Collaborative Story

[Redlass]

Several EA writers are working together to write a story. This collaborative effort has each participant writing a chapter which they will post in this thread. Each writer has a week to write their chapter.

All comments, discussions, or remarks on any chapter can be made in the Interactive Writing Exercise thread.

The participants (and the order in which they will post their chapters) are:

tpierzina
Auntiemma
Cldplay
phoenixx
file13
redlass
hadassahchana
soxfan
dani257
quasar

Enjoy!

[tpierzina[$]]

They’re just chips.

Close your eyes. Hold them in your hand. Run your fingers over them. Rub the sides, the edges. The purple and black ones don't feel any different than the red and white ones.

Same size. Same shape.

Same outcome.

* * * * *

"Good luck, sir." The bored girl behind the ticket counter.

Smile. Walk away. Toward the sign, "Casino Entrance." Luck? Not really an issue now.

Remember the sights, the smells, the sounds. Not even in the casino yet and already the senses are assaulted. The plastic elegance of the faux-marble walkway; the freshly shampooed yet worn carpet on the stairs. Daylight is not kind to the floating casino's boarding area, its brightly polished surfaces more accustomed to neon. Ahead, the isolated shouts of players mix with the electronic chorus of row after row of slot machines, peddling their wares to the unwary.

Pause. Why, again? Why, after all this time? It's not too late. Turn around, get back into the car. Put the money back. Go home, kiss the wife and the baby. Get up in the morning and go to work. Rinse, lather, repeat.

* * * * *

There's a certain symmetry as the dealer cuts the chips on the layout. Four stacks of five, sized next to one another and gracefully scooped into one taller unit. Stacks of twenty slid into neat rows, lined up for the overhead cameras to see and wink their approval while the dealer awaits the subtle nod from the floor manager.

Black and purple are more menacing than their lowly white, red and green counterparts. They mean business. Grandmothers don't buy these for the five-dollar blackjack tables. Casual gamblers don't walk up to the roulette table with these in hand.

They command respect. And within the confines of the casino floor, they (and their current owner) get it.

* * * * *

Walk across the ramp onto the boat.

The casino at this time of the afternoon is very different from the one shown on the TV commercials. A few slot players are spread among the banks of grinning machines. Mostly older folks, mostly women, all unhappy. About two thirds of the blackjack tables are closed, covered in plastic drop cloths. At one end of the pit, two of the four craps tables are open for business, but they're not doing much business now.

Almost five years and nothing's changed. Different people behind the tables, different ones in front; but aren't they really the same? The ones playing, the suckers: losers, every one. Why do they keep coming back here? Don't they see? Don't they get it?

"They." Not "they," not anymore. It's "we" again.

* * * * *

Experienced craps dealers have an uncanny ability to keep a game moving along while paying off dozens of varied bets. Regardless of the number of "winners" around the table, it's in the house's best interest to keep the game moving. More chips on the layout. More money folded and dropped into the locked box beneath the table. More dice rolls.

Walk up to a table, throw twenty-five dollars down and without missing a beat the dealer will replace your hard-earned money with five red chips. Throw down $200, you'll get a stack of greens and a larger stack of reds. Throw down $1000 and they might pause briefly to lay the money out and verify the chips. If the floor manager is feeling generous you might get a courtesy nod.

Throw down $100,000 and everything stops.

* * * * *

Walk up to the first craps table, the five-dollar table. One sad sack on each end, flinging the dice at one another and watching their chips slowly move from the trays in front of them to the stacks in front of the dealers.

The next table, the $25 table. Here, a lone silver-haired man with an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth. The only bets in play: one green chip in front of him, a small stack of black behind it. As you walk up, the stick man calls out, "Seven, seven out!"

Quickly the nearest dealer sweeps the chips from in front of the silver-haired man. No use leaving them there for the guy to dwell over. This one isn't a dweller, though. He just reaches down and sets another green chip on the pass line in front of him. The stick man doesn't bother with his usual patter, just slides all five dice to the man. He quickly picks two, pauses for the stick man to remove the other three, and flings them against the far end of the table.

"Seven. Winner seven!" Like magic, a matching green chip appears next to the man's original bet. He picks it up and sets it on the rack in front of him. He picks up the dice again and throws them with the same motion.

