The glass doors parted, and at once the smoky air greeted the grinning thief. His tattered suit loose and untucked, his face red, a silver brief case hanging from his gloved fingers. The flashing red/yellow strobes and whooping sirens welcomed him. He took a sniff to clear the mucus from his nostrils, and in doing so he took in a sample of casino air. Metallic, sweet. Blood. A savage impulse burned in his stomach and he danced over the nearest machine. He looked around. The facility reached to the stars with a dome of glass exposing the night sky. An interesting choice for a casino, but with the lights the glass became a pond of gold and crimson. He looked for a place to exchange cash for tokens, but to his suspicion no counter existed for such a purpose. In Fact, he saw no people. The only movement came from cobwebs hanging from machines. Enough electricity burned that he could see the alluring fountain of light around the casino from five miles away, yet it only attracted this sole runaway.
The thief named Dallas took a risk when he hit the brakes before the flaming gomorrah. He had been on the road for three days, only stopped to fill up his own gas canister, and for the occasional bathroom breaks. Even then he made sure his vehicle hid in an alley or on a country road. He wore sunglasses and a cap to hide his features from nosy strangers when he went someplace to eat. By the time he made it to the desert, sores bit into his ass and sweat burned a rash into his thigh as the fabric of his jeans chaffed the sweating flesh the entire way through Nevada. The car smelled of alcohol and vomit. He spilled Coors on himself and the cab reeked of the putrid beer. Dallas loved the taste of coors, but the sterile smell of alcohol turned his stomach. When his stomach became upset due to the gas station food he acquired, he fought it back, determined not to make another stop, and so he threw up on himself. The putrid odor persisted even as he rolled down both windows, and the sun glaring through the windshield did him no favors. Once he saw the halo of light, he wanted to reward himself. Take a break. Just one night in a bed, boozed up, and why not gamble a little. He took the case out from the trunk because he knew if he parted from it, then things would fall apart. Perhaps the car gets towed, he imagined.
The money belonged to one of his bosses back east. He escorted the money with one other made man with the intent of giving it to a crip that lorded over south central. Dallas kept his mouth shut and eyes off the money, but his mind toiled. Give 50,000 dollars to one of those hoods? I’d rather burn it. He ignored his ego, but When the two were alone, Dallas could no longer fight his impulses. He shot the other guard twice in the right lung, took the money, and drove off. The inclination to do so came from the same subconscious place that lassoed him towards the casino. Dallas planned nothing with the money but to get away with it. All he knew was what his heart told him. It raced when he wrenched the case from his companions dieing grasp. The made man choked up blood and in his last gargles he warned, “You ain’t goin get far…” before losing power and laying limp as a gutted fish. Dallas took the silver watch from his the dead body, got into his car, and sped off.
Dallas planted himself in front of a slot machine. A coat of dust gloomed over the reels. He wiped it off, ingraining brown and gray filth into the cracks and wrinkles in his palm. He saw no insertion slot, only an empty discharge plate and the lever. He took hold of the knob, but first scanned the symbols within. “How risqué... ” he remarked with disapproval at the barely concealed nudity of the French whores in red dresses, decrepit hags on mortician tables, full dress geishas sharpening swords . Each one illustrated with faded ink, their skin pale, and eyes blank and weeping. Even through the thick material padding his gloves Dallas could feel each notch the crank tapped across as he pulled the lever. The glassy dead eyes rolled away as the reels tumbled and blurred into formless spots. Lights and alarms celebrated his initiation. The illuminations stopped when the reels slowed. One by one they halted. French whore. French whore. French whore. Silver coins flooded the dispenser.
