“Some in mining,” said Salvatorre, nodding his head, sitting down by the blonde and playfully squeezing her knee through the red sheath dress. “Some in oil. All by accident, boy. A man owed me some debts and all he owned, all he had left, was some desert land out in the middle of nowhere. Worth nothing. So he gave it to me and I forgot it and I went on working until five years ago. Then came the oil. I was a butcher for more than thirty years.” He looked the girl over, as if she were some toy he meant to see perform before the evening was over. The blonde had taken a tiny vial of perfume from the overstuffed bag and was dabbing her ears and her palms with scent.

Skip thought, now why in hell couldn’t something like that have happened to Uncle Willy? Uncle Willy had spent his years desperately planning how to scrounge a little money here and there, and being sent to prison for his efforts, and here was this stupid old coot who’d had it handed to him, who’d done nothing. The unfairness of it was stupefying.

The waiter brought the drinks. Salvatorre paid him and ordered refills at once, before they had even started on the first ones. Skip sat and drank, trying not to look very often at the couch. It was embarrassing, the old man almost paralyzed with booze and the skillful and willing chippie, whose skill and willingness weren’t enough. Presently Skip took his drink into the bathroom and stayed there a long time. He heard the second arrival and departure of the waiter. Finally he went back into the other room. The sight he saw was curious.

Salvatorre lay stretched out on his back on the couch, obviously dead to the world. The blonde was at the dresser, fluffing her hair with a little silver comb. “Hi,” she said to Skip. There was no animosity in her now. She winked at him in the mirror. “I’m going back to the casino. He’ll be passed out for hours.” She slipped the comb back into the purse and Skip saw the enormous roll of bills.

“Give me some,” he said.

She crinkled her nose at him. “Oh, now, let’s be realistic.”

“You didn’t give him anything for his money,” Skip persisted, “because he was too drunk to take it. You’ve charged him for nothing. I want a cut of it.”

She adjusted the neck of the sheath, tucking it a little lower over her sharply pointed breasts. “Don’t get funny here, lover boy. You’d better take your small change and blow. The management will be along pretty soon to look Mr. Salvatorre over and maybe put him to beddy-bye. And they’ll kick you out then if you haven’t already gone.”