Comes now the double-cross. If you're reading these consecu-
tively, Ellison follows Ballard like a double-shot of Jack Daniel's
after a whisky sour. He is about to punch you in the belly. His
prose is as stark as a skull by Georgia O'Keefe and as steady
<w a jackhammer. His themes are always different and always
interesting. He never wastes a word, though he's got a lot of
them in him. Also, though ifs not why he's here, nor intended
to be intrusive, he's one of the few people in the world I con-
inder a friend. So I'll tell you a thing about him: unlike Nor-
man Mailer, he need not refer to anything specifically as an
advertisement for himself. Everything he writes fills this bill.
He writes the most beautiful introductions I have ever read
for his own stories. Consider the fact that everything a man
writes is really only a part of one big story, to be ended by the
end of his writing life. Consider that, as so many have said,
everything a man writes is, basically, autobiographical. Pick up
any book by this man, and you will be entranced by learning
precisely what went into the creative process. He tells you
beforehand, then follows with the story. This one began in Las
Vegas and ended with sickness and beauty. I tell you these
things because every writer who has ever lived is unique.
Harlan, though, is so damned unique that most editors don't
know what to .make of him. If you ever meet him, you'll know
what I mean. There is no separation whatsoever between the
subject and the object, the man and his work. When he writes,
that's what he is. I'd say intense, but that's triteand if you
know him, redundant, too.

PRETTY MAGGIE MONEYEYES

Harlan Ellison

With an eight hole-card and a queen showing, with the dealer
showing a four up, Kostner decided to let the house do the
work. So he stood, and the dealer turned up. Six.
The dealer looked like something out of a 1935 George
Raft film: Arctic diamond-chip eyes, manicured fingers long
as a brain surgeon's, straight black hair slicked flat away from
the pale forehead. He did not look- up as he peeled them off.
A three. Another three. Barn. A five. Barn. Twenty-one, and
Kostner saw his last thirty dollarssix five-dollar chips
scraped on the edge of the cards, into the dealer's chip racks.
Busted. Flat. Down and out in Las Vegas, Nevada. Play-
ground of the Western World.
He slid off the comfortable stool-chair and turned his back
on the blackjack table. The action was already starting again,
like waves closing over a drowned man. He had been there,
was gone, and no one had noticed. No one had seen a man
blow the last tie with salvation. Kostner now had his choice:
he could bum his way into Los Angeles and try to find some-
thing that resembled a new life . . . or he could go blow his
brains out through the back of his head.
Neither choice showed much light or sense.
He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his worn and
dirty chinos, and started away down the line of slot machines
clanging and rattling on the other side of the aisle between
blackjack tables.
He stopped. He felt something in his pocket. Beside him,
but all-engrossed, a fiftyish matron in electric lavender capris,
high heels and Ship 'n' Shore blouse was working two slots,
loading and pulling one while waiting for the other to clock
down. She was dumping quarters in a seemingly inexhaustible
supply from a Dixie cup held in her left hand. There was a
surrealistic presence to the woman. She was almost auto-
mated, not a flicker of expression on her face, the eyes fixed
and unwavering. Only when the gong rang, someone down the
line had pulled a jackpot, did she look up. And at that moment
Kostner knew what was wrong and immoral and deadly about
Vegas, about legalized gambling, about setting the traps all
baited and open in front of the average human. The woman's
face was gray with hatred, envy, lust and dedication to the
gamein that timeless instant when she heard another
drugged soul down the line winning a minuscule jackpot. A
jackpot that would only lull the player with words like luck
and ahead of the game. The jackpot lure; the sparkling,
hobbling many-colored wiggler in a sea of poor fish.
The thing in Kostner's pocket was a silver dollar.
He brought it out and looked at it.
The eagle was hysterical.
But Kostoer pulled to an abrupt halt, only one half-footetep
from the sign indicating the limits of Tap City. He was still
with it. What the high-rollers called the edge, the vigorish,
the fine hole-card. One buck. One cartwheel. Pulled out of the
pocket not half as deep as the pit into which Kostner had
just been about to plunge.
What -the hell, he thought, and turned to the row of slot
machines.
He had thought they'd all been pulled out of service, the
silver dollar slots. A shortage of coinage, said the United
States Mint. But right there, side by side with the nickel and
quarter bandits, was one cartwheel machine. Two thousand
dollar jackpot. Kostner grinned foolishly. If you're gonna go
out, go out like a champ.
He thumbed the silver dollar into the coin slot and grabbed
the heavy, oiled handle. Shining cast aluminum and pressed
steel. Big black plastic ball, angled for arm-ease, pull it all day
and you won't get weary.
Without a prayer in the universe, Kostner pulled .the
handle.
She had been born in Tucson, mother full-blooded Chero-
kee, father a bindlestiff on his way through. Mother had been
working a truckers' stop, father had popped for spencer steak
and sides. Mother had just gotten over a bad scene, indeter-
minate  origins,  unsatisfactory  culminations.  Mother  had
popped for bed. And sides. Margaret Annie Jessie had come
nine months later; black of hair, fair of face, and born into
a life  of  poverty.  Twenty-three years  later,  a  determined
product of Miss Clairol and Berlitz, a dream-image formed by
Vogue and intimate association with the rat race, Margaret
Annie Jessie had become a contraction.
