“Mrs. Marsh!” sang out Sandy. “So glad to see you again.” Sandy studied Judy’s expression, “Why the frown?”
“I just proved my husband right.” Judy made a wry smile and added, “I lost all my money on the slots.”
“Well, don’t fret! I never win anything either. But cheer up, after we’ve finished with you this afternoon, you will feel divine. This way please.”
Sandy led her to a dressing room. Handing her an oversized towel, Sandy said, “When you are ready I’ll show you to your mud bath.”
“Just what’s in a mud bath?”
“It’s a mixture of special therapeutic clay, peat moss and hot mineral water.”
Sandy showed her to the bath where she handed her off to the bath attendant. Judy looked apprehensively at the bubbling dark mixture. The attendant wrapped her head with a towel and removed the towel wrapped around her torso. With tentative steps, Judy entered the hot mud.
“Ouuuuuu!” she moaned as the hot, thick slime enveloped her.
The attendant directed her to sit and lie back, with the mud coming up to her neck. Reluctantly, Judy did as instructed. At first, it felt somewhat disgusting, like she’d stepped into a hot, fetid swamp. As she became accustomed to the sensations, it felt strangely wonderful to be immersed in the hot, viscous liquid. Soon the bubbling warmth began to relax her.
*****
The knot in John’s stomach tightened as he lost his last bet. He was busted.
“Sir, do you want to place a bet?” asked the closest dealer. “Sir?”
John just stared blankly at the table. His sluggish mind tired to comprehend how it all happened. Where did his system break down? Why didn’t he realize sooner it wasn’t working? He fixated on when Judy had showed up earlier this afternoon. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered, “why didn’t she just stay away?”
Stepping back from the table, he signaled for a hostess to bring him a drink. After downing the bourbon and water in one gulp, he took another from her tray. What in the hell was he going to do now? ‘If I changed tables, maybe…’ He pulled out his wallet and found it bare of all but three dollars. He fingered, then slipped out his platinum American Express and headed for a cashier.
The cashier cheerfully accepted his card. A message flickered up on her computer screen as his card was being processed. She turned back to the guest. “I’m sorry sir. There seems to be a problem.”
Two thuggish looking security guards escorted John up to the third floor. After passing through a maze of hallways, he escorted into a plush office. A pretty girl, blonde with huge hooters, dressed in a too tight miniskirt got up from the lap of the man behind the desk and exited through another door.
“Mr. Marsh, I’m Nick Clametti, manager of the Lucky Dawg Casino and Hotel. We have a little problem, or more precisely you have a big problem.”
John’s gut churned even more.
“We’ve just discovered that the credit card you secured your hotel bill with is no good.”
“There must be some sort of mistake, there shouldn’t be a problem with my…”
“Do you have another card perhaps?”
John knew that all of his other cards had already cut him off. “Uh, uh, well to be honest, there’s been a mix up of some sort. A stolen identity mess…I’ve been trying to get it straightened out, but…”
“Do you have cash?”
“How much do you need?”
Nick handed over the current hotel bill for their two-day stay.
John stared at the bill in disbelief. “Fourteen hundred dollars!”
“Thirteen hundred seventy seven dollars and ninety five cents to be exact.”
“There must be some sort of mistake! I didn’t run up these charges! The rooms are what? Eighty dollars a night? “
“Yes. But you see your wife…”
Looked down at the bill again.
“What did she do?”
He read over the details carefully. Room bill, hair cut, hair styling, manicure, pedicure, massage, ticket to the Ginger Dunaway Show, ticket to the special show, room bill, room service, a mud bath, another massage. He remembered back to this afternoon, she did have a new hairdo. “Stupid bitch!” he muttered.
“Your wife is a very beautiful woman, very sweet, very intelligent. I don’t think she deserves the moniker ‘Stupid Bitch’.” Nick gestured towards the door, “The air headed bimbo who just left, now she’s a stupid bitch.
“Now Mr. Marsh, I’ll ask you again. Do you have cash?”
John searched for a dignified out. “No, I lost all my cash at craps. How about a check?”
Nick laughed and shook his head. “No way! No way would I take a personal check from a…dead beat.”
The words ‘dead beat’ stung. John put his hands to his temples and tried to think.
“We could arrange for funds to be electronically transferred from your bank.”
“Oh, god,” muttered John. “No, no can do. I don’t have enough funds on deposit.”
“You don’t have enough funds?” said Nick angrily. “You just tried to pass me a bad check! You worthless piece of shit!” Nick turned away from John in feigned disgust. “Mickey!” he called waving his hand.
John watched as one of the thuggish men who brought him here went over to confer with his boss. Fear gripped John. The other guy, John had heard Mickey call him Bruce on the way up from the casino, was just as big and mean looking. John cringed as he felt Bruce’s hulking presence take up position behind his chair. Mickey turned and quickly exited the room.
Silence filled the room. John began to perspire profusely. A moment later, John heard the door behind him open and the close. Mickey took up position by the side of his boss.
Nick looked up and stared at John. From his peripheral vision, John saw a white form off to his left.
“Mr. March, I want you meet one of my associates.”
John turned to his left. He nearly lost control of his bladder. There before him was what appeared to be a power-lifter from the old Soviet Union. Dressed all in white. His massive musculature clearly outlined in the tight t-shirt he wore. He had no neck, and a face that would look good only on a bulldog. His thighs were so thick that he had to stand with feet spread apart. His arms were thicker than John’s legs and as he stood, menacingly flexing his large hands, John knew that the brute could easily crush his skull with his bare hands.