"Six!" cries the stick man, and both dealers place the point marker on six. The silver haired man places five black chips behind the green one. Should he roll a six before another seven, the $25 basic bet will pay $25 but his $500 "odds" will pay $600. If he "sevens out," the house gets all the chips.

And they are, after all, just chips. Never mind that the $525 on the table in front of this guy could buy a decent size TV, or represents a car payment for most folks. Never mind that the huge stacks of bills in my breast pocket represent more than a year's salary. Never mind that my wife, my son and my unborn child are depending on this money to be there. Are depending on me.

* * * * *

There's no place for ambiguity in a casino. A bet is won or lost. There are no gray areas. Some bets are simple, like the slot machines. Put your money in and pull the arm. If money comes out you won; if not, you lost. Others are more complex, like craps. "Contract" bets, once placed, cannot be removed. But those betting with or against the dice can place or lay odds on a bet once the initial, or "come out" roll, is complete. These additional bets pay "true odds," meaning the house has no edge on them.

But regardless of the bet, it's either won or lost. There's no halfway in a casino. No conflicts of emotion, no room for judgment.

* * * * *

The man is playing a game, but doesn't appear to be having too much fun. When he wins he picks up the chips and puts them in the tray in front of him. When he loses he puts more chips down on the layout. No smiles, no laughter, no nothing.

Compare the man to my baby at home. He lies on a blanket, grabs his toes and is delighted at the discovery. He looks over, catches my gaze and smiles, melting my heart. He falls asleep in my arms, quietly sucking his thumb, and I feel overwhelmed with love. Or maybe just overwhelmed.

Compare the man to my wife, telling me excitedly that she's confirmed it, she's pregnant again. Compare his even gaze to my look of fear, then her tears of disappointment at my reaction.

"Seven out!" calls the stick man.

Shake the cobwebs out. Step up to the table. Reach in, pull out the thick envelopes and extract the bills. Calmly place each stack of $100 bills onto the table.

"Good afternoon, sir." The floor manager appears at the dealer's elbow.

Slight nod, tight smile. "Hello."

The manager sizes up the stacks of bills, then asks, "How would you like that, sir?"

"Purple and black."

[AuntieEmma[$]]

"C'mon baby," Greg whispered, shaking the cup. "C'mon. Give me a six."

He turned the cup over and the dice tumbled across the green felt. The first one stopped. A four. The second rolled on, veering to the left, flipping over, over, over, slowing down, teetering on its edge, tipping one last time and -- yes! -- a two.

The dealer pushed over a stack of chips. Purple. Another stack. Black. The euphoria, the glow, first in his stomach, radiating down to his toes, up to his scalp, out to his fingertips. Purple. Black. The rush greater than any drug. He won! He won! He was a winner! He won! This was how life should be. No, this was how life was. His life. Life was good.

His pulse was beating at his temples. Did it show? He concentrated on relaxing the muscles in his cheeks, his lips, around his eyes, willing his face into an impassive mask. Lady Luck loved him now, but she had loved him and left him before. She was high-strung and easily bored. Better to play hard to get, better never to let her see him smile. If she thought he had surrended to her, she would wander off to find a greater challenge. His face was still, but inside the joy raced through his bloodstream, where not even Lady Luck could see it. He won! He won! He, Greg Alderhouse, was a winner!

And they had all doubted him! Wait till they saw Greg Jr. in a brand new crib, sleeping peacefully, his little brain dreaming of the future, a future unclouded by the secrets and lies of his parents, peaceful and secure in his new crib, in his very own room, the walls papered with happy rabbits and ducks, wait till Mr. Prackett saw that, the nursery bathed in light, in the back corner of their new house -- would Mr. Prackett doubt him then? -- the house out by the lake, golden brick, two stories high, oak trees shading the lawn, Shelly picking up the baby, holding him against her swelling stomach, rocking him, smiling when she heard Greg's pick-up roaring up the curving driveway -- no, not the pick-up, not that rusty old bucket, that was the first thing he would get rid of. Shelly smiling when she heard his shiny El Dorado coming up the drive -- no, make that a Lexus, just like Mr. Prackett's, only nicer, newer ...

