this, too, she wanted to believe.
Except hadn’t there been, from the start, something swaggering and authoritarian in his manner? As if, somehow, she’d met this man before?
After their fantastic lovemaking, there she lay naked and content in Earl Tunley’s king-sized bed in the Golden Sands Motor Lodge lazily stroking Earl Tunley’s chest, running her long polished fingernails through his steely-gray chest hairs and stroking the glittering gold chain he wore around his neck which looked like the real thing, 24-carat, and she’d thought with girlish naïveté This one, this one maybe I could love, maybe seeing in her mind’s eye dimmed and confused by alcohol and by the late hour something looming chalky white, a dreamy image of Council Bluffs, Iowa. And her new lover was smiling saying, “You want it, sweetheart? Take it.” And for an instant she thought he was serious, then she realized he was being sarcastic; and she said quickly, “Why no, Earl,” and he said, “Sure, sweetheart. It’s yours.” He fumbled to undo the clasp and she stopped his fingers and said in a husky, earnest voice, “Earl, no. I don’t want a single thing from you, ever—except a little more loving.” So he shrugged and said, “Well, O.K.,” staring at her smirking Sure you want my gold chain, sweetheart. You know and I know you want all you can get from me, right? But she’d pretended not to know, and kissed him, and ran her hands rapidly over his muscular body, stroking his clammy-cool penis reverently until he groaned forgetting any sarcasm, any doubt of her motives, and it was all right between them again. Or seemed so.
“Oh, lover. Oh my God—”
Later in the bathroom, readying herself for another stint of casino gambling (though in fact she’d rather have soaked in a hot tub and gone to bed to sleep, alone) she realized that ugly moment between “Sherry” and her new lover had been her own damned fault. She’d made the guy anxious alluding to a former husband—a “boyfriend”—God knows, men are worried about their sexual performances, this one had tensed up at even the hint she might have been comparing him to some teenaged “football hero” stud. That was it!
An error “Starr Bright” vowed never to make again with Earl Tunley, or another.
JACKPOT!
$1000 SILVER DOLLARS JACKPOT!
“Oh, Earl! Look!”—as the slot machine released a cascade of silver dollars like madness.
Laughing, incredulous, cigarettes clenched between their lips, they held CASINO AMERICANA buckets to the machine’s opening, to catch the miraculous coins. “Baby, you’ve got the touch. Congratulations!” Earl said, kissing her as a small crowd of onlookers cheered and applauded. Envy shining in their eyes, “Starr Bright” could see even in the midst of her exhilaration. Envy not just that “Starr Bright” had won a $1000 SILVER DOLLARS JACKPOT—the machine lighted up red, white, and blue like a berserk American flag, hurdy-gurdy music playing loudly—but that she was a beautiful glamorous sexy redhead in a gold lamé dress tight as a tourniquet across her breasts and pelvis and she had a lover, good-looking, manly, a gold chain glinting around his neck, clearly crazy for her. Thank you God thank you God thank you God.
“Now, let’s play craps. Slots is small-time.”
“Oh, but Earl, honey—”
“Baby, don’t worry, I’ll stake you—five hundred dollars. The one thousand is all yours.”
“But, Earl, craps scares me; you can lose too much too fast. I trust the slots.”
“Baby, I told you: slots is small-time. Craps is the real thing.”
Earl had staked “Starr Bright” for the slots; she’d played as many machines simultaneously as she could manage, while he looked on indulgently, supplying them both with drinks, cigarettes. Now it was 3:43 A.M. in the casino at the Americana amid lavish neon-flashing red-white-and-blue American flags, eagles, replicas of Uncle Sam and Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, John F. Kennedy gazing out over the swarming sea of gamblers. “Starr Bright” had been playing the slots only twenty minutes when she’d won the jackpot and she owed her good luck to Earl Tunley, leaning now against the man, twining herself around him inhaling his rich ripe manly odor liking it that people were watching them, sad-faced fattish women with too much makeup who hadn’t ever won a jackpot and hadn’t any man to love them like Earl Tunley. “All right, lover,” she said, sighing, hugging the bucket of gleaming new-minted silver coins, “—you know best.”
So they left the slots, and went to play craps; “Starr Bright” dazed with excitement, exhaustion; smiling upon everyone she saw; in a state of bliss. Her lover Earl was excited, too; edgy, positioning himself at the craps table with “Starr Bright” beside him, at his left elbow—“Now don’t budge. You’re my good luck, baby.” Calling her “baby” so frequently now she guessed he’d maybe forgotten her name.
