I flop back on the bed. I’m feeling really drained. “Norah, did you hear me? Is it Victor Robert, or Victor Robert Something?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean are you sure he said Robert in the first place?”
“No.”
She’s hardly even listening. Usually, like Victor, she hangs on every word. I’m losing all my power. I glance back at the screen. That’s where all the power is – a congregation at least four thousand strong, a huge choir of gorgeous females, colour-matched in shades of rose and beige, backed by a full orchestra, all wearing black tuxedos. That choir have changed their outfits twice in just ten minutes. Think of the expense. All those frilled Victorian dresses and lacy petticoats, the hours of cosmetic dentistry for those rows of perfect teeth. They must be competing with the Las Vegas Show Spectaculars – twenty costume changes, thirty different sets. The camera cuts from their glowing Pansticked faces to fields of summer flowers, golden beaches, little babbling brooks. It’s all so pretty, so innocent and safe – the smugly beaming family (no fathers hiding gin bottles, no mothers throwing up); the clapping cheering crowds. I feel a sudden longing to join in, to be part of God’s great tribe, have someone to believe in. Jesus wouldn’t leave you in a poker room, desperate and alone, wouldn’t hide His surname. These girls are all in love, all praising their Beloved in some weepy of a hymn. “I surrender, I surrender, surrender to my Lord.” No prickly tricksy things like Women’s Lib – just submission and obedience in return for constant love; a man who’ll never leave you, who’ll die for you. (He did.)
The frail old father now takes the microphone, his halo of white hair newly bleached and polished at the beauty parlour. “This New Year will be your Year of Destiny; your year of miracles; your year of holding up your head and seeing all the stars.”
It sounds so beautiful, I half believe it. His slender, fair-haired daughter is standing just beside him. They exchange real lovers’ smiles. I turn away. “Stand up!” he shouts suddenly, raising both his arms. The congregation stands, then disappears as he fills the screen himself, addressing us directly, all those million million viewers tuned to him at home.
“Everyone out there watching in your bedrooms or your living rooms, or in bars or cafés, hotel rooms, get up on your feet now. Stand up to show your faith, and say with me, ‘I expect a miracle!’ Shout it real loud.”
We’re standing, me and Norah, holding up our arms, shouting out, “I expect a miracle, I expect a miracle!” It’s crazy, yet it feels so good, so powerful. We’re part of that whole extended family, joined to all America. I feel quite different now – confident and hopeful. Of course I’ll find Victor. I didn’t try hard enough, that’s all. I should have stayed longer in the poker room, or checked the Tropicana where he’d probably gone to search for me. And now I have his surname, Caesars can locate him for me anyway. I squeeze Norah’s sweaty hand.
“Victor Robert, wasn’t it, you’re sure?”
She nods, face shining, eyes still on the screen.
“Right,” I tell her. “Put your clothes on, Norah. I want my miracle now, and you can help me get it.”
Chapter Twelve
“Mr Victor Robert?” Norah asks.
I can hardly hear her. I’m lurking in a corner, concealed behind a Caesars’ Christmas tree. Thank God I brought her with me. It’s the same contemptuous desk clerk as before, still tapping her red nails. If I came grovelling a second time, she’d shred me into coleslaw. She’s not exactly beaming at poor Norah. I can’t make out her words, but I’m already losing hope. This is our last try. We’ve scoured the Tropicana, hung around for ages in the blasted poker room. Is it even worth it? I mean, if Victor can’t be bothered to come and look for me, why hunt him down like this?
I try to sound unmoved when Norah returns, babbling on about two Mr Roberts, one French and one J.A. No Victors. I suppose I was too greedy for my miracle. It’s not the New Year yet, our Year of Destiny.
“Who cares?” I shrug. “How about a cocktail, Norah?”
She shakes her head.
“What d’ you want to do then?”
“Is there a … circus here?”
“Bound to be. And a zoo. And probably replicas of Disneyland and Longleat rolled together.” They’ve got everything in the world at Caesars Palace, except one stupid boring man. “But I’m sorry, love, I couldn’t face the clowns, not now.”
“Could we go to bed, then?”
