by Kendric Neal
He got backslaps at work for Jepp. The backlash hadn't started in earnest yet, everyone was too giddy with the unexpected success. Sam's unexpected elbow grasp (he always seemed to come around a corner unseen) didn't fill Neely with the usual dread but only kindly patience. Neely worked til 7. He got on a roll and did two days' work in one afternoon. Everyone noticed, he was industrious and happy—the work did just what he wanted, it cleared away memories of the boy and left only the weekend of wins. People didn't want to leave while he was so busy and he finally called it a day more out of concern for them than himself. It felt good to get ahead, that wasn't a luxury he had had often, but Sam had shunted off his other accounts so he could concentrate on Jepp and Falk had told him their network wasn't as much of a mess as it had first appeared, which at least made more sense than thinking Pedott screwed it up. The result was that progress was fast, the system warnings and crashes had stopped and everything was working smoother than it ever had. They were happy, Sam and Hugh were happy, and Neely was happy. It also meant he had nothing to do the next day and he decided to take a day off since the impromptu trip to Eagle Crest had barely made a dent in his PTO. He debated what to do with it as he checked the market's final tally, something he had been putting off for the last four hours until he was alone. Even he was surprised to see the final verdict, still in that lovely shade of green (green was good, baby, green was good): Up $7901.29. Over ten grand in a day, surely there were people in the world for whom that would mean nothing, but to Neely, after what he'd been through, that was sweet, sweet indeed. He swore if he could just get back on his feet this time he'd put an end to all the craziness. It didn't have to end in a tailspin—some people made their mistakes and came back stronger, wiser and more in control. He'd put that money back, swear off the gambling, be thankful for a second chance, thankful to be alive, thankful to have a wife who loved him and two kids who didn't hate him. That's all a man could ask for, wasn't it? What better jackpot was there?
The next day he went to Naccahaw.
He'd started with thoughts of asking Hope to play hooky. He'd thought of a drive out to the country, walking among antique stores, lunch in a funky cafe—all the old one-horse towns seemed to have antique stores and funky cafes these days, North Carolina was full of them, Mayberry RFD's for tourists. Come to think of it, the damn show was set here, wasn't it? He thought of spending the day around the house, catching up on his Honey Do list, tinkering with a few projects at his workbench. He thought of coercing Hope into spending it in bed with him with wine and cheese and a movie or two. In the end, he ditched it all and went to Naccahaw. There were no good football games til Sunday and he had the itch, he'd done so well the past weekend and had no work and had just spent a lot of time with Hope and why spoil it and why the hell not? He'd earned it. It'd been a tough few months, he was up now, so what better time to go? He'd handle it, he wasn't some out-of-control addict on a losing streak now, he had solid ground beneath his feet.
He left the house like he was going to work, only headed west on the freeway and his mood lightened the closer he got. He loved the drive, the weather always seemed particularly fine when he was headed to Naccahaw. He hadn't been back since the accident and there were times he'd thought he'd never be back. Today, however, he felt an elation and sense of control—it was a pretty day, the mountains green and vibrant with color, and he realized he hadn't really noticed this view in a long time. That should have told him he'd been on the wrong track, that he headed there more out of desperation than enjoyment.
The Naccahaw was a Vegas-style casino built on reservation grounds. The town had grown up around it and offered authentic Naccahaw dance performances as well as arrowheads, sewn leather goods, rugs, blankets and hand-tooled jewelry. They offered a stage show in the summer, it played to tourists and visitors in an impressive outdoor theater built from gambling revenue.
Neely pulled into the parking lot, happy to see it less than one-third full. It wasn't even 10 yet, it'd feel like he'd have the place to himself. That likely meant poker was out, not enough players yet, but that should change at lunchtime. He walked in, still wearing his work clothes, and he thought he'd have to wear a suit here more often, it made him feel like Sinatra.
