"Why not? Did anyone instinct you not to take me?

You could come back later for Liz."

The woman put her arm around Pia's shoulder. She smelled of lavender and lemons.

"Do you really want to go?"

"I don't want to stay. I want to go where there's noise and laughter and tumult," Pia said. It was something she had once said to her mother, so many years ago that she had thought the memory erased. Her mother had responded with a rare moment of gentleness by telling her a story, one she had recognized as fact, though it was presented as fiction. It wasn't the story itself that had stayed with her; it was the setting.

She had often wondered since if such places really existed, somewhere out there beyond the boundaries that she was forbidden to cross.

"I want to go to a casino," Pia said now. She rolled the words around on her tongue, as if she were savoring a taste so subtle that the flavor would escape her the moment she swallowed.

The woman nodded. She looked almost as if she'd been expecting the request.

"Is there still such a place?" Pia asked.

Again the woman nodded.

"Are you telling me it's possible for me to go there?"

"It can be arranged, in special cases."

"Special? In what way?"

The woman didn't answer.

"How long would I be allowed to stay?" Pia went on.

"You'd be given money. When that runs out--" "Will They come for me then, to punish me?"

"A messenger will come for you."

"To take me to Them?"

Releasing Pia's shoulders, the woman reached out and stroked her cheek.

"Patience, child," she said, as if she were promising Pia that she would be grown up soon enough and then she'd know everything.

"Who are you?"

The woman smiled and took Pia's hand.

"I am whoever you want me to be," she said.

"Come. It's time to leave."

She led Pia through the guests. They moved aside without question, thinking only that Pia was leaving to warm up for her performance. Liz disengaged herself from Jim and waved, blowing a kiss instead of her usual "See you later" farewell, and Pia waved back, wondering if her mentor would wait all night for a messenger who had already come and gone.

Noise and laughter and tumult, Pia thought, looking around the casino.

It was hard to remember that there had ever been anything else in her life; no one talked about Them here, or about obedience and order.

She had a clear picture of following the woman through Liz's front door, and then a series of fuzzy ones: crossing the California border into Nevada; barreling along the ET. Highway toward Area 51; a sign that read, You are entering Last Chance, Nevada', a sense that she was playing a role in a tape soon to be archived.

She had no idea how long she'd been here, but nothing seemed as real to her as this place of no clocks and noise and laughter and tumult.

They'd lied to her, to everyone. There was a world of lights and warmth, a world where everyone was her family.

Even the security man bending over her now was her friend.

He was undoubtedly the ugliest man she'd ever seen, but the sight of him had amused her when she'd arrived. She'd watched him storming the aisles between machines, masquerading as authority in his white linen suit and dark sungla.s.ses. Whispering "Play it, Sam" to her trim image in the mirror behind the roulette wheel, she'd imagined Sydney Greenstreet somewhere close by, in a smoke-filled room, sweating beneath a huge wooden fan.

"No bare feet in here," the security man said now, his practiced voice soft and low.

Pia watched the traces of a smile hover around the corners of the man's mouth as he lowered his skinhead toward her, his breath making contact with the ash piled around her cigarette b.u.t.ts. As he bent over her, his body declared her in violation of his domain because her purse was empty.

How long has it been, Pia wondered, pushing her toes back into their leather shackles and pulling her shoulders closer to her knees to protect the pile of useless Keno tickets she had gathered on her skirt; how many hours, days, weeks of too many cigarettes and no sleep. She sank deeper into the red vinyl chair, though she knew her body would adhere her thighs to the plastic surface.

The man straightened up. His mouth was moving, but Pia couldn't hear what he was saying above the clatter of coins and the shouts of gamblers. Mesmerized, she watched his manicured index finger reprimanding her; the nail's quick was a half-moon in a sky of mirrors and imitation gaslight stars.

Forcing her eyes away, Pia concentrated on the numbers lighting up the Keno board. They danced into view to the music of coins forced between metal lips by little old ladies drunk with the joy of stuffing the slots of their one-armed lovers. c.r.a.p shooters screamed their delight as a red-headed roller won them yet another pile of chips. Pia had won with her earlier, laughed with her as she punctuated each new roll with a toss of her head, kissing the dice that had been warmed at her breast.

In the Keno lounge, the numbers kept coming. Pia watched the little white b.a.l.l.s being blown out of their container and into two long arms that held the winners.

Ten b.a.l.l.s on each side. Twenty numbers, and only one of them hers.

Crumpling her useless Keno ticket in her sweating fist, she cursed whoever had installed the equipment and the Chinese for being the first to play games with numbers. She swore at the digits themselves, and more than anything she cursed the lifeless b.a.l.l.s as they lay silent in their silver cage.

How long, Pia thought again. How long had she been winning a little, losing more? She ripped her thighs off the vinyl seat and walked toward the Keno counter.

"Same card?" the Keno marker asked. Pia nodded and pushed the crumpled paper at the girl. She couldn't change her numbers now. Not when she had only one coin left. If her old numbers came up, she'd never forgive herself, she thought, forgetting that if she didn't win now, she wouldn't have a chance at regret. She'd be broke and facing the next bend in the road she'd chosen without any concept of its destination.

The flash of the electronic camera recorded the empty Keno board.

"Number twenty-three," the Keno girl called out in a board voice. It was one of Pia's numbers.

"I go off duty in half an hour," the security man whispered, leaning over her again.

Pia nodded mechanically as she checked her card against the numbers on the lit board. One more and she'd get her money back. She'd be able to play again.

"Last number--fifty-eight."

"No. It can't be the last number," Pia said, without realizing that she was shouting.

The whirling stopped.

"I have three out of eight. I should get something for that," Pia said to the white b.a.l.l.s that lay lifeless once more in their metal prison.

"Same card?"

Pia fumbled in her pockets, hoping for a forgotten coin. Her fingers came up empty- She shook her head and turned away, feeling her body in revolt against its broken regimen.

Seeking the order and quiet she'd abandoned, Pia made for the ladies'

room. There she inspected herself in the mirror for the first time since she'd entered the casino. To her amazement, she looked no different.

Behind her, she could see a middle-aged matron sleeping in a pink-and-white chair that faced discreetly away from the toilets, and overhead she could see the speaker that was piping in "As Time Goes By"

from the bar.

The ladies' room door opened. Like the voice of an old lover, the casino called out to her. If you had just one coin, you could try one more spin of the wheel, one last roll of the dice, another Keno ticket.

Leaning over the sink to splash her face with cold water, Pia caught sight of an ashtray overflowing with coins. It lay on the stained counter, beckoning to her.

Dreamily, she put out her hand and caressed the money with her fingertips, the way she had done to her ca.s.sette collection on Liz's birthday.

"Can I help you?"

Pia pulled her hand away and smiled, hoping the attendant would think she'd been making a contribution.

The woman came closer. There was something familiar about her--a scent of lavender and lemons.

Pia tied into the casino. They couldn't send for her.

Not yet. She wasn't ready. Opening her bag, she tore at its lining.

One more coin, she begged; one spin of the wheel.

She found nothing.