"But people do win, gambling," Scotty objected.
"Sure they do. That's why people gamble—and hope. But the great majority lose." Rick waved at the luxurious casino. "If most people didn't lose, these casinos couldn't operate."
"Maybe I'd be the lucky one," Scotty said.
A deputy sheriff had been listening to the conversation with amusement. He tapped Scotty on the shoulder. "I said that once, son. I was going to be the luckiest ringdangdoo that ever hit Vegas. And what happened? I've been working in this hotel as a guard for two years, trying to make a stake big enough to go back home and start where I left off when the bug bit me."
"Tough," Rick murmured.
"The town is full of people like me. Besides, you lads can't gamble, anyway. The legal age is twenty-one. Come back in a few years if you feel rich and foolish, and try bucking the tiger. You'll see what I mean."
"We'll take your word for it," Scotty assured him. "Come on, Rick. Let's hit the hay. I can use a nap."
If Las Vegas was spectacular by day, it was a neon nightmare after dark. The boys dined well, and more than sufficiently, at El Rancho Vegas, then got in the jeep for a ride around town.
Scotty loosened his belt with a groan. "For once," he admitted, "I overdid it. Did you ever see so much chow?"
"Not outside of a supermarket," Rick agreed. He let his own belt out a notch or two.