YD6~08 Sin City's Ex-Croupier: Janine's Tie to Jacqueline

I’ve cruised the Johannesburg highway exit the city’s northern edge, to enter the night street grid to traffic lenses crawl the residential block, into Hillbrow. the city from our teens’ dying nightlife, but I’m preoccupied with Janine’s blizzard instructions. “Pick me up at ten o’clock.” While I’m in a riddle. ‘_Why waste the best part of a Friday evening?_’ The bustle of crowds volatilized from the sidewalks. The east straight trickles one-way street traffic amid dancing neon lights strobing facades to upper floors of nightclubs and restaurants, to craggy high-rise walls evanescing into the night. A few walking figures pass the portal’s bright arcade to parallel streets, with empty escalators to upstairs restaurants and night stores. While the far opposing supermarket’s open doors and the far corner whitewashed storefronts absconded with nightlife glitter. I’m crawling around the corner clears the shadowy side street to subdued lampposts’ light, in the straight raising the Hillbrow Television Tower. With the upcoming intersection, my fingers swipe the slip of paper off the passenger seat. Glanced at Janine’s scribbles, stunned, that the street corner post nameplate matched. ‘_My luck!_’

I crawl the curb, to the deserted backstreet, to the walls of towering apartment blocks, searching the entrances and then locating the numbers. I’m creeping along cars along the curb, nearing a light flooding across the street. Coasting to a halt, I glanced at my wristwatch. ‘_Just on time!_’ The distant streets’ grid echoed lost car honks as a reminder. ‘_How am I supposed to announce my arrival to Janine?_’ I gazed across the asphalt, the curb to the sidewalk, deep through the widespread glaze of the bright deep foyer. From the corner of gleaming marble and mirrors’ shadows emerges a waspy figure in a calf-length dress, peps gait, crossing the grayish gleaming foyer. Paused in front of the middle plate-glass. Long sleeve reaches, I’m assured of Janine by her pulling effort, passing an evanescent glaze, but dawns on me. ‘_I’ve never mentioned what car I drive?_’ 

Janine out in the open world, with a distant regard, presses her strides across the street, approaches without a stray glance. Persistent, in her wavering flimsy summer skirt around the car hood, to figure in the passenger window. Her figure sways by the door swing, slips sassy to sit - smack - the door. She drapes slink in her seat, with a hand fall to her lap, while her other hand lowers her handbag to the footwell’s shadows, to raise her right finger pointing over the dashboard, signaling. ‘_Drive_!’

Without Janine flinging a word, withdrawing her finger, we creep away a cabin brighten, falling to the shadows of lantern lights. striated sixties architectural towers’ shadowy cracks revealing entrances and windows in our passage. I’m on hold as the car creeps through a long gallery of masonry cladding concrete, to a sleek pitch-black roof. Short, an intersection break, while in my mind circles my ways out to Bophuthatswana, for help, exclaiming. “Hey Janine, where to?” To surprise Janine, snarling, ‘_You should know — everyone knows Sun City_.’ Her hand lifts out of her lap’s comfort, a hefty index finger around the corner. I steer the car crawl the curb, through traffic lenses the block a Z-course into the sudden vigor neon light dropping back, with an outbound trickling traffic, fast thin, as the night roof lowers onto jagged towers, ahead break-up to a few shadowing high-rises, with Janine quiet in her seat.

My restlessness’ therapeutic drive into the night sinking to shy and spread rooftops, leading to aerated suburbs behind sidewalk in chained lanterns, to track the peaceful shadows onto plowed headlights into the night to rest afield at a loss of the horizon. Headlights brush the incessant upcoming roadway from hideouts, arouse wayside blush green shrubs out of their shadows, such as a fragile princess peaceful in her corner. A blanket of far ripples straggling geometric shapes. As I search a dark corner, from the flares of the odd headlight hurting me behind the eyes. To stick my regard, track the timid stippled white line to the cars’ headline glow, glowing our compartment, to a sudden dead. Returning to me the dashboard lights, but obsessed, I’m pursuing the red taillight, wearing away from my curse.

