Double Blind

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Double Blind

Copyright © 2010 by Heidi Cullinan

Cover Art by Paul Richmond   http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61581-405-3

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

April, 2010

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-406-0

For Maura Peglar

Many Thanks go to

Crystal Thompson for the cat training tips.

Kari Hayes for the virtual motorcycle lessons.

Tom and Nina Cullinan for the Vegas mug with my name on it which I drank out of every day in November 2009.

Dan Cullinan for going with me on the virtual Vegas vacation and for putting up with a house that looked like a tornado hit it for 25 days, again.

Stephen Blackmoore for the ins and outs of Mary Jane.

The Central Iowa Authors for being the most awesome and supportive NaNoWriMo group
ever
.

Mary Eagan for being the most amazing municipal liaison and den mother who ever walked the earth.

NaNoWriMo and Chris Baty for one hell of a ride every November.

LJ Amazon Nano for support and cameo appearances.

Hillari Hoerschelman for Spanish help, again.

Susan Danic for reading the draft along with me scene by scene during NaNoWriMo.

D.W. Marchwell, Dan Cullinan, and Catherine Duthie for being the world’s most awesome beta readers.

One of the best places to expose a person’s true character is at a poker table.

— Barry Greenstein

Heidi Cullinan

The
man playing at roulette table number three on the main floor of Herod’s Poker Room and Casino was playing like a fool, and it was driving Randy Jansen crazy.

Randy lay sprawled across the plush leather sofa in Billy Herod’s office, making occasional “Yes, I’m listening to you” noises as his employer launched into one of his “Do you know what I think?” monologues, but mostly Randy watched the security feed from the casino floor.

Goddamn, but he hated it when people played stupidly. It was why he’d never make a good casino owner, because this was money in the bank, what he was watching on the screen, but it was stupid playing and stupid fucking philosophy, too, and it made Randy itch. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it, so he just lay there, watching the black and white security footage of the casino tables as the somber-looking and meticulously clean-cut man placed his bets. He made them five at a time, with the grimness of someone marking out a plot for his own burial, the man at the roulette table laid out his five dollar chips and bet on black, over and over again.

A hard nudge on his foot startled him out of his voyeurism, and he looked up sharply to glare at Billy. “What?”

“Quit scanning my floor for dates, and tell me what you think of my brilliant plan.” Billy planted himself in front of Randy and held out his hands. The gesture made his back arch, too, just enough to make his paunch roll over the waistband of his expensive trousers. “Go on, I dare you to tell me it won’t work. I
dare
you.”

Randy glanced across the room to the other occupant of the office: Billy Herod’s godfather, Crabtree. The older man, round and soft and tricked out in a massive head and face full of curling white hair, might as well have been wearing a red suit with fur trim. He even had Santa’s laugh, and the sound was rumbling out of him now, his blue eyes twinkling as he watched the byplay between Randy and Billy—or, rather, as he anticipated it.

The fuck if Randy would give Crabtree the satisfaction. He had better things to do, he told himself, and turned back to the television screen, where the somber man was getting ready to bet again.

The man’s sweat wasn’t actually visible on the tiny screen, but enough of the tells were there for Randy to know that he was sweating indeed, probably profusely. It was also clear that the money, which could never have been much and was absolutely more than he should have been gambling with to start, was almost gone. The man’s shoulders were rounded just slightly, and he was watching the chips go as if he were sending his children out to slay monsters.

This time the nudge came at Randy’s shoulder.

Randy sighed. He glanced at Crabtree, whose whole body was shaking now with his mirth, and yes, it did look like a bowl full of jelly. Randy wondered how many people had let themselves be distracted by this image right up until the moment when the knife went into their belly, watching in shock as Santa, who was not a jolly old elf but a ruthless gangster, turned the knife, his eyes still dancing as he bled their life away.

“Hey!” Billy said, and tried to poke again.

Randy rolled onto his back at the last second, escaping the jab, and looked up at Billy. “It won’t work.”

Billy beamed and hitched his thumbs in his belt loops. “Oh, it will. See—”

“It won’t work,” Randy said, interrupting him, “because it doesn’t follow that just because you hire a bunch of twinks to walk around shirtless that rich gay men will come in here to gamble. It’s a
possibility,
yes. But it’s also a possibility that there won’t be enough rich men for you to make back what it’s going to cost you to get this latest bright idea going.”

“It
will
work,” Billy said, happily ignoring Randy, “because more and more of you gays are coming to Vegas, and I read a magazine that said gay men have money to burn. And it makes sense! No kids! And you’re even more oversexed than regular men. Rich gay men will come in droves when they see what I offer, every Tuesday night!”

Randy covered his face with his hands and shook his head. From the other side of the room he heard Crabtree’s chuckle. It wasn’t quite “ho, ho, ho,” but it came damn close.

“God, Billy, but they hit you with the stupid stick way, way too hard.” Randy looked up at Billy as he ticked his objections off on his fingers. “First of all, Junior, you’d have to hire all these cute young men to be your sugar-daddy bait, and cute twinks willing to work for your cheap-ass wages are not as thick on the ground as you might be assuming. They can get more working on the street. Which brings me to point two: if you get anyone in here, you will get street boys, which means you will also get police. Which, if I recall, you and Crabtree don’t care for. And third, no matter how oversexed gay men might be, we aren’t as thick in the head as you are, Billy, and if you treat us like morons you’re being generous enough to bilk every Tuesday night—”

He stopped and looked up at Billy, whose distracted expression told Randy his employer was already lost in his Latest Wild Hair. Crabtree’s laugh was thick now, and the old man was occasionally slapping his thigh.

