Leaving Las Vegas by John O'Brien Read Free Book Online

for Mary and Slim, as, in varying degrees, she did for everyone.
    Returning home one night after a very bad trick gone worse, bleeding and frightened, needing to be with another woman, she called Mary over. Mary was full of maternal concern as she sat listening in her bathrobe, clutching Sera’s hands. She was quietly comforting to begin with, and gradually slipped into complete silence as the story unfolded. Mary’s cup of tea grew cold as she sat for forty minutes, and heard Sera tell her the whole, relevant truth.
    “Well don’t worry, dear. I’m sure that Slim can find you something at the hotel, then you can put this whole nightmare behind you,” said Mary, nervously rising. “You get some sleep and I’ll call you in the morning.”
    “No, no, don’t tell Slim. I’m fine. You don’t understand. This was just a bad night. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I probably exaggerated a little. Things aren’t so bad,” said Sera. She sensed that something was wrong but was in no condition to give it full attention.
    But Mary was almost out the door. “Okay, our secret. You go to bed. Goodnight.” She walked briskly across the lawn, entered her apartment and turned on the light in the bedroom, where Slim was sleeping.
    The next morning Sera was awakened by her landlord, who told her to be out as soon as possible. “No later than the end of the month. And keep the place clean—you know what I mean—’cause I’ll be showing it. I’m sorry, but this is just my policy. If you had told me the truth right off we could have avoided this whole thing. You can have your security back and I… well I haven’t heard none of this,” and he put an envelope in her hand and left the premises.)
    She feels like shooting craps but is always put off by the rudeness of the crowd. These people are very intense about their game. They consider themselves to be the elite gambling force of the casino, the professionals. Their superior intellect and knowledge of the mathematics of probability are ever apparent in the pagan screams and howls that sometimes challenge even the slot machines’ near monopoly on aural assaults. They make it well known that their complex work affords little time for toleration of one of the lower orders, say a quiet blackjack player looking for a change of pace. Should he be bold enough to penetrate the gauntlet of bodies, constantly squeezing shut any opening or flaw in its arrangement, he will be justifiably terrorized at the table. Arms will fall immediately into the path of his intended bets, his respiration will be impaired by giant plaided polyester warriors, spewing smoke, surrounding and almost engulfing him. Verbal abuse and humiliation will drive out the invader, a final sarcastic
excuse me
whipping his flank as he retreats back to his amateur world of childlike diversion, no longer an impediment to the progress of the real players.
    Her ears absently fix on the tick-clicking of the casino’smoney wheel, first accelerating rapidly and then taking forever to slowly come to a stop, each click lingering slightly longer in the ear than the previous one until the final surprising eternal
ick,
which merely precedes another in an endless series of spins. The dealer, banished to this isolated corner of the casino by a simple twist of shift rotation, paces his patter with the wheel. His pronunciation of options and possibilities is equally unenthusiastic for a big five dollar bet as it is during one of the frequent practice spins. The giant disk rolls redundantly, always and never moving, money riding its perimeter. Prisoners of the wheel, the decoupage dollars await the inevitable moment that they will spend frozen at the top, selected by a stiff piece of plastic. Bets on them, if any, will then be paid off.
    On a perpendicular axis to that, the roulette wheel divides the world into red and black, even and odd, or the more specific numbered prejudices of one to thirty-six. Occasionally the freakish green