The Thrice Born Page 6

  Larry grinned, watching her eyes light up with the increasing number of signs as they entered the city. The skies had let up with rain, the clouds parting to allow the later day’s light to shine down on the wet casino strip.

  “Hey, look,” Joe said, pointing to a large billboard for The Crib casino. “Casino and hotel,” he read, then the sub-caption: “’The House that Jason Built.’ Must be nice.”

  The woman looked out the driver’s side window at the billboard. On it was a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties, handsome in a worldly, knowledgeable way, his elegantly tailored blue pinstripe suit showing both taste and money. He was shuffling a large deck of cards that glittered gold as the lights flashed in sequence.

  “Who’s Jason?” Larry asked.

  “You don’t come to the city enough,” Joe said as they passed the sign. “That’s Jason Newhart. The guy with the deck. They say be built The Crib with his own gambling money. Probably a bunch of hype,” he said, shrugging as he turned the Hummer into another lane of traffic. “He’s loaded now anyway, I’d wager.”

  A moment later they pulled up to The Crib Casino and Hotel. Joe hung back in the traffic, avoiding the valet areas as he found an empty spot at the curb further down the street. The place was busy, people swarming the over-worked parking attendants. Both Joe and Larry turned in their seats to see the young woman behind them. For a long moment her eyes moved over the brightly lit signs and buildings, the illuminated waterfall display at the entrance holding her attention.

  She pushed her drying blonde hair from her face and leaned her forehead to the window, smiling at the well-dressed people milling around. Further back were a few panhandlers trying to bum money, and she looked at them, too, but only briefly.

  “Well, toots, here we are,” Larry said, pulling the latch on his door. “Let’s see – hey, wait!”

  Before either he or Joe could get out of the Hummer, the woman opened a back door and jumped out. She stood on the sidewalk, eyes raised to the glitz and glamour of signs and lights, and then ran around the vehicle to Joe’s open window. She smiled at him, and then reached in the window and kissed his cheek.

  Before he could react, she circled back to the sidewalk and gave Larry’s rough cheek a jubilant kiss through his open window. She giggled, and waved to them, then turned and ran into the bustling crowd on the sidewalk.

  Larry looked after her, grinning as she disappeared into the people. “Think she’ll be all right?”

  “Yep,” Joe said, turning the Hummer back into the street. “Told you she belonged here.”

  Larry nodded, still watching where the mysterious woman had simply woven into the crowd. “Guess so.”

  Jason Newhart had seen all kinds of people come and go on the Strip, most go without their money, and some of them from his own casino. He hadn’t gotten his reputation or most recent fortune without wit and wisdom, but he hadn’t forgotten the forgotten, either.

  In a town known for breaking men, fortunes, and futures, he’d landed soundly on his feet. His dark green suit was of the finest tailoring, his tie crisply knotted so that the stripes angled perfectly. He’d always worn a few gold pieces, but not the gaudy types. Classy was his style; not flash and unnecessary flare. Those were for people without personalities.

  The evening was balmy after the rain, the city cleaner after the shower. The sidewalks were still littered with foot traffic and bums as Jason made his way to his casino. He liked the walk, a few minutes of stroll to let him gauge his crowd. A couple of skateboarders were working the sidewalk, mostly cautious types that didn’t bump into too many people, but a few uncouth teens, too. Most of the bums Jason had seen before; their down-on-their-luck stories as familiar to him as his own climb to fame and fortune.

  Most were also lies, too, he knew.

  That was why when an unfamiliar face showed itself in the usual menagerie of panhandlers, he noticed.

  He didn’t know her name was Estelle, or that she would play a part in his future very soon, and perhaps had already; he just knew she didn’t belong there.

  He halted before the young blonde woman holding a cheap metal cup at the outer shrubs near The Crib. Even in her dirty black robe and with her hair in an unkempt tousle, he saw some promise. He reached into his wallet, eyes locking on hers as she looked up at him.

  “You can do better than this,” he said just loud enough for her to hear.