Today he saw only scattered people playing, no groups, and no one at the tables. The place looked dead but he was in such a good mood it only further excited him. He was supposed to be at work, and nothing was sweeter than a day stolen. The TV over the bar had the morning talks still on. Neely figured there had to be a bartender around, there always were in casinos—and the fact that there were people drinking at 10 a.m. made him feel better about his own vice. He decided to warm himself up by playing slots for a while. He viewed them as strictly amateur, but the place was empty and that was where all the noise was coming from. He liked the cheap thrill he got with them, though he'd never won anything. Well, $7,500 one time, never to be repeated, and he was sure he'd dropped a lot more than that in the time since. He slipped his VIP card in the slot and called up $500. He liked to pull the arm, it was all part of the atmosphere though he'd noticed many machines didn't even have them anymore. He played a dollar machine, though he had to pay close attention to play only a dollar a throw, they had so many enticing ways you could triple it and triple it again. He was no exception, he started going $9 a throw and ate up $360 in less time than it took to draw two breaths. On his fifth he hit something, he couldn't figure out what, and went up $320. Not even a minute in and with a win I'm still down, he thought. He wasn't going to last long at these.
“Want anything?” asked Sandy, a thirty-something waitress from Providence who looked about as Naccahaw as Katie Couric.
“Can I get a coffee?”
“Sure.”
“With real half & half?”
“I'll bring the cow.”
She walked off as he pulled again, and he looked down the row while the reels spun. There was an old woman and her husband to his left. They didn't speak, too transfixed by the wheel. Down the other way was an old Native American man wearing a cowboy hat and with his own coffee travel mug and shopping cart. He looked like he planned to be there all day, as he'd customized his perch the way people customize their cubicles at the office. Neely couldn't think of anything more depressing so he pulled the bandit arm again and watched the reels spin out nothing. He was down to his last $40 and went back to hitting singles again, determined not to waste more than $500 on slots. On the third pull he hit Two Turtles, whatever that meant, and went up $86. He started betting the full $9 again, triple triple, just to get it over with. The bells started going off over his head and it was so loud it was unpleasant. He looked at the payout screen and the words “SEE ATTENDANT” stared back at him. He had a brief flutter of fear, irrational, he realized, thinking they know, they somehow know, when he looked up at the marquee and saw a scrolling set of lights reading “Jackpot! Jackpot! Jackpot!”
Strangers got to him first.
Everyone was drawn to those bells and that clanging, especially since the place was dead otherwise, and even some of the front desk employees came over to see what the fuss was about. Soon they were all slapping him on the back and asking him questions so fast he couldn't keep track.
Two attendants came over and began writing out a voucher for $25,000—he was still in a daze when they asked for his driver's license. He handed it to them, feeling vaguely disquieted, as it got a lot harder to hide winnings when they came with a 1099-G. He'd found an accommodating accountant who managed to get Hope's signature every year without her knowing what was on there, but there was always the chance she'd request a copy on her own or it might come out in some court proceeding. Imagine a divorce, he thought, as she got copies of their tax returns and realize he'd been lying to her for years. Hope loved him to death, but she'd be the world's worst nightmare if she ever turned on him and the idea made him break out in a cold sweat. Imagine that laser focus fixed on him the rest of his life. Imagine a high-stakes game against
her and her lawyer. Talk about losing it at the table.
He had to go to the cashier's office for the payout; it was in the form of a bank check with the estimated taxes already taken out. He wondered if this was going to make it difficult for his understanding accountant to slide the return by Hope. He'd reassured Neely on this point once, saying people rarely felt the need to dig when there was more income than they thought. Neely had said resignedly, “You don't know Hope.” Well, he could see these concerns were dampening his ability to act ecstatic, especially when the casino's assistant manager came over with a camera and asked for a photo. Neely had to stand among the dozen or so casino workers gathered for the shot; they wanted a thousand-Watt smile and he gave it to them, again wondering if this went out on the internet or possibly in the local paper. Not the kind of places Hope frequented, no, but if any of their friends saw? If someone dropped it at the next dinner party or BBQ? Oh, hey, congrats, Neely! What are you guys going to do with all that money? Hope wouldn't be likely to hide her reaction, she wouldn't bite her lip and wait for later, she wouldn't give a damn about social decorum if she'd just found out her husband had been lying to her and was still humping the deal-breaker of all time. She'd start screaming and wouldn't stop until the divorce was final and he knew the Holiday Inn night manager by first name. It wouldn't end there, either, she'd have them etch it on her tombstone “Life ruined by Neely Thomas, that goddamned lying shitheel.” The promise she'd extracted had had those consequences, he knew. She'd made it clear enough when she made him give it, and on matters like this he knew Hope would be a woman of her word. You didn't cross Hope in things like this. You just didn't.
