And Barb road-trips to Nevada. You can tell by the "Now entering Nevada" sign she just passed. Vegas, baby! Not really.
Sarah's hanging out with Heather at home (Sarah's home, that is), and she gets off her phone, having just agreed on behalf of both of them to go over to Scott's place. Heather is so not down with this, even when Sarah says Heather will get to meet Scott's friend Derek. Ooh, is he a dorky liberal twentysomething lapsed Mormon as well? Because Heather just loooooves Sarah's model. Heather reminds Sarah that they promised to go to the studio. They did? Also: studio? Sarah wants to put it off for now. Heather's phone buzzes, and when she sees that it's her mom she answers it despite Sarah's protests. Heather's mom is already pissed off, telling her daughter, "Rhonda says you're keeping secrets." But that subject will have to wait, because first Mrs. Tuttle wants to yell at Sarah. She accuses Sarah of lying to her about planning to be at the studio, so apparently they were due there already. Heather's mom bitches, "We want to take you under our wing, but you can't lie and get what you want!" Sarah reacts fairly well to being told something that should really be directed at Rhonda; she just calmly says that she's been doing all this different church-related stuff with the Tuttles, but she just wants to be Heather's friend. Mrs. T. is not to be talked down, and continues yelling at Sarah while Heather looks miserable. Do you suppose Sarah knows the extent to which Barb intervened with the Tuttles on Sarah's behalf? As in, all but implied that she'd spread her legs for Heather's dad in exchange for them dragging Sarah back to church? Nah, probably not.
At the convention, Bill is deep in a poker game in one of the hotel's meeting rooms, which is blue with smoke. I was going to say something about where you're going to find a hotel that'll let you smoke inside any more, and then I remembered, oh, yeah, Nevada. Bill, Larry from Weber Gaming, and a couple of clients talk briefly about Carter Reese's retirement. "Impeccable timing," says a guy in a Western-cut shirt, since he just bought some bars. "Gentlemen's bars," he clarifies, so that we know he's a tit-merchant. He offers Bill a drink, which Bill declines. The other client, a poor man's Michael Madsen with a pompadour that would shame a Creeker, mentions that his "girlfriend" -- a porny-looking skank over by the bar -- had a shoot that day. Bill asks who the photographer was. "Neil and Ben Downaneater," the guy cracks. He and Larry cackle, while the tit-merchant shrewdly observes Bill's uncomfortable reaction. Bill's playing pretty unaggressively, as the guy on Celebrity Poker Showdown might say, and after he loses a hand, the tit-merchant says, "I'm not all that comfortable doing business with a squeaky-clean Mormon." Bill wonders what's wrong with clean, and after Bill turns down a smoke and another hand is dealt, the tit-merchant says it's the squeaky part that worries him. Better not introduce him to Margene, then. "Name your vice there, Bill," says the other player. Bill mildly says, "I don't pretend to know you, so don't pretend that you know me." And then he throws over $1500 dollars in chips on the table. "Are you in or not?" he mildly asks the tit-merchant. Apparently he's hoping that in the absence of any more obvious vices, potential clients will be won over by his willingness to piss away large sums of money. At least I assume that's the point of this scene, which ends before we even get to see anyone's cards.