Casino Moon

67

THE YELLOW NEON SIGN above the row of slot machines said REDEMPTION CENTER.

But why would anyone come here for redemption? P.F. wondered. All casinos were good for was taking your money.

The high rollers all flocked to the table games, leaving the slot machine games like Magnificent 7, Break the Bank, and Aces High to the old men and women who’d be here on a regular night anyway. These were people who’d spent their days in front of conveyor belts and video terminals and their nights in front of television sets. And now they expected a machine to give them something in return.

The men seemed more resigned to losing. They put their money in, pulled the levers, and watched the dials tell them something they already knew. But the women were full of hope and determination. Some played two or three machines at a time. When they pulled a lever, they put a lifetime of frustration into it. And when they hit a jackpot, they celebrated like it was the birth of a grandchild, jumping up and clapping their hands with glee.

Their joy was contagious. Between watching them and seeing Elijah fight on past his prime, P.F. felt oddly elated. What was the phrase his father used when P.F. discovered he was having an affair at the age of seventy-seven? Never too old to be bold.

He even felt encouraged seeing Wayne Sadowsky and two other beefy F.B.I. agents striding down the aisle of slots with great purpose.

“So what’s the good word?”

“You-all see a gentleman name of Anthony Russo around here?” Sadowsky asked briskly.

“Why? What do you want from him?” P.F. found himself feeling defensive about the kid. Especially after the talk they’d had about Mike Dillon this afternoon.

“That’s not your concern.” Sadowsky scratched his upper lip with his bottom row of teeth. “Do you know this young man?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

The agent drew himself up to his full six foot two inches. “Detective, this is a federal matter. Your cooperation would be appreciated...”

“Beautiful. Tell me another one. Last time I cooperated with you, I found out you’d been the one telling the casino people all this bullshit about me and Teddy. Why should I help you now?”

The left side of Sadowsky’s face twitched. “Because I will not hesitate to swear out a warrant against you if you impede a federal investigation,” he drawled.

P.F. went belly-to-belly with him like a sumo wrestler. “Fuck you twice.”

One of the other agents stepped between them. “Come on, Wayne. This scumbag doesn’t know anything. We’re wasting time here.”

Sadowsky backed away slowly, shaking out his arms and rotating his head, like he was ridding himself of some taint. P.F. belched defiantly.

“I just hope you’re not protecting this individual,” Sadowsky said. “Because if I find out that’s the case, it could make your life very complicated.”

“My life’s already complicated.”

The three agents brushed past him, with Sadowsky jabbing an elbow into his ribs. As P.F. watched them cross the casino floor and disappear down an escalator, he wondered why he’d had the brief urge to protect Anthony. He’d felt some paternal stirrings during their talk that afternoon. But no, to hell with that. He didn’t know where the kid was anyway. He’d only had the fight with Sadowsky because they hated each other and would do anything to screw up one another’s cases.

He turned to go out the Boardwalk side exit and saw that he’d previously misread the sign above the slot machines. It didn’t say REDEMPTION CENTER. A glass chandelier had been in the way. It was a COIN REDEMPTION CENTER, a booth for changing quarters into dollars. There was a waiting line of sallow-eyed gamblers grasping pink change cups, with their pants hiked up to their armpits.

Things were what they were, he told himself, moving toward the escalators. Only a fool would make too much of them.