Dallas hollered in triumph, the echo reaching to the ceiling. He pulled the lever again. French whore. French whore. French whore. Another bucket of silver coins. He howled again, his spine straightening and his cheeks burning as his grin stretched to open mouth delight. He pulled the lever again, and the French whores morphed into into mono colored blurs. One by one they stopped. Decrepit hag. Decrepit hag. Decrepit hag. He screamed like a rock star, reaching into the overflowing dispenser and taking out the coins. He let them slip through his fingers. He reached back in, and took a coin out to evaluate the silver. He reached into his pocket and produced a quarter. Holding them close to his ear, he tapped them to together, and they made the faintest bell ring. Real silver. He reached again for the lever with drooling eyes, but stopped when he saw that the hag no longer laid on the mortician table in the same position like when he first sat down. She instead lay on her side, and the sheet covering her lay at her waist instead of her collar. Dallas leaned in, and saw that no blank spaces composed her eyes. Coins covered them. He looked down the carousel of slots. Each symbol shared this qualities. He compared one of the coins, and squirmed with he saw the same stamp illustrated on the coins. He stood up from the machine and looked around for a way to carry his winnings. A stack of buckets sat between each machine. He took one and filled it to the brim. Bored of the slots, and uncomfortable with the way the dead hag lingered with an artificial gaze, he moved on to search for a different game.
Leaving the slots he came to the main floor. All the tables sat unattended, covered in pyramids of dust and dormant cockroaches. He moved on until he found a game. A wheel divided into thirteen sections. No numbers, but phases. At the peak, a king with a jeweled crown, a golden scepter in one hand and a gleaming sword in the other. Purple gown, and a throne of splendor. Section by section as the wheel curved downward the phases illustrated the king falling, and in each one he lost more of his royal attire until he reached the nadir where a dirt covered peasant in rags pouted. Up the curve towards the peak, the peasant gained the luxuries section by section. He took hold of the wheel, and hurled it. The nail in the middle whistled as the needle ticked along pins on the wheel. The wheel stopped where it started, with the needle on the king. Dallas received another bucket of silver coins. He examined them and whistled, mindless with ecstasy, yet worn down by his own vibrance. He underestimated his fatigue upon entering. He sat at an empty table, and wished for a kickback. Before he knew it, a can of steaming coors tapped against the table before him, and he took it without noticing the croupier sitting behind his shoulder. A red tie, red vest. Firm cheeks, squinting eyelids pressing over sunken eyes, an immaculately hairless scalp. The divots and ridges of his skull exposed and highlighted in pools of light reflecting from the lights overhead. He came around, and took the dealer’s seat in front of Dallas.
“Thanks, croupier. How much do I owe you?”
“For you, sir, there is no charge. Nobody pays here. They only gain.”
“Sounds like a damn good idea to me.” he sipped the coors. Freezing, and foamy. The way he liked his beer. “But you know, winning all the time? It gets boring. There needs to be…”
“A risk?”
“Yo. That’s it. A risk.”
“There is one game here you might enjoy. Its one of my own design.”
“Oh, really? How is it?”
“It’s simple, really. You tell me three things. Two are lies, one is true. If I can guess correctly, it's my turn. If you can’t guess my truth, then I win. Do we have a game?”
“Sure, game on.” Dallas swished the beer in his mouth as he wrangled thoughts. “I dropped out of Stanford. I’ve been to prison, serving an eight year sentence. My father was a gunsmith.”
“And your wager?”
Dallas dumped the buckets of silver onto the table.
“That confident in yourself?” The croupier asked.
“I can always win more.”
“Very well,” the croupier said, slipping into deep thought. “You dropped out of Stanford. That’s your truth.”
“Wrong.”
“No, sir, I am correct. I should warn you that my bosses don’t like cheaters in their casino.”
“The truth is that I served eight years for self defense.”
“Don’t deceive me. You can’t convince me that you’re sloppy enough to get caught.”
“Fine. You’re damn right. No one” Dallas pointed his finger at the croupier. “Puts Dallas Sinclair behind bars. I’m too good at what I do. Get caught? Ha! Like to see a pig try.”
“I believe it’s my turn, sir. One: The penalty for cheating at this casino is immolation. Two: Immolation is cruelty. Three: Cheating is cruelty.”
