When Morgan awoke to find himself in a bathtub, fully-dressed, with the worst hangover and body aches he’d ever experienced in his life, he knew it was going to be a rotten day. The showerhead above pelted his torso with a constant stream of water, and he suspected it had been running all night. It was angled–strategically, it seemed–to deposit a good deal of it directly into his mouth. What fool-headed jackass would’ve gone and done that? Were they trying to drown him in his sleep?
He grumbled and groaned, droplets raining down from every limb as he rocked his sore body into a standing position. His socks squished within the confines of his shoes, so he braced one hand against the wall and shucked both layers of clothing from his soggy feet before stepping out from under the showerhead. He toweled off as best he could, but it was a losing battle; his clothes were soaked through, and he was loath to remove them in case the curly-haired psychopath responsible for it decided to burst into the bathroom and make some more unreasonable demands.
Near as he could tell, that was her preferred pastime: saddling folks with duties they’d never asked for, putting them in fixes they wanted no part of. The presence of several bottles of cosmetics beside the sink told him that he’d been right to assume her involvement in preparing his sleeping arrangements–not that he needed the confirmation. If that insane bartender had won out after shooting him in the back, Morgan doubted he’d have woken up at all, much less in the bathroom of an upscale hotel room.
…At least, he hoped it was the bathroom of an upscale hotel room. He had no reason to suspect that the girl was above breaking and entering if it suited her.
Morgan reached around behind him to feel at his lower back, perplexed by the lack of pain he felt there. He’d been shot, hadn’t he? Yet there was no hint of a wound, no stinging or sensitivity. He thanked his lucky stars that it hadn’t been a proper bullet that struck him there; if it had been, he probably would’ve roused to find himself without a pair of working legs. At least Roulette might’ve left me alone, then, he mused. Can’t be made to run around on some fool’s errand when you can’t run at all.
He continued to dwell on the pros and cons of narrowly avoiding paraplegia as he exited the bathroom and rounded the corner to his right, which brought him into a small room crowded with sumptuous furnishings. Among these were a couple of night tables, a handsomely-engraved cabinet that stood taller than Morgan himself, and two overstuffed feather beds. The one nearest him was occupied by none other than his savior and tormentor, Roulette, who evidently lacked the couth to have kicked off her boots before turning in for the night.
She was awake now, though, and she turned her head to regard him without un-slouching from the headboard at her back.
“Rough night?” she drawled, smiling ruefully at the sight of his wet clothing and unmistakably grumpy expression. The man did nothing but glower in reply, allowing the pattering of droplets shed by his waterlogged clothes to speak for him.
That only ended up amusing her more, of course. She tucked her hands up behind her head and snickered quietly to herself, basking in the absurdity of the moment. “Why the long face? You should be thankin’ me right now, seein’ as I’m the one who dragged your worthless hide out of the sun yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” he croaked, blinking at the sunlight filtering in through the room’s sole window. His throat felt as parched as a mesa’s crown at high noon. “You’re tellin’ me I slept straight through to the next morning?”
“Afternoon, actually,” she corrected. “But I didn’t mind it none. A girl needs some time to herself every once in a while, y’know? Gave me plenty of time to get the lay of the land. Matter of fact, I’ve already got our next move planned.”
Morgan barked a laugh at that. “Oh you do, do you? This I’ve got to hear.”
“While you were dozin’ I decided to take a walk,” she said, eyes sliding shut as she recalled the day’s events. “From the looks of things, we’re set up in the finest hotel for miles around. Most of the town is on a slant; a slant I nearly dragged you all the way to the top of, so you can be sure I know what I’m talkin’ about. The view from up here is mostly bars and huts. Judgin’ by the wide roads, big buildings and that fancy fountain outside, I’d say we’ve ended up smack dab in the middle of Port Pistola’s business quarter. Do I have it right, so far?”
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By this time Morgan had drifted over to the window and tugged its filmy white curtain aside. “I was expectin’ a plan, not a tour guide’s rigmarole.”
“Not the patient type, are you?” she huffed–music to his ears.
“I can be, so long as I know what I’m waitin’ for is worth my time.”
The girl snorted. “How would you know what I’ve got to say isn’t worth it when I ain’t even said it yet?”
“Experience,” he answered, urging her to continue with a wave of his hand. “Keep talkin’.”
Even with his back to her, Morgan could tell he’d riled her. He could feel Roulette’s eyes boring into the back of his neck as she went on, laying out her ramshackle plan based on elementary knowledge–a plan that he himself had conceived of not so long ago, and had promptly dismissed on account of his inability to scrape two slugs together.
…Of course he’d never admit that it was probably the best option available to them, given the apparent state of her finances. A room like the one he stood in now had been beyond his means for as long as Morgan could remember.
“...Noticed that there’s a grand casino around the corner from here, nearly as big as the ones I gambled at in Trigger City,” she was saying, the irritation in her voice having given way to enthusiasm while he mused by the window. “I figure we can blow in there, lay down some big bets, and raise the funds to buy back your gun that way. I’ve got a little of the money Daddy left me on my person right now–between the two of us, I’ll bet we can double or even triple it in an evenin’.”
The girl’s explanation gave way to a kind of expectant silence, then, as if she were awaiting his approval; unfortunately for her, that wasn’t something Morgan was inclined to give up without a fight.
“Won’t work,” he said, lifting a finger to cut her off before she could interject. “Two reasons. One, who d’you think runs that casino? That’s right–the same outfit I sold my gun to in the first place. Wouldn’t be surprised if they caught on to what we were doing and turned the house against us.”
“Well, that’s not a problem if they don’t recognize you, right?” she replied, as if she’d already accounted for that eventuality. “We can get you a disguise; stuff that hair of yours under a ten-gallon hat, maybe grab a nice bandana to hide your face…”
Morgan couldn’t help but chuckle. Scheming alongside a starry-eyed teenager was refreshing, in a way. “You listen to too many radio dramas. You’d really have me walk in there lookin’ like an outlaw?”
“Sure,” she countered, “From what you just told me, the mob has the run of the place. What’s one more obvious criminal among their clientele?”
A good point. If he wasn’t careful, he just might end up impressed. He turned to face her, then, and lifted two fingers this time.
“Two: I don’t gamble so well when I’ve been drinking.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” she cried, incredulous, “You’ve been lyin’ under a showerhead all day; you’re stone-cold sober!”
“And you think I’ll still be by the time we get there–after ten minutes spent in your company?” he quipped. “You’re out of your mind, woman!”
For a moment, Roulette looked ready to take offense; instead she ended up smiling and shaking her head in resignation.
“You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?”
“I’ve been told as much once or twice,” he admitted.
“Leave the gamblin’ to me, then. But go easy, alright? Maybe take the near-death experience as a hint that you should slow your drinkin’ down some?”
“No promises.”
“Fine, whatever,” she said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Can I take all this as your blessin’ for the plan to go ahead?”
“Take it however you’d like–the important part is I’ll follow your lead. For now.” he replied, closing the distance between them in a few slow, reluctant strides before extending his hand in a businesslike fashion.
“Name’s Morgan. Morgan Sarada. And, against my better judgment, I’m startin’ to believe we can work together after all.”