My hat itches and I have lost nine dollars at Texas Tea.

The dealer is trying hard not to laugh. Forty knocks his drink onto the floor and snaps his fingers at a waitress. “I’m empty, sweetheart.”

She looks tired. In Vegas they force the waitresses to walk around in sequined bathing suits and panty hose. The woman says she’s delivering drinks and she’ll be back to take orders after she drops off her drinks. Forty is irate. “I don’t care what you’re doing,” he says. “Why the fuck do you think I care what you’re doing, honey? Do I look like I care? I told you I want a gimlet. Goose. Gimlet. Now. As in now.”

“When I come back I can—”

He barks, “GET ME A FUCKING GOOSEY GOOSE GIMLET.”

She walks away and the boss man in the pit—I’ve seen Casino a thousand times—approaches Forty. “Mr. Quinn,” he says. “We’re so happy to have you back. I hope you’re having fun gaming with us.”

“Rocco!” Forty says. “It’s a helluva lot more fun to game when you’ve got a nice big Goosey gimlet. What the hell is going on here?”

Rocco tries to resolve the gimlet situation while Forty loses a few thousand more dollars and I win fifty-two cents at Texas Tea. Forty is on the move. I follow him. My pants itch.

He cruises around the casino and every few feet, he ducks into a row of slot machines and takes a bump of blow. He stumbles up to a depressed-looking leggy girl in a tight dress at a slot machine and pulls her hair. She yelps.

“What the fuck, dude? Get your hands off me!”

“How much?” he asks. “I wanna go for a ride.”

“I’m not a fucking hooker, motherfucker,” she says. “I’m a teacher.”

“I can get hot for that,” he says. He reaches for her. “How much?”

She smacks him with her purse. “Stop it.”

He laughs. “Honey, honestly, by the look of your dress, you could use the money and what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, you know what I mean, jelly bean?”

She spits at him and he doesn’t wipe off her saliva. He sits down at the machine. He loses a hundred dollars. A hooker witnesses his fight and approaches, so obvious—Vegas! Why didn’t Delilah just move here?—and she tells Forty she wants to party. He looks her up and down.

“I’d love to sweetheart, but I’m not a homo.”

She stares at him.

He slips her a hundred dollar bill. “Take this C-note to the craps table and get it up there and do yourself a favor and go buy some tits.”

She doesn’t register any emotion. She says thank you, baby and walks away and this is the most depressing place I’ve ever been. There are no clocks or windows and the people are either incredibly sloppy or incredibly overdressed.

Forty walks up to a craps table and spills a drink. People boo him. “Yeah,” he says. “Boo fucking hoo. Do you people know that I have a two-picture deal at Annapurna? Yeah. Have fun with your boring fucking lives.”

He walks away. Nobody at the table knows what Annapurna is. He sits down at a new blackjack table and gets a marker for fifty grand. People are gathering to watch and he is bragging about being a huge writer. When people ask if he’s here alone, he says, “I’m with my girlfriend, Love. She’s upstairs.”

My girlfriend, Love. I shudder. The song “Born in the U.S.A.” comes on and he groans. “I hate Bruce Springsteen,” he says. “Can we do something about this? Goddamn whiny Democrat, we get it. You’re from New Jersey and you think it’s cool to be poor. Just fuck off already.”

The dealer says he prefers the song “Thunder Road.”

Forty huffs. “You also probably think a Chevy is as solid as a Beamer. No offense . . . but there is such a thing in this world as fucking wrong. Like these cards. Is there a rule against giving out tens in this shithole? And about a hundred years ago I ordered some gimlets.”

He sat down ten seconds ago but nobody tells him he is wrong and “Thunder Road” is a great fucking song. I sit down at a Hangover slot machine. I lose ten dollars in a few seconds and Forty splits tens. I know this because the dealer calls it out to the pit boss and the people standing around are gasping.

He loses.

A newly married couple enters the bar and everybody claps and Forty stands up and whistles with his hands. He motions for the band to stop playing. The lead singer looks at the doorway where a man stands with his arms crossed. He nods. This really is Forty’s playground. Forty goes onstage and grabs the mic.

“First of all,” he says. “Congratufuckinglations!”

Everybody cheers. He is the good guy. Fun guy. He high-fives the groom. He kisses the bride on the cheek. “Now, let’s have some fun,” he says. “As it happens, I am here to celebrate too. I just sold two scripts to Megan Fucking Ellison.” He waits for a reaction. Still nobody knows her name. “Point is, I made some money and I wanna spread the love around!” Applause, obviously. “And this is what I wanna do. Groom, get the fuck up here.”

The groom gets the fuck up here and he is a small guy, shorter than his wife. He seems shy. He has a big smile, big teeth, they’re too big for his face. His wife cheers. “What’s your name, son?”

“Greg,” he says. “Mr. and Mrs. Greg and Leah Loomis from New Township, New Jersey!”

Greg has probably never said that many words out loud to a group this size. Forty motions for everyone to quiet down and he waves the bride onstage. He puts his arm around Greg. “Greg,” he says. “You got a beautiful bride. And you got a long life ahead.”

There is a mixed response. Some laugh. Some are disgusted.

“So why not let me give you guys a wedding present you’ll remember forever,” he says. “Greg,” he raises his eyebrows up and down and up and down. “I’ll give ya ten if ya let me kiss your wife. Right here. Right now.”

Greg the groom doesn’t punch Forty. People boo. They hiss. Some people whistle. They want to see it. Forty takes five thousand-dollar chips out of his pocket.

“One, two, three, four, five!” he exclaims.

More of the same, booing and cheering—America—and the bride is pleading with the husband. I think she’s saying something about the mortgage. The groom is turning redder by the second and the bride does a shot and Forty plays with his chips and finally the bride wins; she is the alpha, she will choose their vacations, program the DVR, demand him to renovate the man cave he undoubtedly has where he roots for his teams, eats his salsa. No guac for these two; they’re not from that part of America.

She finishes slapping on lipstick and she gets up onstage. Forty kicks, yes! He dips the bride. He grazes her boob and he never said anything about feeling her up—booing and cheering—and he leans over and grabs her ass, hard, and he shoves his tongue down her throat. I watch the groom. He looks broken; ten minutes ago he was in love, he was just married. And now he’s just fucked over. Forty releases the bride and she wipes her mouth and she puts her hand out and Forty tosses the chips on the floor and pumps his fists.

So now, of course, there are a million people who would kill this guy. The lead singer takes the mic and the bride hugs the groom but you can tell Forty ruined their marriage. Their odds of happiness are lower now than they were before they met Forty Quinn.

Forty takes off again, meandering through the floor of the casino. I follow him and text him from my burner phone: It’s snowing at the Sapphire.

Forty writes back: ?

Me: It’s Slim. New phone. Your sister’s looking for you.

Forty: Heavy snow? Better than last time I hope

Me: Yes. Sapphire in twenty.

Forty: Leaving Bellagio now

But he’s not leaving Bellagio now. He’s settling into another white leather chair, motioning for the dealer to deal, as if he doesn’t know that the dealer can’t deal to him while he’s texting. He writes: I heard there’s hella ice out there too.