Bowled Over mkm-6

by Kasey Michaels

  "So speaks the woman who just bought a several million dollar house in order to prove that she's gained confidence in her own worth and that of her career."

  "Don't use my own words on me, Alex. Gambling is stupid. How do you think they build casinos like these? I'll tell you how. Because the only people that really win in casinos are the people who own them. Now get that money out of there. Look for a Refund button, or something. There must be a way to get it out of there."

  "Oh ye of faint heart. You could win, you know. Sterling, push the button if you please," Alex instructed, and Maggie watched as the three reels began to spin, then stopped, one by one.

  The machine had proved her point for her. "And you're both happy now? You'll never see that three dollars again."

  "I'm not ecstatic," Alex told her, "but I am delighted to know that you'll stay here, not causing any more uproar, while I try my own luck. And, if it makes you feel better, we can agree to divide whatever you win three ways. Sterling, don't let her move from here."

  "I'm not a baby, you know," Maggie groused, scrambling in her purse for her nicotine inhaler. Her pacifier. Oh, hell. Why didn't she just give it up before somebody thought they had to burp her. "Just go, Alex, knowing that no matter what you win, I'll be here losing your hundred dollars. It won't be any different than if I set fire to the money. Pushing that button just takes longer."

  "Always the optimist. And it's now officially our one hundred dollars you'll be burning through the machine. Good luck, my dear."

  "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.

  Chapter Six

  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?"

  "God, yes, my leg still hurts. I probably let it hang too much today, in the car, and here, too. I wonder if these people would mind if I sat sideways and lifted the cast up onto the back of the couch."

  There was, Saint Just was about to say, only one way to find out. But Maggie had already lifted her leg onto the back of the couch.

  "Ma'am?"

  Maggie looked up at the rather tall blond woman who had entered the room. "Sorry," she said, lowering her leg.

  "That's quite all right, if you'd be more comfortable that way. But I overheard you a moment ago, and I think you should know that you didn't win three thousand dollars. Big-Wheels-o'-Bucks is a progressive slot, connected to many casinos. You played the maximum amount and won the progressive jackpot. So, not three thousand and change, but three million and change."

  "Oh, I did not. That's ridiculous." Maggie retorted rather angrily, but then grabbed Saint Just's hand. "I did? We did? Holy—that is, Alex?"

  "Beside you, as always, my dear," he told her. "Sterling? That was an exceedingly brave thing you did, shielding Maggie from that ridiculous man. I am once again forever in your debt."

  "Oh, right," Maggie said, blinking rather furiously. "Sterling, you saved me, you really did." Then she looked back at Saint Just in a panic. "That man! I stole his machine. I stole the winning machine! Oh, Alex ... and pooh on him, he tried to run me over. And me an invalid, for crying out loud. Three million dollars?"

  "Excuse me?" the blond woman inquired. "Are you referring to the gentleman who attacked you? May I ask how you stole his machine?"

  But Maggie wasn't really listening anymore, as anyone could plainly see. Her eyes had gone rather wide and unblinking, her expression amazingly blank; her hands were twisting together in her lap, and she had begun to mumble.

  It was Saint Just's opinion, gained from watching medical documentaries on The Learning Channel, that she'd slipped into some sort of shock. She probably shouldn't be disturbed, as that could be injurious to the poor thing.

  Then Maggie began to smile, rather inanely. Smiling, and chanting quietly, "Three million dollars. Three million bucks. Three million smack-a-roos. Three million. Three million? Three million ..."

  It was left to Saint Just to explain the contretemps, and the woman visibly relaxed. "Unless you physically removed him from the chair while he had credits on the machine, then used them to win the jackpot, he has no claim. And our eye in the sky caught everything, and I'm sure will prove what you're saying is true. We're holding the gentleman in another room. Do you wish to press charges?"

  "Three mill—what? Oh, God, no," Maggie said, slumping back against the soft leather. Saint Just was pleased to see that she'd begun to blink once more. "It's probably more than enough that I ruined the poor guy's life."

  "All right, then," the blond woman said, accepting a rather thick stack of forms from the man who stood behind her. "On behalf of the Borgata, let me congratulate you on your truly spectacular win. There are just a few formalities we'll need to go over ..."

  When Saint Just next pulled his gold pocket watch from his pants pocket, two hours had slipped by, and Maggie was signing yet another paper after posing for photographs with Borgata officials who stood on either side of her holding up the large check, now made out to Margaret Kelly.

  He would not admit that he was bored with all the excitement, but there was really precious little to do once Sterling had an ice bag on his shin and Maggie had been taken off for photographs. The baccarat tables still called to him, but he was rather loathe to present his face in the casino. Most especially now that one of the casino employees had been kind enough to turn on the television set so that he could see the entire happy event replayed on the local six o'clock news.

