Strangers

for being "too stuffy." Rainy Tarnell, the blackjack pit boss on the day shift, had the gall to put it just like that - "Honey, don't be so stuffy!" - as if falling on her back and spreading her legs for a stranger from Houston was merely the equivalent of a fashion gaucherie like wearing white shoes either before Memorial Day or after Labor Day.
        Though she hated being a casino cocktail waitress, she could not afford to quit. No other job would pay her as well. She was a divorced mother raising a daughter without benefit of child-support payments, and in order to protect her credit rating, she was still paying off bills that Alan had run up in her name before walking out on her, so she was acutely aware of the value of a dollar. Her wages were low, -but the tips were exceedingly good, especially on those occasions when one of her customers started winning big at cards or dice.
        On this day before Christmas, the casino was two-thirds empty, and tips were bad. Vegas was always slow Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the crowds did not return until December 26. The whizzing-rattling-ringing of slot machines was muted. Many of the blackjack dealers stood idle and bored in front of empty tables.
        No wonder I'm in a sour mood, Jorja thought. Sore feet, back pain, a horny creep who figures I ought to be as available as the drinks I serve, an argument with Rainy Tarnell, and no tips to show for it.
        When her shift ended at four o'clock, she hurried to the changing room downstairs, punched the time clock, slipped out of her costume and into street clothes, and was out the door into the employee parking lot with a speed that would have drawn praise from an Olympic runner.
        The unpredictable desert weather did nothing to instill the Christmas spirit in her. A Las Vegas winter day could be cold, with bone-numbing wind, or it could be warm enough for shorts and halters. This year, the holiday was warm.
        Her dusty, battered Chevette started on only the third try, which should have improved her mood. But listening to the starter grind and the engine cough, she was reminded of the shiny new Buick that Alan had taken with him fifteen months ago, when he had abandoned her and Marcie.
        Alan Rykoff. More than her job, more than any of the other things that irritated her, Alan was the cause of Jorja's foul mood. She had shed his name when the marriage had been dissolved, reverting to her maiden name, Monatella, but she could not as easily shed the memories of the pain he had inflicted on her and Marcie.
        As she drove out of the parking lot into the street behind the hotel, Jorja tried to banish Alan from her thoughts, but he remained at center stage. The bastard. With his current bedmate, an airhead blond bearing the unlikely name "Pepper," he had flown off to Acapulco for a week, not even bothering to leave a Christmas gift for Marcie. What did you tell a seven-year-old girl when she asked why her daddy didn't buy her anything for Christmas - or even come to see her?
        Although Alan left Jorja saddled with bills, she had willingly forgone alimony because, by then, she loathed him so much that she had not wanted to be dependent on him. However, she had gone after child support and had been shocked when he countered by insisting Marcie was not his child and, therefore, not his responsibility. Damn him. Jorja had married him when she was nineteen and he was twenty-four, and she'd never been unfaithful. Alan knew she hadn't cheated, but protecting his jazzy lifestyle - he needed every dollar for clothes, fast cars, and women - was more important to him than his wife's reputation or his daughter's happiness. To spare little Marcie humiliation and pain, Jorja had released Alan from responsibility before he could voice his sleazy accusations in the courtroom.
        So she was finished with him. She could put him out of her mind.
        But as she drove past the mall at the intersection of Maryland Parkway and Desert Inn Road, Jorja thought about how young she had been when she tied herself to Alan, too young for marriage and too naive to see through his facade. When she was nineteen, she thought he was trčs sophisticated, charming. For more than a year, their union had seemed blissful, but gradually she began to see him for what he was: shallow, vain, lazy, a shockingly promiscuous womanizer.
        The summer before last, when their relationship had been rocky, she