“One of them is true?” Dallas took a drink, and took his time pondering while acting like savored the beer. “The third one.”
“Final answer?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Wrong.” The croupier smiled as Dallas frowned. With long crooked arms, the Croupier swept the silver into his own bucket.
“You bastard.”
“Don’t feel sore, sir. There is much-much more to win. Perhaps you’d be interesting in playing the slots once more.”
“No. There’s got to be something else. One more game.” He showed the croupier the contents of the suitcase. “I wager this. One more game.’
“Very well. There is one more game. One of my own design, but I warn you, this one is different.”
“How so?”
“It is dangerous.”
“That’s what I want to hear! Danger is my middle name. I’ve been driving, bored out of my gourd, been too long. I need some real fun.”
“As you wish. Please, come.”
The croupier led Dallas across the main floor to a heavy door in the back. There they entered a cold room that reeked of lubricants and oil. A confused grin came over Dallas as he walked ahead of the croupier. Picks, files, hammers, drill bits, wrenches, wedges all hung on a pegboard along the wall. Defeated safes, dented, their doors cast aside and contents robbed. In the center of the room, an untouched safe sat on a table. Dallas walked around it, curious as to what kind of safe had two doors on opposite ends. He looked under the table to see it bolted to the surface. He rubbed his hands together, and licked the corners of his mouth.
“Take a seat.” The croupier said, and they sat opposite of each other. “If I win, I get your suitcase. If you win, you receive your winnings back, and then some.”
“I accept.”
The croupier drew a .32 from his coat, opened the safe, and placed it inside.
“The game is simple. Whoever unlocks the safe, and shoots his opponent wins.”
“You’re done, I’m afraid.” Dallas laughed, taking off his gloves. “My dad was a locksmith. There’s no lock I can’t break. No safe I can’t crack. Been doing this for years. I’m the best.”
“We’ll see. Begin.”
Dallas made quick work of the safe. Fifty notches ringed the dial. He took hold of it with one hand, and pressed his fingertips on the sweating steel face. He felt every grain, every imperfection, every edge. A planet of steel pressed against each fingertip, and he soaked up the information searching for a change. He pressed his ear against the safe. The cylinder whined as he spun around like a pinwheel. He felt around all fifty digit, looking for the specific place a notch would align with the wheel behind it. On 48 he felt a touch of resistance, and began to roll the dial backwards. He felt the weight of the two wheels against the cylinder. The fence wanted to pop for him. He felt the third wheel along, and he started to spin the dial back until the fence snapped down. Dallas whipped open the door, took out the weapon and pulled the trigger. The hammer pulled back and clasped forward but the cylinder spun then to no thunderous explosion. The croupier dropped six bullets onto floor.
“You knew the combination..” Dallas protested.
“So did you. Still, I outmatched you. I could have a third party change the combination again, but I would still win, sir. Now, there is the issue of what to do with you. I have no personal vendetta against you, sir, but my boss, he doesn't approve of your like. Do you know what we do to frauds such as yourself?”
“I’d rather not.”
“We seal them in one of these safes, and we bury the safe in the desert. It’s a delightful way to die.”
The latch on the door behind them clicked. Dallas turned around, bouncing from his chair to pound on the reinforced steel. His palms slammed against the bullet holes that merely dented the steel. He hit so hard that one of his fingernails pried away and stuck inside of a deep scratch. With each strike another bruise colored in his flesh.
“It’s no use, sir.”
“We can talk about this,” Dallas breathed as if the air had been sucked from his lungs.
“I could talk to my boss. Perhaps he will have more mercy. Hell knows why.”
The croupier went to the corner of the room where a phone hung on a receiver. He dialed a number, and gasped.
“If you suggest, master.” He hung up. “Good news, worm. You will receive your winnings, any property wagered, and you will be pardoned for you transgression- if you can win at one last game.”
“Name it.”
