I gave him an irritated look, but he was already slamming down chips and muttering incantations meant to influence the ball. I moved back and looked around. An unholy clatter came from the banks of slot machines, accompanied by outbursts of glee. Glaringly bright wheels whirled on several sides of me, reflected by mirrors on the ceiling. More lights flowed across the walls, flashing numbers. On a platform behind the bar, three hairy gargoyles jerked about with guitars, lost in personal rapture, while a fourth pounded on drums and shrieked about whatever was (or wasn't) on his mind.

Most of the accents around me were thick enough to pour over waffles. A few had the nasal intonation of the territory above the Mason-Dixon Line. As I pushed my way through the surge of bodies, I felt increasingly anxious. I'd dealt with crowds in Manhattan, but they'd been decorously dressed and ever so polite as they'd elbowed me out of line to buy champagne during intermission. In Maggody, a crowd was defined by the number of people who showed up for happy hour at Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill on a Friday afternoon.

Which wasn't always happy and rarely lasted an hour. Even with free popcorn.

All of a sudden I wanted to fight my way to the door and drive to the hospital. So what if Ruby Bee was asleep? I could sit with her, stroke her hand, be there if she opened her eyes and wanted a sip of water. That was the reason I'd come; Jim Bob's problems were nothing more than a diversion. Japonica's version of the struggle on the balcony made perfectly good sense: Jim Bob had been drunk, upset by losses at the craps table, enraged by Stormy's rejection.

Except, I thought as I found a haven at the end of a blackjack table, Jim Bob hadn't lost money, if the chips in his room were indicative. He and Cherri Lucinda had made their way quite merrily to his room. No doubt he'd poured himself a drink before he settled down and allowed himself to fantasize about the woman taking a hot shower in his bathroom. They'd had sex twelve hours earlier, and he was expecting a repeat performance within a matter of minutes. He had no motive to attack Stormy.

"Miss Hanks," Mackenzie cooed in my ear. "Would you like a cocktail?"

I may have flinched just a tad. "No, thank you. I just came down to see the casino in all its glory on a Saturday night. I can almost hear the money being sucked in by the corporate vacuum cleaners. Nickels here, quarters there. It does add up at the end of the night, doesn't it?"

"Do you object to gaming as a form of entertainment?"

"Not when that's all it is," I said, watching for Estelle or her infamous bald man. "It can be an addiction, though."

"I told you this morning that we try to screen out compulsive gamblers. They do nothing more than cause us headaches. They demand credit when it's beyond their means, and become belligerent when we decline. We were once offered a three-year-old child as collateral. We don't do that."

I finally gave him my full attention. "Here in your make-believe world, it's an endless party. Free drinks for everyone willing to lose money. As you said, you never close. Aren't you preying on people's obscure hope that there really is a way to transform a five-dollar chip into a fortune?"

"That would be the essence of gaming," Mackenzie said dryly. "Something for nothing. We merely provide a reasonably level playing field. Some people do win a lot of money."

"Right."

"Let's take your friend Estelle, for instance. She won a thousand dollars with a single nickel. A remarkable return on her investment, wouldn't you say?"

"Estelle? She was here earlier?"

"Oh yes. I think she might have preferred to be elsewhere when the attention focused on her, but there was nothing she could do but accept congratulations with a gracious nod. We don't mind, since it encourages other players to persevere. Hope springs eternal, as someone said."

"Alexander Pope," I said, "and I doubt he was referring to slot machines. Is Estelle still here?"

"I couldn't say. She collected her winnings at the cashier's window, then she did what she could to fade into the crowd. I watched her for a while, but shortly thereafter we had an unpleasant situation at a blackjack table and I went to intervene."

"Is the senator here tonight?" I asked.

"I have no idea," Mackenzie said, "and it's not relevant-as long as your friend does not attack him again. I doubt he'll ever be able to stand in front of a urinal without recalling the incident. I must say I look forward to the morning, when this particular tour group leaves. In the future, C'Mon Tours will not be welcome at The Luck of the Draw. From what I was told, this Miss Vetchling is shrill and bullheaded. She called yesterday morning and demanded five rooms, four of them doubles. We were booked. She made such graphic threats that the manager finally gave her the rooms he keeps in reserve for emergencies."

"Was it an emergency?"

"I handle security, not reservations. What about Estelle?"

"As soon as I find her, I'll drag her back to the room and chain her to the bed," I vowed solemnly, if mendaciously. Dragging Estelle anywhere would be much like attempting to stuff a large cat into a small bag. "I don't understand why you're upset about tonight, though. All she was doing was playing the slots. That is what customers are supposed to do. Someone has to win every now and then to sustain the feeding frenzy."

"You betrayed my trust, Miss Hanks. That's the only reason I'm upset."

"Here's a better reason," I said as I gestured at the bar, where Brother Verber was teetering on a tabletop in order to preach at a noticeably disgruntled congregation. I couldn't hear him, but I could surmise the gist of his remarks. "Blame Miss Vetchling for this, too."

"You know him?" asked Mackenzie.

"Not in the biblical sense," I said, then deftly merged into the flow of bodies moving down the aisle. This time I would choke the answers out of Baggins.

I returned to the roulette table, but his place had been appropriated by a young woman wearing so much jewelry that she seemed in danger of toppling onto the green felt. There was no point in asking the croupier if he'd noticed in which direction Baggins had gone.

I made my way past the remaining roulette tables, but Baggins was not in sight. He was playing neither craps nor blackjack. The band was striving for new levels of auditory abuse, as if to provoke more hysterical action from the players. The waitresses were tight-lipped as they made their way from table to table. The sour stench of sweat, smoke, and anxiety was impossible to ignore. Men dressed as impeccably as Mackenzie attempted to scrutinize the proceedings with unruffled stares, but their eyes were darting as though they anticipated an event of cataclysmic significance at any moment.

An exit sign beckoned me. I wiggled my way to the door, then went outside and sat down on a planter to regain my senses. Had my self-imposed exile in Maggody led to a bad case of agoraphobia? The sidewalks of Manhattan were always jammed with pedestrians who blundered along like professional boxers who'd had a few too many blows to the head. Department stores, especially during seasonal sales, were crammed with women lugging screaming babies and rebellious toddlers. Waiters and clerks had been recruited from classified ads in the back of paramilitary magazines. Taxis had careened down the streets as if determined to rack up points by shooting through a dozen green lights before squealing to a stop.

I'd never paid much attention.

Once I'd calmed down, I decided to walk across the parking lot to the hotel entrance rather than fight my way back through the casino. Brother Verber had undoubtedly inflamed a minor riot in the bar with his sanctimonious harangue, and Mrs. Jim Bob was apt to be in the vicinity, snarling like a red-eyed harpy. I had no idea how to find Estelle, Baggins, Jim Bob, or Todd. I had no desire to encounter Cherri Lucinda, the above-mentioned evangelists, Mackenzie, Rex, or even Miss Vetchling, should she be skulking in the shadows to keep watch over her pilgrims.