Earl pushed out $300 worth of chips and got into the game immediately. And when “Starr Bright” opened her eyes again he’d won: chips were being pushed in his direction. “Starr Bright” kissed him, crying, “Terrific, lover!” But Earl scarcely paid attention, gathering in his new chips and mingling them with the old. He counted out $500 worth of chips for “Starr Bright” and told her to do what he said; they’d both be betting, and he intended to win, big. “Starr Bright” pretended enthusiasm; she’d been drinking whiskey sours, on a near-empty stomach; she smiled, smiled and looked gorgeous which was what a gambling man required, a great-looking redhead beside him at the craps table. “O.K., baby,” Earl said, drawing in a deep, exhilarated breath, like a man on a high diving board, “—bet pass.” When “Starr Bright” hesitated, Earl closed his hand over hers and pushed out a pile of chips. The principal player at the table was a fattish flush-faced man with startling blue eyes; he was the one who wielded the dice, and all eyes avidly fastened upon him as he shook, and rolled—and whatever it was, half the players at the table seemed to have won, along with him; and half the players seemed to have lost. Earl grunted with satisfaction, squeezing “Starr Bright’s” hand so hard he nearly crushed the bones, so she figured they’d won. How much? It looked like a lot.
At 4:10 A.M. it was Earl Tunley’s turn to shake the dice. “Starr Bright” had been drifting off, woozy and blissful in her private space thinking My jackpot! My 1000 silver dollars! She hated craps, a fast cruel confusing game involving numerous players, side bets on bets, “points” that were made, or lost; the rapid motion of dice, chips, dice, chips was too much for her eye to follow; the pattern of numerals and figures on the table-top, the calm expressionless manner with which the uniformed casino girl (beautiful, years younger than “Starr Bright”) raked in piles of chips with a little Plexiglas rake, taking hundreds or even thousands of dollars from losing players without a blink of an eye—God, what a cruel game! “Starr Bright” followed Earl’s directions betting he’d make his point, she wasn’t aware of how much she was betting only that he’d staked her and she couldn’t lose, could she?—the bucket of silver dollars was at her feet. She wanted him to love her, she’d experienced, almost, a glimmer of emotion, and of sexual excitation, in his arms, in his king-sized bed at the Golden Sands Motor Lodge. There was something consoling about Council Bluffs, Iowa—wasn’t there? A pig like any of them, a mask of Satan. You know. Earl was nudging her impatiently to place a bet, “Everything you have, baby,” and “Starr Bright” said in a pleading little-girl voice, “Oh, Earl honey—everything? I’m scared to go all the way.” Earl’s face shone with an oily perspiration and the gold chain glittered around his neck like a living thing. His eyes were red-veined, but sharp. He was saying, boasting, “Redheads are my good luck,” loud enough for other players, men, to hear. “Starr-Bright” saw both her hands, trembling just visibly, push out a messy pile of chips onto the pass line.
How much? How much was she risking? Grandly, Earl shook the dice, shook and rolled and all stared as the dice turned up four and three.
“Seven! Won!”
Earl was grinning, excited as a kid. The casino girl scarcely gave him a glance as she pushed a large pile of chips in his direction. Cool as swabbing down an emergency room splattered with blood, “Starr Bright” thought. That was the kind of professional hauteur you needed to be an exotic dancer, too.
Thank God, they’d won. Five thousand? Or more? Earl gulped down the remainder of his drink, sex-moaned in “Starr Bright’s” ear, “Oh baby, baby—” but didn’t otherwise pause. No time to rest, no time to catch his breath, Earl wanted to stay in the game now he was hot. “Starr Bright” was beginning to feel faint. Not long ago she’d been a terrified passenger in a Porsche being driven at one hundred miles an hour along a rain-slick highway and it was the identical sensation—exciting, exhilarating, but crazy and dangerous. Too much too fast.
