Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  “Norah, honey, I’d like for you to have this.”

  I back away, don’t really like to touch it. I don’t know what it is.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t bite. Not that end, anyway.” She laughs again, then starts to cough, finds us both a cough sweet. “It’s a lucky Tiger’s Tail. You only gotta stroke it and you get four hundred times more luck. Go on, honey, take it. I’ve got two dozen more the same. They were half-price in the store. Discontinued line, they said. I don’t know why. We all need luck, for God’s sake.”

  The earrings sway and jingle as she staggers up. She’s kissing me. She’s really kissing me. She smells of powder. I can feel her corsets. She pulls away, pats my hand. “Now remember, honey, if you’re ever in Washington, DC, or Dover, Mass, just call me up, okay?”

  She likes me. I’ve made another friend. She’s given me a present, four hundred times more luck. She kissed me, called me honey. Tony called me honey. I’m lucky. I’m a winner. I’m going to see Downtown.

  She walks me to the door, tries to call a cab for me, but I want to change my clothes first. You have to be dressed up to play roulette. I try to run, past the taxis, out into the street, but that drink I had has leaked into my legs. It takes me quite a time to find the Gold Rush.

  It’s crowded like the Hilton. The whole downstairs is blocked with queues and luggage, and the passage to our room is filled with those men from the convention who stay up half the night and make so much noise you can’t get back to sleep. I’m so scared I drop my key. A big man picks it up for me, but I knock first anyway, in the hope that Carole’s there, though I know she’s meeting Reuben somewhere else.

  She isn’t there. I take my Beechgrove suit off, wash my face. I’d like to have a bath, but there isn’t time. I smell myself. I smell of Beechgrove, even in Las Vegas, so I put a lot of talcum powder on, and then the Gold Rush frock. I’ve never worn a cocktail frock before. This one has no back, but rows and rows of little beads sewn on to the front. My brassiere is showing quite a lot. I dare not take it off because then my chest falls down, and anyway, it’s rude.

  I put my old green cardigan on top, which hides the brassiere, but also hides the beads. The shoes look rather odd. I wish I had red party shoes, instead of big brown lace-ups. Sally-Ann wore lipstick, bright and shiny red. A streak of it has come off on my cheek. I rub it in, spread some on the other cheek. My face looks better, pinker. I’ve never worn lipstick in my life. I could put some on my lips, but I’d have to borrow Carole’s, and Reverend Mother said borrowing is stealing if you haven’t asked.

  I replace my glasses, comb my hair. I’d like to put my coat on. I always feel safer in a coat. But you couldn’t see the frock then. And you’re not allowed to play roulette in coats. I’ll carry it instead, with my bag and gloves, and a plastic bag for the wedding dress, in case it rains and I need to keep it dry.

  I’m ready. No, I’m not. I go back to the wardrobe, reach right to the back, unwrap the towel and then the layers of tissue until I reach the silver shamrock. My mother gave me that. She pinned it on my shawl when I was born. Shamrocks mean good luck. They come from Ireland. A man called St Patrick drove away the snakes with them. There are no snakes left in Ireland now, not even in the zoo.

  My shamrock’s really lucky because it’s the only thing which no one’s ever stolen. I’ve always had to hide it, but the other things I hid were stolen just the same. I think my mother guards it. She may be still alive, or gone to heaven. I don’t know what she looks like, but I imagine her as pretty with red shoes.

  I put the shamrock in my purse, in the compartment where you’re meant to keep a photo. I’ve never had a photograph. I’d like one of my mother, with me sitting on her lap. I’d like to see her eyes and touch her hair. Perhaps I’ll even find her now. A Tiger Tail and shamrock both together probably mean a thousand times more luck.

  There are no stairs in America and all the lifts are full, then I waste more time waiting for a cab. I’m frightened of the cab drivers. I think they all have guns. But I don’t know where Downtown is and Sally-Ann said take one.

  “Where shall I drop you off, Ma’ am?”

  I don’t say anything. I’m staring out of the window. Downtown is ugly, very ugly. The streets look old and poor, and there are lots of poky little shops and horrid cheap motels with dirty faces. There are no trees or flowers or green, just dead grey pavements with flashing signs above them which seem to shout and scream.