  For a moment she returned his stare, eyes brimming with the start of tears as she seemed almost transfixed by merely looking at him.

  He held a fifty dollar bill to her.

  She said nothing, slowly taking the money, and Jason continued on.

  Estelle stared after him, and then dashed to catch up with him. “Wait!”

  He stopped as she met him. She reached her hand to him, dropping a small gold pendant on a black metal chain into his palm when he realized her gesture. He didn’t really look at it, but took a blue silk handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wrapped the item in it, tucking it back into his pocket without a second look.

  He gave her a quick nod and then turned, heading on to the casino entrance.

  Estelle put the bill into her tattered blouse, sidestepping as a skateboarder zipped by her. She looked after Jason, and then moved to the grassy side of the sidewalk and rummaged in her robe for an old paper bag. It was wrinkled, but not torn. She emptied her metal cup into it. She smiled at her stash; there were a few fifties, a hundred dollar bill, and the rest silver dollars and other coins. She put the bag back under her robe, swinging the cup by its handle.

  As she turned to see if Jason was still in sight, the skateboarder returned, this time buzzing by her too close. The teen snatched the cup from her and sped on into the crowd of people.

  Estelle smiled, patting the bag beneath her robe. She looked from where Jason had gone to the shops across the street. Her eyes rested on several of the signs, and then she made her choice.

  The upscale boutique she picked was draped in lavender and silver silk on the inside, the chrome mannequins adorned in exquisite designer gowns and dresses, dripping with high fashion yet costume jewelry. The two sales girls at the back of the shop watched Estelle walk in, each registering confusion and dread at the young woman’s dirty clothes and hair.

  “Oh, my gawd,” the first drawled, pulling her gum from her mouth and dropping it into a wastebasket behind the counter. “What is that? The Pretty Woman special?”

  The second taller clerk raised a shoulder primly. “What do you think she is? Her pimp beat her up and probably threw her out of his car.” She wrinkled her nose, gold bracelets jangling at her wrist as she made a discreet wave at Estelle looking at one of the dresses on display. “Nothing new. Except,” she sniffed, “ugh, the smell.”

  The first girl rolled her eyes. “Your turn.”

  The taller clerk shook her head. “The shop is dead. Come with me.” She watched Estelle finger a black satin dress. “She’s touching things. Come on. Help me out here.”

  The first clerk gave an exacerbated sigh, and then followed the taller girl across the shop.

  “Hello,” they greeted Estelle in unison.

  Estelle looked to them, smiling.

  The taller clerk forced a smile in return. “You like that one?”

  * * *

  The crowd was already gathering around the roulette table when the dealer began setting up, the draw not on the wheel and the desire to win it big or break the bank, as all hoped, but on the stunningly beautiful woman with the strange almost aura-like draw in the sleek black dress who watched. Estelle seemed oblivious to the attention she drew from The Crib patrons. Her eyes were on the dealer, anticipating his movements as he returned her slight smile.

  The crowd pressed closer to the table as Estelle took a fifty dollar bill from where her décolletage peeked from her designer dress. It fit her well, emphasizing her curves, the tiny rhinestones at her collar adding just the right sparkle.

  The dealer n
odded to her, and then the other patrons, not wanting to show too much attention to any one guest. Jason didn’t like that in his dealers and waitresses, and what Jason Newhart didn’t like simply did not happen in The Crib.

  Across the floor Jason was on patrol, a walkie-talkie clutched in his hand as he looked over the room to Benjamin. The floor manager was a short, stocky man, balding already in his mid-thirties. He tapped his radio earpiece that was conspicuously clamped around one ear, frowning as he searched the loud room of excited guests for his boss.

  He rushed his way through the players and tables when he spotted Jason, nearly bumping into the cocktail waitress who stood with the casino owner.

  Jason looked to him, in the middle of rearranging the few glasses of drinks on Pearl’s tray.

  “I thought casino owners worked on the tenth floor and only came down if there was a fire,” she said, giving Jason a toothy smile, “or to count money. Hey!” she chirped as Benjamin knocked into her. “Didn’t see you there.”

