Estella quietly looked out the car window as they approached Quivera Palace.
The casino lights quivered in the early evening, much like the feeling in her stomach. Lana drove under the portal and stopped before the casino entrance, saying with a smile, “Here you go!” Estella fumbled to open the car door, first pulling on the window lever and armrest before finding the door latch. She stepped out carefully, her purse dangling from her arm. She smoothed imagined wrinkles in her dress, and straightened the white lace collar atop her best cardigan sweater. Before she closed the door, she leaned inside to catch Lana’s words. “Mickey said he’ll pick you up on his way home from work. Look for him soon after ten o’clock.” She pointed at the ten on her wristwatch as a reminder, then called out, “Good luck!”
     Such a sweet girl, Estella thought. Lana was from an old New Mexican family
like hers, with deep roots in the Rio Abajo. Mickey was more than lucky in marrying her. How many women would put up with her son’s pickiness and on top of that, agree to take in a mother-in-law?
     Quivera Palace was busy but not jam-packed like it usually was during the
weekend. Estella’s blood raced as it always did at the sound of slots spinning, the clang of coins falling into metal trays, and the computerized music of machines paying out. Promise permeated the air. Suddenly, she was filled with an unexplainable sense of expectancy, the same feeling she had long ago as a young girl, dressed in her lacy, white dress and petticoat, white gloves, white shoes, and white veil at her first Holy Communion, when she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue to taste for the first time the wafer the father poised before her. But curiously, it was the memory of her first confession that flashed before her with such clarity as to transport her back in time. She was stepping up proudly to the confessional to tell El Padre her sins, relatively minor transgressions, venial sins, such as talking back to Mamá, and stealing gum. She had even made up some more sins to confess since these misdeeds didn’t seem enough for the blood the precious Savior had shed. Mamá had allowed her to wear her new white dress
shoes to break them in, and as she neared the confessional, the slick underside of the shoes slid across the newly waxed wood floor, and down she went, thunking her head. So embarrassing! And worse yet, she scuffed one shoe with a black mark. She quickly picked herself up off the floor, and entered the confessional, grateful for its dimness. In a timorous voice, she said, “Bless me, father, for I have sinned.”
     The memory made Estella blush. Just in case it was a premonition, she stepped cautiously on the plush carpet. She wandered the casino floor, enjoying the flashing lights, and clever game themes, looking for the machine that would call to her. For a time, she could, and would, do as she pleased. By the end of the evening, her clothes and hair would reek of cigarette smoke, the smell of the forbidden, the reckless and wild. The smell of a bar. Estella had never been in a bar in her life. Only loose women frequented cantinas, her papá had said. She had never sat on a stool in front of a mirrored bar with rows of hard liquor sparkling in pretty bottles. She had never felt a glass of cold beer sweating in her hand, or the burn of tequila down her throat. It was for the taste of the forbidden that she came to the Indian casino—to satisfy an unknown longing in her soul—though she had never been able to explain to Mickey exactly why she gambled.
     The Sovereign Seven machines, the pride of the casino, with huge payouts of
$100,000, $500,000, and a million dollars were prominently placed at the entrance and throughout the casino. Estella ignored them. Not only were the stakes too high—it took one-dollar-minimum bets to play the machines—but she felt insulted by that type of slot, three gold-crowned Sevens lining up. Huh! What skill was involved there? Any chango pushing the buttons could eventually hit a jackpot.
     She threaded her way among the clusters of slots to the twenty-five-cent video
poker machines with the progressive jackpot. An electronic sign arching like a rainbow above the island of machines read $25,002.75. The digits reeled by as the jackpot increased penny by penny, second by second. She eased into an open chair between two other players, snapped open the clasp on her vinyl purse, looked around cautiously, and then quickly withdrew a crisp twenty-dollar bill from a side pocket. Earlier in the day, Lana had taken her to the bank to withdraw money, five twenty-dollar bills, which she had tucked into five different places in her purse. Unknown to Lana, Estella had dipped into her savings. Mickey had insisted she open the account and save a portion of her small income from Social Security “just in case.” Just in case she got real sick and they had to put her in a nursing home. He made the possibility seem so likely, she agreed, not wanting to be a burden to her children, some of whom weren’t doing as good as Mickey. But sometimes, the thought crossed her mind that maybe the account was just in case she died of natural causes, there’d be something for all his troubles of taking care of her. It was this suspicion, God forgive her, which prompted her to use some of her money now before she was laid to rest in the plot she had already bought and paid for. She was flushed with the thought of indulging herself beyond her means in some entertainment whether anyone approved or not. The money had burned a hole in her purse all afternoon and gave her a secret thrill every time she had thought of it. Sometimes she felt so old. But not now. Tonight she was alive and kicking! In celebration, she had worn the brightest shade of the two red lipsticks she owned. Estella inserted the first twenty into the bill feeder. It slid in noiselessly, easily, like her shoe across the waxed floor. The credits moved from zero to eighty.
