Essex and Dead Bob see my relief approaching our craps table before I do. I’m watching the cocktail show crowd spill out, wondering who would pay good money to see a singer who hasn’t had a hit in a decade.
“Pit office,” the new guy says as he taps my shoulder.
Once the dice stop rolling, I call the number, gather them in the crook of my stick, bring them to the center of the game. “Shooter is three to your right,” I tell my replacement and clap my hands once to show observation that the only thing I’m removing from the game is myself. “He’s all yours,” I tell Bob and Essex who love to pimp any dealer new to our crew. But they’re not smiling. Their pinched looks reflect their distrust of the pit office.
Which is no revelation. Sometimes you get pushed out for a performance review and maybe a raise. But a slap comes more often than a pat. More often, some pit boss wants to write you up for breaking a procedure. Or for making a significant mispayment. Or for ruffling some player’s feathers. That’s my guess. Last night, I reprimanded a player for pastposting bets on my blind side. This guy purposely waited until I was bent over the game paying other bets before laying down a bet and then claiming that I hadn’t paid him. When I told him all winning bets had been paid, he protested. Loudly. Short men always do.
I climb the thirty-six steps to the pit office wondering just who this guy complained to and how big his credit line is. I stop for a drink of water at the cooler by wardrobe. A new thought. Maybe they’re going to tell me I’ve finally been promoted to the floor supervisor position that was posted a month ago. They’ve already turned me down twice. The first time, they said I needed more experience and suggested I learn another game. I learned two, roulette and pai gow. The last time, my shift boss told me they were looking for someone more assertive, someone willing to use his spurs.
“You mean a man?” I asked.
“I mean a chief, not an Indian.”
I realize now that my shifter was testing my mettle, that he wanted me to respond, to act like a chief, so he could give me the promotion, but his words numbed me. They were just another reminder that all my life, people have expected me to be someone else. Even my mom. When I was twelve, I had a chance to make confession with the archbishop of our diocese during his yearly visit to our parish. I didn’t. It wasn’t that I was self-conscious, which is what my mother thought. I’ve never been that, even about my height. It just seemed that my lying three times, swearing twice, disobeying my mother four times, and coveting Marie Disotelli’s ruby ring were small potato sins unworthy of the archbishop’s forgiveness. These were anybody’s sins. My sins needed to be peculiar to me and disturbing to him. Not mortal sins. Just my sins. From him, I wanted absolution for something I’d never dare do again.
My mom was crushed. I had denied her the chance to show the other parishioners that a single parent could raise a penitent child. So she offered her own absolution, exacting on me the penance of civility. Even after I got caught stealing a wallet at Woolworths, she treated me with dignity, as if my reluctance to confess meant I was incapable of sin. Eventually, I felt perhaps I had done something profoundly wrong. Since then, I’ve assumed that every act carries the potential of sin.
The door to the pit office is closed. A test of my assertiveness? I suck in my breath, put on my game face. If they tell me that I’ve been promoted, I won’t gloat. If they turn me down again, I won’t stew. And if I’ve been summoned for a write-up because the indignant player has a high enough credit line that my bosses have taken his side, I’ll accept the write-up without objection. Pat or slap, I’ll wear the same face.
Seated inside this windowless room are my shift boss, the casino manager, Larry–the pit boss who runs our shift, a house security guard, and two men who identify themselves as policemen. I catch myself tugging at my waistband, a nervous habit.
“Sit down, Elizabeth,” the casino manager says.
“Liz,” I say. I only let my mom call me by my full name. I take the only vacant chair. No one seems anxious to speak. I’m tugging at my waistband again. The security guard smiles at this.
“Do you know why we’re here?” one of the policemen asks.
“Are you speaking metaphysically?” Their looks of concern tell me I’ve said something stupid.
“Can you tell us what you did when you got off work last night?”
“I picked up my tips. I met a man at the bar. We went out for breakfast.” The security guard is still smiling. I fold my hands in my lap. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Was that gentleman William Cremens?”
What was my tell? I’m sure I didn’t flinch, but I’ve done something to make them shift in their chairs. “Yes.” Again, some of them squirm. “What’s going on?”
The other policeman unbuttons his jacket. He leans forward and speaks slowly, pausing pregnantly between each word as if it’s our little secret that Billy Cremens is dead. “He jumped from the top of the Sagebrush Savings Bank parking garage four hours ago. He was pronounced–” My raised hand stops him.
“Do you want a Kleenex, Liz?” Larry asks.
I shake my head no. And I don’t cry because I know that’s what they expect from a woman.
“Can you tell us about your involvement with Mr. Cremens last night?” the first detective asks.
I’m not sure because now Billy does seem like some Mr. Cremens.
“You’re not under suspicion,” he says. “This is just for our report.”
I stare at my interrogator to let him know this isn’t about civic duty. I sit up, grasp my hands, stare down the security guard, and tell them–some of it.
I tell them that Billy played on our game last night, bet his usual five-fifty across, bet his usual progression, press, same bet, press, same bet, won a little, drank one or two scotches, had a good time, tipped the dealers, left. I tell them that I always have a drink after my shift, but that running into Billy was accidental, not prearranged–though I wonder now if that’s true.
I tell them that we had a couple of drinks, that I never have more than two drinks, at least not where I work, before we went out to the Peppermill for breakfast. I tell them, yes, we did spend the night together but at my place, not in Billy’s room, that I’ve never spent a night in a hotel room with any man.
Larry nods approvingly.
I tell everyone that Billy left at noon today after showering, shaving with one of my razors, and fetching a change of clothes from the rental car he followed me home in.
“There’s no report of a rental car,” the second detective tells the first who writes this down.
They want to know: Did Mr. Cremens say or do anything that seemed irrational? Did he seem morose or suicidal? Did he talk about death? What did we talk about?
“The game,” I say which puzzles them. “Craps. He wanted to know if his betting system was a good one or if he was beating a dead horse.” The word catches in my throat. “Is he really dead?” And if I shudder momentarily, it’s because I’ve caught myself feeling not sorrow or horror or pity, but relief that I’m not being accused of anything. Billy Cremens is dead and I’m playing blameless.
“We’re sending you home for the night,” my shift boss tells me.
“No! No. I’m okay.” I smile for them. I want to finish my shift.
The casino manager and my shifter look at Larry, not me, for approval. “Let her,” Larry says.
“Thank you, Miss O’Donnell,” the first policeman says. “We’re sorry to put you through all this.”
I want to ask them if Billy left a note, but I’m afraid my curiosity will be taken as an admission of implication. The five one-hundred dollar chips I found on my bed stand have already accomplished that. I stand up, nod weakly to these men, realize I’m dusting my hands as if leaving my game. “He was only thirty-four,” someone says. I make my way down the hall to the women’s room, clutching the wooden railing so I won’t fall. I wait until two cocktail waitresses leave their perches in front of the mirror before I choose a stall to weep in. Billy told me he was thirty.
Michael Darcher 