Page 50 of Serial Killer Games

CIRCUS

CIRCUS

Jake consults his phone. “Circus Circus is three and a half kilometers from here.”

He takes my hand again and leads me to the curb, where he hails a taxi. I squeeze tight. My nails probably bite into the skin on the back of his hand, but he doesn’t mind. He shoos me into the cab, and we peel up the Strip, Neil sitting on his knee, the silver token pressed between my palms.

We spill out in front of Circus Circus fifteen minutes later. Inside, the casino is cold and bright and loud. It feels like one of those sleep experiments. Will humans follow a normal circadian rhythm on their own in the absence of diurnal light signals? No. Absolutely not. We will drink and gamble and chase that next burst of dopamine until we drop dead from exhaustion.

Jake takes it all in with a dispassionate glance and looks to me. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” I say automatically.

“It’s just a token for the slots, isn’t it?” Jake says.

I know it’s for the damn slots. Jake tilts his head, and I follow his line of sight: an old-fashioned machine with a crank handle and real barrels for the reels, with Dolly Parton’s busty figure emblazoned on it. As a bonus, it’s Dolly from9 to 5.

A part of me had thought that maybe I would wander around until I felt drawn to a slot machine—theslot machine, the one my husband played. There are only so many of the old-fashioned token slots left here. But instead, Jake’s picked out a slot machine that winks at the two of us and our inside jokes.

It’s no matter. I have to lose this token and get this part of the evening over with. I slide it into the slot…and I don’t have to pull the crank, do I? I got rid of it. I’ve stashed my bad luck away in a game of chance, and someone else is welcome to it. It’s the cursed artifact in a horror film, and the bad mojo can go home from Las Vegas with them, not me.

“You forgot to pull the crank,” Jake says as I step away from the machine. Before I can stop him, he does it for me.

“I was going to leave it,” I say as the reels begin to spin.

“Why?”

“I was never much of a gambler.” Not like Neil. If Neil were here, he’d be able to tell me the house odds of every single bet at every single game.

Beyond Jake’s shoulder, one Dolly head rolls into place.

“It’s just a slot machine,” he says. “You put a token in, and if you win—”

Unbelievable. “I know how a slot machine works. I know how to play every game of chance here. Neil made sure of that.”

Beyond him, the second reel rolls to a halt. There’s something wrong with this machine.

Two Dolly heads.

“Do you?” Jake looks at me like he’s spotted a new and glamorous facet in me. He pans around the room, taking in the games around us. “Why don’t you like gambling?”

“Because gambling is fucking stupid. The system’s rigged.You can’t beat the house,” I say. It was all about getting the better of the house, for Neil.

You know how to beat the house, Neil?I said to him once.By not playing. That’s the only way to beat the house.I didn’t win more games than Neil, but I lost fewer at least.

Beyond Jake, the third reel slows. I close my eyes, and I must imagine it, but I feel another warm desert breeze—

The ringing starts, and when I open my eyes, I see three Dolly heads. Tokens spill out like oversized wedding confetti.

I cash out at the cage, robotically, where the cashier counts out the tokens and slides a single greasy hundred-dollar bill across the counter to me, the dirtiest transaction I’ve ever been involved in. I lead the way outside, and we’re off, into the crawling, sparkling night. I breathe deeply, huffing the night air, heart racing.

A little silver token of love from a dead man, carried in purse and pocket for seven years, finally flung out into this noisy, ugly wishing well of a city where the strangest things come true. Definitely not the wish you asked for. I miss the token. But I’m so relieved it’s gone. It’s the same feeling I had when Neil finally passed. I missed him, more than anything, and I was sorelieved—nobody ever talks about the relief. All the suspense and dread of an unpromising prognosis gone, and just pure, simple grief ever after.

“What do we do with his ashes?” I ask Jake.

“Not yet,” Jake says.

“What do you mean, not yet?”

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