     Ahhh. She hit Bet One and then Draw. The man to her right was punching
buttons almost without thought, mumbling under his breath, breathing hard. Stupido. For him, it was all about money, not love of the game, not faith. With his stubby finger, he punched repeatedly and the cards on the screen appeared and disappeared. Unlike El Chango beside her, Estella contemplated each poker hand on the screen. Play it safe and hold the pair of Jacks, or hold the four spades and hope for a Flush? Maybe go for a Straight? She scored Two Pairs. Bueno. She earned two credits.
     During the first half-hour she played cautiously, mostly making single bets,
risking two quarters now and then, on occasion, three, holding her ground until she felt she had warmed up her gambling instinct. Whenever she had a hunch, which she experienced as a tingling in some part of her body, the back of her neck, her arms, palms, and My God! even her breasts, she whispered, “Santa Maria,” then bet the five-quarter maximum. Her hunches began to pay off, her credits slowly building. Periodically, she would glance around quickly to see if anyone was watching. Then she furtively made the sign of the cross. Through the intercession of the saints, acting by faith, she believed she could bring down the $25,000 jackpot. Her winnings went up and down, mostly down. One step forward, two back; another step forward, two back. Two forward. Two Back. Back. Back. It took her almost an hour to play her eighty credits. Ee-whé-la, a whole hour. At least she had gotten her money’s worth in entertainment right there. Sustained by faith and the encouraging sound of silver coins dropping into trays when players won or cashed out, she fed the machine the other twenties, one by one.
     She had a fondness for the King and the Queen, El Rey and La Reina. They
brought her luck. She and Andrés— may he rest in peace— had once served as the King and Queen of a fiesta celebrating one thing or another. How they danced that night. When Andrés was alive, they went to dances, all kinds, weddings, quincenteras, anniversaries, celebrations. They had ruled the dance floor. Andrés was a good dancer, the women all agreed. They were frequently asked by brides and grooms to be their padrinos, to lead the wedding marches. Oh, what a rich life they had with all their family and friends. Sometimes she missed Andrés with a fierce ache that eventually faded to a stinging sensation like heart burn. She knew not to hold too tight to the memories, or she might get soul sickness. Let the dead go. Besides he probably wouldn’t approve of her gambling. The thought startled her. Qué malo! She whispered a Hail Mary and then punched the Draw button.
     Uno mas, she told herself. One more bet and if I lose, I’ll quit. She won thirty
credits and then doubled it with a bonus spin. What luck! What would she do with her jackpot winnings? Buy a big fancy car. No, build a big adobe home like a ranch with lots of land around it with horses and piped fences and those trees with pretty, red leaves. Make it two stories with Spanish tile. Something that everyone would bitterly envy and wish was theirs. Something she never had but always wanted, always said disdainfully that only worldly-minded or grasping people lived in such homes. And she’d live there with Mickey and Lana, and Little Mickey and Alex, and they would all be so rich and happy that no one could stand it what with their pitiful lives and drunk husbands, and sons-in-laws who worked hard all the time and had nothing to show for it. Los pobres would still shop at Family Dollar and she would be at the mall buying her hijitos Nike shoes like Lana’s snooty cousin Alma did. Estella frowned. She rarely went to the mall. It was always crowded and people acted like cows. Well, Lana could go to the mall and buy the Nike shoes. Estella sipped her complementary cola, pleased with how happy they’d all be. And she would be kind and gracious to those with less. She would give la vieja, Sophie, mean old goat, a ride in her new car whenever she needed one, maybe to
go see her grandson in prison in Santa Fe, which is where he looks like he’s heading, Lord forgive me for saying so. But I will help those in need when I win, Estella vowed. It looks good, and of course, it would be the right thing to do.