“No!” I shout. “We couldn’t.” I’m damned if I’ll trail off back to bed. I’d never sleep anyway with all this mix of guilt and disappointment and resentment, and Norah can’t be tired. She’s been in bed all day, sleeping off her tummy-bug.
A fully armed sheriff is moving in on us, alerted by my shout. The security at Caesars is more suited to Alcatraz than to a mere resort hotel. It even makes the Gold Rush seem quite lax. Besides these hulks in uniforms there are swarms of steel-jawed plain-clothes men lurking in dark corners, electronic eyes scanning lifts and car parks, and maybe Special Squads to eavesdrop on eighteen-year-olds, snap them into handcuffs at the mere mention of a dangerous word like “cocktail”.
I steer Norah to the exit. I daren’t take any chances when I’m under-age. I was pretty safe with Victor. His own sober middle age and bulging wallet were like a shield, protecting me. I need a guy, for God’s sake. You’re in danger on your own here.
I feel suddenly very small and frail. Some show has just ended and people are pouring out in droves towards the doors. I’m swallowed up in other people’s arms and legs, other people’s laughter; people talking over me as if I don’t exist; their sweat and scent curdling in my nose. I fight back through the crowds to rescue Norah. She’s hemmed in as well, looks pale and really drained. Why don’t I do the decent thing for once, take her back to bed? Okay, if I can’t sleep, I can always read some soppy magazine – a love story where the guy adores the girl, or at least doesn’t hide from her on purpose.
“Okay, Norah. Bedtime.”
I refuse to join the queue for cabs – all those smug and laughing couples, hand in hand. If we start walking along the Strip, we’re bound to find one free. I link arms with Norah, and we plod, heads down against the rain. Yes, rain again. It’s been the wettest-ever December in Las Vegas since 1940-something. I heard it on the news. Just our luck. And the first time they’ve had snow in years and years, though at least that didn’t settle, just flurried down, then melted.
Every cab I wave at is either blind or deaf or both. You need a guy for getting cabs as well. Some big bloke snaps one up with just a waggle of one finger, while I’m standing right beside him, shaking my whole arm off. I glare at him, but he’s already settled back and in the dry.
The Strip is jammed with traffic, the whole town filling up for New Year’s Eve. That’s the big deal here – New Year. Everyone’s pushing it, proclaiming it, and nothing else is mentioned on TV – re-runs of old New Years, previews of this coming one; New Year offers, New Year forecasts, hopes. It’s a bit like gambling, I suppose. A new year may make your fortune or land you in the gutter; see you rich and famous, or skint and shunned. That’s why people get so hysterical about it. Even people who’ve had a run of rotten years still cheer and dance and open the champagne. It’s like someone’s put a bet on them, given them another chance of winning – one which could wipe out all their previous losses at a stroke.
Thinking about champagne reminds me that I’ve missed three Champagne Receptions in a row – all free and part of our prize deal. They didn’t seem important at the time, not compared with Victor. Now I’m not so sure. If I’d gone along, I might have met some really young and gorgeous man. No – not too young. I prefer them older, when they’re kind and know the restaurants and want someone to look after and are rather sweetly grateful for nothing much at all. Victor was like that. Victor …
Damn Victor. It’s his fault I’ve wasted all this time. He just led me on, let me think he liked me, so it would hurt more when he w
ent. I suppose all men are like that, relishing their power. And yet I know I need one. I just don’t feel important on my own. And sometimes hardly real. I stop a moment, turn my collar up against the drizzle.
“Norah?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you ever mind being, you know, single, on your own?”
“I don’t live on my own. I never have.”
“No, but when you were – well – younger, didn’t you ever think you’d like a man?”
“No.”
I say nothing after that. I suspect that I’ve upset her. She’s walking sort of heavily and flatly. God! We’re stupid, both of us. Here we are on the Trip Of A Lifetime, yet both looking as if we’ve been sent off into exile.
We’re forced to stop again. We’ve run into another crowd, jostling round the entrance of a big casino. Some bloke dressed as a pilot in goggles and a helmet is handing leaflets out. “WIN A HELICOPTER ON OUR PROGRESSIVE DOLLAR SLOTS!”
