by Linden Storm
Belle’s been winning steadily. The dealers or pit bosses inevitably begin to look her funny, but she tends to ignore them and stays too long. When William calls her on it, she cashes in her chips and leaves, trailing Nick and William behind her. She’s won thousands of dollars on low-limit tables. She says she’s getting the feel of things and predicts she can keep it up all night.
∆∆∆
At the Luxor, Belle loses too many hands in a row. She’s not down, not by any means, but she’s not used to losing that much. She’s tired, and counting cards, even with her idiosyncratic but highly effective system, is harder when you’re tired.
She asks the dealer, an elderly Asian-American woman, if she’s seen “someone who looks a lot like me,” in the past couple of days, and the woman ignores the question and deals herself a blackjack, beating Belle’s two queens. Belle fights down the urge to recoup her losses, takes her chips, and walks away.
“This is getting us nowhere,” Belle says to Nick and William. “I’m going to call Jimmy.”
“No!” Nick says.
“I don’t think that’s prudent,” William says.
“Why not? What can he do to us?” Belle says.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Nick says.
Belle rolls her eyes at Nick and turns her back on William. She makes the call.
“Hi! It’s Belle? Marina’s sister?” she says, using the high-pitched Cali-girl voice again. “…You haven’t heard anything?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, and Belle has the feeling Wishkowski is talking to someone else. After an indecipherable buzz of conversation, Wishkowski comes back on.
“All I know is,” Wishkowski says, “that she’s definitely gone—some of her things are missing, she hasn’t been in touch with me for days, and I can’t reach her. I don’t know where she is or if she’s all right.”
Belle doesn’t believe him. He sounds a little drunk and a little maudlin, and a little bit like he’s performing for someone other than her.
She’s more worried than she was before.
∆∆∆
William follows Belle out of the Luxor. He’s exhausted, and the patient attitude he’s been cultivating for years breaks down.
“This is not working,” he says.
“I agree,” Nick says.
“We’re not giving up now,” Belle says.
“You’re not the only decision maker, here,” William says.
“Yeah,” Nick says.
Belle stops abruptly and turns around to face them.
“What should we do, then, geniuses?” she says.
“I’m not a genius,” William says. “But right now this is just you winning money and surfing the gambling high. We’re not any closer to finding Marina.”
Belle crosses her arms and watches Nick step a few feet away to fiddle with is phone. “Fine,” she says to William. “What do you want to do?”
William shrugs. “I want to get some sleep. I want to think things through some more. Come up with a better plan. At this point, you’re just mashing buttons.”
He watches the insult get through to her. In the old days, when hand-held controllers were the norm, gamers who mashed buttons were the objects of much derision.
“And you’re just being your privileged self,” she says. “I’m carrying you both.”
“We’ve been following you around for hours, doing exactly what you say. I’m tired of it,” William says.
“I’m tired of you,” Belle says.
“Now you’re being a baby,” William says.
Belle glares at him.
“Fine. We’re leaving,” William says.
“Go ahead,” she says. “I’ll let you know when I find Marina.”
William wonders why he’d ever thought he could put up with Belle Morris.
He turns to walk away, but Nick calls out to him. “Wait. I’ve got an idea.”
∆∆∆
While Belle and William are bickering, Nick steps away and tries to use the time productively. William’s right: what they’re doing is not working. Belle’s also right: they can’t give up.
So, what information do they have? Very little. Just the forum post that had alerted them to Marina’s Las Vegas trip. He’d skimmed the post, but he had not read it carefully, and he was reasonably certain no one else had either. He finds the post again.
For those of you who know who I am, I am okay and thank you to every player and fan who has expressed concern. I play intensely and live intensely. Yet sometimes one must break from the routine in order to make the game and life worthwhile and achieve new perspective on one’s friends and associates.
I have had losses and my team has failed, but I have my dream and it still feels amazing.
I am able to use my gifts in this game and it has helped me learn what I must do. Any win is a good win but I will never be satisfied unless I take my place at the pinnacle. You must want the title to win the title.
I will always be grateful to Battlecraft because it has changed my life. Now ask myself if something I do is good for me or not. I am focused and alert to threats IRL as in the game.
I have always been intense IRL, and I have suffered trauma. But now I want to take better care of myself, eat properly, drink less sugar, and stay in shape. Sometimes the winners say they will go to Disneyland, and I do not understand this saying. I myself will go to the Disneyland for adults. Someday in the future NYNY will be my choice. I certainly mean to go before I die.
“She told us where to go,” Nick says, waving his phone. “Head for Lady Liberty.”
Another three-mile hike later, the sun is blazing down and it’s past eight in the morning. Nick watches Belle survey the New York New York Casino.
He’s afraid he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, but at least this casino is not as obnoxious as some of the others. It’s designed to look like a Manhattan street scene, with landmarks, trees, storefronts, bars, and boulevards, and it seems a little quieter and less sleazy.
The three of them cruise the blackjack tables. Belle assigns William, always the best observer of human body language and expressions, to watch the dealers.
