A dark young man with long, curly hair, wearing a linen sport shirt open at the neck, a gold Rolex, and a U.S. double-eagle around his neck, had been standing next to her. Before him stood a pile of blue chips, a hundred dollars each and six inches high.

Now he spoke. "Mrs. Brody? Carla?"

There was a faint Latino flavor to his words.

"Yes," she answered coolly. "Have we met?"

"I am your admirer." The young man smiled. "I have seen one of your sculptures in the place on Rawson Square. To me it is an angel with golden wings. I like it."

"It's whatever one sees it to be, I hope."

"Anyway, es hermosisimo, señora."

"Muchas gracias," she responded automatically.

Praise was nice, even if it came from someone who lived in a town that erected a fifteen-foot pink flamingo in front of its principal government house.

He bowed. "As beautiful as the sculptress herself."

Was he trying to pick her up or what? Okay, she was used to that. "My husband likes them too."

"Your husband is the gentleman who wires conch for sound." The Latin nodded. "I have heard of that project and support it."

He toyed with his chips, glanced quickly at the croupier, and placed a stack on number nine. The croupier spun the wheel with a flourish. As she watched, transfixed, the ball bounced wildly. When it stopped, it dropped in nine.

Good God... She tried to calculate. There were five chips on the number. At thirty-five to one, he had just won... what? Seventeen thousand dollars? More than that!

Impassively he dragged the stack back. Across the table her agent's wife's eyes bulged. "W—well placed, old man," her agent said, stuttering. "Damn well placed."

The Latin shrugged. "Señor, it makes no difference. I have won it from myself." He pressed a hundred-dollar chip into Carla's hand. "Mrs. Brody, bet this for me. Put it on red or black."

She did not like the man but did not want to embarrass her agent, so she placed the chip on black. She won. "Now leave it there," he said. She won again.

He scooped it up, tipped the dealer with a hundred, and slid her half the chips. "No," she protested stiffly. "I'm sorry, I can't take that."

"Take one, then, for a deposit on your angel with golden wings."

She faced him. "Are you serious?"

"I do not joke about art, señora. Or many other things."

She regarded the blue chip thoughtfully. Perhaps she had use for it.

For she'd sensed a bond between Ellen and Hoagie Newcombe. Her mother-in-law needed a night away from her sorrows and her fears, and Hoagie was said to gamble.

The hundred dollars was a windfall. Why not give it to Ellen and let her spend it here?

***

The storm rocked the Brody house and made the candles flicker.