The dealer caught his eye. "Sir?" Respect -- he heard it in her voice, saw it in her gaze. The manager, the stick man, the waitress silently replacing his empty glass with a full one, the old man at the other end of the table, all looked at him with respect.

"Sir? Would you like to place another bet?" The dealer was pretty, her starched white blouse and crisp black pants contrasting with the soft waves of her hair. She waited for his answer, waited with respect, her eyes holding his, her fingers straightening stacks of chips, her fingers long and tapered, the nails perfect ovals painted a delicate shimmering pink.

Shelly used to take care of her nails like that, back before they were married, spending hours filing and shaping and painting till they were a vision of perfection. He remembered her fingers, intertwined, the beautiful nails scratching at her knuckles, nervously plucking at the skin, the day after his 17th birthday, the day she told him her secret, the secret that would change all of their lives. He remembered his father's hands, big and hairy, clenching and unclenching. Clarissa's hands, pale and lifeless in her lap, when he told her he was getting married and couldn't see her any more.

The dealer waited, patiently, with respect. "What's your name, hon?" he asked.

"Darby."

"Darby," he said, drawing out the "a" in a soft sensual drawl. "What a pretty name."

Purple. Black. So many stacks. If he could only make this moment last forever. He reached for his drink, took a long sip, and another, and all of a sudden he needed to take a piss. "Back in a minute, Darby," and she nodded, with respect, and he scooped up his chips and walked across the floor, his head high, his stride proud, and people looked up from their tables as he passed, sensing the presence of Lady Luck by his side.

When he got close to the bathroom, he heard voices arguing inside, two men, a deep voice and a shaky high voice. "Next week," the high voice said. "No, now!" the deep voice said. Greg hesitated for a moment, then he pushed the door open.

[Cldplay]

Greg? What’s wrong, honey?

ZLLRBPT!

Aw, baby, how did you get one of mommy’s chips? Out. Spit it out!

(Splat.)

I told you they tasted nasty. Mommy was right, wasn’t she?

(SHE deposits the soggy mass in the garbage and takes a
fresh chip out of the bag.)

Mommy’s only eating them now because your little brother likes them. Or sister.

(SHE deposits a Salt & Vinegar kiss on a sweaty little
forehead.)

Blark.

Look at that face! I think you need a drink to wash away that nasty taste.

(The telephone rings.)

Hello?

(MALE VOICE) So did you tell him?

S: Of course I did.

(SHE takes a bottle of formula from the refrigerator and starts
to heat it.)

M: And?

S: And . . . he’s happy.

M: (Long pause.)

S: How else would you expect him to react? Of course he’s happy.

M: Glad to hear it.

S: Things are going well, it’s a good time.

M: Shel . . .

S: I mean, it wasn’t intentional, but, you know . . . some things are just meant to be.

GRRIMBP?

S: Just a minute, baby.

M: Sure, sweetie.

S: You know who I meant!

M: (Pause) So you're fine?

S: What kind of question is that? I’m fine. We talked, he’s fine, I’m fine, the baby’s fine, new baby's even better, he went to work as usual, and we’re all fine.

M: I’m glad. Really glad that things are working out. And you know that if you need . . .

S: I won’t.

M: I’m just offering. You never know.

S: I’m happy. I don’t need . . . anything.

M: Okay. But you have the number, just in . . . .

(SHE hangs up. The bottle is warm, and she tries to feed the
baby, who squirms his head.)

Come on, a little formula. Just a little for a change. Mommy can’t nurse you just now.

ZLLRBPT!

(The bottle hits the floor. The phone rings.)

HELLO! I’m sorry, I mean . . . hello?

(A FEMALE VOICE) Mrs. Alderhouse?

Yes?

F: This is Prackett & Associates. Your husband didn’t come in today, and . . . .

S: What? What are you talking about?

F: Are you saying he’s not there with you? We thought he might be ill, or that your son . . .

S: Oh, yes, of course, I’m sorry. Yes, he’s here, he’s upstairs, I just . . . he’s not well, and I’ve been downstairs playing with the baby, and I forgot Greg was . . . upstairs.

F: One of you really should have called us earlier.

S: I know, I’m sorry. I’ll make sure to call first thing in future.

