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Show 42 BOBBIE'S HOUSE OF FURS Someone had told Angela that hell glowed for miles away just like Las Vegas did in the dark. She thought about that as she watched the casino glowing orange and blue, the rows of slot machines pulsing with neon as i f they were a secret source of magic, the lights rippling off and on overhead. Then she remembered why she was here. She checked for lipstick on her teeth and re-assessed her profile in the gilt-framed mirror. Oh wow, she thought, that's me. Angela, all-time goodness Mormon g i r l in a b i k i n i . She shivered, stepped down two stairs, and proceeded across the gaming floor. I t ' s me, everybody, she f e l t like saying and waited for someone to look up and be surprised that she, Angela Larsen, never before seen publicly in a two-piece swimsuit let alone a b i k i n i , was here in the Showboat, modeling mostly her skin. In the middle of the crowd, Angela struck the pose that she had learned in modeling school, both hands on her hips, one knee bent, and the other foot placed slightly in front of the other in an abstract V. Then she negotiated her f i r s t model's turn of the evening, the one she had practiced so diligently, in a small square of space. Her right thigh brushed against a player at the craps table. |