Almost immediately, William points his forehead at one of the dealers. “He seems to recognize you.”
Belle sits down. The dealer makes every move musical. His slim fingers flip the cards and place them precisely and perfectly every time, appearing to hardly touch them at all.
His expression is friendly but distant, his conversation pleasant but nearly empty of affect or information.
He’s wearing the uniform, a crisp white shirt and red tie and satin vest. He’s slim and blond and thirtyish. Looking closer, Nick detects some subtle eye makeup and a couple of diamond stud earrings.
As the pit boss stalks around the tables like a predatory lion, the dealer politely nudges the players to stay or hit.
Belle is winning, but not too much. She keeps her bets moderate. Nonetheless, her pile of chips grows steadily. Nick can see she’s gotten her second wind.
She never needs prompting. She’s right on time with the dealer’s rhythm.
“I think you met my sister recently,” Belle says.
Nick’s surprised. She’s going for the direct approach.
“Maybe,” the deal says. “Someone who looked like you. Wearing a red dress. She played like you as well. Both of you are...lucky.” His eyes flick in the direction of the pit boss. His expression says they don’t appreciate card counters here, so I hope you’re being careful.
Belle places a $20 chip in the tip zone. If she wins the next hand, the dealer will win himself a nice gratuity.
The other players notice the tip and shrug. They haven’t been winning; they don’t have the chips to spare.
“Lucky,” Belle says, with an edge to her voice. “Yes. Marina and I have always been lucky.”
The dealer deals and nods.
Belle wins the hand with a nineteen to the dealer�
��s eighteen. The other two players have busted. They swig their drinks. The dealer pays himself his gratuity, tapping the table in the approved manner and saying thanks.
“It’s dumb, I know,” Belle says, “but I think she lost her phone and now I don’t have any way to get in touch with her.”
The dealer’s manicured eyebrows rise. Everyone knows a lost phone doesn’t cut you off from your contacts unless you want it to.
Belle smiles apologetically. “Okay. You got me. See, we had a little fight, and she doesn’t want to patch it up yet. But our grandmother’s in the hospital, and I need to reach her.”
Nick hears a catch in Belle’s voice. She’s laying it on for the dealer, pretending to be upset about a nonexistent grandmother and an imaginary tiff with her sister.
“Can you tell me how long she was here and when she left?” Belle says.
The dealer shrugs. “She wasn’t here for more than an hour. She did very well and Security got interested.”
“Ah,” Belle says. “And when was that?”
Belle splits eights and wins both hands. The two remaining players at the table lose again, color up, and leave.
The dealer deals the next hand to Belle. She has a queen of hearts showing.
“Maybe we could meet up for a drink at the end of my shift?” the dealer says quietly. “At the Dorsey lounge in the Venetian. I’m off in twenty.”
Belle nods, hits on a 17, and loses the hand.
“That hurts. I’ll color up now, thank you,” she says loudly.
The pit boss looks over the dealer’s shoulder as the dealer exchanges Belle’s twenty-dollar chips for hundreds. Nick watches nervously, but the pit boss moves on.
Nick watches Belle scoop up the chips and then he and William follow her to the cashier window.
“On to the Venetian,” Belle says, stuffing currency into her pockets. “And don’t even think about going back to the room. You’re both coming with me.”
She looks at Nick and then at William until both nod their acquiescence.
∆∆∆
William is trying to calm down about Belle’s abrasiveness, to understand and accept.
They walk what seems like even more miles to the front of the New York New York and then get a taxi for the Venetian. It takes a while to travel to the Venetian by car, even though the two casinos are only three miles apart. Nick snores all the way. He smells like sweat and smoke and the pepperoni sticks he’s been snacking on, and William gently turns his face toward the car window.
When they get to the Venetian, William has to shake Nick repeatedly to wake him up. He takes Nick’s arm and steers him, stumbling, into the lobby and through the vast fields of slots.
At the Venetian’s enormous sportsbook, a great cheer goes up. William wonders what could cause such a ruckus in the wide world of sports at nine in the morning. On the acre-sized screen in the sportsbook, soccer players trot effortlessly across a bright green field, happy and smiling.
William smiles too. He’s glad somebody’s happy, even if he feels like shit. He tries to shake off the gloom, put it down to exhaustion, but it’s hard.
The late-night crowd is big and loud, and the casino is busy, but the Dorsey lounge is quiet. The back corner is decorated like a library, with wooden shelves of real books and tufted leather furniture.
Nick sways, and William pats him on the back. At least he isn’t annoying Belle with complaints.
“We’re almost there, man,” William says. “Just a little longer.”
The bartender is right there, asking what they want.
“Coffee,” Nick says. “Oh God, please tell me you have coffee.”
“Of course,” the bartender says.
“I’ll take a Heineken,” Belle says.
“Coffee,” William says.
They sit numbly for a few minutes and the dealer from the New York New York strolls in and joins them.
He orders a vodka.