“Hey, Norah, look at this. If I won a chopper, we wouldn’t need a cab.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, follows only sluggishly through the doors of the casino. I think it’s the wrong one. We’ve found the dollar slot machines, but no sign of any helicopters. They usually park the prizes right there on the spot – James Bond speedboats or jet-set Cadillacs – to encourage you to play. Here, there’s hardly room – slot machines packed tight in rows and rows; shoals of gambling tables which look as if they’ve spawned themselves. The ceiling is wild purple, starred with silver lights; more silver on the cut-out cardboard trees. It’s hard to see the walls at all when they’re three-foot deep in punters. I hand Norah some dollars, find two free machines. Now we’re here, we’d better have a flutter. If we don’t win a helicopter, we may well win our cab fare, and at least we’re drying off.
I sit back on my stool, start feeding my machine. It’s wonderful the way it calms you down. Pulling that huge lever mops up the adrenalin and you can really ram the coins in – bang bang bang bang bang – Jake’s dead; Victor’s dead; that man who grabbed my taxi’s dead; all shrinks and social workers are dead dead dead dead dead. I’m not winning, not at all, but I don’t care – it’s great. Anyway, if you lose, it gives you an excuse to thump the damn machine. No one seems to mind. They’re all too busy with their own concerns – winning, losing, drinking. Norah’s played just one lone coin and is still sitting there, staring at her two lemons and a plum.
“Let’s move,” I say. “Try the quarter machines instead. These dollar ones are probably rigged. They’re losing us a bomb.”
I call the change-girl over (more black-lace thigh and cleavage), change a wodge of dollar bills for quarters. I fill two plastic pots with them, entrust the lighter one to Norah, coax her to another stool.
“Go on, love, have a bit of fun for once. See if you can win us both a fortune.”
I start shovelling in my own coins, pulling the handle harder for each one. I’m losing losing losing losing losing. Luck can change, though. Victor told me that himself. Just last year, an unemployed divorcée who’d lost a breast to cancer won one million, two hundred and fifty-seven thousand, four hundred and thirty-two dollars in the Hilton Super Pot of Gold Slot Championships. That so impressed me, I remember all the figures, even down to the last two dollars. I cross my fingers, lose. Lose again. Lose, lose, lose. It’s just not fair. I must have won by now, on any law of averages. I try another machine. Some of them are definitely unlucky. I heard a woman swear at one in The Four Queens, Downtown, even kick and punch it. She was dressed like a queen herself, in a designer gown and diamonds and little white kid gloves so she wouldn’t get her hands soiled handling coins; but you should have heard her language. Filthy dirty.
“Let’s go back,” says Norah. She’s breathing down my neck, still has all her quarters. I just don’t know what’s wrong with her. She won’t eat in the restaurants, won’t risk a nickel on the slots. It’s as if she feels nothing’s really hers. She’ll be punished if she swallows half a pea, damned in hell for losing that one buck. Even now, she’s handing me her pot. I play her quarters for her, losing every time, really zipping in the coins because I know she’s tired and dying for her bed.
“Slow down,” warns the woman next to me. “If you play so fast, the machine can’t pay, even if you do win. It takes a few seconds for the coins to drop. You might have won a jackpot, but you played right through it; didn’t give it time to show, or give the bell a chance to ring.”
I stare at her in horror. Victor told me just the same. He laughed, in fact, because I was so keen to get the coins in, I forgot to pull the lever. There are just four quarters left in Norah’s pot, none at all in mine. I’ve poured all Victor’s money down the drain, whereas if I hadn’t been so stupidly impatient, I might have made myself a millionairess. I play my last coins very very slowly, give the machine all the time it needs to ring and win.
It loses.
A bell is ringing, very loud and shrill. I glance round, see people rushing over to the progressive dollar slot machines which we’ve just left ourselves. “Quick!” I say to Norah. “Someone’s hit the jackpot.”
