Louise escorts me to the elevator in the foyer and says, "This is the employee entrance you'll use each day, Jill." We take the elevator down to the mezzanine level, Louise points to the skywalk across the Row and says, "Park in the garage and come in here. Any questions?" Shake my head, so she says she will mail me a copy of the agreement. She asks if I need a lift anywhere. When I decline, she says, "I'll see you October first, nine o'clock sharp, Jill." She waves good-bye and hurries toward the parking garage.

Downstairs, I walk to the front of the casino and out the front door. The day is still warm, even with the buildings blocking the sunlight, so I turn south and begin walking to the Exchange.

Halfway through the second block, two big college guys fall in either side of me. "Hey there, mama, you look fine. Want some company?" asks the one on my left.

"Hi guys," I say, looping my arms into theirs, "Accompany me to the Exchange?"

"Sure," says the one on my right. "Buy you a drink when we get there?"

"Are you old enough to drink?" I ask Left Arm, who is tall, wiry and light on his feet. Right Arm is forty pounds overweight and clumps forward heavily.

"They already know me at the Exchange," says Left Arm.

"You guys play football?"

"Damn right," says Right Arm, leaning close, the beer on his breath wafting over me. "Recruited for a full ride from Chico State."

On the spot, I decide to dump Right Arm. "I hope you're keeping your grades up," I say, probably sounding like his mama.

"That's not the only thing I got up," says Right Arm.

Removing my right arm, I turn my head to the left and ask, "You with me?"

Inclining his head slightly, Left Arm says, "Yours to command, my lady."

See Right Arm reach for my elbow, his weight on his left foot. Hook his heel with my right foot and shove him hard. He spins away, staggering into the street. "I don't like your buddy," I tell Left Arm, placing my hand on his as we continue.

"He's a little drunk," says Left Arm. "Say, that was a slick move. What's your name?"

"Jill Price, and yours?"

"August Lepartin, at your service, Jill," he says. "Just call me Tan." He pronounces his name Ow-GOOST Lay-par-TAN. He's probably a receiver, with sunburned skin, freckles and red hair. Tan's arm feels like steel cables under his shirt.

"French, huh? Your ID valid, Tan?" I ask. "My daddy's French Canadian, Jill, and yes it is. Born in '63."

"Excuse me a moment, Tan." Turn, grip a roll of skin on his ribs and shove my thumb deep into Right Arm's diaphragm, squeezing hard. At the same time, I bend his middle finger way back and drive my one-inch heel into the top of his athletic shoe as he grimaces in pain. "Okay, you escorted me to the Exchange." Release him, but stay close as he clutches one hand over his stomach. "Now beat it," I rasp, my face in his.

Right Arm slides along the building and staggers away, limping, still holding both hands over his stomach.

Watch him for a moment and then turn to Tan, taking his arm once more to cross the street.

"Jesus Christ, Jill," says Tan, "you wanted him to make a move." When I do not respond, he says, "Remind me never to sneak up on you."

"Hope you guys won so you don't practice tomorrow," I say to him. "He'll need to recuperate."

"He's young," says Tan. "He'll get over it."

"So you lost, huh?" I ask. He holds open the door for me. The Exchange is crowded and noisy on a Saturday night. It's an upscale place for Reno. "Did you at least put points on the board?" I ask.

"Sure," he says. "I'm a receiver. I always put points on the board."

"Jill!" cries Liz from a less crowded corner of the bar, "Over here!"

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