the Barahona beach “Bravado Beach.” The residents of the small city suspected the hotel had simply invented the name to try to horn in on the reputation of the far more successful and illustrious Bavaro beach resorts on the eastern shore of the country. Admittedly, no one yet had confused them, as far as the hotel administration was aware, but you never knew. Tourists were not that bright. Daniela herself had always wanted to check out the Bravado because the name of the hotel had intrigued her. The beach, she was disappointed to see, was no more lovely than all the beautiful beach that stretched along the coast of Barahona, and the casino was like every other casino she had ever seen, though these, of course, were few. Daniela didn’t like casinos. They were dark and closed in, so she couldn’t be seen, and, besides, she didn’t understand most of the games. Her money always disappeared quickly. She knew she wasn’t clever like Ben, although she noticed his money disappeared as well. Perhaps not so rapidly, but just as irresistibly. This one was like the others. Security guards were everywhere—watching you as you entered—watching you at every game—watching you as you left. Ben breezed right by them, but Daniela found them unnerving, and she crept by, hesitating. Daniela was a social creature and this was all so antisocial. There were no windows, no clocks, just individuals, each of them a tiny island of desperation in a sea of neon-lit darkness.
She and Ben had paused for a moment after they’d entered. They had found themselves emptied into the far right corner of the casino through the same revolving door from the hotel through which Basil and Star would soon come. Daniela didn’t realize it, but the door was wired to stop at the press of a button at any table if a dealer or a guard suspected anything amiss. It was a lot like entering a prison, though this one very plush. It had about the same number of security guards in proportion to inmates. To their left was a cashier’s booth. Ahead were the games.
“Let’s go check out what they’ve got,” urged Ben.
Daniela tagged along.
In front of them was a roulette table. It was automatic.
“Uh huh!” noted Ben.
To its left were slot machines and at the beginning of the line an automatic bingo table. Just beyond it were three blackjack tables presided over by the same number of hard-looking females who flipped each previous card with the edge of the next card.
“Oka-a-ayyy,” murmured Ben.
As the centerpiece of the room, standing in state, was a large, ornate, hand-spun roulette wheel. A half dozen people crouched over it as a slick-looking woman called the numbers.
“Hmmm,” mused Ben.
To its right, to complete the center, were two smaller roulette tables and then the rest of the gaming space was devoted to slot machines. One row had nautical names—“Blackbeard’s Treasure Chest” with a laughing Pirate generously opening his cache of booty toward all and sundry, “Pirate’s Mate” with an image of a scantily clad buccaneer-ess smiling invitingly, and many others of that ilk. The next row was themed to the ancient Near East: “Pharoah’s Daughter”—she was lounging seductively beneath a grape vine, “Rose of the Nile,” “Potipher’s Wife,” all obviously sharing with the “Pirate’s Mate” the same clothier. The third row was devoted to food—“Hot Tamale Sauce” and “Diablo Peppers”—suggesting to Daniela a bad case of indigestion. At two of these machines in the food-oriented row, “Hot Cha Enchiladas” and “Joltin’ Ginger Snaps,” a woman was losing twice as fast, playing two slot machines at the same time—each with one hand.
“Figures,” observed Ben.
To complete the room, on a raised platform next to the cashier’s table and running the entire distance of the right-hand wall until it broke off before a small service entrance, was a bar with a dozen tables scattered in front of it.
“This whole place gives me the creeps,” shuddered Daniela.
“Let’s try the blackjack,” said Ben. “The rest of this is all suckers’ games.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Ben, “you never see anybody leaving these machines with a smile on their face, and the same goes for the roulette.”
“You mean they’re rigged?” asked Daniela, shocked.
“Oh, no, no,” Ben countered quickly. “The houses are honest enough. It’s just that they have so many extra chances to win—so many unclaimed numbers and unmatched slot combinations.”
“I thought you came here to win,” wondered Daniela.
“It’s not about winning,” explained Ben. “It’s about how the staff treats you. Whether you have a good time—you’re treated well enough. The house always ends up winning. Only a loser plays these games of chance. Only the skill games are worthwhile.”
“I like roulette,” nearly whimpered Daniela.
“You would,” sneered Ben. “Lemme show you how it’s done. Come on.” He stalked over toward the blackjack tables, pulling her by the hand, as one would a child.
All of this Basil and Star were taking in intently. They couldn’t hear the actual interchanges, of course, but they were watching the facial expressions, the postures: who was talking and who was responding. Star, particularly, was sizing up Daniela—her short but tastefully in-style dark designer dress (a really expensive investment she had actually saved up to buy), her high quality amber jewelry, and her habitually lost girlish look—and said, “I think I’ll go and befriend that little lamb.”
“Lose something at roulette before you head over so you don’t attract attention,” cautioned Basil.
“Of course,” said Star.
While Basil ensconced himself at the bar, she strolled over to the nearer roulette table, played the number seventeen, then waited a bit, pretending to study the table while she watched Daniela and Ben with a well-honed peripheral vision. When Ben seemed absorbed enough in losing at blackjack, she played seventeen again, clucked her disgust, and then, mumbling audibly about trying something else, for the benefit of any guard who might be listening, she wandered over to the blackjack table, sidling up to Daniela. “I’ve been losing at roulette,” Star confided. “How’s your husband doing?”
“He’s not my husband, he’s my brother. He’s losing,” explained Daniela, adding, “He’s got a system.”
Star smiled her most confiding smile. “All men do.” She paused a moment, gauging how deeply Ben was involved. He was obviously in plenty deep. “You gamble yourself?”
“Heavens, no,” exclaimed Daniela. “I hate to lose.”
“So do I. I think I’ve dropped enough for today. Losing gets boring. I’m going to go get a piña colada. You want me to bring you something?”
“No,” said Daniela, “but thanks just the same. I’m really bored too. I think I’ll come over with you.”
“That would be nice.” Star smiled again, radiantly. “I’ll treat you to one.”
“Thank you so much,” said Daniela. “Ben,” she ventured, “I’m going to go get a drink.” It took three times before she could capture his attention enough to hear him mutter, “Whatever!”
Off she went to the bar with Star.