Janine’s hand fiddles in her corner, by the footwell fumble in her handbag. Her figure’s shadows lean forward. She extends her hand slots an 8-Track cassette - clunk-clunk - Fiddling with the fascia’s dials - click-clang-click wheeze - the tape re-whine. The air reverberating jazz music. Janine leans back, sinking in her corner. The odd flare arouse in our way, at regular intervals along the endless road, to tag returning from our destination. My head immersed in an ongoing jazz orchestrating after the introduction, to bear the grunt behind the leading headlight gouging the night. I’m called to a sliver rising, to sprout shining a road sign to reflect a passing flash, awakening a diversion across the upcoming lane’s farm road’s apron. without appeasing jazz’s fatigue, the sharp resonance saturating my head. 

The thought flashed a break from the Jazz, passing the pair of stilts signaling, “Magaliesburg 20 km.” Which increase closer, repeating flashing road signs. Against a barbed awaking horizon to a glow, along the roadway to scintillating a starry crescent parterre glow, creeping to besieging our approach. Raise lampposts halo sprouting through the suburban sleep, Janine jumps from her seat, awakening to stretch her neck, her eyes searching behind the bleakish headlights across the mottled street. Janine’s head turns with the passing streetlights along villas in the shadows to bushy yards. At a loss, she frets, with the upcoming yellow flashing traffic lenses. She wiggles out of her seat, waking up her hand from her lap, to waggle a pointing finger, increasing violent shaking her arm by her window to voice. “Left, left, left!” We crawled the ghostly suburb property, suburban corner. she relapses into her seat, as the dirt sidewalks to decorative yard walls run into the distance.

We speed up alongside suburban pitched roof houses to under foliage swells property backing our way out of town, on the lookout for the borders crossing into Bophuthatswana. But as the sign wasn’t coming, instead, arouse the lights of a ship at sea, when wayside headlight on an exhausted signal reflecting on the outskirts, “Rustenburg.” Cruised through wayside straggling timid farmhouses to green flocculent, overbearing rows of old trees shy herding wayside shadowy suburban pitch roof houses. Passing through town to emerge sailing a black river, dawning amid distant hilly sliver glowing folds.

Janine wiggles out her seat’s backrest, waggles a finger by her window, after cruising roundabout shadowy rolling mounts. the leading road evanescent into pitch darkness to a side jutting road which after groove through a bay glowing dome sprinkled with lights. Steer the car into the side road, riding in the dark, upon entering the hazy golden dome, a traffic jam to dismay. ‘_The Bantustan’s nowhere?_’ Approaching a bottleneck trailing two lanes of cars’ red tail lights, onto pulling up to a stop. Seeking along undulations trains sleek gleams and glass to confusion upfront. Betrayed by an officer, peak cap and uniform control a border post. 

Straight and restless Janine dresses in her seat, as I found the lane creeping, and gazing over the gleaming rooftop. we approached a guard upfront amid gleams and glitters to trailing cars. Irate, she pushes a pointing finger onto her sight of the windshield, as I realize upfront cars’ gleams careens left and right into a gateway. The wings’ toward the overbearing mast we bypass and topped by floodlights, toward a bare asphalt field with rows of lampposts sprinkled with a few parked cars. I’m saying to myself. ‘_What’s getting into her_?’ 

Janine’s wild wiggles, to intense specter of her mind, leaping out her seat, through the windshield, while blind of the uniformed guard with pendulum arm swings hands controlling a sober traffic flow. Janine on a crusade, calls out. “There — You must go there — Go there!” Unable to drive by the creeping traffic, jammed by the guardhouse, in silence querying Janine. ‘_I can’t steamroll our way past_?’ 

A chain of cars drawn through the curve into the wings’ gateways, by a child's face, losing a military authority, slight, and dressed in a floating uniform, and sunk pea cap. to read her meaning in view past the native youth, proud of his uniform, standing on a raised curbed median, split the ascending deserted asphalt through a grassland swell, as Janine percussive persists. “Go, go, go...” Two cars up front turn away, clearing the way past the baby face’s starved eyes, as I break the traffic link, unshackled Janine’s agitated hand at arm’s length, from stirring my perception. Janine sinking into her seat, I ride with her hawk’s eyes over the rising hill rolling the crest raising city light pollution.