     Just one more time, Estella told herself when El Rey and La Reina failed her, and then failed her again. If God was willing, she could win back the sixty credits she’d won earlier and then she would stop.
     By ten-fifteen, Estella was tired and near tears. And she had to pee, but there was no time for that. She was down to the last of her money, and Mickey could show up any minute now. Tightfisted like Andrés, Mickey was not a gambler. He wasn’t a dancer either, Estella suddenly realized. Poor Lana! Poor her! Mickey would not be willing to wait even a few minutes for her to finish playing. He was annoyed by the noise of the whirling slots, the cigarette smoke, by what he saw as the stupor of idiot gamblers hypnotized by flashing screens to spend their grocery money. “The Indians are laughing all the way to the bank,” he complained.
     The gamblers on either side of her simultaneously vacated their chairs without
taking any winnings. About to punch the BET 5 QUARTERS button, she paused. She had an odd, nagging feeling like she used to get when her hijos were up to no good. Then she felt the familiar tingling that signaled a winning hand. She felt it on her neck, like an intimate nuzzle, the playful way Andrés did back when they were a young couple and he wanted you-know-what. Players had come and gone on either side of her throughout the night, filling the machines with quarters, making an eventual payoff all the more likely. She glanced up at the sign above her that now read $25,144.53. The last digit steadily changed: 4, 5, 6. Surely, a payoff was due soon on one of the machines. 7, 8, 9. Which one?
     Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the approach of a good-looking young
man, thirty-ish, well dressed in a dark suit and tie. He carried himself with an air of
superiority, like a man used to telling others what to do. A casino manager, or a gambler of means, she wondered, suddenly feeling possessive of the two empty machines on either side of her. But, no, a man like him probably played blackjack at the tables, or rolled the dice. He caught her eye and flashed a warm smile as if he knew her. Estella found herself responding like a woman half her age, smiling, lightly touching her hair. She felt the ends dried from a home perm, reminding her she was long past-due a trim she could splurge on at Betty’s Shear Beauty Salon if only she’d win.
     “Good evening, ma’am.” He nodded courteously. His long hair, sleek and shiny,
was drawn back in a ponytail. He wore an earring like those foul-mouthed cholos sin verguenza who hung out at the Sonic Drive-In and blasted their vulgar music, if you could even call it music. No innocentes, those ones. But este señor, now he had a sense of style and class, something the cholos in their hairnets, undershirts, and sagging pants didn’t—the kind that couldn’t be faked.
     “Good evening,” she responded, pleased that he spoke to her.
     “Has luck been with you?” he asked, coming to a stop just behind her chair.
     “No sir, not so far,” she laughed airily, as if losing a hundred dollars was nothing to her, she did it all the time, rich widow that she was, mother of a son rich in spirit! She was conscious of his close presence and the clean scent of his cologne, like sagebrush after the rain. The back of her neck tingled, and goose bumps rose on her arms.
     “It could be better, eh?” Leaning close, he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “If
you move to the Sovereign Seven machine on the other side directly opposite, the one dead center, you’ll win.”
     Estella stiffened, then searched his face, noticing a faint trace of a mustache above his shapely mouth. She looked into his dark eyes. Guileless. Was he a casino manager giving her a special tip? Maybe they do this sometimes? She couldn’t tell if he was Indio or Chicano. She made a quick decision. Por qué no? What did she have to lose? She had only five dollars left in her machine and not much time. Okay then.
     She cashed out her coins and scooped them into a plastic coin cup. She bent
down awkwardly to make sure she didn’t leave a single coin, sweeping her hand back and forth in the tray. Then she rose from the chair as quickly as she could. Her joints were stiff from the hours of sitting. The change attendant rolled by with her cart, and Estella exchanged the coins for a five-dollar bill. Though she limped a bit from her arthritic hip, she hurried with renewed energy and purpose to the island of Sovereign Seven machines. Hands behind his back, standing behind another gambler to watch him play, the stranger turned around to nod at her when she sat at the indicated machine.
