The word MARQUIS, in that same elaborate style he’d seen on the check, made a mosaic on the tiled floor as he entered. The music was hard rock, and then it was Lady Gaga, “Bad Romance”. Rader looked ahead to a tall lady in a dark jumpsuit, low cut, hair spraying her shoulders and an ivory purse in her hand. Her eyes landed on his, as Rader walked towards the casino.
Lining the edges of the casino, sometimes strolling among the crowds, were burly, suited guys. Some wore wrist mics, others carried walkie-talkies. Several stood watching from a mezzanine floor above the blackjack tables. Rader moved slowly, pausing at a roulette table to survey some action, before moving on. He did this for ten minutes and then he stopped by a piano bar with an Italian name. Three sweeping corner steps led up past a lady who was playing Sinatra songs on a Steinway. Rader ignored the eyes of a six-foot blond lady at the bar as he ordered whiskey.
‘You’ve just arrived,’ she said, ‘and you’re exploring. Tell me: How does a man choose when everything in his world looks like fun?’
Rader glanced, sipped his drink. The same girl he saw minutes ago in the dark jumpsuit. ‘You got me,’ he said.
‘I can read your mind.’
Rader took another drink.
‘I’m trying to be friendly,’ she said.
‘Is everyone here as friendly, or did I just luck out?’
‘I can leave you alone, if you’d prefer.’
‘Why don’t you try reading my mind?’
‘Maybe I’d rather not know.’
Rader glanced around, seeing no obvious eyes on them. ‘Did I imagine it or were you looking for someone when I walked through the door tonight?’
‘You don’t look like the imaginative type.’
‘Do I look like the lucky type?’ Rader said.
‘I thought I’d be the one asking the questions.’
Rader said, ‘Who for?’
‘I keep waiting and you still don’t offer me a glass of something.’
Rader nodded at the bartender.
‘Champagne cocktail,’ she said.
Rader left twenty bucks on the bar top. He said, another look around—still no obvious eyes—‘I asked you who for?’
‘Me, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Now you’re getting it,’ she said. ‘I bet you like to gamble.’
‘Sometimes.’
Smiling at him as the bartender laid down the glass. ‘See? I can tell these things. Now, what’s your name?’
Rader said nothing. The music had stopped outside in the casino. He heard “Moon River” from the piano for a moment, among the voices.
‘You don’t want to tell me your name?’ she said. ‘Isn’t this so glamorous? Don’t you feel happy just being here?’
Rader had seen enough hookers in action to recognize the scattershot style of conversation. His eyes found her in the mirror that stretched across the rear of the bar. Now he looked past the bar, past the couches and groups and ice buckets, back into the casino. Rader saw Skylar Marquis on the walls. Giant, framed photo portraits surrounding the casino. He wondered how he didn’t see that before.
‘You don’t talk much, do you?’ she said.
Rader said, ‘You remember the old place?’
‘Not at all. I’m Alice, by the way.’
‘That’s your real name?’
‘Real enough.’
‘You from out of town, Alice?’
‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Who do you know in here?’
‘Back to those questions. Does everything have to mean something?’ Her voice sounded different. Harder maybe.
‘You’re one of two things. I’m getting bored trying to work out which.’
She sighed.
‘All right, who do you know,’ Rader said, ‘that allows this? What you’re doing right now. Nothing’s by chance in here, except the dice and the cards, and even then the house loves those odds.’
‘I’m just Alice in Wonderland.’
Rader moved away. ‘Enjoy the drink.’
‘Wait up,’ she said.
Rader kept walking, eyes first on the crowds, and then on those giant gilt-framed pictures of Skylar. He guessed that each photo portrait was at least ten feet high. Skylar, always suited, always smiling, lips sealed, not a line on his face. Variations of that smile in each pose, his eyes appearing to gaze down warmly, like those of a beneficent ruler whose curiosity in his subjects’ playtime should not be mistaken for meddling. Rader kept moving, and every angle, every nook seemed to fall under those eyes.
Ahead was the first passageway he’d found that led away from the casino. A group of suited men were walking down there near some gold elevators. Rader only caught a half-second glimpse, but he saw the broken noses, and heard New York accents. He slowed, as two more men emerged from a recess and stared at him. One of them extended a hand, open-palmed, and walked forward.
‘Room key and identification,’ he said. Still the open palm. ‘Let me see the key first, then we’ll deal with who you are.’
Rader pointed at the walls. ‘Admiring the décor. Now I’m leaving.’
The man was smiling, but the second man just stared. ‘Admire it by all means. But not down here,’ the man said, and did not move. ‘This is private. Who’re you with?’
‘No one at all.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘I told you I was leaving.’
‘You better.’
Rader turned back towards the casino.
‘Be good for your health if you did,’ the other man said.
Passing the piano bar he saw the blond, who still watched him, and kept walking to the doors. Down past the fountains, catching the spray on his neck. Out to Wilkinson Avenue now, alone, then crossing the street, back through the fence into the dark. Just the light from the moon to show the debris at his feet. The crunching of glass as he walked past bricks and beer cans, and then another sound too—he turned and saw nothing but shadows bundled into the darkness. Those sweat beads forming all the time on his brow, dripping as he started walking again. Then the outline of the fence ahead of him, hanging there, torn.
Rader stepped out through the gap onto the sidewalk. He reached the Flyaway fifteen minutes early. It was no busier than before. Two of the construction guys were still at the bar, and a few tables and booths were occupied. The barmaid was gone, a younger woman in her place. He walked over and told her he wanted a beer, and then looked around the room as she poured it. There, on a couch on the opposite side, was another smiling blond. Rader took his glass and moved across.
She was pushing fifty, and the collagen in her lips was breaking the skin. Her face was plaster of Paris with lip gloss and a blond wig. Her arms rested along the back of the couch, hand towards her face, her head on one finger. She had an empty glass in her other hand, and she shook the ice as she eyed him.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I know you. I know all men.’
‘Scotch?’ Rader said, laying his glass on the table.
‘Jack, ice, cola. Double.’
Rader headed back over, glancing at her in the mirror.
He returned from the bar with her drink to find her sipping from his glass.