Janine appears immune as the hill arouses our entry through the gateway to a giant’s crown of glittery jewels, to a few figures among glim lanterns slipping behind. While Janine presses me from sparing a glance at the casino entrance. To drive past the portico glitters toward shadowing the dull leading road. With the shuttle buses’ sheltered platform until at the extreme, we circled to coast across the bare demarcated parking lot, spreading wide out of the edges of sight, Janine says, “Park here.” 

Swift and slinks, Janine in fast strides, after the passenger door flings open with Janine jumping to her feet, smacked close. she headed past the Mercedes’ hood in diagonal along the plain brick wall, away from a dwarfing double door, toward the agape end with the bus shelter. In her graceful stride, shedding me. I’m a few easy-going strides behind, turning the yellow brick corner. upfront the portal’s crack to a fountain of neon lights and agitated glitters, Janine sways toward the entrance without straying a squint, unimpressed.

As I lined up, Janine’s spearheading through the ante-hall’s entrance, to slow her pace, descending steps to the stratum marble passage to the rotunda mall. She crosses an aisle to a pool of one-armed bandit machines buzzing - Click-ed, he, click…- She’s blind to the few seated people hunched over, dreary, succumbed to stares at the pace of slotting coins, palm the lever to pull. Janine’s piercing eyesight leads out the one-arm bandit machines’ pit, rushing to step the upcoming treads across the mall, as I’m strolling short on her heels, to a shadowing passageway.

Crystals jingle wing mirrors dilate ahead of Janine in pursuit of the passageway curving away and short-lived clearing an elaborate saloon gambling tables. Janine rushed the center aisle with temple blinkers past either side a few penguins dressed figures standing behind a gambling table, to a series of expanding tables with rising tagged stakes. She ran up to a predominant court architrave to carved yellow wood doors. Janine plows arms’ spread, swings the doors back, princessly she passes. behind Janine, spring resistant door leaf to an elaborate Privé Saloon. Janine’s figure disappearing in a soft lighting, to red upholstery and shining dark wooden gambling tables. 

I’m tracking Janine through the Privé Salon’s central aisle, until clustered player to a roulette table, in diagonal opposing a deserted blackjack table. While players’ daunting eyes, I’m invisible, as gambling peers’ hands descend upon the green betting mat, placing chips across numbered grids. The croupier dressed in a penguin suit, at the head of the table, his fingers flip off a Russian Roulette’s wheel backspins, his palm drop a magic ball counter spin, calling out. “No more bets.” Gamblers around the table, eyes in suspense, to a silent wheeze intensified - Tock, tock, tock... - the ball jump to lie, carried dead still by the slowing roulette wheel to a stop. The croupier repeats to a frustrating bore, to lean over the table, racking chips from the betting grit, bar the winning number. As I’m watching through gamblers’ shoulder interstices, hands collect stacked winning chips. I’m watching hands placing bets, the croupier spinning the wheel, to ball jump, random fall still, to stop and racking in the winnings, the game unable to captivate my floundering luck. I’m raising eyes, to an extent, as I’m eager for control. I jump eyesight farther to Janine at the baccarat table.

Around the crowded Russian Roulette table, I paced as farther back a croupier, who I’ve watched across gamblers’ at the Russian Roulette table, hold a stance while clubbed busts wrap, among whom Janine had wiggled to sit hands placing bets to player or bank. Under intoxicated, hungry eyes, the croupier, tall in a penguin suite, draws cards out of the shoe to the baccarat table, again passing time. ‘_OK!_’ I thought. ‘_Instead of earning by the sweat of my labor, I’ll try my luck!_’ I step up the toe of a horseshoe at the table, while in quest of Janine’s magnetism, a few players along the right branch.

