Read Online Writ of Execution by Perri O'Shaughnessy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Perri O'Shaughnessy
Tags: Fiction
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best she could do on short notice. Jessie wrapped her hair in the scarf à la a forties movie star. Enough of her face showed so that Nina could observe her fright, but it was Jessie who led them to the big double glass doors that led to the casino floor. Paul stopped her and forged ahead, indicating that Nina and Kenny should flank her from behind.
Their entry created a sensation. Everyone in the whole place had been waiting and seemed to know instantly that the big winner had arrived. All activity halted. Whatever they were doing, winning, losing, hoping, despairing, they paused to watch the procession winding around the blackjack tables and toward the elevators. Several security men caught up with them, adding bulk and gravity to the small group.
People clapped, slowly at first, then gathering energy. Boozy late-night faces came up, beaming. By the time they neared the elevators, they made a parade. A group of reporters poured out of the bar and started snapping pictures, and the security people made no effort to stop them. A dreadlocked kid with a distorted face darted forward—what had he meant to do?—but he was caught and bundled none too kindly back into the crowd before Jessie even saw him.
So this was how it felt to walk with royalty; the pleasure of the spotlight, the fear of the bullet.
The Palace At Four A.M., Nina thought, flashing to Giacometti’s surrealistic art construction. Anything could happen at four A.M. They were participants in a surreal happening. How was she supposed to know what to do? Security had sent several uniformed men to walk in front and keep the way clear, and here was a large grinning crew-cut man beside Jessie, taking her arm.
Volts of anxiety shot through her. She noticed something else behind all the glitz that she had never noticed before, a faint odor, corrupt and metallic and inhuman like the smell of a corpse in a rusty coffin. She had smelled it on her own hands many times after playing the slots, but now it seemed to pervade the floor. It was the smell of silver tokens. She wondered about those legions of hardworking people whose labor had won them a few minutes on the Greed Machine.
Shaking herself, she stretched her neck toward the ceiling, and followed like a dignified lady-in-waiting.
Or like a rat dancing after the Pied Piper.
Or like a member of a funeral cortege in New Orleans, following the band up ahead, the horns swaying in rhythm, the music half joyful, half a dirge . . .
At the twentieth floor, in a large glamorous suite, a group of men in dark suits awaited them. They descended on Jessie. Nina just had time to glimpse a mahogany bar laden with bottles and hors d’oeuvres, and another contingent of voracious eyes held back by invisible lines in the background, the reporters, who must be under orders not to take pictures yet. It wasn’t the food they were voracious about. If Jessie could keep her Grace Kelly thing going with the shades and her hair covered, she might be unrecognizable in tomorrow’s papers.
Introductions were made, accompanied by bone-crushing handshakes all around. In rapid succession, Nina met seven smiling men, all masking various degrees of fatigue and discomfiture. She forced herself to concentrate, to get the names and faces straight.
John Jovanic, vice president of hotel operations for Prize’s, was the crew-cut man, jowly and jolly, in his forties, fingering his wide tie, radiating goodwill. But his eyes were too small and his heartiness wasn’t quite convincing. When he looked at Jessie, Nina thought she saw envy or worse.
Thomas Munzinger of the Global Gaming Corporation jackpot response team came next, tanned and seamed like the Nevada rancher he probably was, straight out of an old Marlboro ad. There was a hard direct challenge in the eyes above the smile. He said, “So she brought a lawyer.”
Nina smiled too. “Just along to enjoy the show.”
“What is she so worried about?” Munzinger asked.
“She’s not
Their entry created a sensation. Everyone in the whole place had been waiting and seemed to know instantly that the big winner had arrived. All activity halted. Whatever they were doing, winning, losing, hoping, despairing, they paused to watch the procession winding around the blackjack tables and toward the elevators. Several security men caught up with them, adding bulk and gravity to the small group.
People clapped, slowly at first, then gathering energy. Boozy late-night faces came up, beaming. By the time they neared the elevators, they made a parade. A group of reporters poured out of the bar and started snapping pictures, and the security people made no effort to stop them. A dreadlocked kid with a distorted face darted forward—what had he meant to do?—but he was caught and bundled none too kindly back into the crowd before Jessie even saw him.
So this was how it felt to walk with royalty; the pleasure of the spotlight, the fear of the bullet.
The Palace At Four A.M., Nina thought, flashing to Giacometti’s surrealistic art construction. Anything could happen at four A.M. They were participants in a surreal happening. How was she supposed to know what to do? Security had sent several uniformed men to walk in front and keep the way clear, and here was a large grinning crew-cut man beside Jessie, taking her arm.
Volts of anxiety shot through her. She noticed something else behind all the glitz that she had never noticed before, a faint odor, corrupt and metallic and inhuman like the smell of a corpse in a rusty coffin. She had smelled it on her own hands many times after playing the slots, but now it seemed to pervade the floor. It was the smell of silver tokens. She wondered about those legions of hardworking people whose labor had won them a few minutes on the Greed Machine.
Shaking herself, she stretched her neck toward the ceiling, and followed like a dignified lady-in-waiting.
Or like a rat dancing after the Pied Piper.
Or like a member of a funeral cortege in New Orleans, following the band up ahead, the horns swaying in rhythm, the music half joyful, half a dirge . . .
At the twentieth floor, in a large glamorous suite, a group of men in dark suits awaited them. They descended on Jessie. Nina just had time to glimpse a mahogany bar laden with bottles and hors d’oeuvres, and another contingent of voracious eyes held back by invisible lines in the background, the reporters, who must be under orders not to take pictures yet. It wasn’t the food they were voracious about. If Jessie could keep her Grace Kelly thing going with the shades and her hair covered, she might be unrecognizable in tomorrow’s papers.
Introductions were made, accompanied by bone-crushing handshakes all around. In rapid succession, Nina met seven smiling men, all masking various degrees of fatigue and discomfiture. She forced herself to concentrate, to get the names and faces straight.
John Jovanic, vice president of hotel operations for Prize’s, was the crew-cut man, jowly and jolly, in his forties, fingering his wide tie, radiating goodwill. But his eyes were too small and his heartiness wasn’t quite convincing. When he looked at Jessie, Nina thought she saw envy or worse.
Thomas Munzinger of the Global Gaming Corporation jackpot response team came next, tanned and seamed like the Nevada rancher he probably was, straight out of an old Marlboro ad. There was a hard direct challenge in the eyes above the smile. He said, “So she brought a lawyer.”
Nina smiled too. “Just along to enjoy the show.”
“What is she so worried about?” Munzinger asked.
“She’s not
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