11/06/2022 NaNoWriMo BANSHEE BEACH: 907/15210

Not a great day for writing. I blame Daylight Savings Time. I also need to catch up.

It took me half an hour to lose the grubstake Lucas had passed me at the gaming tables. What? Look, I’m a Shamus. No way am I gonna throw away my own money. Or worse, win with it. When one of us gets lucky at cards or the roulette table, well, we make up for it somewhere else.

Gotta say, though: the Espejismo was the kind of place where you didn’t mind getting taken for everything except your pocket lint. They had brought somebody in to fake up some real class for the joint, and not just the usual more-money-than-sense kind, either. Everywhere you looked, there were sharp-dressed dealers and green velvet tables and soft rugs that seemed to absorb the noise. Lots of laughter and cheers, and nobody crying or shouting their troubles. You could almost believe that this was the sort of place that cared for something else besides moving money from you to them, with plenty of food and drink to smooth the way.

Now, I’m don’t judge the Espejismo, or any of its siblings. Predators are gonna predate, because that’s what they do. You don’t judge the chupacabra for hunting the goat. I also don’t judge the people who work in places like this, either. Even in New California, a guy or girl’s gotta eat. I can’t even judge the owners. The Espejismo catered to people with money to throw away, and I don’t see why somebody should get sneered at for holding the trash bag.

So who do I judge? Damned if I know, but if I ever figure out who, they’re gonna get an earful.