The iceman in me places a 10 Rand chip along heat radiating players’ hands, leaving stacks of colorful greater denomination chips. As the croupier draws cards from the shoe, nimble fingers flip to face, to player and bank. Paying out, and racking in, clears the table to restart drawing cards from the shoe, in a cycle of hands collects, bet, over and again, amidst my fingers, my little stacked chips gain and fall, questioning. ‘_Is Janine my lucky streak?_’ 

Janine leaves her seat, passes by with shady-eyes, slew a wry smirk, left trail her sarcastic words. “You bring me bad luck — playing at the same table.” She dragged in her wake her innocent lucky dust, as my stack of chips depleted, to rise from my seat, picking my last chip, walking away. The chip rolls through my fingers as I meander the hall’s tables over shoulders, languishing bets at green mats.

As I’m standing dubious by the Blackjack table, and out of boredom, glanced back. A latent waiter figured towering alongside the croupiers raked in and payout busy soft shaded gamblers’ islands. The waiter dances with a plateau raising a pinky, lifts the glass, stretches, and dive amid gamblers’ shoulders, heads tilting in placing bets, to draw back. The waiter withdraws, leaving a full straight glass on the table’s ledge. With a tango swing, he withdraws from the swaddled gamblers, leading a platter tilted at hand.

I’m pursuing the dancing waiter behind me, crossing the soft shines shaded saloon, turning away from the central aisle to move offside toward the far flank wall. I’m ignoring the waiter’s approach to the catering service hatch. As I’m stepping forward, to the idiocy of seating at the Blackjack table. Bet my last chip to watch the croupier draw cards dealing with a flit face up in front of me. I hit another card, and stay. The croupier’s hand whisks my cards, and my chip, for me to rise wondering, when called toward the figures standing by the kitchen broad service hatch into the shining white empty back room. 

I approach a rudiment ranch guardrail to the backrest of a beige upholstered couch, ending short of the lateral wall. I turn for the gap by double emergency doors, ascend the wooden platform. I sought along the beige armrest by the coffee table to lower myself, sink into the soft molding cushions. To my relief of knitting needle piercing my lower back, while the jaunty waiter balances at hand a glass to a tray, vanishes left through the gap of the lounge cornering handrail to the gambling saloon. 

The waiter reappears over my right shoulder, to dawdle as he flipped his tray at the end of the counter, leans a shoulder tall against the hatch’s reveal. in a glitch, I’m doodling hanging clouds over a stricken system. a caterer’s shadow behind the counter, to a drinking glass standing at the opposite end of the service hatch. The frisky waiter’s hand swipes the glass to a tray off the corner. Balancing a drinking glass, he jolly walks off, walks the evanescent central aisle into the packed saloon.

A blizzard burst through the double doors. Hefty bodyguards in black suits encircling the casino owner, Sol Kerzner’s impressive grand entry. But a youngster’s eyeballs roll astray, to break away from the hustle and bustle trailing crowd. He walks up to me, as I had restless stood up to stroll tracking back along the lounge railing to descend the platform, besides the emergency exit door. passing by the settee backrest I occupied earlier. I hurl at the youngster. “What happened to your face — ‘_Kid?’_”

In a swift reply, the youngster says. “I just came out of the ring, defending the junior championship title.” Awakened in me, while I’ve strolled by players at gambling tables, in the adjacent bowl. Sol Kerzner’s “Sin City” associated with promoting celebrities, and boxing, not strange. The youngster didn’t frown at my ignorance, neither offense by my blunt question. But I shrink in shame, while behind the junior champion, sponsors and organizers parade in dark suits, waste the junior champion. 

While I cannot relate to his fist fight, soothing words for being punched silly, friendly and chatting, dodging blows. He leaves me tongue tight, struggling to find encouraging words, when two dark suite men emerge from the straggled crowd. Approach behind him, snatch the youngster away, and obliging, but my entertainment taken away. I return to the couch, dawdle on the young waitress, amplify the rigor past the catering hatch to distant stances, with the waiter in turn disappearing among the gamblers.