Maggie.
Long legs, trim and coltish; hips a trifle large, the kind that
promote that specific thought in men, about getting their hands
around it; belly flat, isometrics; waist cut to the bone, a waist
that works in any style from dirndl to disco-slacks; no breasts
all nipple, but no breast, like an expensive whore (the way
O'Hara pinned it)and no padding . . . forget the cans, baby,
there's other, more important action; smooth, Michelangelo-
sculpted neck, a pillar, proud; and all that face.
Outthrust chin, perhaps a tot too much belligerence, but if
you'd walloped as many gropers, you too, sweetheart; nar-
ro< mouth, petulant lower lip, nice to chew on, a lower lip as
though filled with honey, bursting, ready for things to hap-
pen; a nose that threw the right sort of shadow, flaring
nostrils,  the  acceptable  wordsaquiline,  patrician,  classic,
(dlathat; cheekbones: as stark and promontory as a spit of
land after ten years of open ocean; cheekbones holding dark-
ness like narrow shadows, sooty beneath the taut-fleshed bone-
structure; amazing cheekbones, the whole face, really; simple
uptitted eyes, the touch of the Cherokee, eyes that looked out
at you, as you looked in at them, like someone peering out of
the keyhole as you peered in; actually, dirty eyes, they said
you can get it.
Blonde hair, a great deal of it, wound and rolled and
smoothed and flowing, in the old style, the pageboy thing men
always admire; no tight little cap of slicked plastic; no ratted
and teased Anapurna of bizarre coiffure; no ironed-flat dis-
cothique hair like number 3 flat noodles. Hair, the way a
man wants it, so he can dig his hands in at the base of the
neck and pull all that face very close.
An operable woman, a working mechanism, a rigged and
sudden machinery of softness and motivation.
Twenty-three, and determined as hell never to abide in that
vale of poverty her mother had called purgatory for her en-
tire life; snuffed out in a grease fire in the last trailer, some-
where in Arizona, thank God no more pleas for a little money
from babygirl Maggie hustling drinks in a Los Angeles topless
joint. (There ought to be some remorse in there somewhere,
for a Mommy gone where all the good grease-fire victims go.
Look around, you'll find it.)
Maggie.
Genetic freak. Mammy's Cherokee uptilted eye-shape, and
Polack quickscrewing Daddy WithoutaName's blue w inno-
cence color.
Blue-eyed Maggie, dyed blonde, alla that face, alla that leg,
fifty bucks a night can get it and it sounds like it's having a
climax.
Irish-innocent blue-eyed innocent French-legged innocent
Maggie. Polack. Cherokee. Irish. All-woman and going on the
market for this month's rent on the stucco pad, eighty bucks'
worth of groceries, a couple months' worth for a Mustang,
three appointments with the specialist in Beverly Hills about
that shortness of breath after a night on the Bugalu.
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, pretty Maggie Moneyeyes, who
came from Tucson and trailers and rheumatic fever and a
surge to live that was all kaleidoscope frenzy of clawing
scrabbling no-nonsense. If it took laying on one's back and
making sounds like a panther in the desert, then one did it,
because nothing, but nothing, was as bad as being dirt-poor,
itchy-skinned, soiled-underwear, scuff-toed, hairy and ashamed
lousy with the no-gots. Nothing!
Maggie. Hooker. Hustler. Grabber. Swinger. If there's a
buck in it, there's rhythm and the onomatopoeia is Maggie
Maggie Maggie.
She who puts out. For a price, whatever that might be.
Maggie was dating Nuncio. He was Sicilian. He had dark
eyes and an alligator-grain wallet with slip-in pockets for
credit cards. He was a spender, a sport, a high-roller. They
went to V egos.
Maggie and the Sicilian. Her blue eyes and his slip-in
pockets. But mostly her blue eyes.
The spinning reels behind the three long glass windows
blurred,  and Kostner knew  there wasn't  a chance.  Two
thousand dollar jackpot. Round and round, whirring. Three
bells or two bells and a jackpot bar, get 18; three plums or
two plums and a jackpot bar, get 14; three oranges or two
oranges and a jac
Ten, five, two bucks for a single cherry cluster in first
position. Something . . . I'm drowning . . . something . . .
The whirring . . .
Round and round . . .
As something happened that was not considered in the pit-
boss manual.
The reels whipped and snapped to a stop, clank clank
clank, tight in. place.
Three bars looked up at Kostner. But they did not say
JACKPOT. They were three bars on which stared three blue
eyes. Very blue, very immediate, very JACKPOT!!
Twenty silver dollars clattered into the payoff trough at
the bottom of the machine. An orange light flickered on in
the Casino Cashier's cage, bright orange on the jackpot board.
And the gong began clanging overhead.
The Slot Machine Floor Manager nodded once to the Pit
Boss, who pursed his lips and started toward the seedy-look-
ing man still standing with his hand on the slot's handle.