  Benjamin ignored the reference to his height.

  Jason gave her a grin. “Surprising, ain’t I, Pearl?”

  Benjamin looked between them, flustered and nearly out of breath. He looked to Jason, his no-nonsense expression already erasing Pearl from the vicinity. “Channel Three’s here.”

  The appointment had slipped his mind. “Christ, I forgot. I'll take it in my office.” He gave a quick glance around the game floor, nodded with content, and started off through the milling players. Benjamin followed.

  They left the floor and followed a corridor tucked away behind the waitress’s lounge to where Jason’s private rooms were housed. He liked to be in touch with the floor, but he also liked to step away from it quickly. He allowed himself that.

  The doorway to his office was open and inside the television crew had already set up. The usually posh room of tall walnut paneling, deep hunter green carpeting and rich leather upholstery was cluttered with lighting and sound equipment, and four people were standing there, waiting.

  Jason recognized which was the reporter easily. She was dressed impeccably in a navy skirt and cream silk blouse, hair perfectly coifed, microphone in her hand as she checked her make-up in a compact. She looked to him as he and Benjamin entered the room. She smiled, snapping the compact shut.

  Before she could speak, he gestured to where a couch, settee, and upholstered armchair formed a horseshoe with the floor lamp and baccarat table to one side.

  “Can we sit down for this?”

  She nodded. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Newhart.”

  He gave her a dazzling smile. “Call me Jason, Ms...?”

  Her smile turned genuine. “It’s Fawna Kline. Just Fawna.”

  He chuckled.

  She managed to blush as they settled at the armchair and couch. The sound, camera, and lighting crew followed, adjusting the equipment. Jason looked to Benjamin as his walkie-talkie crackled.

  An urgency lent the floor manager’s face, as it so often did. He looked to Jason. “Gotta go.”

  Jason gave him a nod and Benjamin pushed through the television crew and left the room.

  Fawna sat at the couch and turned her legs to her side, crossed at her slender ankles, smiling at Jason as the sound man took her microphone. “Do you mind if we start at one possible beginning?”

  He grinned. “That’s one way to put it.” He looked to the cameraman as he gave them a countdown. A microphone angled overhead from the sound man extending it by pole.

  “We’ll add in the intros later,” Fawna told Jason. “The producer likes to punch those in after he sees the early clips. We’re going live, Jason.” Her smile brightened as the cameraman pointed to them. “Is it true that you built this casino with gambling money?”

  Jason nodded. “Yes. I won one hundred-percent of the seed capital.”

  “How much was that?”

  “Over ten million. All legal.”

  “Very impressive,” she said, her smile dazzling. “You teach gambling here, don’t you?”

  “Not really, but we do have some rather famous strategy sessions for our visitors,” he clarified. “They can meet and practice with some of the top poker players in the world. We host several competitions annually.”

  “Strategy sessions? Why do you do that?” she asked leadingly.

  “Well, I guess I have strange views when it comes to gambling,” he admitted, setting one arm on the chair rest. “You see, I think everyone gambles - on Wall Street, when they open a business, even when they work in a job – there’s always risk. Gambling just puts risk out there on the table. It is a more honest, out front type of risk-taking.”

  “I saw an interview where you actually said that gambling could be good for people. How is that possible?”

  He recalled the interview she referenced. “Gambling, if practiced rightly, can build character. For instance, I built this casino using gambling money, but every penny of it was residual.”

  “How did you make a living before all this?” she posed, gesturing to the cases lined with African and Egyptian artifacts against one wall.

  “Originally, I was actually a teacher at the US Army War College,” he said, chuckling as a look of mild surprise claimed her face. “You didn’t know that, I see. I taught war strategy. A global, far-reaching sort of game theory, if you will. If that isn't risk-taking, I don't know what is. Later on,” he said, jumping ahead to less invasive topics, “I wrote novels.”

  Fawna warmed to the more approachable subject. “Novels about gambling?”