The croupier gestured for him to follow. He opened a hatch on the floor, and gestured down a ladder. Dallas covered his mouth at the scent. The same savory iron as when he walked in, but strong enough to drive up his nostrils like a nail. He held his breath, and lowered himself. Rung by rung he slipped, each one humming a low tone as the heel of his loafers found the hallow steps. Once he found solid ground a relief came across him, but not a sensation of safety. His heart sank as he looked at the machine before him. Two fans fixed with two two blades that curved along the edge to a vicious point. Behind them a fence of piano wires. Dark red stained the steel, the floor tiles, and the walls around the machine. Even the ceiling.
The croupier came down
“The rules are simple.” He placed a stopwatch one wire behind the blades, right in the middle between them. “You have five seconds once the blades reach full speed. You reach in, stop the timer, and you win. If you can’t stop the timer in five seconds, you lose.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No, sir. I’ll go first.”
He flipped a switch, and a rusty screech filled the chamber. The blades struggled forward, gently pushing until the screeching ended and a soulless buzz resonated becoming louder and more aggressive as the blades gained speed. They spun around and around until the red stains blurred into waves of red and steel blue. The timer started. Dallas couldn’t see the numbers, but he heard the ticking of the gears throb between his ears. His neck burned red, and the veins pushes out like tremors.
One second. Dallas’s eyes widened as the croupier reached up to the blades, and paused.
Two. Dallas ran his tongue to his right molar from the left. He realized that he might not leave. The croupier watched the spinning blades, focused on their revolutions.
Three. Dallas bit on his tongue, his anxiety charging up and spine his spine. Sickness filled his stomach between freezing periods of paralysis. His desire for r&r went away, he didn’t know when but sure as hell, he didn’t have it now. He wished he would’ve stayed with the easy games, and left once had made those wins. The croupier closer his fingers together like a duck’s bill, but parted his fingertips so they pointed upwards.
Four. Dallas thougth he could still get away. He took a step backwards, unable to remove his sight, but his heart jumped towards the exit. Sweat trickled down his face. He didn’t want money anymore. He didn’t want thrills anymore. Its no joke, its no game. This shit is lethal. That croupier shot his hand in and like a liquid whip it retracted to his side with his fingers apart and free. He stopped the machine.
“The hatch is sealed. There is no way out until you win.” He took the watch and showed Dallas. 4.9998. “It’s your turn.”
Dallas approached the dark mahogany stains distinguished, the fluorescent bulb’s reflection stabbing him like indictable glares. He tried to adjust his balance, but the red stains below him gripped his feet. Little fibers like strings of raw hamburger crowned across his shoes until a moss of bleeding flesh cuffed his loafers to the floor.
The machine started to screech. The timer hung where it had been last time Dallas lifted his dominant hand, and at once fear and dehydration struck him with a cramp between his thumb and index finger. The blades went faster. He could still see them, but the cyclone of air ran gentle fingers down his short and through his hair, lifting the locks and dropping them in unstyled positions. The red stains blurred together as the blades spun into a pale flower.
“Start.”
One second. Dallas lifted his left hand. His fingers felt slimy and smooth. His lips peeled apart, and he took a quick breath as focused on what he needed to hit. His wrist looked so thin held out from his body. The hairs couldn't hide the dual knots of bone before his flat, white hand.
Two. The moment one blade dropped away, the adjacent blade would sweep into its place. Impossible, he muttered
Three. Impossible, impossible, impossible, impossible
Four. Impossible, impossible im-
Like a dart he fired forward. And no one would have believed that he had touched the watch, but it was the rolex he stole that caught the blade, and pulled his body into the merry-go-round of razors. A shower splattered the room. A mess spilled so thick that the meat and vessels jammed the spindles and the machine came to a screeching halt. The croupier wiped the sprinkles of Dallas from from his face and bald scalp with a cloth. He stepped around the butchered mess to take back his watch. 4.8997.
