“I was laughing at him,” the bartender said. “You were laughing at him.”

I thought about it for a second then said, “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Yes, I am.”

I got up from the stool. “Thanks for the name.”

“Hope White,” the bartender said, “used to be a chorus girl. Worked all the big shows. When gravity took its toll she switched to cocktail-bar piano. She’s good enough to work the morning shift in the older casinos. You know, Cole Porter tunes to guys with hangovers waiting for a table in the breakfast buffets. I think maybe now she’s at the Nugget. She gets off, she plays the slots. Nice lady. That’s Hope White.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks for saying thanks.”

And thanks for reminding me what a total asshole I can be.

Like Hope White and Natty Silver, the Nugget had seen better days. And like Hope White and Natty Silver, it wasn’t going down without a few laughs.

The walls were dingy, the carpets worn. The tables had seen more than their share of winning and lots more than anyone’s share of losing. The clientele were blue-collar workers on an economy vacation, or local seniors on a fixed budget, or those few sad high-rollers for whom a string of sevens was a distant memory of something that never happened. The casino smelled of stale smoke, old booze and drugstore perfume.

I found the piano bar. A middle-aged woman with dyed red hair sat at the keys, trying to stretch “I Get a Kick Out of You” into ten minutes. She was doing pretty well at it, too. I took a seat at the piano and put a five in the glass.

When she wound up the tune she said, “You’re a little young for this place, honey.”

“I’m looking for Hope White.”

The redhead smiled. “You’re a little young for her place, too.”

“I’m throwing a birthday party for my mother,” I explained. “I want to see if I can hire Miss White to come play.”

“She’s eight to noon, sweetie.”