You Gotta Believe in Las Vegas
(an
excerpt from the novel, Delusion)
by
Gary D Aker
Nothing smells louder
than money in the desert. Wandering through the casino, I see an old man working his slot machine, tossing down cheap bar
bourbon, smoking a cheaper cigar, going down the line of a twenty-five cent carousel, his eyes glance up for a second, look
like two rolls of quarters. He drops himself into the next machine, hopes it's looser than the last one was tighter than a
Christian Martyr. He wants a real whore of a slot machine, looser than his dentures giving way, again, from the tough Prime
Rib—only $8.99 at the Frontier. Change Girl's peering down on him from her catwalk platform in the middle of the seven
machine carousel.
She probably told him,
"These machines are payin' out ninety-eight percent."
And his bourbon-and-seven
dreams believed her loose-lipped smile, floating above a white-tufted blouse, scooped-necked like a dance hall queen, showing
just enough cleavage . . . makes him buy another roll of quarters . . . yanks the handle down. He hits a ghost stop staring
blank white into his soul's wearing thin in this grind joint.
Outside, there's three-hundred
marching employees on strike, some yelling obscenities at me—burping up Prime Rib and horseradish sauce.
"I only came here to eat,"
I yell back. Hell, it's cheaper than the Stardust, next up on the Strip, where I've been waiting in my room, ready to blow
my wad since I checked in at 3:30 p.m. It's 9:30 prime time. Money smells thicker than water, or blood, or sex in the desert.
You gotta believe in Las
Vegas . . . isn't a cheap high school date—movie and a kiss good night—like Reno, or Carson City, or Tahoe. Vegas
is the full-blown-epic-Elvis-orgy-of-excess, chips stacked higher than a nosebleed. And there ain't gonna be any, Kiss you
good night, tuck you in bed, till you've had it all—Had enough?—and the light is smashed in your head. You gotta
believe you're gonna hold a monster hand at craps.
"New shooter, comin' out,"
stickman says, raking five dice down green felt for you to take your pick of any two, perfect dice measuring three quarters
of an inch exactly. There can be no more than one ten-thousandth of an inch difference between the surface of the sides. These
aren't rinky-dink Monopoly dice. You are holding the fortunes of the entire table at Caesars. All eyes are on you . . . throw
the red dice down green felt, and bounce them off the black rubber-ribbed rail.
"Seven!" stickman calls
out. There's a buzz because a new shooter just rolled a natural on his first come-out roll. Players are jumping on the come
side, thinking, The table has finally turned and you're gonna have a hot hand, that brings some of them up from the ashes,
puts others over the top, and jams a few right through the roof—stack of chips higher than the first sweet kiss of .
. .
"I love you, baby," you
whisper to the dice.
"Shooter comin' out again,"
stickman says, raking the dice back to you roll a . . . “Four. Field Four. Hard way four."
Gotta make a four before
you roll a seven. There's three ways to make four, and six to make seven, so the odds are two to one against. You play the
free odds, back your line bet with another one-hundred dollars. You cock your golden arm. "I got seven passes in this arm
tonight," you say like you're the King of Las Vegas, and throw the dice . . . bounce off the rail and come to rest on silent
green felt.
"Three," stickman announces
your fate has been postponed. You start rolling point numbers chasing your four . . . you roll a six, a five, an eight, a
nine. Players are pressing down bets all over the field. There's a lot of money on the table and it's all riding in your sweaty
hand. With each throw of the dice there's no other thought in your brain but—a three and a one, a one and a three, or
two two's, there's three ways to make four and six to make seven. You never want to see a seven again, but if you make your
point, the first thing you want to see is a seven on your next come-out roll.
The whole game revolves
around the number seven, like the seven major planets, Sun through Saturn, seven days in the week, seven colors in the rainbow,
seven deadly sins, seven minutes for the average sex act to reach the foregone conclusion of the man coming. You want your
point to come so bad you can taste it grinding your teeth down like white dice.
"I love you, baby," whisper
to the dice, and throw them down the tunnel of faces.
"Seven-out," stickman
says.
And all the bright eyes
of the come bettors turn into murky brown pools—stagnant, unforgiving—like stale drinks, ice melted flat, waiting-to-be-picked-up-and-sent-back-to-the-dishwasher
eyes watching their fortunes sucked up by the house.
I shuffle to the right,
place a meager twenty-five on the pass line, hoping the next shooter can jack me up. But I'm still in Las Vegas, my bankroll
is fat, and you gotta believe . . .
"New shooter comin' out."
