THERE WAS A DARK PURPLE VELVET EMPORIUM in the midst of all the slot machines. A circular bar in the middle. Opulent couches around the perimeter. Heavy curtains around the place served to muffle the endless clinking, clanging and pinging of the slot machines. The waitress had long legs to go with the standard-issue cleavage. She poured serious scotch. Her name was Rebecca. I was in love. We had decided to make this the default hang. Anybody got lost, discouraged, too fucked-up to play, he’d go to the Velvet Hang. One or the other of us would show up, eventually. Pick up the tab. Provide commiseration. Whatever was needed. I settled for a dark corner of the bar. Can a circular place have a corner? Well, this one did, I decided. And I was in it. I called Butch’s cell. He’d just wrapped up his satellite. Qualified for the Main Event. Beat me to it. Damn. I’d never hear the end of it. A couple of investment banker types slid into the soft purple chairs at the table next to me. Expensive haircuts, tailored cargo pants.