Randy tossed Crabtree a quick flash of his middle finger, threw up his hands, and settled back into the couch. “Never mind. It’s a brilliant idea, Billy. Go for it. Just make sure I work that night, so I can watch the fun.”

Billy had turned away from him and was rubbing his hands together and staring at the faded 1960s photo of the Strip hanging above his godfather. “I’m gonna bring back the glory days, Randy. You just watch. And I’m going to be rich, and then—” He glanced down at Crabtree and briefly scowled. “Well. Then it will be good again.”

“You’re already rich, Billy.” Randy rolled back to his side and found his quarry on Roulette 3. The man was still there, because he hadn’t run out of money yet. He looked like somebody had beaten him about the head, but he was still there, watching the dealer claim his chips as once again the wheel failed to land on black. Randy threw up his hands. “Jesus, buddy.
Switch to fucking red.
”

“What?” Billy said, jerking himself out of his vision. He zeroed in on the camera screens with hawk-like focus. “Is somebody cheating me?”

“God no,” Randy said, and pointed to Roulette 3. “This guy is driving me insane. He just keeps betting on black, over and over again. That wheel hasn’t hit black in six spins, but he just
keeps at it.
”

“Oh?” Billy smiled and leaned in closer. “Bet black again,” he told the man.

“Go back to your room, get drunk, and watch some porn on pay-per-view,” Randy suggested instead.

“Not call his wife?” Billy asked, watching as the man carefully counted out his chips again.

“Shit, no. There’s no wife.” Randy grimaced as the man ran his thumb along the pitiful stack. “He doesn’t have kids. He wanted some, maybe, but he never had any. He’s sure as hell not married. There was somebody, yes, but whoever it was is gone now.” Randy watched the thumb slide around the top chip reverently. He shook his head. “And the cash went with them.”

“You’re full of shit,” Billy said, shaking his head but still watching the screen. “You can’t know all that.”

Randy could, and he did. He’d been watching this guy for half an hour. The particulars might shift a bit, but he knew he was more right than wrong. “He’s been dumped, he’s been screwed out of money, and he’s decided that he’s going to turn his life around by betting his last dollar on the goddamned roulette wheel—by betting on black on a wheel which hasn’t won black since he sat down.”

The promise of this new “show” caught Crabtree’s attention, and he pushed himself out of his chair and ambled over to stand behind Billy and watch. He studied the screen for a moment, and Randy glanced back at him, interested to see if the retired gangster agreed with his own assessment. Randy watched the blue eyes flicker across the screen as they took in tells, making judgments, assessments, and predictions—all in a matter of mere seconds. And then Crabtree flattened his lips, shook his head, and lifted the drink in his hands to his lips.

Fucking hell,
Randy thought, turning back to the screen. He’d really hoped he was wrong this time. Why, he didn’t know. There was just something about this guy that got to him.

He returned his focus to the screen and watched Roulette Man slide another five-stack forward, all on black. Again.

“Why the hell does he keep doing that?” Billy asked, mystified.

“Because he’s an idiot,” Crabtree replied into his drink.

“Because he thinks the wheel owes him,” Randy said, a little sharply. “He’s not an idiot. He’s just suffering from delusional thinking. He’s thinking, ‘It’s been red too long. It’s due to go black, more now than ever’. He’s thinking about laws of averages, and probably fate too. It
has
to fall to black, he thinks. But the wheel isn’t ruled by averages or fate. It’s ruled by chaos. It’s completely random. It doesn’t owe him black. It doesn’t owe him anything.”

“Which is a long way of saying,” Crabtree drawled, “that he is an idiot.”

Randy knew when he was being baited, and kept his mouth shut. But his fingernails bit into his palms as the three of them watched. The dealer called a halt on bets. The ball began to slow, getting ready to bounce itself into its final resting place.

“You do realize,” Crabtree said as the wheel continued to go around, “that Billy Junior is not entirely wrong. His idea for a gay-themed night would work, because of thinking like this. The twinks will come because they will be thinking of the sugar daddies. The sugar daddies will come for the sex. And they’ll do the negotiating over these tables and the machines and at the bar, and they’ll finalize the arrangement upstairs in our hotel rooms.”

Billy turned to his godfather, surprised. “You really think it will work?” He laughed and rubbed his hands together. “Hot damn!”

“It’s tacky as hell, Billy,” Randy said, his eyes still tracking the ball. “And I can’t believe you’re encouraging him, Crabtree.”
Land on black, you fucker. Land on black.

Crabtree snorted. “Of course it’s tacky. Everything about this place is tacky now. I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just pointed out that it would work. Except, as you say, for the police. Which will never do. But the fact remains that idiots are idiots and that they make us a lot of money.”

The ball landed. Randy swore, and Billy clapped his hands.

Crabtree sighed. “Ah, the dear, sweet lambs. They never disappoint.”

Randy watched, disgusted, as Roulette Man shrank farther back into his chair. He had one stack of five chips left in front of him, and then it would be over.