Michael wedged himself in between two white women in dresses that noted the bones of their backs. “Deal me in, man,” he demanded, fanning a handful of twenties. Sidney’s money, East thought. Fin’s money.
The dealer was the second black man at the table. Tall and prim with a silver clef on his tie. Neat. “Hey, brother,” Michael Wilson addressed him, more directly. “Deal me in.”
Now everyone looked up at this university Negro with his money hanging out.
The dealer pursed his lips; his politeness was contempt. “Please, sir. First you put value on a card. Then at the table you buy chips.”
The money levitated in Michael Wilson’s hand. His answer.
“This is not a cash game, sir.”
“Oh. It isn’t.” Not a question, a challenge. No one else spoke. “Okay, my brother,” Michael Wilson purred. “I see you in a minute.” He broke away, pushing between Walter and Ty, and East caught his look: humiliated. An acted-out sweetness, packed with rage.
Now East fell in beside Michael, got up shoulder-close as they walked.
“Mike. We got to get. You said a half minute. We ain’t supposed to be here.”
“Ten minutes, E,” Michael Wilson muttered, bulling high gear through the crowd. East glanced back at Walter and Ty, and they tried to keep up. Michael veered toward a spill of light jutting up: musical notes, blazing in turn, stepping up the wall into the dark. He found a service window, jailhouse bars over the counter, polished to a scream, and no one in line. Not a real window; like a window in a movie. Like The Wizard of Oz.
East caught up just as Michael put his hands on the white marble counter, the stack of twenties flat under his left. “We ain’t got time for this,” he argued.
“Sir?” came the voice behind the bars.
The cashier was not a young woman, but her cheeks and eyes were dolled up with glitter. She eyed them each in turn: Michael, East, and then Ty and Walter as they jostled in.
Michael Wilson faced the woman and lit his face up just like hers.
“I want one hundred dollars’ poker chips, ma’am,” he announced.
“Sir.” She inclined her head, as if reciting a rule in school. “You must be eighteen to enter, sir.”
Michael’s smile. “I’m twenty, ma’am.”
“Yes, but, sir,” the woman said. Patient, undeterred. “Are these gentlemen with you? Do they have ID?”
East watched Michael’s eyes: one flash. Then his smile hooked itself back on. “They aren’t gambling,” he said. “So, what? They can’t even watch? Can’t see me?” He laughed. “How I’m gonna leave my babies in the car?”
The woman took a step back out of Michael’s breathing room. She had decided. Michael saw it too.
Walter spoke first. “Mike. Let’s step out, man. We don’t want any trouble down here.”
East caught a movement from the direction of the card tables. A big blue suit with a headset was bearing down. A security guard, the size of a football player. “Now look out,” he warned.
At last something made Michael quit smiling. Now his strut became a hurry as he herded the three boys back. They skittered between the ringing machines, dodging players who careened, drugged, from stool to stool. But where had the door gone? Ty broke off ahead, scouting; East had lost his sense of direction entirely. Walter was lagging behind, and East waited up.
“Go, man,” he snapped.
“I’m going. I’m going.”
Something made him cruel, made him jab at Walter. “This is your fault,” he said. “First one out the van.”
“I said I’m going,” Walter panted.
The players saw them coming now, and they got out of Walter’s way, tokens rattling like chains in their plastic cups. East glanced back: the security man was cutting them room. But still he trailed, talking into a cupped hand.
A short whistle from ahead. They’d located the exits.
Past the first set of doors, they spilled out into the vestibule, piano music raining down. But now Michael Wilson had stopped, knelt to tie his shoe. East fished his keys out and slipped them to Walter: “Start the van.” The doors sucked air as the seals broke, and East caught a slice of the night outside, the heat and sound of motors. The guard trailing them had stopped near the doors. They’d done what he wanted them to do.
Except Michael switched feet, began reknotting his second shoe.
East couldn’t watch. “Quit stalling, man.”
“Ain’t the most family-friendly establishment you could ask for, is it, E?” Michael finished the knot and admired it before he stood. Cheery now.
“Mike, I’m gonna tell you something,” East began.
“East, man.”
The grin on him. It didn’t matter what you said. It just came back.
East faced Michael Wilson up. “How long you gonna take in there? And how much money you gonna spend?”
“East,” Michael Wilson purred. “Just a taste.” He sized his thumb and finger a half inch apart. Like a U in the yard—he wasn’t even seeing East. He was staring back through the inner doors. “Slots, man—you put twenty dollars on a card, you can play it in a minute. Might even win. I’ll let you play, man. You gonna like it.”