  The cab drives on a bit. Now there are casinos, not grand ones like the Gold Rush, or huge ones like the Hilton, but smaller ones, all squashed together, with crowds of people pouring in and out of them.

  “Okay here?” the driver shouts.

  He’s stopping anyway. He tells me what the fare is. It sounds too much. I’ll have to take a bus back. The driver seems quite cross, swears as he drives off.

  I’m standing in the middle of the pavement with people pushing past me. A lot of them are eating. Hot dogs, ice-cream cornets, plastic pots of popcorn. There are food shops all around. I can smell doughnuts mixed with onions. I tread in dog’s mess by mistake, try to scrape it off against the kerb. I’m not sure where to go, so I cross the road because everybody else is, then cross back again.

  A big black sign says “HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESUS”, but I can’t see any church, only a film called Take My Body and a picture of a lady wearing just her boots. I turn my back. It’s rude to look at people when they haven’t got their clothes on. I see another sign: “World’s Largest Gift Centre”. It isn’t big at all, just a squashed-in building with pink paint peeling off it.

  It’s difficult to walk fast because of all the crowds. A lady stops me, smiles. She’s wearing long black boots like that lady on the poster and a very short red skirt. Her smile is red as well and looks wet as if she’s licked it.

  “Welcome to Coin Castle.”

  I can’t see any castle, just a building like a cinema with slot machines inside.

  “Your fortune in the stars,” she says. “Free gambling horoscope done on our computer while you wait.”

  I don’t know what she means. And it’s difficult to hear her because there’s music blaring out, and other girls are shouting things and there’s a lot of noise and clatter from the coins.

  “Step right in and find out what the stars say. It’s real scientific. We combine computer-age technology with all the ancient wisdom of astrology. You get your own personal print-out with your special lucky numbers and whether you should play today or wait till a luckier time, and where you should put your money and …”

  I step inside.

  They ask me for my birth date which I’ve never known exactly, so I give them the month and year, and the day which Reverend Mother used to put on forms, which is the feast of St Sylvester. I don’t know who he is. They say I’ll have to wait a while as the computer has a fault.

  There are several girls in bathing suits, sitting up above the slot machines. They keep calling out, begging me to play. I can’t play yet, not without my horoscope. I stand quietly in a corner and try to think of black. They do that in the Relaxation Classes. Black is the quietest of the colours because sleep and night are black – and soot, which creeps from chimneys very softly. Red is noisiest. Screams are red, and fire engines, and nearly all the lounges in the Gold Rush. Nothing here is black. The colours are all bright and hot, and keep flashing on and off.

  My horoscope is yellow when it comes, yellow paper folded like a card with purple stars dotted on the front. The print inside is very small and all the o’s are missing. It calls me N rah. “Y ur sec nd name is Luck, N. rah. And thank y ur lucky stars it’s Thursday because Thursday is y ur extra lucky day. N rah, riches can be y urs t day.”

  Riches. Riches would buy dress and veil and wreath. Riches would buy wedding photographs. I’d stick them in a padded satin album with white doves on the cover. We saw those in the shop. I’d give them all to Carole, keep just one for myself, to put in that compartment in my purse. I don�
��t want Reuben in it. Only Carole.

  “Y ur lucky numbers, N rah, are 5, 8, and 23.” I stare down at the card. Twenty-three. It’s true. That was the first number I won on at roulette. I also won on five.

  I go on reading, though the words are very hard. “N rah, y ur charming and dynamic pers nality will attract a stranger wh can change y ur life. Y u will travel t a fascinating c untry far away.”

  Israel … My heart is beating very fast. A stranger. A new start, like Carole said.

  I walk out into the street, casinos all around me. The Pioneer, the Golden Gate, the Plaza. The computer didn’t say which one. It told me to play the dollar slots, but I don’t know what they are.

  I’d better play roulette. I’m good at roulette. On a lucky streak. Sally-Ann said find a small casino, a homey one, one I feel in tune with. I pass a tall and frightening one, walk on.