The token paymenttwenty silver, dollarslay untouched
in the payoff trough. The balance of the jackpotone thou-
sand nine hundred and eighty dollarswould be paid manu-
ally by the Casino Cashier. And Kostner stood, dumbly, as the
three blue eyes stared up at him.
There was a moment of idiotic disorientation, as Kostner
stared back at the three blue eyes; a moment in which the
slot machine's mechanisms registered to themselves; and the
gong was clanging furiously.
All through the hotel's Casino people turned from their
games to stare. At the roulette tables the white-on-white
players from Detroit and Cleveland pulled their watery eyes
away from the clattering ball and stared down the line for a
second, at the ratty-looking gay in front of the slot machine.
From where they sat, they could not tell it was a two grand
pot, and their rheurny eyes went back into billows of cigar
smoke, and that little ball.
The blackjack hustlers turned momentarily, screwing around
in their seats, and smiled. They were closer to the slot-players
in temperament, but they knew the slots were a dodge to keep
the old ladies busy, while the players worked toward their
endless twenty-ones.
And the old dealer, who could no longer cut it at the
fast-action boards, who had been put out to pasture by a
.  grateful management, standing at the Wheel of Fortune near
the entrance to the Casino, even he paused in his zombie-
murmuring ("Annnnother winner onna Wheel of Forchun!")
to no one at all, and looked toward Kostner and that incred-
ible gong-clanging. Then, in a moment, still with no players, he
called another nonexistent winner.
Kostner heard the gong from far away. It had to mean he
had won two thousand dollars, but that was impossible. He
checked the payoff chart on the face of the machine. Three
bars labeled JACKPOT meant JACKPOT. Two thousand
dollars.
But these three bars did not say JACKPOT. They were
three gray bars, rectangular in shape, with three blue eyes
directly in the center of each bar.
Blue eyes?
Somewhere, a connection was made, and electricity, a bil-
lion volts of electricity, were shot through Kostner. His hair
stood on end, his fingertips bled raw, his eyes turned to jelly,
and every fiber in hifunusculature became radioactive. Some-
where, out there, in a place that was not this place, Kostner
had been inextricably bound toto someone. Blue eyes?
The gong had faded out of his head, the constant noise
level of the Casino, chips chittering, people mumbling, dealers
calling plays, it had all gone, and he was embedded in silence.
Tied to that someone else, out there somewhere, through
those blue eyes.
Then in an instant, it had passed, and he was alone again,
as though released by a giant hand, the breath crushed out
of him. He staggered up against the slot machine.
"You all right, fellah?"
A hand gripped him by the arm, steadied him. The gong
was still clanging overhead somewhere, and he was breathless
from a journey he had just taken. His eyes focused and he
found himself looking at the stocky Pit Boss who had been
on duty while he had been playing blackjack.
"Sounds like you got yourself a big jackpot, fellah," the
Pit Boss grinned. It was a leathery grin; something composed
of stretched muscles and conditioned reflexes, totally mirth-
less.
"Yeah . . . great . . ." Kostner tried to grin back. But he
was still shaking from that electrical absorption that had
kidnaped him.
"Let me check it out," the Pit Boss was saying, edging
around Kostner, and staring at the face of the slot machine.
"Yeah, three jackpot bars, all right. You're a winner."
Then it dawned on Kostner! Two thousand dollars! He
looked down a,t the slot machine and saw
Three bars with the word JACKPOT on them. No blue
eyes, just words that meant money. Kostner looked around
frantically, was he losing his mind? From somewhere, not in
the  Casino  room,  he  heard  a  tinkle  of  rhodium-plated
laughter.
He scooped up the twenty silver dollars, and the Pit Boss
dropped another cartwheel into the Chief, and pulled the jack-
pot off. Then the Pit Boss walked him to the rear of the
Casino, talking to him in a muted, extremely polite tone of
voice. At the Cashier's window, the Pit Boss nodded to a
weary-looking man at a huge Rolodex card-file, checking
credit ratings.
"Bamey, jackpot on the cartwheel Chief; slot five-oh-oh-
one-five." He grinned at Kostner, who tried to smile back. It
was difficult. He felt stunned.
The Cashier checked a payoff book for the correct amount
to be drawn and leaned over the counter toward Kostner.
"Check or cash, sir?''
Kostner felt buoyancy coming back to him. "Is the Casino's
check good?" They all three laughed at that. "A check's fine,"
Kostner said. "The check was drawn, and the Check-Riter
punched out the little bumps that said two thousand. "The
twenty cartwheels are a gift," the Cashier said, sliding the
check through to Kostner.
He held it, looked at it, and still found it difficult to be-
lieve. Two grand, back on the golden road.
As he walked back through the Casino with the Pit Boss,
the stocky man asked pleasantly, "Well, what are you going
to do with it?" Kostner had to think a moment. He didn't
really have any plans. But then the sudden realization came
to him: "I'm going to play that slot machine again." The Pit
Boss smiled: a congenital sucker. He would put all twenty
of those silver dollars back into the Chief, and then turn to
the other games. Blackjack, roulette, faro, baccarat . . . in a
few hours be would have redeposited .the two grand with the
hotel Casino. It always happened.
