The Select

'Ten dollars an hour.'

'Can I give it a trial run?' she said after another, briefer pause. 'I'd really like to do it but I don't want to commit to the job and then find out it's eating into my study time too much.'

'That would be fine,' Walter said. 'We'll give you three or four weeks—till the first of November, say. At that point you can either sign on for the year or send me looking for someone else.'

She smiled. The room brightened. 'Okay. Great.'

'Wonderful. Tomorrow's your early afternoon. Come up to Fifth Science and I'll show you around. You can officially start then.'

'I'll be there,' she said, rising. She turned at the door, her expression troubled, hesitant. 'But...why me?'

'Pardon?' He wasn't prepared for that question.

'There are forty-nine other students in the class. Why'd you ask me?'

'Because...'

How could he put this? He didn't want her to think he looked on her as a charity case. Of course he'd checked out her parents' financial statement and it was obvious she could use the income. But that wasn't the prime criterion. Walter had watched her in the An Lab, spoken to her, eavesdropped on her interaction with her fellow students, and he'd come to realize that his first impression had been correct: Quinn Cleary was one of the good ones, one of the rare birds that came along only once in a great while. She was going places. And once she got out of here and into the real world she was going to buff the shine on The Ingraham's already bright name. Walter didn't want anything— especially the shortage of a few dollars—to get between Quinn Cleary and her medical degree.

And of course it didn't hurt that she reminded him so much of Clarice.

'Because I think that not only can you do the job, but perhaps you can make a contribution as well.'

That smile again. 'Okay. I'll sure try.'

And then she was gone, and Walter Emerson's office descended into relative gloom.

*

'So it's legit?' Tim said. 'He's not just some dirty old man?'

He had stopped by Quinn's room to see what Dr. Emerson had wanted and was stretched out on the extra bed, hands behind his head.

'Actually, he's a rather clean old man,' Quinn said. She swiveled quickly in her desk chair and pointed to him. 'Source?'

'Easy: A Hard Day's Night. I think McCartney said it first, but each of them used the line eventually.'

Quinn shrugged resignedly. She should have known. If Tim could spot a line from A Thousand Clowns, a Beatles movie would be easy pickings.

Tim sat up on the edge of the bed. He worked a folded envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans and held it up.

'And now my news. My folks sent down a bunch of my mail from home and guess what? The Taj comped me a room.'

'What language are you speaking?'

He smiled. 'English. The Taj Mahal—that's Trump's big casino in A.C.—has offered me a free room any night I want between November first and February 28th.'

'Why would they want to do that?'

'I used to be a regular winner there last winter and spring, right after I turned 21. But I haven't been back for some time. They probably think I'm gambling at that new place the Indians opened in Connecticut and they want me back.'

'Why would they want you back if you won money from them? I'd think they'd be glad you went somewhere else.'

'Because the odds are in their favor. They don't care if I've won in the past. All they want is my action.'

'Action?'

'Yeah. My play. They figure if I play there long enough, they'll get their money back. What they don't like is my taking the money I won from them and losing it at a competitor's tables. They want me to lose it at their tables.'

'Are you going?'

'Of course. And you're invited.'

Quinn laughed. 'To spend the night with you in an Atlantic City hotel room? Now who's the dirty old man?'

'I'm not old. And besides, the room'll have two double beds. You could have your own.'

'That's good of you.'

'Of course, if you got lonely during the night and wanted me to—'

'Dream on, Brown.'

'Okay, but seriously, I'd like to show you how I work these places. It'll be fun.'

'And what'll I be? Your good luck charm?'

'Quinn, babes, if I had to depend on luck I wouldn't get within ten miles of a casino. Luck is a sucker bet. What do you say?'

She looked at his eager face and wondered. She'd turn down a similar proposition from anyone else she'd known for so brief a time. Turn it down flat. But Tim...somehow she trusted Tim.

'I'll give you a definite maybe. Let's think about it.'

'Great. I was looking at the second weekend in November, right after the big anatomy midterm. We'll need a break then. How's that sound?'

'We'll see.'

He waved and headed for the door. 'Okay. It's a deal. Second weekend in November. Don't forget.'

'Tim—'

But he was already out in the hall.

Quinn couldn't help smiling as she swiveled back and forth in her desk chair. A weekend in Atlantic City with Tim. That could be fun. She'd never been to a casino in her life.

But sharing a room...

What am I afraid of? Tim?

No. That wasn't it. She liked Tim—found herself liking him more each passing day. Liked him too much, maybe. Sometimes, when he was sitting near her, she had this urge to reach over and stroke his cheek, or the nape of his neck.

Maybe she was afraid of getting carried away. Maybe it went further than that. Maybe it was involvement she was afraid of. Hadn't George Washington told the country to avoid foreign entanglements? That was what she'd managed to do through her four years at U. Conn. She'd dated plenty—sweet guys, determined gropers, and the whole spectrum between—but through it all she'd kept her emotional distance. No foreign entanglements.

And frankly, no one had really moved her.

The last time she had been involved—really involved—had been in high school, and that had been a disaster. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it all went back to Bobby Roca.

She turned back to her desk and cleared thoughts of men and hotel rooms and November from her head and concentrated on her pathology notes. Tomorrow was the immediate concern. She had to do some extra booking tonight to make up for the loss of study time tomorrow afternoon when she'd be starting in Dr. Emerson's lab.

MONITORING

Louis Verran cursed around his cigar as he adjusted the volume from room 252. It didn't help, just made the static louder. He'd heard Atlantic City mentioned and that was about it.

Alston wanted a close watch on those two first-year kids, Brown and Cleary. They were being nice and