“Yeah, people in Jersey know how to enjoy old age,” Lula said.
It was true. All over the country, we were warehousing old people in nursing homes, feeding them Jell-?O. And in Jersey, we were busing them into casinos. Dementia and heart disease didn’t slow you down in Jersey.
“You could probably order dialysis off the room service menu here,” Lula said. “I tell you, I’m glad I’m gonna spend my golden years in Jersey.”
“We’ll all go in a different direction and look for Grandma,” I said. “We’ll keep in touch by cell phone.”
I was halfway through a tour of the blackjack tables and my phone rang.
“I found her,” Connie said. “She’s at the slots, playing poker. Go to the big dog in the middle of the room and turn left.”
Daffy’s was one of the larger, newer casinos on the Boardwalk. In a misguided effort to out-?theme Caesars, the conglomerate owners had chosen to design the casino after the chairman’s ten-?year-?old beagle... Daffy. There was a Daffy Doodle bar and a Daffy Delicious restaurant, and Daffy paw prints on the purple-?and-?gold carpet. The crowning glory was a twenty-?foot, two-?ton, bronze Daffy that shot laser beams out of its eyes. The dog barked on the hour and was located dead center in the main casino.
I turned left at the big bronze Daffy and found Grandma hunched on her stool in front of a Double Bonus Video Poker machine, concentrating on the combinations. Bells were dinging, lights were flashing, and Grandma kept hitting the play button.
Randy Briggs was standing behind Grandma. He was clutching the duffel bag to his chest, alternately looking around the room and watching Grandma p
lay. Briggs is a forty-?something computer geek with thinning sandy blond hair, cynical brown eyes, and all the charm of Attila the Hun. Holding the bag was awkward for Briggs because Briggs is only three feet tall and his arms barely wrapped around the bag. I’ve known him for a couple years now and wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re friends. I suppose we have a professional relationship, more or less.
“Hey,” I said to him. “What’s up?”
“The usual,” Briggs said. “What’s up with you?”
“Just hanging out.” I looked at the duffel bag. “What’s in the bag?”
“Money.” Briggs cut his eyes to Connie and Lula. “I’ve been hired to guard it, so don’t anybody get ideas.”
“I got ideas,” Lula said. “They have to do with sitting on you until you’re nothing but a grease spot on the carpet.”
Grandma stopped punching the play button and looked around at us. “I’m on a hot streak. Don’t get too close or you’ll put the whammy on me.”
“How much have you won?” I asked her.
“Twelve dollars.”
“And how much have you poured into the machine?”
“Don’t know,” Grandma said. “I’m not keeping track.”
“I smell buffet,” Lula said. “There’s a buffet around here somewhere. What time is it? Is it time for the lunch buffet?”
All around us, seniors were checking out of their machines, getting on their Rascals, and powering up their motorized wheelchairs.
“Look at this,” Lula said. “These old people are all gonna beat us to the buffet, and we’re gonna have to take leftovers.”
“I hate buffets,” Briggs said. “I can never reach the good stuff.”
“I can reach everything,” Lula said. “Every man for himself. Watch out. Coming through. Excuse me.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to get something to eat,” Grandma said. “I’ve been playing this machine for four hours and my keister is asleep. We gotta get a move on, though, so we don’t get behind the feebs with walkers and them portable oxygen tanks. They take forever to get through the line.”
The buffet was held in the Bowser Room. We bought our tickets, loaded our plates, and sat down.
“No offense,” I said to Briggs, “but you seem like an odd choice to guard the money.”
Briggs dug into a pile of shrimp. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m not honest? You think I can’t be trusted with the money?”
“I think you’re not tall.”