Page 57 of Kill Your Darlings

Thom, enjoying the conversation but itching for a cigarette, said, “I would never say this to anyone else, but I dream about writing something really important. Like a great American novel, something that lasts for years and years. I’m not saying I think I can do it, but that’s what I want, if I’m being honest.”

“Maybe you’ll do it.”

“But you think I’m being silly.”

“No, of course not. It’s just not the way that I think. Besides, what good would a book that lasts forever do you? You’ll be dead and won’t get to enjoy it.”

“So what makes you happy?” Thom said.

“Everything. This, today, but also the fact that we can live our lives without fear. We have money and that means people can’ttouch us. I think you don’t understand that because you never worried about money. But it’s important. And we have each other. You’re my real happiness. As long as we always tell each other the truth, as long as we are committed to one another, we’ll be okay. Just because I don’t talk about it maybe as much as you do, doesn’t mean that I don’t love you fiercely. I do. I think you probably have no idea how much I do.”

“I do know. I love you fiercely too.”

“Sometimes I think I can really only truly love one person at a time. Growing up, I only really loved my mother. And now I only really love you.”

“You’ve stopped loving your mother now?” Thom had said it as a joke, but Wendy seemed to think about her answer.

“No, of course not, but it’s different. She’s safe now, and she has her dogs, and she has Alan. And now I have you.”

“What about ifwehave children?” Thom said.

“Well, we’ll have to wait and see what happens. You might wind up in second place.” She was smiling, then slid up against him, her skin cool. “I’m getting sleepy again.”

“Do you think we’d get caught if I crack the window and smoke a cigarette in here?”

“Probably, but it’s fine with me if you want to. Why don’t you go downstairs to the casino and have a cigarette there?”

“I can’t abandon you on our wedding night.”

“Trust me, I’ll be sleeping. You should go. Are you tired?”

“I have a second wind.”

“Go. Smoke cigarettes and have another drink. I’ll be here.”

Wendy was fully asleep by the time Thom had gotten dressed to go downstairs. She’d moved to her side of the bed and curled into a tight ball. He felt strange leaving her, like it would be bad luck or something, even though he knew, down deep, it wasn’t. But once he was in the elevator heading for the casino floor he felt flushed witha sense of well-being. It was his wedding day after all, and there are days in life that you are allowed to feel good about yourself. This was one of them. He’d made an honest woman out of Wendy, and she’d made an honest man out of him. Odd phrasing, that, but it made sense with them. As the elevator doors opened silently and he stepped out onto the humming casino floor, he allowed himself to reflect briefly on what they had done to get here. They’d committed grave sins—he knew that—but he also knew how much worse those sins would be had they not been in the service of love, of a grand romance. The well-being returned as he walked between the tables, stopping only to light a cigarette. He was thinking of heading to the same bar where they’d had drinks earlier but watched a roulette table for a while. He’d never played, but knew the basic rules from films and books. The players at this particular table—one couple, one solo man, and one solo woman, from the looks of it—exuded a little bit of the glamour that he thought he’d find in Las Vegas. He’d never been to a casino before this trip and his judgment of them was almost entirely formed by James Bond movies. He’d pictured tuxedos and evening gowns and not fanny packs and oxygen tanks. But maybe because it was late, the inhabitants on the floor of the Flamingo seemed somewhere in between.

“Can I get you a drink?”

It was a cocktail waitress holding an empty tray. Without thinking, he said he’d like a scotch and soda. She hurried off.

He stepped closer to the table to watch the action. The couple were most likely in their thirties and looked as though they were coming from a nice restaurant. Her dress shimmered in the casino’s lurid light, and he wore a white shirt unbuttoned to show a gold chain. It should have looked cheesy but he was indescribably handsome and the white shirt and chain showed off his black skin. The lone man at the table was older and was wearing a cowboy shirt with elaborate stitching. He was handsome as well, but in a leathery way,as though Joel McCrea had spent ten thousand hours in the sun. The other woman at the table was Asian, her long black hair streaked with silvery gray.

Thom’s drink came and he tipped the waitress well enough to ensure she’d come back and find him. He lit another cigarette and watched how the players spread their chips on the table in seemingly strategic patterns. Only knowing this game from the movies, Thom always thought that you simply picked a number, or else you placed all your money on white or black, and that was that. But up until the croupier spun the wheel the players would spread their bets around the board, often grouping them around a set of numbers. They all seemed to be winning on a fairly regular basis, everyone smiling, including the croupier. Thom finished his drink then took a hundred dollars from his wallet and stepped up to the table, passing the money across to receive chips. He told himself he’d play until the money was gone and then go back upstairs to bed. On his first bet he mimicked what the other players were doing, spreading his chips around in the high teens, making sure to put some of the chips on the lines between numbers. The ball dropped into the slot for Red 18 and the man in the western wear slapped him on the back. He was given what seemed to be about twice the number of chips he’d started with.

An hour later he’d had two more scotches and he’d amassed close to $500. Paul and Jasmine, the couple from Smyrna, Georgia, had taught him basic roulette strategy, although it seemed to be working better for him than it had been for them the last half hour or so. The Asian woman had left, but Jim Smith, the older man with the Sam Elliott mustache, had told them all that he’d just been diagnosed with lung cancer so he was out having a good time before it all came to an end. He was smoking more than anyone else at the table.

At three in the morning, when he was still up about $400, Jasmine convinced him that he should go back to his bride. “You’ll wantsome energy for tomorrow, and then you can take her out on the town with all that money you’ve made.”

“You’re right,” Thom said, but Tonya, the waitress, had just delivered another drink for him, so he decided to finish it, have one more cigarette, and make one more bet. Thom’s favorite number had always been 22, picked because of roulette, actually, that scene in the movieCasablancawhen Rick tells the young Hungarian couple to bet on 22 so they can get enough money for a travel visa. And it was a number that had seemed to keep coming up in his life, in mostly good ways. It had been the number of the room in Kokosing, Ohio, where he’d rekindled his romance with Wendy. It had been the number of pages in the first story he’d published in the Mather College literary magazine. The twenty-second of October was his mother’s birthday.

Drink finished, cigarette smoked, Thom pushed all of his chips, the whole stack, onto 22, knowing he was going to lose it, but thinking of how poetic it would be. He had come here to lose a hundred dollars. He didn’t need the money. Jasmine screamed in delight when she saw the bet while Paul groaned. Jim just laughed. The croupier waved her hand over the table to indicate that no more bets were allowed then spun the wheel. Despite the odds, it didn’t particularly surprise Thom when the ball bounced twice on the wheel and landed in its final slot, Brenda, the croupier, saying, with a little extra oomph, “Black 22, Black 22.”

1993

i

The event was sold out, but they had let in twenty or so ticketless people to stand in the back of the church hall. Thom had found a column to lean against. It obscured his view of the onstage interview but he could hear the dialogue—Martin Amis was being interviewed by the president of the Paulding Book Festival—and it didn’t seem to be going very well. The questions were longer than the answers.

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