Queenpin
excerpt
Prepublication version. Do not quote for
publication unless verified with finished book.
I want the legs.
That was the first
thing that came into my head. The legs were the legs of a
20-year-old Vegas showgirl, a hundred feet long and with just enough
curve and give and promise. Sure, there was no hiding the slightly
worn hands or the beginning tugs of skin framing the bones in her
face. But the legs, they lasted, I tell you. They endured. Two
decades her junior, my skinny matchsticks were no competition.
In the casinos, she
could pass for 30. The low lighting, her glossy auburn hair, legs
swinging, tapping the bottom rim of the tall bettor stools. At the
track, though, she looked her age. Even swathed in oversize
sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, bright gloves, she couldn’t outflank
the merciless sunshine, the glare off the grandstand. Not that it
mattered. She was legend.
I was never sure what
she saw in me. You looked like you knew a thing or two, she
told me later. But were ready to learn a lot more.
It was a soft sell, a
long sell. I never knew what she had in mind until I already had
such a taste I thought my tongue would never stop buzzing. Meaning,
she got me in, she got me jobs, she got me fat stacks of cash too
thick to wedge down my cleavage. She got me in with the hard boys,
the fast-money and I couldn’t get enough. I wanted more. Give me
more.
