yourselves?" Mary Beth asked.
"I'm enjoying myself," Piper said. "I'm just not enjoying him ."
Mary Beth glanced at Ben and saw him laugh quietly. She felt sorry for any boy who drew a sword against her sister. He had no idea what he was getting into.
"Can I trust you children to get along while Mark and I place a bet?" Mary Beth asked. "I'm pretty sure they won't let you in unless you're twenty-one."
"You can trust me," Piper said.
Mary Beth looked at the hapless male in back.
"Ben?"
"I'll be fine," Ben said. "Have fun."
Mary Beth laughed to herself. She didn't believe either one. She turned around and directed her attention to the street ahead just as Mark slowed down and pulled up to a curb.
"Are we here?" Mary Beth asked.
"We're here," Mark said.
Mary Beth looked at the club – a hole-in-the-wall tucked between a cigar shop and a café on Fremont Street – and wondered if they had come to the right place. Then she remembered something she had read in Old Las Vegas . Turf clubs in the 1950s were not casinos. They were low-profile businesses that operated independently from the gaming establishments and provided a service made possible by an act of Congress in 1951.
Mark turned off the ignition, set the brake, and got out of the Edsel. He stopped for a few seconds to let a taxicab pass, walked around the back of his car to the passenger side, and opened the door. He offered a hand to Mary Beth and gently helped her out of her seat.
Mary Beth appreciated the gesture. She couldn't remember the last time a man had done that. Even Jordan hadn't done that. He had opened restaurant doors and store doors for her all the time, but he had never opened her car door. This was, Mary Beth thought, a different time.
She joined Mark on the sidewalk and then took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from a jumper dress she had purchased in 2017. Even in cutting-edge, twenty-first-century Hollywood, a woman could buy something to wear in the 1950s.
Mary Beth and Piper had purchased two outfits each and planned to buy more clothes if their sojourn to the past extended beyond the weekend. Both had wanted to keep their options open.
"Are you ready?" Mark asked.
"I'm ready," Mary Beth said.
"Are you sure about the score?"
"I'm positive. Cal wins 71-70."
"Then I'll let you do the honors."
Mark retrieved his wallet, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to the woman in the light blue dress. He had saved the bill just for this moment.
"What do I do when we go in?" Mary Beth asked.
"Just tell the clerk what you want to do," Mark said. "He'll take it from there."
"OK."
Mark nodded, placed a hand on Mary Beth's back, and then escorted her into a shop called the Fourth Quarter. The two walked through a narrow lobby and finally entered a main room that looked more like an 1800s saloon than a 1900s bookmaking operation.
Mary Beth smiled as she assessed the place. Sawdust and scraps of paper coated the concrete floor like snowflakes on a northern Alabama lawn. Names and numbers, representing teams and odds, covered a large blackboard bolted to a wall. The smell of stale beer, cigar smoke, and sweat assaulted Mary Beth's nostrils. She longed for the air conditioning of the car.
Mary Beth examined the blackboard, noted the betting options for the title game of the NCAA men's basketball tournament, and stepped toward a counter, where a short, plump, balding man read a newspaper and smoked a cigar. Mark followed close behind.
"Excuse me, sir," Mary Beth said. "Are you the person who handles bets?"
The man looked up and placed his cigar on a tray.
"I'm Jimmy Smith, the owner. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to bet on the game."
"What game? Be specific."
Mary Beth looked at Mark, saw a smile, and then returned to the owner.
"I want to bet on the basketball game tonight between California and West Virginia."
Jimmy pushed the paper away.
"Do you want to pick a winner, guess the over-under, or bet on the point
"I'm enjoying myself," Piper said. "I'm just not enjoying him ."
Mary Beth glanced at Ben and saw him laugh quietly. She felt sorry for any boy who drew a sword against her sister. He had no idea what he was getting into.
"Can I trust you children to get along while Mark and I place a bet?" Mary Beth asked. "I'm pretty sure they won't let you in unless you're twenty-one."
"You can trust me," Piper said.
Mary Beth looked at the hapless male in back.
"Ben?"
"I'll be fine," Ben said. "Have fun."
Mary Beth laughed to herself. She didn't believe either one. She turned around and directed her attention to the street ahead just as Mark slowed down and pulled up to a curb.
"Are we here?" Mary Beth asked.
"We're here," Mark said.
Mary Beth looked at the club – a hole-in-the-wall tucked between a cigar shop and a café on Fremont Street – and wondered if they had come to the right place. Then she remembered something she had read in Old Las Vegas . Turf clubs in the 1950s were not casinos. They were low-profile businesses that operated independently from the gaming establishments and provided a service made possible by an act of Congress in 1951.
Mark turned off the ignition, set the brake, and got out of the Edsel. He stopped for a few seconds to let a taxicab pass, walked around the back of his car to the passenger side, and opened the door. He offered a hand to Mary Beth and gently helped her out of her seat.
Mary Beth appreciated the gesture. She couldn't remember the last time a man had done that. Even Jordan hadn't done that. He had opened restaurant doors and store doors for her all the time, but he had never opened her car door. This was, Mary Beth thought, a different time.
She joined Mark on the sidewalk and then took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from a jumper dress she had purchased in 2017. Even in cutting-edge, twenty-first-century Hollywood, a woman could buy something to wear in the 1950s.
Mary Beth and Piper had purchased two outfits each and planned to buy more clothes if their sojourn to the past extended beyond the weekend. Both had wanted to keep their options open.
"Are you ready?" Mark asked.
"I'm ready," Mary Beth said.
"Are you sure about the score?"
"I'm positive. Cal wins 71-70."
"Then I'll let you do the honors."
Mark retrieved his wallet, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to the woman in the light blue dress. He had saved the bill just for this moment.
"What do I do when we go in?" Mary Beth asked.
"Just tell the clerk what you want to do," Mark said. "He'll take it from there."
"OK."
Mark nodded, placed a hand on Mary Beth's back, and then escorted her into a shop called the Fourth Quarter. The two walked through a narrow lobby and finally entered a main room that looked more like an 1800s saloon than a 1900s bookmaking operation.
Mary Beth smiled as she assessed the place. Sawdust and scraps of paper coated the concrete floor like snowflakes on a northern Alabama lawn. Names and numbers, representing teams and odds, covered a large blackboard bolted to a wall. The smell of stale beer, cigar smoke, and sweat assaulted Mary Beth's nostrils. She longed for the air conditioning of the car.
Mary Beth examined the blackboard, noted the betting options for the title game of the NCAA men's basketball tournament, and stepped toward a counter, where a short, plump, balding man read a newspaper and smoked a cigar. Mark followed close behind.
"Excuse me, sir," Mary Beth said. "Are you the person who handles bets?"
The man looked up and placed his cigar on a tray.
"I'm Jimmy Smith, the owner. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to bet on the game."
"What game? Be specific."
Mary Beth looked at Mark, saw a smile, and then returned to the owner.
"I want to bet on the basketball game tonight between California and West Virginia."
Jimmy pushed the paper away.
"Do you want to pick a winner, guess the over-under, or bet on the point
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