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- Нил Гейман
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- Американские боги
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- Стр. 298/641
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The
secret
is
this
:
people
gamble
to
lose
money
.
They
come
to
the
casinos
for
the
moment
in
which
they
feel
alive
,
to
ride
the
spinning
wheel
and
turn
with
the
cards
and
lose
themselves
,
with
the
coins
,
in
the
slots
.
They
want
to
know
they
matter
.
They
may
brag
about
the
nights
they
won
,
the
money
they
took
from
the
casino
,
but
they
treasure
,
secretly
treasure
,
the
times
they
lost
.
It
’
s
a
sacrifice
,
of
sorts
.
The
money
flows
through
the
casino
in
an
uninterrupted
stream
of
green
and
silver
,
streaming
from
hand
to
hand
,
from
gambler
to
croupier
,
to
cashier
,
to
the
management
,
to
security
,
finally
ending
up
in
the
Holy
of
Holies
,
the
innermost
sanctum
,
the
Counting
Room
.
And
it
is
here
,
in
the
counting
room
of
this
casino
,
that
you
come
to
rest
,
here
,
where
the
greenbacks
are
sorted
,
stacked
,
indexed
,
here
in
a
space
that
is
slowly
becoming
redundant
as
more
and
more
of
the
money
that
flows
through
the
casino
is
imaginary
:
an
electrical
sequence
of
ons
and
offs
,
sequences
that
flow
down
telephone
lines
.
In
the
Counting
Room
you
see
three
men
,
counting
money
under
the
glassy
stare
of
the
cameras
they
can
see
,
the
insectile
gazes
of
the
tiny
cameras
they
cannot
see
.
During
the
course
of
one
shift
each
of
the
men
counts
more
money
than
he
will
see
in
all
the
pay
packets
of
his
life
.
Each
man
,
when
he
sleeps
,
dreams
of
counting
money
,
of
stacks
and
paper
bands
and
numbers
which
climb
inevitably
,
which
are
sorted
and
lost
.
Each
of
the
three
men
has
idly
wondered
,
not
less
than
once
a
week
,
how
to
evade
the
casino
’
s
security
systems
and
run
off
with
as
much
money
as
he
could
haul
;
and
,
reluctantly
,
each
man
has
inspected
the
dream
and
found
it
impractical
,
has
settled
for
a
steady
paycheck
,
avoided
the
twin
specters
of
prison
and
an
unmarked
grave
.
And
here
,
in
the
sanctum
sanctorum
,
there
are
the
three
men
who
count
the
money
,
and
there
are
the
guards
who
watch
and
who
bring
money
and
take
it
away
;
and
then
there
is
another
person
.
His
charcoal
-
gray
suit
is
immaculate
,
his
hair
is
dark
,
he
is
clean
-
shaven
,
and
his
face
,
and
his
demeanor
,
are
,
in
every
sense
,
forgettable
.
None
of
the
other
men
has
even
observed
that
he
is
there
,
or
if
they
have
noticed
him
,
they
have
forgotten
him
on
the
instant
.
As
the
shift
ends
the
doors
are
opened
,
and
the
man
in
the
charcoal
suit
leaves
the
room
and
walks
,
with
the
guards
,
through
the
corridors
,
their
feet
shushing
along
the
monogrammed
carpets
.
The
money
,
in
strongboxes
,
is
wheeled
to
an
interior
loading
bay
,
where
it
is
loaded
into
armored
cars
.
As
the
ramp
door
swings
open
,
to
allow
the
armored
car
out
onto
the
early
streets
of
Las
Vegas
,
the
man
in
the
charcoal
suit
walks
,
unnoticed
,
through
the
doorway
,
and
saunters
up
the
ramp
,
out
onto
the
sidewalk
.
He
does
not
even
glance
up
to
see
the
imitation
of
New
York
on
his
left
.
Las
Vegas
has
become
a
child
’
s
picture
book
dream
of
a
city
—
here
a
storybook
castle
,
there
a
sphinx
-
flanked
black
pyramid
beaming
white
light
into
the
darkness
as
a
landing
beam
for
UFOs
,
and
everywhere
neon
oracles
and
twisting
screens
predict
happiness
and
good
fortune
,
announce
singers
and
comedians
and
magicians
in
residence
or
on
their
way
,
and
the
lights
always
flash
and
beckon
and
call
.
Once
every
hour
a
volcano
erupts
in
light
and
flame
.
Once
every
hour
a
pirate
ship
sinks
a
man
o
’
war
.
The
man
in
the
charcoal
suit
ambles
comfortably
along
the
sidewalk
,
feeling
the
flow
of
the
money
through
the
town
.
In
the
summer
the
streets
are
baking
,
and
each
store
doorway
he
passes
breathes
wintry
A
/
C
out
into
the
sweaty
warmth
and
chills
the
sweat
on
his
face
.
Now
,
in
the
desert
winter
,
there
’
s
a
dry
cold
,
which
he
appreciates
.
In
his
mind
the
movement
of
money
forms
a
fine
lattice
-
work
,
a
three
-
dimensional
cat
’
s
-
cradle
of
light
and
motion
.
What
he
finds
attractive
about
this
desert
city
is
the
speed
of
movement
,
the
way
the
money
moves
from
place
to
place
and
hand
to
hand
:
it
’
s
a
rush
for
him
,
a
high
,
and
it
pulls
him
like
an
addict
to
the
street
.
A
taxi
follows
him
slowly
down
the
street
,
keeping
its
distance
.
He
does
not
notice
it
;
it
does
not
occur
to
him
to
notice
it
:
he
is
so
rarely
noticed
himself
that
he
finds
the
concept
that
he
could
be
being
followed
almost
inconceivable
.
