He finds her without much effort, alone at a $25 blackjack table near the baccarat pit. She’s wearing jeans and a loose pink tanktop; her hair is up in a clip. She and the dealer—a stocky South Asian kid—have fallen into a comfortable rhythm, barely looking up or speaking, moving cards and chips. She’s playing two spots, with a nice pile of green and black in front of her. It looks like she’s given up on Stanley for tonight.
Curtis picks up a plastic cup of orange juice and watches from the slots, writing on the back of one of Damon’s SPECTACULAR! business cards with a hotel inkstick. Then he moves in closer until he’s a short distance behind her. She’s in good shape: back and shoulders well-muscled, posture ramrod-straight. Pro gamblers have to be athletes, Stanley always said; poised enough to sit for hours, waiting for the right cards. Curtis tries to remember how long the two of them have been a team.
The dealer—his nametag reads MASUUD—looks up at him. A minute later he looks up again, and Curtis steps forward, reaches into the pocket of his jeans. He colors in two hundred of Damon’s dollars and takes a seat a couple of spots to her right, far enough along the table’s curve to keep her in view. He keeps his eyes trained on the cards at first, but within a dozen hands he’s down to two green chips, and she still hasn’t recognized him, hasn’t even looked at his face.
On the next round she stands on a twelve and a sixteen with the dealer showing an eight; Masuud turns over a six, busts with a jack. If this was his joint, Curtis thinks, he’d bounce her right now. He glances over as he collects his single chip: she had four hundred dollars on the line.
Thanks, he tells her. That was a gutsy play.
She shrugs. Glad it worked out, she says.
How you doing tonight?
She doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t look up at all. I’m doing okay, she says. And yourself?
Not too good tonight, Curtis says. Can’t seem to get anything started.
Well, she says, meeting his gaze at last. I hope your luck changes. Her face is blank. She turns back to her cards.
Three rounds later he’s wiped out. He tokes Masuud with the last bill in his wallet and retreats, hiding in the slots again. He thinks about going to the cage—cashing one of Damon’s traveler’s checks, coming back—but he doesn’t want to lose sight of her, and at this point he’s pretty sure he can wait her out. It’s nearly four a.m. The casino is still hopping; he keeps forgetting it’s the weekend.
He stops at the Oculus Lounge to get icewater for his empty cup. As he steps back onto the carpet, he sees Masuud clap out, receive his toke, and go. A middle-aged Filipino woman takes his place: the graveyard shift coming on. Stanley’s girl plays a few more rounds—out of courtesy, and to make sure the new dealer isn’t running cold—then gets up, stretches impressively, and heads toward the cage with her chips.
He waits for her to cash in, tracks her through the tables, and falls into step beside her as she approaches the slots. Coming up on her left. Hello again, he says.
She glances over, flashes a thin smile. Doesn’t slow down.
Looks like you did pretty well tonight, Curtis says.
Yeah.
You win everything on blackjack?
Yeah, she says. Hey, listen—I’m not looking for any company tonight. Okay? No offense.
None taken. You’re Veronica, right?
She jerks to a halt. He steps into her path, turns to face her. Her hands come up, then move to her hips. Excuse me? she says.
Can I talk to you for a second?
What is this? she hisses, her lip curling into a sneer. You’re security? Jesus. Okay, I want to see some ID, and I want to talk to the shift boss, because this is bullshit.
Curtis backs up a step, palms out. I’m not security, he says.
Then what is this?
You don’t remember me, do you?
She looks at him. Squinting, like it’s dark, like they’re underwater. Then her eyes widen, go to his jacket, his belt. Her pupils dilate. Blood flees from her face.
Hey, listen, he says. I’m not—
You’re from back East. Atlantic City. Right?
He shakes his head. Not AC, he says. Philly.
She’s shrinking away: shifting her weight, not backing down. Quick, shallow breaths. So? she says. What do you want?
I’m looking for Stanley.
She snorts. Her eyes drop to the deck for a second, scanning the patterned carpet. Yeah? she says. Well, join the fucking club, pal.
You don’t know where he is?
I have no idea where he is. Okay? I haven’t seen him or heard from him in days. And I don’t know how to reach him. Understand? And if I did—if I did know—then you better fucking believe I wouldn’t tell you. You got it? Am I being clear?
Hey, whoa, ease up a second. I’m not—
Who sent you here?
Curtis blinks, confused. This sounds wrong, but it isn’t. Until now, he hasn’t thought of himself as sent.
Who sent you? she asks again. Who are you working for?
I—I’m not working for anybody. I came out here on my own. I’ve known Stanley for years.
Bullshit.
Okay. Look. I know Damon Blackburn at the Spectacular. He’s an old friend. And he asked me to help find Stanley.
She’s calming down now, more sarcastic than scared. Angrier. Really, she says. Damon Blackburn. Imagine that. Small fucking world.