When The Lion Feeds

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Lady Trouble, that was how Hawthorn always remembered her.
The Kit Kat Klub was the sort of place considered sophisticated by the sort of people who considered themselves sophisticated. Anything unchromed was plastered in plushly padded leather in a particularly repellent shade of purple.
In one corner a female singer in a shimmering dress slashed so low that you could see her fundamentals crooned about the evils of wealth. Behind her three bored looking young men in evening dress variously beat, blew and stroked musical instruments as if they were filling in time while waiting for the main feature.
Hawthorn lost a little money and won a little in return on the gaming tables while waiting for a contact who never arrived. The enigmatic message that had brought him to this den of lethargy was a bust. He finished his drink and disposed of his glass onto a tray carried in an overhead grip by a waitress in a spangled leotard.
Then she walked in.
Walk is a simple verb implying one foot placed in front of the other in steady sequence. Such a definition did not even begin to adequately describe her progress. She glided across the room on heels higher than the mark up on the club’s drinks.
Hawthorn watched her, not something that caused him undue pain. Hair fashionably styled in sea-green waves flowed over her bare shoulders matching the color she had chosen for eyes nestling deep within the maroon mask perched on her nose.
She slowed when she reached the roulette wheel. Spectators moved aside—but she hesitated before taking a place at the table. Although she might have seemed serene to the unobservant, Hawthorn noticed an infinitesimal tremble when she placed a handful of coins on spin-positive. A spin bet gave only a one third chance of a win, less the House’s zero, worse than the fifty-fifty of even-odd but better than the one fifth chance of a color and much, much better than the probability of choosing a number.
“No more bets.”
The croupier tossed a silver ball with a practiced flick of the wrist. It slid around against the spin of the plate until descending far enough to hit the grid with a protesting rattle. He damped the wheel with the edge of his hand.
“Twenty-two wins, evens, green and spin-positive.”
The croupier pushed the lady’s winnings onto the table and she let them ride: spin-positive won again. She bit a finger in indecision before transferring the pile to spin negative.