I'd found the elevator and gone so far as to punch a button, when I realized I was too wound up to sleep. I was also reluctant to face Estelle and be treated to another round of self-incrimination. After six hours of time to brood, she might have regressed to the point of accepting blame for the unfortunate incident in the Garden of Eden, if not the annihilation of the dinosaurs or the Big Bang in all its cosmic splendor. Estelle is not one to take herself lightly.

It occurred to me that a nightcap might do the trick. I went to the end of the hallway and into the casino proper. It looked very much like the casinos I'd haunted a couple of times in Atlantic City. Acres of slot machines with bells and whistles promised instant wealth to players who'd long since gone to bed. Beyond them, the more sedate blackjack tables, a few sparsely populated. A group surrounded a craps table; volume indicated they were having a great time frittering away their hard-earned cash. Waitresses with skirts short enough to expose the bottoms of their buttocks glided between the tables, deftly balancing trays of drinks and empty glasses. Men in suits kept a prudent eye to make sure a good time was being had by all.

I stopped for a moment to watch an elderly woman on a stool in front of a slot machine. This was no one-armed bandit; the only thing required of her was to put a coin in the slot and push a button. She did so as if she were a robot on an assembly line, never pausing as the tumblers whirled or even glancing down when coins cascaded into a metal tray. Her face showed neither pleasure nor disappointment; she could have been feeding coins into a furnace vent. It seemed likely, if she kept up her rhythm, that her heirs would be disappointed when the will was read.

I continued in the direction of the blackjack tables. If the policy was like that of the Atlantic City casinos, drinks would be free to those who were gambling. A bit of cunning was in order. I found a table where two men were gazing intently at cards being flipped at them by a bored middle-aged woman in a tuxedo.

I sat on the stool at one end of the table and smiled brightly at them. "Is this what they call twenty-one?" I asked. "I used to play it when I was a kid, but I don't remember all the rules. Is anything wild?"

"Go play the slots," said a man with oily black hair and a cigarette dangling from his lip à la Humphrey Bogart. He scratched his fingernail on the green felt for an additional card, and then threw up his hands when the card, not to his liking, was tossed at him. "What is it with you dealers? Do you get a cut of my losings?"

I hoped he wasn't armed.

The second man, who had less hair but a kindlier disposition, nodded at me. "It's basically the same game, but it's called blackjack. In French, vingt-et-un." He nodded at the dealer. "Hit me, honey."

"Maybe I should watch for a minute," I said. "Could I possibly have a drink?"

"Drink!" yelled the dealer. She snapped down a card and waited without interest for further instructions.

A few minutes later, a waitress appeared at my side and agreed to bring me the classic Southern drink-a bourbon and Coke. When she returned, I tipped her a dollar, wished the two men luck, and slipped off the stool to walk off the soreness in my own decorously covered buttocks.

I headed in the direction of the noisy camaraderie of the craps table. People stood two deep around it, pressing against each other, cheering or groaning with each roll of the dice. At least, I thought, they were getting something for their money. When they found themselves back at work Monday morning, they could relate melodramatic tales of fortunes that had slipped through their fingers like fistfuls of smoke.

The drink was watery, but it seemed to be easing the taut muscles in my neck and back. I was beginning to feel as though I might be able to fall asleep when I saw what I dearly hoped was a figment of my exhausted mind. Surely not, I told myself as I stared at Jim Bob Buchanon as he flung dice onto the table and shouted something unintelligible.

His next remark was crystal clear, if contextually obscure. "Aw, shit! I knew I should have stayed on the hard eight."

"May I help you, miss?" asked a satiny male voice from behind me. "Would you like to sit down?"

The voice belonged to a black man in a stylish gray suit. His tie was red, his teeth were white, and his eyes (brown, not blue) were as impenetrable as the surface of the interstate. When I merely looked at him, he added, "You must not be feeling well. I'll be happy to escort you to a table at the bar or outside for a breath of fresh air." He glanced down at the drink in my hand and frowned ever so slightly. "Or have a waitress bring you a cup of coffee."

"No, thank you," I said. "I just stopped to have a drink on my way upstairs. What time does this place close?"

"Close?" His smile grew wider. "Like the Pinkertons, we never sleep. You, on the other hand, probably should. I hope you'll visit again tomorrow. We have raffles and contests every day at The Luck of the Draw. This weekend's grand prize is a trip to Jamaica. Be sure and enter."

He took my elbow and led me toward the door back to the hotel. I was too annoyed to resist, although I did crane my neck for a parting look at the craps table. If I'd actually seen Jim Bob-and I wasn't at all sure I hadn't been hallucinating-he'd vanished like a stack of five-dollar chips.

Estelle was snoring vigorously as I let myself into the hotel room. I undressed in the bathroom and crawled into the other bed. Sleep eluded me for a long while, and when it finally came, it was riddled with visions of Ruby Bee stretched out in a casket and Jim Bob doing belly flops across a craps table.

Neither was a pretty picture.

The hotel room was noticeably lighter when I was awakened by the sound of a siren. Groaning, I burrowed under the pillow and willed myself to go back to sleep, but the siren grew louder. Car doors slammed. People began jabbering in the hall outside the room. A second siren shrieked the approach of yet another official vehicle.

"What's going on out there?" said Estelle, sounding as if her mouth was filled with gravel. "Maybe you ought should look out the window and see if the hotel's on fire. I am not gonna scurry down some fire escape without putting on lipstick."

I did as she'd suggested. Eight stories below in the parking lot, a police car was parked at an erratic angle, its blue light spinning. An ambulance was speeding toward it. Guests and employees had gathered in the driveway. A woman dressed in jogging clothes and high-topped athletic shoes sat on a curb, her head between her knees. A police officer squatted beside her.

"There's been some sort of accident," I said, "but I can't make out what happened." I pulled back the heavy drapes, opened the sliding glass door, and went onto a balcony large enough to accommodate two chairs, a small table, and no more than three pigeons. My toes curled as they met cold concrete, but I grabbed the rail and looked down.

"Well?" demanded Estelle from the warmth of her bed.

I retreated inside and closed the door. "It looks as if someone fell from a significant height. A jogger must have discovered the body."

"What a thing to wake up to," she said as she struggled out from under the blankets. "Why didn't you shake me when you got here, Arly? I meant to wait up for you, but I guess I must have dozed off. Did you go by the hospital?"

I described my brief encounter with the ICU nurse at the hospital, then went into the bathroom to take a shower and brush my fuzzy teeth. When I emerged, she was on the balcony.

"Can you tell what's going on?" I asked as I got dressed.

"The body's been taken away in the ambulance, but from the way the police are measuring and looking up this way, the poor thing must have gone off a balcony right close to ours."