  “Yes. I’m fascinated by gamblers. I made my first money from a little book I wrote called Riverboat Gambler. That launched my career.”

  She nodded. “But you hit a home run with Sergeant Croupier?”

  “Yes. It was about a soldier. Yeah, it went over big in the Pentagon,” he said. “Total fantasy, of course. Then again, people in the Pentagon have a lot of imagination. But they knew one of their own wrote it, and it was a kick to see it catch on.”

  “That helped you with The Crib project?”

  “Oh, yeah. That launched The Crib,” he said, the idea still a fond memory for him. “What I always wanted was to be a casino owner.”

  “You’ve had quite the varied lifestyle. How much did you make as a teacher at the War College?”

  “About 65,000 a year, plus benefits, but I only taught for two years.”

  Fawna was about to delve into another set of questions, these about his personal life, but Benjamin stormed in through the door, frantically waving to Jason despite the producer’s equally frantic shushing gestures.

  Fawna watched the miming between producer and Benjamin, and then made a cutting motion to the cameraman. She turned back to Jason. “We’ve got enough for now anyway, I guess, but I’d like to interview you again, perhaps –”

  “Jason,” Benjamin said, stepping past the cameras, lights and cables to the armchair, both the walkie-talkie and his earpiece squawking “There’s a woman playing roulette. She’s killing us.”

  The producer called for a wrap and the film crew began to pack up.

  Jason looked to his dramatic floor manager. Sometimes he wondered how Benjamin got through every day. He glanced to the brass and crystal clock over his desk. “We’re near death already, Benjamin? Hell, it’s hardly nine o’clock.”

  “She’s up to two-hundred thousand.”

  That got Jason’s attention. He gave Fawna a warm smile. “Call my office for another interview, Fawna. Have them set something up.”

  She smiled and stood up as he did. “Thank you, Mr. Newhart. Jason.”

  Moments later Jason and Benjamin were observing the roulette table on the casino floor. The air was abuzz, the crowd that had gathered at the table hooting and cheering as the slender woman in the black beaded evening gown called out numbers – hitting every one of them.

  For a moment Jason didn’t hear the clapping and laughing, the whirl and whiz of the wheel or even his floor manager’s persistent, l
oud whispering. His eyes were fastened on the woman in the satin dress whose curves made pleasant shapes of the beads at her hips, waist, and bosom. Her silver lace shawl had fallen over one arm, her shoulder visible in her sleeveless dress. His eyes went over the shape of her shoulder, the smooth slope of her neck beneath the curls of golden hair tumbling down her back in strategic tendrils.

  Tresses begging to be touched, in Jason’s opinion.

  A loud groan from Benjamin snapped Jason’s attention back to the problem at hand.

  He cleared his throat. “Is Chuck watching?”

  “Everybody is watching.”

  Jason held out his hand and Benjamin put a walkie-talkie in it. He held it closer, pressing the speak button. “What’s up with this, Chuck?”

  Through the general chatter on the security line came Chuck’s voice. “Don’t know. There’s a funny hop to that ball no matter how many times we have it changed.”

  Jason watched the table. Sure enough, the roulette wheel did have a strange twist to it, as if trying to settle in position for the ball, which also had a peculiar hop to it. He watched it spin, hearing nothing amiss in its usual smooth movements. The crowd around the blonde woman hovered over the table, watching, their collective excitement gaining in volume. Jason stood taller, watching the wheel.

  The ball made a few hops, then settled into a red pocket. The woman in the black beaded gown nodded, sending a strand of hair across her arm.

  Which somehow brought Jason’s attention back to her. He glanced to Benjamin watching him. He pressed the walkie-talkie button. “A funny hop? Did you change it recently?”

  “Four times,” Chuck said over the radio. “Inspected it each time. Got a new dealer, too.” A heavy sigh came through the radio. “Changed the rate of spin, then moved her to another wheel – the her is the chick winning out there – but nothing’s changed. I Stopped and looked at the video ten times already.”

  Jason looked to Benjamin, but spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Where the hell is Corky?”