He walked Kostner back to the slot machine, and patted
him on the shoulder. "Lotsa luck, fellah."
As he turned away, Kostner slipped a silver dollar into the
machine, and pulled the handle.
The Pit Boss had only taken five steps when he heard the
incredible sound of the reels clicking to a stop, the clash of
twenty token silver dollars hitting the payoff trough, and that
goddammed gong went out of its mind again.
She had known that sonofabitch Nuncio was a perverted
swine. A walking filth. A dungheap between his ears. Some
kind of monster in nylon undershorts. There weren't many
kinds of games Maggie hadn't played, but what that Sicilian
De Sade wanted to do was outright vomity!
She nearly fainted when he suggested it. Her heartwhich
the Beverly Hills specialist had said she should not taxbegan
whumping frantically. "You pig!" she screamed. "You filthy
dirty ugly pig you. Nuncio you pig!" She had bounded out of
the bed and started to throw on clothes. She didn't even bother
with a brassiere, pulling the poor-boy sweater over her thin
breasts, still crimson with the touches and love bites Nuncio
had showered on them.
He sat up in the bed, a pathetic-looking little man, gray hair
at the temples and no hair atall on top, and his eyes were
moist. He was porcine, was indeed the swine she called him,
but he was helpless before her. He was in love with his hooker,
with the tart whom he was supporting, it had been the first
time for the swine Nuncio, and he was helpless. Back in
Detroit, had it been a floozy, a chippy broad, he would have
gotten out of the double bed and rapped her around pretty
good. But this Maggie, she tied him in knots. He had sug-
gested . . . that, what they should do together . . . because he
was so consumed with her. But she was furious with him. It
wasn't that bizarre an ideal
"Gimme a chance t'talk t'ya, honey . . . Maggie . . ."
"You filthy pig. Nuncio! Give me some money, I'm going
down to the Casino, and I don't want to see your filthy pig
face for the rest of the day, remember that!"
And she had gone in his wallet and pants, and taken eight
hundred and sixteen dollars, while he watched. He was help-
less before her. She was something stolen from a world he
knew only as "class" and she could do what she wanted with
him.
Genetic freak Maggie, blue-eyed posing mannequin Maggie,
pretty Maggie Moneyeyes, who was one-half Cherokee and
one-half a buncha other things, had absorbed her lessons well.
She was the very model of a "class broad."
"Not for the rest of the day, do you understand?" she
snapped at him, and went downstairs, furious, to fret and
gamble and wonder about nothing but years of herself.
Men stared after her as she walked. She carried herself like
a challenge, the way a squire carried a pennant, the way a
prize bitch carried herself in the judge's ring. Born to the blue.
The wonders of mimicry and desire.
Maggie had no desire for gambling, none whatever. She
merely wanted to taste the fury of her relationship with the
swine Sicilian, her need for solidarity in a life built on the
edge of the slide area, the senselessness of being here in Las
Vegas when she could be back in Beverly Hills. She grew
angrier and more ill at the thought of Nuncio upstairs in the
room, taking another shower. She bathed three times a day.
But it was different with him. He knew she resented his smell;
he had the soft odor of wet fur sometimes, and she had told
him about it. Now he bathed constantly, and hated it. He was
a foreigner to the bath. His life had been marked by various
kinds of filths, and baths for him now were more of an
obscenity than dirt could ever have been. For her, bathing was
different. It was a necessity. She had to keep the patina of the
world off her, had to remain clean and smooth and white. A
presentation, not an object of flesh and hair. A chromium
instrument, something never pitted by rust and corrosion.
When she was touched by them, by any one of them, by the
men, by all the Nuncios, they left little pit holes of bloody
rust on her white, permanent flesh; cobwebs, sooty stains. She
had to bathe. Often.
She strolled down between the tables and the slots, carry-
ing eight hundred and sixteen dollars. Eight one hundred
dollar bills and sixteen dollars in ones.
At the change booth she got cartwheels for the sixteen
ones. The Chief waited. It was her baby. She played it to
infuriate the Sicilian. He had told her to play the nickel slots,
the quarter or dime slots, but she always infuriated him by
blowing fifty or a hundred dollars in ten minutes, one coin
after another, in the big Chief.
She faced the machine squarely, and put in the first silver
dollar.  She pulled the handle that swine  Nuncio.  Another
dollar, pulled the handle how long does this go on? The reels
cycled and spun and whirled and whipped in a blurringspin-
ning metalhumming overandoverandover as Maggie blue-eyed
Maggie hated and hated and thought of hate and all the days
and nights of swine behind her and ahead of her and if only
she had all the money in this room in this Casino in this hotel
in this town right now this very instant just an instant this-
instant it would be enough to whirring and humming and
spinning and overandoverandoverandover and she would be
free free free and all the world would never touch her body
again the swine would never touch her white flesh again and
then suddenly as dollarafterdollarafterdollar went around-
aroundaround hummmmming in reels of cherries and bells and
bars and plums and oranges there was suddenly painpainpain
a SHARP pain!pain!pain! in her chest, her heart, her center, a
needle, a lancet, a burning, a pillar of flame that was purest
pure purer PAIN!
