Sally's mascared lashes snapped open. “The Buick? Holy shit, is this your car? It's got portholes. Fucking portholes! What's under the hood.”
“A V-?eight.”
“Yow! A V-?eight! A fucking V-?eight!”
“Good thing he don't have them tuck underpants on,” Lula said. “He'd rupture himself.”
The Buick was a man thing. Women hated it. Men loved it. I thought it must have something to do with the size of the tires. Or maybe it was the bulbous, egglike shape . . . sort of like a Porsche on steroids.
“We'd better get going,” I said to Sally.
He took the keys out of my hand and slid behind the wheel.
“Excuse me,” I said. “This is my car. I get to drive.”
“You need someone with balls to drive this car,” Sally said.
Lula stood hip stuck out, hand on hip. “Hah! And you think we don't have balls? Look again, Tiny Tim.”
Sally held tight to the wheel. “Okay, what'll it take? I'll give you fifty bucks if you let me drive.”
“I don't want money,” I said. “If you want to drive the car, all you have to do is ask.”
“Yeah, you just don't go pulling this macho shit on us,” Lula said. “We don't stand for none of that. We don't take that bus.”
“This is gonna be great,” Sally said. “I always wanted to drive one of these.”
Grandma and Lula piled in back, and I got in front.
Sally pulled a slip of paper from his purse. “Before I forget, here's the latest clue.”
I read it aloud. “ 'Last clue. Last chance. Blue Moon Bar. Saturday at nine.' ”
Maxine was getting ready to bolt. She was setting Eddie up one last time. And what about me? I thought she might be setting me up one last time, too, by sending me on a wild-?goose chase to Atlantic City.
* * * * *
THE FIRST THING I always notice about Atlantic City is that it's not Las Vegas. Vegas is all splash from the outside to the inside. Atlantic City is not so much about neon lights as about good parking. The casinos are built on the boardwalk, but truth is, nobody gives a damn about the boardwalk. A.C. is not about ocean. A.C. is about letting it ride. And if you're a senior citizen, so much the better. This is the Last Chance Saloon.
The city's slums sit butt-?flush with the casinos' back doors. Since Jersey is not about perfection this isn't a problem. For me, Jersey is about finding the brass ring and grabbing hold, and if you have to go through some slums to get to the slots . . . fuck it. Crank up your car window, lock your door and roll past the pushers and pimps to valet parking.
It's all very exhilarating.
And while it's not Vegas, it's also not Monte Carlo. You don't see a lot of Versace gowns in Atlantic City. There are always some guys at the craps table with slicked-?back hair and pinkie rings. And there are always some women dressed up like bar singers standing next to the oily, pinkie ring guys. But mostly what you see in Atlantic City is sixty-?five-?year-?old women wearing polyester warm-?up suits, toting buckets of quarters, heading for the poker machines.
I could go to New York or Vegas with Lula and Sally and never be noticed. In Atlantic City it was like trying to blend in with Sigfried and Roy and five of their tigers.
We came onto the floor, four abreast, letting the noise wash over us, taking it all in . . . the mirrored ceiling, the 3-D carpet, the flashing lights, and hustling, swirling crowds of people. We moved through the room and old men walked into walls, pit bosses turned silent, waitresses stopped in their tracks, chips were dropped on the floor and women stared with the sort of open-?mouthed curiosity usually reserved for train wrecks. As if they'd never seen a seven-?foot transvestite and a two-?hundred-?pound black woman with blond baloney curls all dressed up like Cher on a bad day.
Do I know how to conduct an undercover operation, or what?
“Good thing I got my Social Security check yesterday,” Grandma said, eyeing the slots. “I feel lucky.”
“Pick your poison,” Lula said to Sally.
“Blackjack!”
And off they all went.