The Only Girl in the Game by John D. MacDonald Page B

middle-aged, corseted, western-hero faggot, with a lisp hidden somewhere in his drawl, and a permanent expression of noble, enduring humility. The second was an often-married, stupid, lazy, arrogant, photogenic blonde whose sole shred of acting ability consisted of being able to take a very deep breath on cue. She had not worn well, but continual head-to-toe cosmetic surgery plus top cameramen and lighting specialists had maintained her in the role of pneumatic goddess to the pimpled set long past her time. The third owner, the one who showed up unexpectedly, was a famous jazz musician who hadn’t blown a note in years. Too many kinds of addiction and too many kinds of abuse had worn him down to a stunned half-world where an eighty-word vocabulary was sufficient for his needs, and he was carefully led around and displayed by nervous retainers who made a nice thing indeed off his old record royalties.
    At one noisy point in the evening, before they split up, Al Marta drew Max Hanes aside and told him Jerry Buckler had bought the new deal with no fuss at all. Max looked gratified and said he’d let Darren know.
    “Let’s bump that kid one more hundred a month, Maxie.”
    “Isn’t he making out pretty good now?”
    “There’s two things to think about. First, he handled this thing pretty good. Second—” Al tapped Max on the chest and winked at him—“the more a man makes, the more he’s got to lose. Right?”
    “You always make sense, Al.”
    “I think ahead. And because I’m thinking ahead, I’m telling you this. Don’t ride the kid. Suck him along. Do him favors here and there. I mean don’t change all of a sudden, because that looks phoney, but sort of come around gradual, so he’ll feel … you know, like obligated. Just in case you need a littlefavor, and need it fast, and Jerry is hiding in a bottle someplace.”
    “Okay, Al.”
    “Maxie, you got a lousy taste in garments, you know that? A color and a cut like on that jacket, it’s for a college boy.”
    “In my heart, Al, I’m young forever. You know, all we can take off the top this week is maybe twenty grand? And even that doesn’t depress me. Want to know why?”
    “Tell me why, Max baby.”
    “Because, Al baby, Homer G. Gallowell checks in here on Saturday, fresh and ready from Fort Worth. And we put a 200G bruise on Homer last time.”
    “So he can stay here, but why will he give us the play? Maybe he’ll figure this place is cold for him and take his bread up or down the line.”
    “I know the way his mind works just like he had a window in his head, Al. He believes in the law of averages. So we’ll get the play because, according to his law, we’ve got his money. I’ll even bet he’ll hit the same table and bet the same way.”
    “How does he bet?”
    “There isn’t any good way, Al, as you damn well know, but he goes for it the wrong way, doubling up on the losses. For a mark like Homer I’ll happily set a new house limit, just like last time. A nice brand-new big fat house limit that’ll make him very very happy. Then we lay back and watch the dice whip him again. Nothing in the world ever whipped him before, and he can’t take it.”
    “He gets all the red carpet we got, Maxie.”
    “Why waste your breath? I’ll check it out with Darren. If he wants a cruiser on Lake Mead, I’ll lay that on him too. If he wants a pair of twin Jap blondes, I’ll giftwrap ’em for good old Homer G. Gallowell.”
    “How big a party?”
    “Just Homer, like before. He’s maybe got the faint suspicion he’s being a damn fool, so he’s taking care nobody else he knows well gets to watch him.”
    “What’s he worth?” Al asked.
    “If it’s less than fifty million, I’ll eat his biggest ranch with a tin spoon.”
    Al clapped him on his solid shoulder. “So let’s take it all.”
    “We’ll take all we can get of it, boss.”
    At ten o’clock, while Hugh Darren was checking the front desk, Max Hanes said he’d like a minute