By 4:35 A.M. they’d won—what? Thirteen thousand, Earl was saying. He was counting his chips, muttering to himself, grinning and wiping his damp face; his eyes were glassy and bright and his lips slack, loose. There was something about him “Starr Bright” could almost identify, some characteristic, trait—but what? As if she’d met him before this night, or someone very like him. He was looking flushed with success. He hadn’t wanted to take time to shower or even wash himself after they’d made love, eager to get back to the casinos, and now a powerful odor wafted from him, “Starr Bright” hoped no one else at the table could smell it—male sex, male heat, male passion. A filthy pig like any other. You know. She had to admit, winning made a man sexy; winning made a man desirable; this was a man she could love, maybe. Except he’d developed a habit of nudging her in the breast saying, irritated, “Stand still, right here, don’t be moving around, I told you. You’re my good-luck piece of ass.” And he laughed loudly, and “Starr Bright” tried to smile. He was shaking dice again, he’d pushed out half his enormous pile of chips and wanted “Starr Bright” to bet he’d make his point so vaguely, blindly she pushed out half her pile of chips, too.
Thinking God, don’t let us lose. Let him love me. A dazed-groggy prayer that was the same prayer mouthed everywhere in Vegas by hundreds, thousands of anxious gamblers every second of every hour of every day.
Another time, Earl Tunley rolled and won.
Following this things became even more confused. A roller coaster going faster, faster, faster. They’d won $12,000? 15, 20? Her lover from Council Bluffs, Iowa, and glamorous sexy red-haired “Sherrill Dwyer” from—somewhere in California. Earl was saying, gloating, “Jesus, I’m hot. Back home they can kiss my ass. A man needs respect and this is it.” He’d been squeezing “Starr Bright’s” upper arm, there were red welts in the flesh. Now that she had money again, she could repay the loan from her sister—what had it been? $500, not much—she’d had the feeling that her sister’s husband, whose name she couldn’t remember, resented the loan, or loans; well, fuck him! Lily’s sister Sharon always repaid her loans and with interest, too.
“Starr Bright” must have been easing away, her feet aching in the ridiculous high-heeled shoes that pinched her toes forcing the weight of her body into a tiny pointed space, for Earl Tunley gripped her arm again and smiled hard at her and repositioned her at his side. “Now stay still, baby. We’re going for broke.” “Starr Bright” winced, “Please, Eddy—that hurts,” and Earl said, his voice slurred, “‘Ernie’ you mean—no: ‘Earl.’ You mean ‘Earl.’” And “Starr Bright” said quickly, “‘Earl’—that’s what I said, honey. ‘Earl’ is your name,” and Earl laughed harshly saying, “Fucking ‘Earl’ is my fucking name, not fucking ‘Eddy,’” his laughter explosive as a sneeze. He took up the dice again exuberantly and “Starr Bright” murmured, “Here we gooo! Sky’s the limit!” and planted a kiss on his burning cheek; but instead of rolling the dice as everyone expected, Earl turned to her, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a savage grin, and said, “Watch it, cunt. I’m warning you.” So “Starr Bright” went very still, and contrite. And Earl rolled the dice, and came up with a number that wasn’t good, muttered, “Shit,” so “Starr Bright” thought in a panic they’d lost, but, as it turned out, he had another roll and another chance, and this time he rolled—two sixes. And this wasn’t good, either. “Starr Bright” said in a giggly-drunken little-girl voice, a voice meant to dispel the sickening sensation in the pit of her belly, “Oh, damn! You’d think a twelve would be better than an eleven, wouldn’t you?”
But no one laughed. Glazed-eyed Earl didn’t hear.
No pause in the game. Not a heartbeat. A few of the players avoided Earl’s eyes out of brotherly sympathy perhaps. “Starr Bright” stared as the casino girl coolly raked in Earl’s big pile of chips—and “Starr Bright’s” without an eyeblink. How much had they lost? “Starr Bright” was whispering, “Oh, lover. Ohhhh.” She meant to console him slipping her arm through his but he shook her off, uttered something she didn’t catch, stooped to take up the bucket of silver dollars from the floor and as “Starr Bright” stared uncomprehending after him he went to a nearby cashier’s counter to cash the silver dollars into chips. And came back, grim, determined, sweat gleaming on his face like congealed grease, and the look in his eyes warning her not to fuck with him. “Starr Bright” tried to protest faintly, “Earl, honey, those silver dollars were mine, you said—you promised,” and Earl repositioned her at his side and said, “Just stand still, baby. And shut the mouth.”