The bartender nods and waves his acknowledgment over his shoulder.
Nick puts his big head down on the table, letting his arms dangle. Within a few seconds, he’s asleep.
“You three are intense,” the dealer says. “And you, young woman, are almost as good at playing blackjack as your sister. No hesitation or long pauses to think things through, ever.”
“Yeah,” Belle says, avoiding eye contact. “Like I said before, we’re looking for her. We need to find her right away.”
“I know you do, Belle Morris,” the dealer says.
“What?” Belle says.
William sits up straight.
“You all play Battlecraft,” the dealer says. “And so does your sister. You need to find her before the finals next week.”
Belle purses her lips. William looks into the bartender’s eyes and finds no threat there. Only a slight sense of titillation.
“I follow the game, as it happens,” the dealer says.
As the bartender delivers the drinks, William nudges Nick’s hot coffee to the center of the table. It would be just like him to knock it over and burn his face off.
“Do you remember if she said where she was going?” William says.
The dealer takes a gulp of his drink.
“Let’s see,” he says, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. The whites of his eyes are red-rimmed.
Belle takes out a couple of bills and slides them across the table.
William shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
Belle appears to think the dealer is a bad actor, but William reads him as a decent guy.
William reaches for the money and pulls it back, placing it in front of Belle.
“What’s your name, man?” he says he says to the dealer. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“David,” the dealer says, cutting his eyes to the cash and looking back at William. “And it’s not like that. I’m here because it seems like you need my help, not for what I can get out of it.”
“Sorry,” William says. “We’ve had nothing but nasty surprises lately. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
Belle turns her whole body to look at him, and he thinks he sees fury ticking in her eyes.
William stares her down and wills her to let him handle the situation. She does all right in her California girl persona, but as herself she’s abrasive. And dealing with people IRL is his realm.
She gets it and backs off. Thank God for that much latitude, anyway.
“Look,” William says. “If you’re a fan, you know how important it is for us to find her right away. Did she say where she was going?”
The dealer takes another swig and smiles. “You know, it wasn’t until I saw Belle at my table that I recognized you and realized who Marina was. If I’d figured out who she was yesterday, I probably would have contacted you myself. She seemed pretty nervous. Kind of confused about what she should do next. She said she was afraid of someone, afraid of putting her friends in danger if she went to them for help. I encouraged her to trust her friends. Then she mentioned a town she might be heading for.”
“Really?” William says, leaning forward. “What town?”
“I was trying to remember,” David says. “It was someplace in California, I think. Started with an O? Ojai?”
“Ojai?” William says encouragingly. He remembers a vacation there with his family when he was a teenager. Chic resort, nice pool, fancy little town. “Beautiful place, Ojai.”
“Wait. No. I remember thinking it wasn’t a nice place,” David says. “I remember now. Oakland. She said she was going to Oakland.”
William says “Paul” at the same time Belle says it.
“Glad I could help,” David says. He toasts them with his empty glass, stands up, and stretches. “Now I have to go home and get some sleep. Good luck finding Marina.”
Nick is still asleep, even though the Dorsey is being invaded by a group of specialty burlesque performers in town for a convention. It’s obvious they haven’t been to bed. They’re tall, colorful, and
loud, and they’re clumped up by the bar pounding shots.
“Time to go?” William says to Belle. “Even you must be getting tired by now.”
“I’m too mad to be tired right now,” Belle says.
“Mad at Marina, right?” William says warily. “I guess I understand that. What is Marina up to? Is this some kind of IRL game? Is she punishing us?”
Belle frowns at the back of Nick’s sleeping head and then calls Paul.
Paul answers immediately.
“So, you had kind of a thing with Marina, then?” Belle says without preamble.
William flinches.
“We did not have a thing. What do you mean by that, anyway?” Paul says, scowling. The scar on his head looks purple and angry. He looks purple and angry.
Time to defuse. William leans in. “Just sort of an idea of a thing, right?” he says, smiling goofily.
Paul’s angry face relaxes a bit, but he doesn’t completely calm down. “I mean, we’re friends. Yeah. She was new to the country. She recruited me for the team.” He pauses, then seems to think for a few seconds, rolling his eyes up toward the stained ceiling. “I met her in Uzbekistan.”
“What?” Belle says.
Paul’s eyes shift right and left.
“That’s a hell of a confession, buddy,” William says.
“We decided we didn’t want to talk about it. Is that a crime? I was over there with the U.N. I met her during a street brawl. She saved my ass, if you want to know.”
“Wow,” William says. “I’ll bet there’s more to that story.”
“Yeah,” Paul says. “A lot more.”
“Uh-huh,” Belle says.
Paul throws his arms up. “It wasn’t a thing. Okay? It wasn’t. I was married.”
“Do you know where she is? Is she there?” Belle says accusingly.
“No!” Paul says, irritation and frustration making him talk louder and faster. “I do not. Why would I not tell you if I knew where she was? I’m worried about her. The game is in nine days.”