Maggie, pretty Maggie Moneyeyes, who wanted all that
money in that cartwheel Chief slot machine, Maggie who had
come from filth and rheumatic fever, who had come all the
way to three baths a day and a specialist in Very Expensive
Beverly Hills, that Maggie suddenly had a seizure, a flutter, a
slam of a coronary thrombosis and fell instantly dead on the
floor of the Casino. Dead.
One instant she had been holding the handle of the slot
machine, willing her entire being, all that hatred for all the
swine she had ever rolled with, willing every fiber of every cell
of every chromosome into that machine, wanting to suck out
every silver vapor within its belly, and the next instantso
close they might have been the sameher heart exploded and
killed her and she slipped to the floor . . . still touching tile
Chief.
On the floor.
Dead.
Struck dead.
Liar. All the lies that were her life.
Dead on a floor.
[A moment out of time  lights whirling and '.pinning in a
cotton candy universe  down a bottomless funnel roundly
sectioned like a goat's horn  a cornucopia that rose up cuculi-
form smooth and slick as a worm belly  endless nights that
pealed ebony funeral bells  out of fog  out of weight-
lessness  suddenly total cellular knowledge  memory running
backward  gibbering spastic blindness  a soundless owl of
frenzy trapped in a cave of prisms  sand endlessly draining
down  billows of forever  edges of the world as they
splintered  foam rising drowning from inside  the smell of
rust  rough green corners that bum  memory the gibbering
spastic blind memory  seven rushing vacuums of nothing 
yellow  pinpoints cast in amber straining and elongating
running like live wax  chill fevers  overhead the odor of
stop  this is the stopover before hell or heaven  this is
limbo  trapped and doomed alone in a mist-eaten nowhere 
a soundless screaming a soundless whirring a soundless spin-
ning spinning spinning  spinning spinning * spinning 
spinning  spinningggggggggg]
Maggie had wanted all the silver in the machine. She
had died, willing herself into the machine. Now,
looking out from within, from inside the limbo that
had become her own purgatory, Maggie was trapped,
the soul of Maggie was trapped, in the oiled and
anodized interior of the silver dollar slot machine.
The prison of her final desires, where she had wanted
to be, completely trapped in that last instant of life
between life/death. Maggie, all soul now, trapped for
all eternity in the  soul  of  the machine. Trapped.
"I hope you don't mind if I call over one of the slot men,"
the Slot Machine Floor Manager was saying, from a far
distance. He was in his late fifties, a velvet-voiced man whose
eyes held nothing of light and certainly nothing of kindness.
He had stopped the Pit Boss as the stocky man had turned in
mid-step to return to Kostner and the jackpotted machine; he
had taken the walk himself. "We have to make sure, you
know how it is, somebody didn't fool with the slot, you know,
maybe it's outta whack or something, you know."
He lifted his left hand and there was a clicker in it, the
kind children use at Halloween. He clicked half a dozen
times, like a rabid cricket, and there was a scurrying in the
pit between the tables.
Kostner was only faintly aware of what was happening.
Instead of being totally awake, feeling the surge of adren-
aline through his veins, the feeling any gambler gets when
he is ahead of the game, a kind of desperate urgency when
he has hit it for a boodle, he was numb, partaking of the
action around him only as much as a drinking glass involves
itself in the alcoholic's drunken binge.
All color and sound had been leached out of him.
A tired-looking, resigned-weary man wearing a gray porter's
jacket, as gray as his hair, as gray as his indoor skin, came to
them, carrying a leather wrap-up of tools. The slot repair-
man studied the machine, turning the pressed steel body
around on its stand, studying the back. He used a key on the
back door and for an instant Kostner had a view of gears,
springs, armatures and the clock that ran the slot mechanism.
The repairman nodded silently over it, closed and relocked it,
turned it around again and studied the face of the machine.
"Nobody's been spooning it," he said, and went away.
Kostner stared at the Floor Manager.
"Gaffing. That's what he meant. Spooning's another word
for it. Some guys use a little piece of plastic, or a wire, shove
it down through the escalator, it kicks the machine. Nobody
thought that's what happened here, but you know, we have to
make sure, two grand is a big payoff, and twice . . . well, you
know, I'm sure you'll understand. If a guy was doing it with
a boomerang"
Kostner raised an eyebrow.
"uh, yeah, a boomerang, it's another way to spoon the
machine. But we just wanted to make a little check, and now
everybody's satisfied, so if you'll just come back to the Casino
Cashier with me"
And they paid him off again.
So he went back to the slot machine, and stood before it
for a long time, staring at it. The change girls and the dealers
going off-duty, the little old ladies with their canvas work
gloves worn to avoid calluses when pulling the slot handles,
the men's room attendant on his way up front to get more
matchbooks, the floral tourists, tfae idle observers, the hard
drinkers,  the  sweepers,  the  busboys,  the  gamblers  with
poached-egg eyes who had been up all night, the showgirls
with massive breasts and diminutive sugar daddies, all of them
conjectured mentally about the beat-up walker who was star-
ing at the silver dollar Chief. He did not move, merely stared
at the machine . . . and they wondered.
