This is a bit from my novel, Where’s Mrs. Bendouski?:
Scott wandered around the Flamingo carrying a small package. He shuffled past the twenty-one tables where serious players watched the cards being dealt face up on the green felt in the same hopeful way Oliver watched the gruel being ladled into his wooden bowl. A trip through the slots where the not quite musical calliope of sound urgently called to be fed more dollars, more quarters, more nickels. As he wandered to the edge of the mêlée, almost to the registration desks, he succumbed to the Rapture, stuck a dollar in a slot machine -- and lost. “And that’s why I don’t gamble.”
“I beg your pardon?” The lady at the next machine looked at him.
“I said I don’t gamble.”
“You just put a dollar in that machine.”
“Well, I didn’t want to run all the way back up to my room and flush it down the toilet.”
“Smart ass.”
He shrugged and wandered over to the front desk. “I have a package for a Mrs. Bendouski.”
It’s a murder mystery. Mrs. Bendouski is dead. He can’t find her. When I find an agent, and the agent finds a publisher, you can read the rest. I mean, if you want to.
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