Jim signed in, took the brass key on its thick yellow tag. He watched Irene sidle up to the cig machine in the motel’s lobby. She fed quarters in with flat-footed precision, then yanked the handle with the hope-beyond-hope look of a Vegas slot junkie. A cellophaned pack of Marlboros thumped down. Irene plucked it up, and gripped it, and smiled secretly to herself.