Aurora(14)

Black, to Rusty, had always seemed to be asking for trouble. It was the color of night, of death, of darkness and defeat. Then again, Black is Beautiful, Black Don’t Crack, and Black Panther was an awesome movie. But he knew that was superstitious thinking, which is what usually steered him over to red, until he started thinking of Blood Red, the Red Menace, and Red Tide, which was either a kind of ocean pollution or a Southern football team.

But today was going to be different. No waffling.

Rusty pulled into an alley around the corner from the front entrance, parking in a spot where, he knew from experience, he was less likely to get a ticket for the expired smog inspection sticker on his dashboard. The casino was even more crowded than usual, the general assumption among the gaming set being that they wouldn’t bolt their doors ’til the power was actually out. Rusty wasn’t so sure even that would stop business. Rusty figured the Lucky Star for the generators-and-armed-guard type of concern if things went dark. There was too much money to be made.

It was busy today, for sure, a lot of last hands being played, and the big-screen TVs all around the place were tuned to sporting events. Unless you knew already, you’d have no idea that ten thousand billion metric tons of highly charged coronal mass were headed toward the earth at just over six million miles per hour.

As Rusty came into the place, Espinoza, all six foot three inches of him, was coming right toward him down the center aisle. Rusty saw him first, turned away, and ducked into a row of slot machines. Espinoza worked for Zielinski, Rusty owed Zielinski well over ten grand, and the nasty little Polack expected his five hundred a week, every week. It had been almost a month since Rusty had made so much as a good-faith payment. Zielinski wasn’t Chicago Outfit, and he never would be—he wasn’t Italian—and he overcompensated for this lack of criminal standing by being a vindictive dick. On his bad side you did not wish to be.

Espinoza had some other unlucky bastard by the elbow, a Hispanic man who looked pretty bummed out, and the big guy was escorting him from the premises. But Rusty’s luck was bad, as usual, and Espinoza spotted him in between two Slots O’ Fun machines.

“Don’t be rude, Rusty.”

Rusty turned, feigning surprise and delight. “Hey E, what’s up? Didn’t see you there.”

Espinoza didn’t bother addressing the obvious fiction. “You park in the alley where you always do?”

Rusty narrowed his eyes, trying to think fast. Did they want his truck? ’Cause that would be fucked up and seriously impair his ability to earn. He sorted through a few options for how to express that, but Espinoza cut him off.

“Just give me the keys. I gotta borrow it.”

“Where you going?” Rusty’s eyes darted to the Hispanic guy, whose afternoon had turned sharply for the worse.

“Nowhere. Z has to explain things to my man here. Let him use your truck, just to sit in. Ten minutes.”

Rusty looked at the Hispanic man again, but the guy wouldn’t meet his eyes. He fished his keys out of his pocket, thought about promising Espinoza he’d give $1,000 of his theoretical winnings to Zielinski on his way out to buy time but bit back on that impulse. If nobody asks, for the love of God don’t offer.

He held the keys out to Espinoza. “Seriously, ten minutes. I’m just here for a quick hitter.”

“Sure, that’ll go great.” Espinoza took the keys from Rusty and headed for the exit, his charge in tow. Rusty watched them go, finally catching eyes with the Hispanic guy. It’s your day, fucker, not mine.

Rusty cruised past the poker tables, no time for his usual game, five-ten Texas Hold ’Em. Today was going to be a surgical strike, three spins of the roulette wheel. He picked a nearly empty table, always his preference. He firmly believed that good luck couldn’t rub off on you from others but bad luck was a deadly plague that spread through the air. He chose a table with a slightly hot lady croupier, also a prerequisite of his, not for reasons of luck but just because he preferred good-looking women to cranky-looking men. He waited ’til she spun the wheel and sent the ball on its way, then he pulled four clammy hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, folded them the long way with a snap, and set them confidently on the black square.

“Four hundred plays,” the croupier announced, and, hey, her voice was even prettier than her brown eyes. She looked up at him and smiled. “Good luck, sir.” And she liked him! Maybe, who knows, if he hits this, he goes home with a new blackout buddy, he thought. You never know. Women didn’t treat him like they used to a few years ago—Rusty sometimes thought it would have been easier to never be good-looking at all than to have been good-looking once—but they still liked winners, and he was about to be a winner.

The wheel slowed, the ball dipped, bounced around the steel-edged slots, landed briefly in red 19, and then leapt, as if discontent, the hell out of that loser space and settled contentedly into black 26, where it stayed.

“Black wins.”

You bet your cute ass it does, Rusty thought. He was surprised at his relative calm at this good fortune. His heart didn’t skip a beat, he didn’t pump a fist in the air, he didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He’d known he was going to win, and watching it happen was an almost clinical experience. Interesting. Maybe the start of something.

The croupier set four black chips on top of his four hundred-dollar bills with a satisfying click, then scooped the losing bets off the table. Rusty stared down at the green felt, where his now eight hundred dollars lay still. The croupier spun the wheel, picked up the ball, and looked up at him. Rusty just nodded. Let it go.