So Earl bet one thousand dollars’ worth of chips on a single roll and “Starr Bright” hid her eyes behind her trembling fingers praying God oh God! though seeming to know the prayer was helpless to intervene. And even as Earl threw the dice, sent them flying and bouncing across the table, “Starr Bright” must have suffered a moment’s weakness, a mini-blackout—falling against him, so that, even as he lost the roll, he’d turned to her and slapped her across the mouth, the movement of his hand so swift that no one at the table saw, or seemed to see; and “Starr Bright” herself could not comprehend what had happened, except her lower lip throbbed with pain and began to bleed. Earl’s face had gone the color of bread dough and his bloodshot eyes glared. “Cunt, I told you not to fuck me up,” he said, advancing upon her as others at the table scrambled to get out of the way, leaving “Starr Bright” to her boyfriend’s mercy, “—didn’t I tell you not to fuck me up.”
“Earl, I’m sorry—”
“Y’know what you cost me, cunt?—twenty-seven thousand dollars!”
Abruptly as if he’d emerged from out of a trapdoor a casino security guard appeared, a hefty black man of few words, “That’s enough, mister, come this way please,” and before they knew what was happening they were being escorted politely but unerringly out of the casino. “Starr Bright” supposed that the girl at the craps table had summoned the guard with a secret buzzer. Earl was sullen, blustering and intimidated, his words slurred, “Butt out, asshole, this is a private discourse, this cunt cost me a bundle,” and “Starr Bright” was trying earnestly to explain, “Sir, he doesn’t mean it, he’s my friend, he didn’t hurt me, he’s excited ’cause he just took a big loss,” and Earl said angrily, “Shut it!” and “Starr Bright” said, “Really, sir, he’s the sweetest man, he never meant—” But the robotlike guard who was six foot five, two hundred fifty pounds and dark-skinned as a polished hickory nut seemed scarcely to hear as if this, his task, was too familiar and too boring to require from him more than a few clipped words mechanical as a recitation, “Thank you for patronizing the Casino Americana and perhaps another time you will revisit us under more favorable circumstances.” When Earl hesitated at the exit, the guard hoisted him into the revolving door and gave the door a fierce spin and a moment later Earl and “Starr Bright” were out in the warm, faintly sulphurous night.
Earl said, aggrieved as a lost child, wiping his face on the sleeve of his Italian-style jacket, “Craps is my game. I was w-winnin
g.”
“Starr Bright” slipped her arm around his waist (which was warm and rumpled as damp laundry) and said, soothingly, “That’s right, Earl, you were winning. You were. You can win again. You can draw on your American Express card, can’t you, lover? Sure you can.”
Because I had hope, still, that he would love me. I would love him.
Because I was afraid to be alone that terrible night.
Because I wanted the $1000 he owed me.
Because I knew that my heavenly father would watch over me in time of peril.
And at first it had not seemed an unwise decision. She had not seemed in immediate danger.
Taking a cab back to the Golden Sands Motor Lodge because the man who’d introduced himself to her as Earl Tunley wasn’t in any condition to drive. Stumbling into the dim-lit room that smelled still of their bodies, and stained bedclothes; fecund odors of sweat, semen, damp wadded towels and insecticide. Always the odor of insecticide. And Earl was amorous in his misery, wishing not to think of the many thousands of dollars he’d lost which seemed to him in his confusion to have been his money from the start, stolen from him by the cruelty of chance and a woman’s blundering. Kissing “Starr Bright” roughly with his tongue, burying his hot face in her neck and between her breasts and moving his hands swiftly and hungrily over her. Like a drowning man he groaned, “Oh baby, baby—”
“Starr Bright” eased her neck and head away from her lover’s fumbling caresses, cautious he might dislodge her wig; the human-hair miracle-wig that fitted her head snug as a bathing cap. He’d slapped her pretty hard there in the casino and her lip was swelling but in the urgency of the moment she wasn’t thinking of it; anyway, other men had struck her and she’d survived; and maybe deserved being struck now and then for you’re a cunt, you know it and she guessed she knew and accepted this judgment for hadn’t she abandoned her own baby years and years ago, wished even to drown her own baby years and years ago and the very memory by now vague and faded like a Polaroid snapshot too long exposed to light. But, oh God: if he would let her alone and she could shower and cleanse herself and fall into bed and sleep, sleep. The sweet sleep of dreamless sinless oblivion. The sweet druggy-alcohol sleep like dying. And next day he could withdraw cash with his credit card and they would hit another casino, another craps table, and just maybe win, and win big. Because it did seem plausible to her that Earl Tunley deserved to win back the $27,000 he’d lost; he’d been winning, he’d been on a roll, and it had been taken from him unfairly. For this was gambler’s logic and it was “Starr Bright’s” logic in her innermost heart. That which you sow, you shall reap.
Starr Bright Will Be With You Soon Page 5