that we only love the things we own
The interesting thing about a marriage of convenience is sometimes it's not really about anything nefarious; marriages benefiting personal gain are all marriages, convenience or romantic - the point is, Rusty is just a very convenient person, and being married to someone who isn't (but is) psychic can be quite the Experience.
There's a bar in the Cosmopolitan hotel in Las Vegas (it's in City Center, and it's just had it's soft opening - not the real opening), and it's called The Chandelier - a centerpiece tucked away to one side, four levels of gleaming crystals strung like a rain forest encasing spirals of jewel-toned sofas and waitresses on spindle-heels while Sinatra narrates the collective evenings of all visitors, ever. The top floor is another world, like someone's living room circa 1972, with soft brown leather furniture and a record player and a pool table with orange and tan colored billiard balls. Portraits of every famous showgirl line the walls, and there's a balcony overlooking the far more stately neighbor - the Aria.
It's there that Rusty is (conveniently) spending his evening, with a glass of scotch that's either his first or last waiting half-consumed on a nearby chair arm. He's playing a round with a tourist couple who don't know how they've stumbled onto this particular not-opening.
He doesn't wonder how his wife is.