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Show 76 "Oh," Hunt said. "Yes." He took a seat at an empty blackjack table. Fleshy women, all with haunted eyes like Victoria Speer's, pulled the handles of slot machines all around. Who would paint them? . . . Who could capture . . .? Yes, of course: Jack Levine. "I have no idea what to do," Hunt explained to the dealer. The dealer called the pit boss. The pit boss had Hunt sign a voucher for a thousand dollars "You want singles or quarters?" the dealer asked. "Singles," Hunt said. The dealer slid Hunt ten $100 chips. Hunt left the stack in his betting box. He didn't understand what was happening. "You can only bet half that stack," the dealer said. "That's the limit." Hunt removed half. He didn't read the denominations. He was waiting for the rest of his chips. The dealer dealt. Hunt won six hands before he lost. "Don't I get more?" he asked. "I signed that paper for a thousand." "Right: A thousand: Singles!" The dealer held a chip up. Hunt saw. His mind went orange. He scooped the chips in front of him up and staggered away- His head felt subdivided into lots. His breathing thickened. In his room, the chips rattled from his hands into stacks on his bureau: Five. Twenty-five hundred! His wrists felt disconnected; all his ribs felt loose. Risk was terrifying. Worse when it came uncalculated. And then, to gain . . .! He went and swam, drank margueritas. The sun relaxed him. It made his body feel glazed and dry, like terra cotta. He licked the salt around the |