A dumpy balding man in a short-sleeved nylon shirt and pea-green slacks is in a clinch with his slot machine, stroking it, caressing it, feeling up all its bumps and curves. “We got it!” he keeps yelling, as he turns back to his friends. “We got it! We got the son of a bitch.” Now he’s hugging all his friends, whirling them around, doing a sailor’s horn-pipe solo on the carpet. I edge a little closer. He’s won twenty thousand, six hundred and eighty dollars. The figures are lit up and flashing on and off, the bell still pealing out, the old crone playing next to him yelping with excitement, crowds of strangers pushing, shoving, “aahing”. The whole casino seems to have come alive. Security guards appear from nowhere, tower above the little chap. He’s a winner now, worthy of protection. Already he’s handing out largesse – ordering drinks for everyone, tipping the waitress before she’s brought a thing, calling up champagne, cigars.
More people scurry over. Two men in dark blue jackets pump him by the hand, ask for proof of his identity, pass him pen and paper. He starts filling in some form or other, still not concentrating. He keeps pummelling his own chest, mock-wrestling with his buddies, yelling out “Oh, boy” and “Jeez!”, as if he’s just too freaked and high for longer words.
There’s no sign of any money yet, though I hear him say he’d like some of it in cash, instead of one big cheque. I wait, breathless and keyed-up, almost as excited as if I’d won myself. He’s just a nobody, a Mr Something Jones – I missed the Christian name – and yet he’s made it. Twenty thousand dollars just like that. Sheer luck, that’s all it was. I’d better stay around. Luck’s infectious. The drinks have come now, scores of them. He hands me a tall glass, thick with ice and fruit. At least he’s noticed me. I’m the only under-thirty female in the swelling crowd around him. Some aged harridan is pushing to get closer, but I block her way. Gotta be tough in Vegas.
Norah’s out of it, drooping by a cardboard tree right over by the wall, but glancing at me anxiously as if she’s scared she’ll lose me in all the press of bodies.
“Come over here,” I mouth.
Suddenly, there’s a ripple through the crowd, like a strong breeze blowing through a wheatfield; then wheat changes into water as it parts like the Red Sea. I’ve no eyes for Norah now. Every head, including mine, is turned towards the uniformed official who is striding through the gap just opened up. The money – on its way!
The official hands it over, not to Mr Jones, but to the sultry carousel girl with liquorice hair and eyes who stands above the row of slot machines. She gives him first the cheque, then counts out the cash very carefully and solemnly – an impressive pile of hundred-dollar bills. There’s almost total silence now, save for the swiftly rising figures of the count. This is a sacred moment and the casino’s congregation reverence it. Never before have I seen so much money in one small and dirty hand.
I glance behind me, terrified that some hit-and-run man may be waiting to dart in. No – they’ve thought of that. Three security guards are already hovering, fingering their guns. The final eighty bucks is paid. The crowd lets out its breath. They’ve all just won that jackpot in their minds, and half of them are spending it already. There’s an orgy going on while young men test-drive Porsches, women overheat in minks, old crones move their cats and budgies into luxury bungalows with live-in nurses. I’ve bought a house myself (twelve bedrooms and an indoor swimming pool), and I’m just strolling through the stables inspecting my thoroughbreds and telling my chauffeur I prefer the white Rolls to the silver one, when Jones picks out two hundred-dollar bills and hands them to the carousel girl. She murmurs “thanks” as if they were two mere lousy quarters. Two hundred dollars just for counting out the cash and she’s not even all that struck. I vow to take a job here, write in for an interview tomorrow. I’m desperate for cash. Norah and I have got through all our money in just four days, not to mention Victor’s.
People are swarming up to Super-Jones, shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, making little jokes. He’s kissing two change-girls now, has his arm around the waitress. He’s only about five foot five (and that’s in Cuban heels), has age spots on his hands, and a roll of fat between his collar and his neck, and yet he could be a top rock-star for all the adulation he’s receiving. I suppose money makes you tall and handsome, as well as just plain rich. He’s never going to notice me, with all those crotch-length skirts and wired-up cleavages. I step out of the crowd.
“Thanks for the drink,” I say. It was quite some drink, a tumbler-sized cocktail with at least three different liquors in it; must have given me new courage.
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