  Someone had been very adept with a camera phone, and there were lovely still pictures of Maggie swinging at her attacker, of Saint Just swooping her up into his arms and carrying her to safety.

  As heroes will do.

  There had also been a live interview with the gentleman in the mobile cart, one Henry Novack, of Weehawken, who seemed quite able to stand on his own two feet as he roundly accused Maggie of stealing his jackpot. He was going to contact a lawyer. He was going to sue.

  Poor Maggie. Life never seemed to be an unmitigated joy for her. There was always something or someone lurking about to throw a spanner in the works, even in the best of times.

  But now he was here with her, the perfect hero, the knight in shining armor she'd dreamed of since shortly after puberty. He would slay her dragons, stand in front of her or watch her back. Whatever she needed, and even if she didn't need him, or want his heroics.

  Because that's what heroes do ...

  "And we had this one lady who used to toss pixie dust in the air before she hit the button when she thought she was due to be lucky."

  Saint Just had snapped out of his reverie. "I beg your pardon, Miss Hatchard?"

  The young woman who had obviously been assigned to babysit Saint Just and Sterling had been prattling on to his friend for some minutes, but this last statement caught Saint Just's attention.

  "Oh, yes. Pixie dust. Pretty, sparkly stuff, except that she made a mess from one end of the casino to the other. We finally had to ban her. That was a shame, because she used to make dozens of brownies for us on holidays. Like I was telling Sterling here, we get them all in here at one time or another. People who rub the screen, like, you know, caress it? That's creepy. And then there's those who prop photos of their kids on the screen. But it's the ladies who put photos of their dead husbands up there that get me, though. It's like, you know, hey, George, look what I'm doing with your 401k. That'll teach you to play golf every weekend and leave me home alone with the kids. It's like, well, like payback, you know?"

  "Forgive me, my dear, for not really attending. Everything you've said is fascinating. I once had the acquaintance of a gentleman who believed his fairly homely pug dog brought him luck at the tables. Took him everywhere. The dog eventually grew aged and died, and the gentleman had him stuffed, still brought him to the clubs, much to the consternation of the other members."

  "The glass eyes, you understand," Sterling explained. "They were rather, um, protuberant. Always thought they were staring at me, didn't I, Saint Just?"

  "Yes, Sterling, thank you. But that was another time, another place. Miss Hatchard, do you know if Maggie will be allowed to leave soon?"

  "I'll just go check," the young woman said, quickly getting to her feet and heading for one of the other rooms in the large suite of offices.

  "What's a troll, Saint Just?" Sterling asked, still holding the ice bag to his shin.

  "A troll, Sterling? Why, I believe those are most unfortunate fellows who live beneath bridges. Something li
ke that. Why?"

  "Because back when you weren't really attending, Miss Hatchard said that some people stick little trolls on top of the slot machine they're playing. For good luck, you understand. But if trolls are forced to live beneath bridges, I can't see how they'd be much help in the good luck department, can you?"

  "I don't know, Sterling." Saint Just stood, and began to pace. "I believe I'd be more interested in where anyone locates a troll in the first place. How do you feel? Better?"

  Sterling put down the ice bag. "Oh, yes, much better, thank you. It was a trifling thing, really, and I'm sure if I'd thought about it sufficiently I wouldn't have tossed myself in that man's path. I'm not a hero, Saint Just, much as Maggie says I am. I just don't think quickly enough to save myself."

  "Anyone else, Sterling, and I'd say you were angling for a compliment. But you are a hero, my friend, in every way. Ah, and here comes our lady of the moment. Maggie? You were featured on the local television news an hour ago."

  Maggie's expression instantly went from happily dazed to completely panicked. "No! Oh, God, I didn't sign any release to have my name and face shown. I know I didn't. They wanted me to, but I'm not a complete idiot. Those photographs were just for the Big-Wheels-o'-Bucks people. They promised to block out my face if they show the pictures. Who needs the world knowing you just won three million dollars? Which I get in yearly increments for twenty years, and that's after the Feds take a big chunk straight off the top. Not that I'm complaining. Did you see the broadcast?"

  "There's quite a lot to address in all of that, but let's begin with the most important question. You are yet to be called anything but the lucky winner. That, I would say, would be the good news."

  Maggie hopped over to him. "And the bad news?"

  "Sales of camera phones have climbed into the stratosphere, I would say. If we were to piece together all of the various photographs I've just recently seen displayed on the television screen, I believe the result would be a movie taking us from your initial confusion, to Mr. Henry Novack's shouted accusations and attempt to run you over with his electric cart, to the moment I, well, the moment I rescued you from the fray. Oh, yes, and one fairly magnificent photograph of you in the act of punching Mr. Novack."