  I cross the street, turn a corner, stop. Right in front of me is a bright red flashing heart, all lit up and moving, and above it “LADY LUCK” in huge gold letters, changing now to blue. Lady Luck. I’ve been looking for her ever since that evening in the restaurant, when the man said to follow if she calls me. There isn’t any picture of her, but I know she’s beautiful. I shut my eyes and see her. She’s wearing scarlet shoes, and an evening frock right down to the floor, and a tiny silver shamrock round her neck. My second name is Luck. It said so in my horoscope, so this may be my mother. Or everybody’s mother, like Our Lady. I can feel her arms around me as I walk slowly in, beneath her beating heart.

  Inside, it’s rather shabby with none of those glass lights or golden flowers. It smells of cigarettes, and there’s popcorn on the floor, all trodden in and dirty. No one is dressed up. Most people wear jeans and a lot of men have hats on, cowboy hats or funny caps with letters round the brim. A lady in a wheelchair is talking to a slot machine. I think she’s foreign because her hair is wild and black, and the words are more like babble. Beside her is a man. Or maybe it’s a boy. He has a tiny stunted body with a grown-up’s head on top, which looks far too heavy for it. He comes up to my waist, but his face is very lined, so I’m not sure if he’s old, or just a child. It’s rude to stare, so I walk the other way.

  I find a roulette table, but it’s very crowded with no free seats and lots of extra people standing round. The man who throws the ball isn’t dressed like Tony and he doesn’t smile at all, not even with his mouth. His name is Hans. It’s written on his brooch.

  I get my Tiger Tail out, stroke it once or twice. It works, because a lady leaves the table and I climb into her seat. People turn and look at me. My coat is in the way, so I clamber down again and put it under the seat with my gloves and plastic bag. The man beside me frowns and mutters something.

  I unzip my purse. Tony said to put five dollars down, but the notes all look the same. Everybody’s smoking, and my glasses have steamed up. I try and find a five. My hands are shaking. My mouth feels very dry. I’d better hurry. They’re short of seats. Hans may shout at me, tell me to get down and go away. I take all the notes out, hold them very tightly in both hands. I can see the dress. Carole in the dress. Orange blossom. Happiness. I put the money on the table, all of it. The more you play, the more you win. Tony said.

  Hans is passing me some chips, a huge great pile of them. I touch them with a finger to check they’re really there. I never thought I’d get them. I thought something would go wrong, or he’d say I was too old to play, or dressed wrong.

  I try and count them, keep on getting muddled. It doesn’t matter really. I’ve got more than anyone. I can see that just by looking. I pick one up and smell it. It doesn’t smell of anything. I can still smell orange blossom, but that’s up in my head.

  The chips are red, not blue. Red for shoes. Red for Lady Luck. My second name is Luck. N rah Luck. They took the o’s away because o’s are holes, empty lonely holes. I’m going to meet a stranger. There are lots of strangers here, but they’re mostly very ugly. One has lost a finger and another has a scar across his face.

  Everyone is playing, hands reaching past me, elbows knocking mine. Hans is throwing chips across the table. Then he throws the ball. It goes really fast, rattling round and round its little dish. No one speaks at all now. They all look very frightened. Someone coughs. Someone strikes a match. The man beside me bites his thumb. His shirt is half undone and long black hair is showing through the gaps. I think I’m too dressed up. I button my cardigan to try and hide the frock. The wool is thick and matted, feels itchy on my neck.

  The ball has almost stopped. The man opposite is frowning and his eyes have disappeared. Hans passes him more chips. Orange ones. Orange blossom. I’ve got to play myself. I wish Sally-Ann was here, to make me brave. There’s no one like her. The only other woman at the table has a twisted mouth and red blotches on her hands instead of rings.

  I touch my silver shamrock, stroke my Tiger Tail, then put a little pile of chips on number twenty-three. Lucky twenty-three. Hans is taking money, giving people chips. His hands move very quickly, but not his mouth. Even when he speaks, his lips hardly move at all.

  “No more bets,” he says. Tony said that too. You’re not allowed to put chips down on the table once the ball starts slowing.

  It’s slowing now. I can’t see where it goes because I’m down the other end and I haven’t cleaned my glasses yet. I take them off to polish them. All the faces blur. When I put them on again, my chips have disappeared.

