Second Cup 4

cards turned against her. To her left, a raven-haired gentleman
in a red-vested tuxedo bet heavily, winning often. His hushed,
accented jests about their rotund dealer kept her laughing.
“Look at the spread of waist. I wonder, if laid flat, would he
spin like a roulette wheel?”
“If he did, I’d bet on zero. The only place the ball could
drop would be his navel.”
Her tablemate’s eyes crinkled in delight at her witty
comebacks and she relished the repartee. Yet she had no thirst
for this player. Her desired meal sat across the table—a strongjawed
high roller whose pulse throbbed at his neck each time
he raked in his chips. Mora licked her lips, fangs aching to
emerge. But her quest came to a halt when a spilled cocktail on
the felted surface ran onto her mark’s lap. She sighed when he
fled to change his trousers.
The gentleman at her side misread her distress.
“Bet along with me and you will not despair your losses.
Let us find another game to play. Allow me to introduce myself.
I am Striga.”
Though disinclined to mingle with the unappetizing, Mora
found this foreigner with a biting sense of humor intriguing. The
two traversed the glitz and gold room, Striga pausing at a game
of craps where a gaggle of women in décolletage cheered the
rolling dice. He smacked his lips, brushing the back of his hand
across his mouth, a knuckle slipping between his teeth.
Mora followed his gaze.
“They’re not to my taste. I mean, the game is not to my
liking.”
Though she enjoyed Striga’s company, her urgent craving
had her searching the crowd for the return of her anticipated
meal.
The gentleman made a small departing bow.