The machine was staring back at Kostner.
Three blue eyes.
The electric current had sparked through him again, as the
machine had clocked down and the eyes turned up a second
time, as he had won a second time. But this time he knew
there was something more than luck involved, for no one else
had seen those three blue eyes.
So now he stood before the machine, waiting. It spoke to
him. Inside his skull, where no one had ever lived but him-
self, now someone else moved and spoke to him. A girl. A
beautiful girl. Her name was Maggie, and she spoke to him:
I've been waiting for you. A long time, I've been waiting
for you, Kostner. Why do you think you hit the jackpot? Be-
cause I've been waiting for you, and I want you. You'll win
all the jackpots. Because I want you, I need you. Love me,
I'm Maggie, I'm so alone, love me.
Kostner had been staring at the slot machine for a very
long time, and his weary brown eyes had seemed to be locked
to the blue eyes on the jackpot bars. But he knew no one else
could see the blue eyes, and no one else could hear the voice,
and no one else knew about Maggie.
He was the universe to her. Everything to her.
He thumbed in another silver dollar, and the Pit Boss
watched, the slot machine repairman watched, the Slot Ma-
chine Floor Manager watched, three change girls watched, and
a pack of unidentified players watched, some from their
seats.
The reels whirled, the handle snapped back, and in a second
they flipped down to a halt, twenty silver dollars tokened
themselves into the payoff trough and a woman at one of the
crap tables belched a fragment of hysterical laughter.
And the gong went insane again.
The Floor Manager came over and said, very softly, "Mr.
Kostner, it'll take us about fifteen minutes to pull this ma-
chine and check it out. I'm sure you understand." As two
slot repairmen came out of the back, hauled the Chief off
its stand, and took it into the repair room at the rear of the
Casino.
While they waited, the Floor Manager regaled Kostner with
stories of spooners who had used intricate magnets inside their
clothes, of boomerang men who had attached their plastic
implements under their sleeves so they could be extended
on spring-loaded clips, of cheaters who had come equipped
with tiny electric drills in their hands and wires that slipped
into the tiny drilled holes. And he kept saying he knew Kost-
ner would understand.
But Kostner knew the Floor Manager would not under-
stand.
When they brought the Chief back, the repairmen nodded
assuredly. "Nothing wrong with it. Works perfectly. Nobody's
been boomin' it."
But the blue eyes were gone on the jackpot bars.
Kostner lmew they would return.
They paid him off again.
He returned and played again. And again. And again.
They put a "spotter" on him. He won again. And again. And
again. The crowd had grown to massive proportions. Word
had spread like the silent communications of the telegraph
vine, up and down the Strip, all the way to downtown Vegas
and the sidewalk casinos where they played night and day
every day of the year, and the crowd moved toward the hotel,
and the Casino, and the seedy-looking walker with his weary
brown eyes. The crowd moved to him inexorably, drawn like
lemmings by the odor of the luck that rose from him like
musky electrical cracklings. And he won. Again and again.
Thirty-eight thousand dollars. And the three blue eyes con-
tinued to stare up at him. Her lover was winning. Maggie and
her Moneyeyes.
Finally, the Casino decided to speak to Kostner. They
pulled the Chief for fifteen minutes, for a supplemental check
by experts from the slot machine company in downtown
Vegas, and while they were checking it, they asked Kostner
to come to the main office of the hotel.
The owner was there. His face seemed faintly familiar to
Kostner. Had he seen it on television? The newspapers?
"Mr. Kostner, my name is Jules Hartshorn."
"I'm pleased to meet you."
"Quite a string of luck you're having out there."
"It's been a long time coming."
"You realize this sort of luck is impossible."
"I'm compelled to believe it, Mr. Hartshorn."
"Um. As am 1. It's happening to my Casino. But we're
thoroughly convinced of one of two possibilities, Mr. Kost-
ner: one, either the machine is inoperable in a way we can't
detect, or two, you are the most clever spooner we've ever
had in here."
"I'm not cheating."
"As you can see, Mr. Kostner, I'm smiling. The reason I'm
smiling is at your naivet~ in believing I would take your word
for it. I'm perfectly happy to nod politely and say of course
you aren't cheating. But no one can win thirty-eight thousand
dollars on nineteen straight jackpots off one slot machine; it
doesn't even have mathematical odds against its happening,
Mr. Kostner. It's on a cosmic scale of improbability with
three dark planets crashing into our sun within the next twenty
minutes. It's on a par with the Pentagon, Peking and the
Kremlin all three pushing the red button at the same micro-
second. It's an impossibility, Mr. Kostner. An impossibility
that's happening to me."
"I'm sorry."
"Not really."
"No, not really. I can use the money."
"For what, exactly, Mr. Kostner?"
"I hadn't thought about it, really."
"I see. Well, Mr. Kostner, let's look at it this way. I can't
stop you from playing, and if you continue to win, I'll be
required to pay off. And no stubble-chinned thugs will be
waiting in an alley to jackroll you and take the money. The
checks will all be honored. The best I can hope for, Mr.