  I stare down at the table. Number twenty-three is bare, without its tall red crown. My hands feel damp and a piece of steel is pressing on my head. It’s because I didn’t watch. Tony said you have to watch the action all the time. I put some more chips down, place my eyes on top of them this time. I choose twenty-three again, my number in the stars. The ball is quite excited, whirls so fast I can hear it bouncing, skidding in the dish. It stops at last. I hold my breath. Hans puts a little pepper-pot on number seventeen. “Seventeen, black,” he says.

  “No,” I say. “That’s wrong.”

  Everybody stares. I don’t think you’re allowed to talk. It’s like Beechgrove after ten. I close my eyes, pretend it wasn’t me. When I open them again, things are going far too fast, like those films we had at Westham Hall where people always ran instead of walking. Everyone has more than just two hands and all the hands are jerking, reaching out. I can’t see any numbers. They’re all covered up with chips now. Orange, pink, yellow, green and blue. No red. I haven’t got mine down yet. Quick! He’s thrown the ball. I pile them on a nought. It’s the only one that’s free.

  I watch the red, listen to the ball. Now the film is running in slow motion. The ball won’t stop, goes on and on, round and round, teasing me and everyone. It’s such a tiny ball, a small white egg, a little spinning marble. But everybody’s watching it, begging it to choose their special number. I don’t think it can hear. It makes an angry rattling noise, as if it doesn’t like us.

  Now it’s quieter, slowing, maybe getting tired. “No more bets,” says Hans.

  I squeeze my Tiger Tail so tight, my hand begins to ache. Four hundred times more luck. My other hand is tight around the shamrock. A thousand times more luck. I’m smiling when the ball stops.

  “Thirty red,” says Hans, banging down his pepper-pot. He sweeps my chips away. I watch them go. Noughts are only holes. I search for eight. I like the number eight. At St Joseph’s, we had something called the Eight Beatitudes which all began with “Blessed are …” Seven is blessed too. There are seven sacraments and seven Holy Angels and seven dwarfs and God made the world in seven days and seventh heaven is when you’re happy here on earth.

  I put some chips on eight and some on seven. The ball is really angry now, banging round its dish. I pray this time. To Lady Luck, St Joseph, to the stars. The saints turn into stars when they die and go to heaven, so they can shine down on the earth and make the nights less dark.

  I’m praying so hard, I don’t even hear the ball drop, but Hans already has his pepper-pot on number thi
rty-three. Everything starts spinning in my head then. The ball, the chips, the colours, the whole room. I fumble for my handkerchief, wipe my face and hands. I don’t feel well. There’s a ra-ra in my ears like the babble of that lady in the wheelchair, and the man beside me is breathing very fast. I can feel my chest panting in and out with him, his dark rough hair prickling on my skin.

  I try to edge away, touch a shoulder on my other side. The shoulder growls. More people are pressing up behind me, someone’s elbow digging in my back. I’m surrounded on all sides. People watching. Jeering. I can even feel the saints’ eyes, staring down from heaven, cold and cross. Stars have eyes, silver ones, which only close in daytime. And Lady Luck has crept away, left me on the doorstep. I can see another baby in her arms. A pretty girl, with tiny feet and hands.

  I try to swallow, wish I had a drink. My throat is scratchy like the cardigan. My hands are swelling as I look at them, so clumsy now I can hardly hold the chips. I haven’t many left. Every time the ball spins, more have gone. Only seven now. They must feel very lonely. Only five. Five’s my lucky number. They were wrong about the eight, or perhaps I read it wrong. The print was very faint, so it may have been a three.

  I put the five on five, hold my head. My head is a brown dish and the ball rattles round and round inside it, round and round. It’s hurting. My eyes and mouth are holes, holes with numbers on. Number five.

  “No more bets,” says Hans again. I can’t bet any more. I’ve no more money, no more chips at all.

  The ball begins to slow. Suddenly it drops. In my stomach. In my bowel. Somewhere dark and low which hurts a lot.

  Hans calls out a number. It’s very close to five. But it isn’t five. It’s six. Lucky six.

  I sit a while, staring at the table. It’s very pretty, really. All the different colours are like flowers. Yellow flowers and blue flowers. Orange, pink and blue ones. Every flower but red. I don’t like red. It’s noisy. Fire engines and screams. I put my purse away, close my handbag, slip down off my stool.