Gone were the organized rows of one-arm bandits dropping quarters into metal drawers. They’ve been replaced by an infinite array of noisy beeping slot machines with pictures of Judge Judy and Desperate Housewives instead of lemons and cherries. Winners got tickets, not cash. But they were still mostly manned by blue-haired old ladies hypnotized by the lights.
“Goddamn.”
“Let’s just check in. I can pretty much bet that nobody you know is here anymore. So let me get us into a room and then maybe we can grab a drink.” I have no doubt the woman at the front desk thought I was checking in with a piss-poor Elvis imitator who wore his sunglasses at night. Maybe he did a Fat Elvis bit singing “Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love” in the street down on Freemont. Regardless, she processed us in to a room on