F: So will he be in tomorrow?

S: I . . . we’ll have to see. See if the fever goes down.

F: Fine. Just let us know first thing tomorrow, won’t you?

S: Of course. He’s just sick.

F: We understand illness, of course, but with his history . . .

S: It’s a fever. A 102 fever. Should I have him sweat on the phone for you?

F: There’s no need for that. Just let us know . . .

S: Tomorrow, I will. If you’ll excuse me, I have to . . . the baby.

F: Certainly. We hope Greg feels better.

(Click.)

Daddy’s all right. Daddy’s just fine. He went to buy you a present, that’s where he went! Or something so we can celebrate the new baby! That’s where he is! That’s where he is!

GLARMPF!

(She is treated to a spluttery giggle.)

And then he’ll come home, and he’ll tell us where he was, and we’ll laugh, and everything will be fine. Better than fine. Everything will be great!

HMMRVU!

Mommy’s sorry for holding you too tight. Mommy just loves you so much! And Mommy would never do anything to hurt you or new baby. Mommy can keep her promises, even if he . . . Mommy would never, not any more, she SWORE she wouldn’t.

(She buries her head in a sweaty little neck. The telephone
rings.)

Hello?

(MALE VOICE) Hi. I um . . .um . . .

Greg? What’s wrong, honey? You sound strange. And where are you?

[phoenixx]

***

Hanging up the phone, Declan peers dejectedly at his shoes. He knew he was a fool to get involved with Shelly, to let himself fall in love again after... But he couldn't help himself. She glowed, lit up any room she entered, in spite of everything she'd been through - First, that horrible trauma in high school, right when Greg asked her to marry him, then the things she was accused of with the first baby, Greg Jr., then the financial roller coaster they went on every time Greg disappeared for days on end gambling.

He'd sold his soul for her, setting Greg up with a tail the police department couldn't afford to support, finding out when he'd be at the casino again, arranging for two of his junkies on probation to corner Greg in the bathroom at the casino so he'd be out of commission for a while, giving Declan a chance at finally saving Shelly. And now, now that his plan was in action and Greg was being faced with the punishment Declan had decided he should have, Shelly tells him her news.

***

Declan finishes getting ready for work, arriving at the station in minutes. Mind in turmoil, he barely hears the other officers calling out "Sarg!", "Mornin' Sgt. O'Rourke!", "Hey, Sarg, wanna get in the March Madness Pool?". Bypassing them all, he heads straight for his office, slamming the door. Immediately, the phone on his desk rings. Cursing, he grabs the receiver and gives a curt "What?".

"Hey, Sarg" the voice in his ear booms, "We gotta live one, just ran from the casino. Near as we can figure some joe got jumped by a coupla' junkies in the john. He managed to drop 'em both and get outta there somehow. Looks like quite a struggle went on, and the guy got hurt pretty bad himself. They took the junkies to General - one is ICU and one is DOA. Guy they jumped had a cell phone on him, dropped it in the lobby - it's covered in blood. Looks like the last call he made was to his wife."

"Oh God, what have a I done?" Declan mutters before he can catch himself.

"Sarg? You say somethin?" the officer asks.

"Nah, nothin'. Listen, I'm in the mood to get out on the street today, so I'll get the ball rollin' on this one. Meet you at the casino."

"Sarg, don't you think he'd go home, if the last call was to the wife?" the officer asks.

"Nah, I got a feeling this one doesn't want to be home right now." Declan declares, "Be there in ten."

***

Leaving the squad room, Declan wonders if he can get back over the line he's crossed as a cop and as a man. All those years on the force, tossed aside for a woman in distress. Well, I've gone this far, he thinks, may as well continue - and he pulls into the parking lot of the casino, already working the angles in his head, wondering if he can keep his name clear, and Shelly's. Wondering if Greg is worth all this effort, yet again - how many times can his family stand to lose it all before they snap? Wondering if he can keep the secret from their past out of the papers. Wondering where Greg would go in this kind of situation, and if Greg knows he set him up. Wondering what Greg said to Shelly in that last phone call, right after his own sad talk with her.

Declan wades into the mayhem, taking charge and putting his own troubles on the back burner. Time to go do damage control, he thinks to himself.