He was trying desperately to think of a way to back off with even a few of the chips left when Salvatorre suddenly decided he’d had enough of dice. Now it was time to try the slot machines. He dragged Skip along to another part of the big casino, ordered drinks for everybody in sight, passing out quarters and half dollars as fast as he could buy them from the change girl. The two blondes made Skip think of hovering vultures. They did everything but crawl into Salvatorre’s pockets. Skip noted that very little of what the old man gave them went into the machines. They rapidly switched the change back into bills and tucked the bills away into the bulging gilt bags.

The tempo around Salvatorre increased. The old man was almost in a frenzy. He had a half dozen slots going, was stuffing change into the girls’ hands and tossing Skip an occasional batch of quarters. Skip noticed that the pit boss in the distance was keeping an eye on things. It could be true that the old man was a valued and familiar patron.

All at once Mr. Salvatorre was staring into his empty hands in a way that was almost tearful. “Broke. I’m broke, boy,” he cried to Skip.

It was crazy. Skip knew that Salvatorre still had money in his wallet. One of the change girls glided up, smiling, to say, “Why, we’d be pleased to cash a check for you, Mr. Salvatorre.”

All around them the slots were clanging; Salvatorre shook his head as if unable to hear. She repeated what she had just said, but Salvatorre blinked his eyes sadly. “Broke. Going to call it a night.” He glanced around, noticed the bright-eyed chippie in the red sheath, saw Skip in the shadows. “We’ll have a nightcap, the three of us. Come on, we’ll go up to my room now; you’ll order whatever you want.”

Skip was wary, more than half disgusted. He saw the girl throw a victorious cat-smile at the other chippie, who appeared to take it philosophically and began to inspect the loot in her handbag. The girl in red then snatched Salvatorre’s arm. “Not him,” she mouthed, nodding toward Skip. “Let’s leave him out of it.”

It would have suited Skip; he had four or five dollars in quarters and half dollars and two ten-dollar chips. He had no desire to get better acquainted with the eccentric old man.

But Salvatorre roared a protest, threatening to dislodge the chippie on his arm. “Leave him here? Course not! Going to buy the boy a drink. Makes me think of my boy Al, over in England. Foxy boy, good boy, needs a drink.”

“Tell him you’re under age, darling,” the blonde purred to Skip.

“Twenty-two,” Skip said, unwilling to oblige her.

She showed her teeth at him.