Neely sat at the bar and ordered a Grey Goose martini. Hell, not even noon yet, but this had put a damper on what he had been greatly looking forward to as a respite from work and worry. He'd had a lot on his mind lately and he needed to get away from it for a while to get some relief. Now he'd only given himself another possible avenue for concern. Part of the fun of gambling was the cash. Cash in, cash out, no one knew. There was no trail to be picked up years later that told the whole story, not the way they could track everything you did now. Gambling was one of the few places left where cash was king. It was part of the fun, coins clinking in metal trays. Carrying markers and buckets, paying for drinks in chips. The whole place was a temple to money.
“You don't look too happy for a guy who just won,” the bartender said.
“Oh, just, thinking of all the things it could go to.”
“Lot of martinis,” he said, putting down Neely's drink.
“Let's hope not,” Neely said, toasting him.
“That picture only goes in the circular. They figured that out years ago.”
“Figured what out?”
“Lot of people don't want their picture in the paper with a check for $25 grand.”
“It's that obvious, huh?”
“It's a weekday, you're a businessman with a ring,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“You talk to him, you need someone special,” he said, handing Neely a business card. “There's ways of hiding it legitimately. She'll never get your return.” The news lifted a weight from Neely's chest; of course men have been facing this problem since the beginning of time. Cleverer men than himself had worked a way around it. Still, he felt a sense of dread.
The drink helped. They usually did, though he really didn't like to start this early. He slipped into his normal thinking mode, which went along the lines of If I get all that money back in the accounts and then swear it off entirely, she'll forgive me even if she does find out. It felt good to repeat it, besides they'd just had an amazing weekend, she still had the hots for him, she still loved him passionately. Hell, that ought to count for something, right? Lingering underneath that thought, though, was the other one: You're playing with fire, you're playing with fire, (see above. Repeat endlessly…)
Hell, not today, not these thoughts today. This was his day off and he'd earned it. Things were going well now, why start messing with them? He was anxious to play a little poker, knowing that would calm him. It engaged his brain, unlike most of the other games. Still not a good enough crowd, though. He wandered the atrium, looking at the photographs they had out there of the olden days of the tribe. He enjoyed the gallery. Looking at those intense, weather-beaten faces in the black & white photos…men and women who remembered what it had been like before. He liked their strong features, they looked like people who knew hardship, who knew how to survive. Lines etched by the wind and the sun and hard work. People who were one with the land, who owed their lives to it and thanked it wordlessly day after day.
What was he so nervous about, anyway? He'd just won $25,000, or $16,459 after taxes, that put him closer to his goal and getting out of this hole. He'd do it, too, he'd get that money back and quit. That kid's death hadn't been his fault, it was the lumber company's. He was just a man trying to get back to even and hang onto his family. He didn't deserve all the blame and scrutiny, he would put that money back, put this matter to bed and enjoy the rest of his life. Hope would have no cause to go prying and the past would stay buried. He saw one of the monitors turn to CNN and the stock ticker at the bottom suddenly jarred him back to the present. He called up his account on his phone. Up again, $4,313, not as much as yesterday but still green, still green. So, not even lunch and he's up over twenty net. Most guys would be delighted. Biggest jackpot he'd ever won and he had to work up a good mood? Look at the other poor slobs around him, they'd kill to hit a jack like that. What the hell was wrong with him?