     Feeling her heart beating wildly in her chest and the tingling spreading in her
body, she inserted the bill and punched Bet Maximum, then Spin. Who would think esta vieja, Estella de Belen, New Mexico, with humble family roots entwined with the Indians, would be gambling like a rich Anglo who lived in the Northeast Heights? Throwing in five dollar bills like she had money to burn! One gold-crowned Sovereign Seven stopped on the horizontal red line, quickly followed by a second one. Almost as in a dream, she saw the third royal Seven drop into place. Before she fully comprehended it, the slot machine was ringing, the light above it flashing red.
     The woman on the far end of the row looked up from her screen. “Oh my God!”
she screamed at Estella. “You won! You won the jackpot! One million dollars!”
     Estella was quickly surrounded by other patrons, casino workers, and security
guards. Mickey appeared at her side, his eyes bulging. “Mamá, you won?” he asked, incredulous, staring at the screen and then at the sign above which was flashing “Jackpot Winner!”
     Estella searched the crowd, looking for the young man. She spotted him moving toward the blackjack tables.
     “Wait here!” she commanded the stunned Mickey. “I need to go thank that man.”
     Estella pushed her way through the gathering crowd. She hurried toward the
stranger, finally reaching him and touching his elbow. He turned slowly.
     “Young man! You were right! I just wanted to say—” The words died in her
throat as his eyes met hers. His pupils blazed red. She gasped in surprise. He moved back with dainty steps, and her eyes dropped to his feet. Where shoes should have been were cloven hooves like a goat or a deer. Mother of God! Estella’s throat went dry. She grasped at it, struggling to breathe. The stranger laughed and turned away, his steps like a woman on heels. Estella felt herself slipping to the floor.
     When she opened her eyes moments later, she lay stretched out on the floor, once again surrounded by security guards.
     “She just fell. I caught her as she was going down,” someone was telling the
guards.
     Estella looked up at the female casino worker who cradled her head in her hands and screamed, startling the young Indian woman. “That man, that thing!” She motioned in the direction the stranger went. "He told me to play the machine that won! He has hooves! I saw them!”
     Her eyes traveled down the length of her prone body to her own scuffed and worn pumps. Over their tops, she spied the hoofed stranger moving past the cashier cage, heading toward the glass entry doors. Over his shoulder, he glanced back, looking directly at Estella with slit eyes filled with contempt. Then he disappeared behind an island of dollar-slots.
     Estella rose to a sitting position in one amazing lift of her body.
     “There he goes! The man in the suit with the ponytail!” She pointed with her
whole arm and an extended finger. Then she brought her hand to her mouth. “Ave Maria. Sweet Jésus.” No one had ever looked at her with such scorn. She had seen herself as he saw her, and the naked truth shamed and distressed her.
      “Sir!” one of the security guards called. “Stop!” He spoke into his radio, relaying instructions to intercept the man in a suit before he could leave the premises. Estella could hear crackling noises as someone responded. The other guards ran toward the foyer.
     “Ma’am, are you okay?” the young woman asked Estella. “We can call for an
ambulance. The EMTs can check you out.”
     Estella became conscious of a small group gathered around her for the second
time that evening. Slot players seated nearby had ceased playing and had turned in their chairs to watch the excitement.
     “No, no ambulance. Water, please. I want to get up.” Estella was given a plastic cup of water. She sipped it, then handed it back. The young woman and the security officer with the radio assisted her in standing. The officer picked up Estella’s purse and handed it to her.
     “If you’re sure you’re okay, we can move to an office, ma’am.”
     A guard returned from outside and shook his head at the officer holding the
transmitter.
     Mickey appeared at her side, his face concerned. He brushed aside the guards.
“Mamá, are you alright?”
     “M’ijo. I’m okay, pero…” Estella clutched at her chest. She made the sign of
the cross.
     “Sir, we’d like to take your mother to an office. We can talk there.” The security
officer spoke authoritatively. He spread his arms out as if to block the crowd and
motioned with fingers for Estella and Mickey to move forward.
     “What about her winnings?”
     “We can take care of it there.” He turned and walked away. Mickey, his hand on Estella’s elbow, guided her behind the officer.
     She stopped and turned to her son, digging her nails into his arm. “His eyes were red, Mickey. Red like a blazing fire.” A sob like a strangled wail escaped her.

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