Kostner, is the attendant publicity. Right now, every player
in Vegas is in that Casino, waiting for you to drop cart-
wheels into that machine. It won't make up for what I'm
losing, if you continue the way you've been, but it will help.
Every high-roller in town likes to rub up next to luck. All I
ask is that you cooperate a little."
"The least I can do, considering your generosity."
"An attempt at humor."
"I'm sorry. What is it you'd like me to do?"
"Get about ten hours' sleep."
"While you pull the slot and have it worked over thor-
oughly?"
"Yes."
"If I wanted to keep winning, that might be a pretty stupid
move on my part. You might change the hickamajig inside so
I couldn't win if I put back every dollar of that thirty-eight
grand."
"We're licensed by the state of Nevada, Mr. Kostner."
"I come from a good family, too, and take a look at me.
I'm a bum with thirty-eight thousand dollars in my pocket."
"Nothing will be done to that slot machine, Kostner."
"Then why pull it for ten hours?"
"To work it over thoroughly in the shop. If something as
undetectable as metal fatigue or a worn escalator tooth or
we want to make  sure  this  doesn't happen  with  other
machines. And the extra time will get the word around town;
we can use the crowd. Some of those tourists will stick to our
fingers, and it'll help defray the expense of having you brealc
the bank at this Casinoon a slot machine."
"I have to take your word."
"This hotel will be in business long after you're gone,
Kostner."
"Not if I keep winning."
Hartshorn's smile was a stricture. "A good point."
"So it isn't much of an argument."
"It's the only one I have. If you want to get back out on
that floor, I can't stop you."
"No Mafia hoods ventilate me later?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said: no Maf"
"You have a picturesque manner of speaking. In point of
fact, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
"I'm sure you haven't."
"You've got to stop reading The National Enquirer. This is
a legally run business. I'm merely asking a favor."'
"Okay, Mr. Hartshorn, I've been three days without any
sleep. Ten hours will do me a world of good."
"I'll have the desk clerk find you a quiet room on the top
floor. And thank you, Mr. Kostner."
"Think nothing of it."
"I'm afraid that will be impossible."
"A lot of impossible things are happening lately."
He turned to go, as Hartshorn lit a cigarette.
"Oh, by the way, Mr. Kostner?"
Kostner stopped and half-turned. "Yes?"
His eyes were getting difficult to focus. There was a ring-
ing in his ears. Hartshorn seemed to waver at the edge of his
vision like heat lightning .across a prairie. Like memories
of things Kostner had come across the country to forget.
Like the whimpering and pleading that kept tugging at the
cells of his brain. The voice of Maggie. Still back in there,
saying . . . things . . .
They'll try to keep you from me.
All he could think about was the ten hours of sleep he had
been promised. Suddenly it was more important than the
money, than forgetting, than. anything, Hartshorn was talking,
was saying things, but Kostner could not hear him. It was as if
he had turned off the sound and saw only the silent rubbery
movement of Hartshorn's lips. He shook his head trying to
clear it.
There were half a dozen Hartshorns all melting into and
out of one another. And the voice of Maggie.
I'm warm here, and alone. I could be good to you, if you
can come to me. Please come, please hurry.
"Mr. Kostner?"
Hartshorn's voice came draining down through silt as thick
as velvet flocking. Kostner tried to focus again. His extremely
weary brown eyes began to track.
"Did you know about that slot machine?" Hartshorn was
saying. "A peculiar thing happened with it about six weeks
ago."
"What was that?"
"A girl died playing it. She had a heart attack, a seizure
while she was pulling the handle, aad died right out there on
the floor."
Kostner was silent for a moment. He wanted desperately to
ask Hartshorn what color the dead girl's eyes had been, but
he was afraid the owner would say blue.
He paused with his hand on the office door. "Seems as
though you've had nothing but a streak of bad luck on that
machine."
Hartshorn smiled an enigmatic smile. "It might not change
for a while, either."
Kostner felt his jaw muscles tighten. "Meaning I might
die, too, and wouldn't that be bad luck."
Hartshorn's smile became hieroglyphic, permanent, stamped
on him forever. "Sleep tight, Mr. Kostner."
In a dream, she came to him. Long smooth thighs and soft
golden down on her arms; blue eyes deep as the past, misted
with a fine scintillance like lavender spiderwebs; taut body that
was the only body Woman had ever had, from the very first.
Maggie came to him.
Hello, I've been traveling a long time.
"Who are you?" Kostner asked, wonderingly. He was stand-
ing on a chilly plain, or was it a plateau? The wind curled
around them both, or was it only around him? She was ex-
quisite, and he saw her clearly, or was it through a mist? Her
voice was deep and resonant, or was it light and warm as
night-blooming jasmine?
I'm Maggie. I love you. I've waited for you.
"You have blue eyes."
Yes. With love.
"You're very beautiful."
Thank you. With female amusement.
"But why me? Why let it happen to me? Are you the girl
whoare you the one that was sickthe one who?"
I'm Maggie. And you, I picked you, because you need me.
You've needed someone for a long time.
Then it unrolled for Kostner. The past unrolled and he saw
who he was. He saw himself alone. Always alone. As a child,
born to kind and warm parents who hadn't the vaguest notion
of who he was, what he wanted to be, where his talents lay.