He headed over to the Blackjack table, drink in hand. He slid his VIP card into the reader and asked for $4,313 in markers. He was a numbers guy, after all. Numbers meant something. As Neely had figured, the two other guests wandering near the Blackjack area had been waiting for a table to show signs of life and they quickly joined in. $100 minimum, four-deck shoe. He knew the dealer, she was a middle-aged white woman named Nanny. She was from Port Townsend, Washington according to her nametag. Neely had asked her once how many grandchildren she had and she said none. He asked why she went by Nanny then and she said because it sounded better than “Ninny”. He asked no more questions, figuring any woman who ended up there was probably a refugee from life just like he was.
He drew a four and a nine and hit. He got a jack and lost. It set a pattern, he burned out the next six hands and got beat the next four. He lost every one while the pregnant gal next to him won every hand. Luck was like that, Neely thought. How often did you see two people at the same table have it? It was like a ghost, came, went, landed briefly, disappeared. He drew a Blackjack on the next and the pregnant woman went over. He got a string of good hands to follow, but Nanny got better ones and Neely ordered another drink. He was enjoying himself now, things were relaxed, he was facing people instead of a machine, and he felt the familiar up-down buzz of his favorite alcohol. He didn't have to worry about that $25,000 any more, it wasn't being publicized and she didn't have to see the return. He'd get the money back and forget the accident. He'd enjoy his day off and sit and play Blackjack for a few hours. It wasn't lost on him that most of his time at the Blackjack table he'd been steadily losing. There was the distinct possibility that's why he was enjoying it. He felt most relaxed when he was steadily, respectably losing? What the hell did that make him?
He split Jacks, earning a dirty look from the old couple across the table, probably never split tens against a 14 in their lives, he thought. Neely drew a five on the first and a six on the second. The dealer went bust and Neely gave the couple his most disarming smile. After that, he couldn't lose. He went on a tear that was unprecedented in his twenty-plus years of playing. He won 42 hands in a row, the pregnant woman told him so as she was keeping count. People stopped playing to watch. Others took up the empty seats, hoping the streak would rub off on them, but it only had eyes for Neely. He gave them money to play when they ran out, as he was up over $14,000 by th
en. He wished there'd been a higher limit, but you don't leave a hot table. One of the onlookers, a decrepit old man with a row of jagged teeth and an unbelievably dirty fishing hat, asked the casino manager to lift it but he said no. The man cussed him out like he'd been the one playing and the manager threatened to toss him if he didn't keep quiet. The man did, muttering to himself, too keenly interested in Neely's streak to miss any of it.
Towards the end people got restless, they had to pee or get lunch or were itching to try their own luck, but they didn't want to miss the next hand and the feeling of the crowd with each accumulated win. It turned into an endurance match—euphoric and manic at the same time—and no one wanted it to end as much as Neely. He tipped Nanny regularly who seemed to be the only one experiencing both the pleasure and pain Neely was in. She was being scrutinized by the manager and his assistant on the floor as well as a dozen cameras in the ceiling. Dealers of extraordinary lucky streaks were often suspect, one of the reasons he tipped her over $400 by the time he was done. He grew reckless toward the end, wanting to stop the crazy party, sick of people trying to look inside him, but every time he played a hand the wrong way the crowd seemed to know and grew more boisterous. It didn't matter, he won anyway. He hit on fourteen against a sixteen, landing a seven. He stayed when he should have hit and hit when he should have stayed, and the gathering anger of the crowd dissipated as Neely beat the odds again and again and the stack only grew. Everyone in the casino was watching by the time he got his fortieth. Neely thought that if anyone ever wanted to rob a casino, they just needed to do it when someone was on a hot streak like this. It magnetized a crowd of gamblers the way free drinks or naked girls never would—those, after all, were gettable, luck was a frigging ghost. Gambling wasn't even about the money, was it? Not the action, not the bells, not the adrenaline, those were just add-ons. It was about the luck…the jouissance of gambling, it was pure, goddamned luck. The high holiest of holies.