Free Bon Bon Voyage by Nancy Fairbanks Page B

called them. I’d have settled for a bigger bathroom. At least I’d managed to make a deal with Vera to use her tub when my knees got bad. The thing has water swishing out holes in the sides and water whirling around in the tub. Pull the plug, and you’d probably wash down the drain. Well, maybe not me, but Vera for sure. In return I promised to walk around the deck with her twice a day so her doctor wouldn’t bitch at her when she got back. She said she didn’t think Carolyn was much on exercise. I could have told her that.
    First—big surprise—we looked at the casino. Very fancy. I don’t mind gambling once in a while. The Tiguas used to have a casino, Speaking Rock, in El Paso until all the tightassed, Republican born-again Protestants in the legislature got together in Austin and closed it down. In the old days, you could have a great birthday party with margaritas and cake at Speaking Rock and then shoot some craps.
    Carolyn wasn’t much impressed. She said, “I have never been able to see the fun in feeding money into a noisy slot machine, or attempting to remember all the cards that have been played in a series of blackjack games—although at least you get to sit on a chair for that—or pretending that you know what is going on at the craps table, which is truly a dreadful name for a game of any sort.”
    I offered to teach her to shoot craps, since it’s the one thing you’re likely to break even on if you know what you’re doing, but she wasn’t interested, even when I told her that reading a book on the math and stuff was pretty interesting. She said she’d never liked math, and some years back Jason had given her a long, boring mathematical lecture on shooting craps that put her to sleep. She’d gone straight to bed in their Las Vegas hotel room and refused to join him in the casino. Poor guy. He may not have liked me much the one time we met, but I felt sort of sorry for him.
    While we were in the casino, that Mrs. Gross, who’d horned in on my clothes giveaway, said, “Don’t ever gamble on a ship. The games are crooked.” Our guide was really insulted and looked like she might burst out crying.
    The gym really pissed me off—all those extra-fit, good-looking kids supervising senior citizens, who were sweating it out on a bunch of machines that would have crippled me for the rest of the trip. Vera said that she’d had enough of gyms to last a lifetime since her heart attack and had no intention of ever visiting this one again. Of course, Carolyn reminded her that she was supposed to take regular exercise. That went over like finding a scorpion in your shower. Vera reminded her that she was going to get her exercise walking the decks in the fresh air with me. I think Carolyn was hurt not to be invited along.
    Then Miss Perky in formfitting spandex bounced over and asked if I’d like to try out a machine. I gave her the Spanish designer routine, and Vera translated it, “She says no woman of fashion would sweat on fine clothes.” Perky girl turned red, and twelve sweating blue-hairs jumped off bicycles and treadmills to prove that they, too, were “women of fashion” with “fine clothes.” Vera added, “Señorita Vallejo wants to know what exercise you recommend.” Actually, I used to like working out at Central Regional Command with my fellow cops, mostly guys, but those days were long gone.
    Then the trainer, who had bigger boobs than you’d expect of someone who worked out, came up with the idea that I could lie on a mat raising my arms and legs in a leisurely fashion and avoiding unfashionable sweat. “I can do that in my own living room,” I muttered.
    â€œSeñorita Vallejo says you should consider breast reduction so that you can wear fashionable clothing,” Vera translated.
    That woman was a hoot.
    â€œLarge breasts are only attractive to infantile men