So he had run off, when he was in his teens, and alone al-
ways alone on the road. For years and months and days and
hours, with no one. Casual friendships, based on food, or sex,
or artificial similarities. But no one to whom he could cleave,
and cling, and belong. It was that way till Susie, and with her
he had found light. He had discovered the scents and aromas
of a spring that was eternally one day away. He had laughed,
really laughed, and known with her it would at last be all
right. So he had poured all of himself into her, giving her
everything; all his hopes, his secret thoughts, his tender
dreams; and she had taken them, taken him, all of him, and
he had known for the first time what it was to have a place to
live, to have a home in someone's heart. It was all the silly and
gentle things he laughed at in other people, but for him it was
breathing deeply of wonder.
He had stayed with her for a long time, and had supported
her, supported her son from the first marriage; the marriage
Susie never talked about. And then one day, he had come
back, as Susie had always known he would. He was a dark
creature of ruthless habits and vicious nature, but she had
been his woman, all along, and Kostner realized he had been
used as a stop-gap, as a bill-payer till her wandering terror
came home to nest. Then she had asked him to leave. Broke,
and tapped out in all the silent inner ways a man can be
drained, he had left, without even a fight, for all the fight had
been leached out of him. He had left, and wandered West,
and finally come to Las Vegas, where he had hit bottom. And
found Maggie. In a dream, with blue eyes, he had found
Maggie.
I want you to belong to me. I love you. Her truth was
vibrant in Kostner's mind. She was his, at last someone who
was special, was his.
"Can I trust you? I've never been able to trust anyone be-
fore. Women, never. But I need someone. I really need some-
one."
It's me, always. Forever. You can trust me.
And she came to him, fully. Her body was a declaration of
truth and trust such as no other Kostner had ever known be-
fore. She met him on a windswept plain of thought, and he
made love to her more completely than he had known any
passion before. She joined with him, entered him, mingled
with his blood and his thought and his frustration, and he
came away clean, filled with glory.
"Yes, I can trust you, I want you. I'm yours," he whispered
to her, when they lay side by side in a dream nowhere of
mist and soundlessness. "I'm yours."
She smiled, a woman's smile of belief in her man; a smile
of trust and deliverance. And Kostner woke up.
The Chief was back on its stand, and the crowd had been
penned back by velvet ropes. Several people had played the
machine, but there had been no jackpots.
Now Kostner came into the Casino, and the "spotters" got
themselves ready. While Kostner had slept, they had gone
through his clothes, searching for wires, for gafis, for spoons
or boomerangs. Nothing.
Now he walked straight to the Chief, and stared at it.
Hartshorn was there. "You look tired," he said gently to
Kostner, studying the man's weary brown eyes.
"I am a little." Kostner tried a smile, which didn't work.
"I had a funny dream."
"Oh?"
"Yeah . . . about a girl . . ." he let it die off.
Hartshorn's smile was understanding. Pitying, empathic and
understanding. "There are lots of girls in this town. You
shouldn't have any trouble finding one with your winnings."
Kostner nodded, and slipped his first silver dollar into the
slot. He pulled the handle. The reels spun with a ferocity
Kostner had not heard before and suddenly everything went
whipping slantwise as he felt a wrenching of pure flame in his
stomach, as his head was snapped on its spindly neck, as the
lining behind his eyes was burned out. TKere was a terrible
shriek, of tortured metal, of an express train ripping the air
with its passage, of a hundred small animals being gutted and
torn to shreds, of incredible pain, of night winds that tore the
tops off mountains of lava. And a keening whine of a voice
that wailed and wailed and wailed as it went away from there
in blinding light
Free! Free! Heaven or Hell it doesn't matter! Freel
The sound of a soul released from an eternal prison, a genie
freed from a dark bottle. And in that instant of damp sound-
less nothingness, Kostner saw the reels snap and clock down
for the final time:
One, two, three. Blue eyes.
But he would never cash his checks.
The crowd screamed through one voice as he fell sidewise
and lay on his face. The final loneliness . . .
The Chief was pulled. Bad luck. Too many gamblers
resented its very presence in the Casino. So it was pulled. And
returned to the company, with explicit instructions it was to
be melted down to slag. And not till it was in the hands of the
ladle foreman, who was ready to dump it into the slag furnace,
did anyone remark on the final tally the Chief had clocked.
"Look at that, ain't that -weird," said the ladle foreman to
his bucket man. He pointed.to the three glass windows.
"Never saw jackpot bars like that before," the bucket man
agreed. "Three eyes. Must be an old machine."
"Yeah, some of these old games go way back," the foreman
said, hoisting the slot machine onto the conveyor track lead-
ing to the slag furnace.
"Three eyes, huh. How about that. Three brown eyes." And
he threw the knife-switch that sent the Chief down the track,
to puddle, in the roaring inferno of the furnace.
Three brown eyes.
Three brown eyes that looked very very weary. That looked
very very trapped. That looked very very betrayed. Some of
these old games go way back.
Las Vegas and Hollywood, 1965