Out of Aces (9 page)

Nick and Lars were standing close to the cops. Lars looked like a kid in a principal’s office, his head hanging, his hands behind his back. Nick was staring straight ahead, his face set in ugly lines. The rest of us—cocktail waitresses, security, bartenders, and bottle runners—were lined up against the
bar.

The cop, a big smirking dude with grandpa glasses that clashed oddly with his uniform, seemed to be enjoying himself
.
He looked up and down the line of staff. “We arrested your VIP host, one of your waitresses, and one of your bottle runners. Anybody else care to solicit drugs or
sex?”

Nick’s shoulders slumped just a li
ttle.

“You’re going to be making a nice donation to LVPD, so thank you in advance. Maybe you should talk to Hard Rock about the strategies they used for cleaning up Club English. Oh wait, I forgot, they had to close it down.” The cop raised his eyebrows. “This is your last strike. Next time, the Gaming Control Board will send somebody by to collect your liquor and gaming licenses.” He hoisted the bag over his shoulder, nodded at his guys, and headed
out.

Once the last cop had disappeared through the door, Nick let out his breath and turned to us, lined up at the bar. His face was barely even moving, but somehow channeling enough rage to vaporize us. “Any of you gets caught soliciting
anything
, even if it’s a fucking piece of gum, you’re going to have to deal with more than the cops. The VIP bathrooms are shut permanently, so don’t send anybody back there, no matter how much they tip you. Underst
and?”

We nodded. I was thinking,
What VIP bathr
ooms?

Nick stopped in front of Liz, the head cocktail waitress. “You can’t even control your staff? You got your girls soliciting
c
ops
?”

“But you said—” squeaked
Liz.

“I don’t care what I said! They should know what a cop looks like!” Nick wheeled on me suddenly. “And you! What the fuck is the matter with you? You look guilty as hell! My ex-wife used to look like that when she’d been on a shopping spree! You been soliciting,
too?”

I couldn’t even open my mouth. My legs felt like they were going to give
out.

“Easy, Nick,” said
Lars.

“No, look at
him.”

My face was burning, my tongue a log in my m
outh.

“You been trying to make cash on the side?” Nick dema
nded.

I managed to shake my
head.

“Nick, let him alone. He wouldn’t do that,” April piped up. I couldn’t believe she was defending
me.

Nick ignored her. He took a step closer, squinting at me. His eyes were hard and focused. “I don’t like the look on your face right now. I’ll be watching you.” He swung around. “Get out. All of you.” Nick turned to Lars. “We need to t
alk.”

Lars looked like a clown who had gotten lost from the circus. His party gear seemed weird in the bright lights, and his face was drooping and confused. He sighed and followed Nick into the of
fice.

“What are you wearing right
now?”

“Really tight lederhosen. Hang on, I just texted you a picture of this German guy wearing a pair . . .” Irina had obviously stopped pretending not to use the Internet for i
deas.

I checked the text and burst out laughing. The dude looked like an elf in little brown shorts and suspenders. “People really wear t
hat?”

“Totally. Except they’re usually made out of leather, and they have this awesome flap in front. What are
you
wear
ing?”

“Um . . .” I was trying to Google something while I talked to her, but I wasn’t coming up with anything
good.

“You lose. You took too long. How was w
ork?”

Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I said, “There was a bust. With
dogs
.” And I told her everything. Sometimes you tell your best friend stuff that you wouldn’t tell your girlfriend. Too bad in my case they were the same person. When I was done, there was a long silence. “Ir
ina?”

“If you go to jail, I’m breaking up with
you.”

“W
hat?”

“I’m just warning you, I’m not one of those women who would stay with her boyfriend if he went to j
ail.”

“I’m not going to jail! And that’s messed up. You’d seriously leave me if I got put a
way?”

“Absolut
ely.”

I glared at the wall. “Well, thank you very much. It’s nice to know you’d be there for me through anyth
ing.”

“Who ever said I’d be there for you through anything? There are a lot of things I wouldn’t stick around for.” Irina paused, and when I didn’t answer, she said in a softer voice, “Baby, I’m not trying to give you a hard time. But if you get a record, it follows you for the rest of your life. You have your GED now; you could work somewhere le
gal.”

GED. That damn thing. Just thinking about it got me depressed. Why was I always the one apologizing for my sorry
life?

“You know what?” I said, pulling a sharp turn in the conversation—and thinking about what April told me earlier about her cheating husband. “I’ve been thinking about Micah. And I don’t want you hanging out with him anym
ore.”

“
What?
Where did that come from? Are you trying to change the subj
ect?”

I
was
trying to change the subject. And I knew I should fold. But I doubled down instead. “I’m just saying, I don’t want you hanging out with him. Since we’re talking about reasons we’d leave each other.” There was a silence so long that my neck pric
kled.

Finally Irina said, “Are you trying to tell me who I’m allowed to be friends with?” She sounded dangerously am
used.

“I’m trying to tell you this guy is obviously hitting on you, and I’m tired of
it.”

“H
mmm.”

“What’s
h
mmm
?”

“
Hmmm
is me trying to figure out what to do when my boyfriend starts acting controlling
.
And by the way, that was a cheap way to change the subject. We were talking about your
job
.”

“Controlling?” I said coldly. In a sick way, I wanted this fight. “Fine, call me names, but I still don’t want you seeing
him.”

“The day you start telling me who I can be friends with is the day this relationship ends,” Irina
said.

“Well, thanks for laying it
out.”

“I have to go,” she
said.

“F
ine.”

“F
ine.”

She hung up and I pitched my phone onto the mattress. I stalked around my two-hundred-square-foot, stinky-ass apartment, fists balled up. I wanted to hit the wall, but I’ve never been the kind of guy who breaks his own fingers because he’s mad. I put my hands in my pockets instead and cussed a few t
imes.

I called her back five minutes later. “I’m sorry,” I said through slightly gritted t
eeth.

“I’m sorry, too. I love
you.”

“I love you,
too.”

“O
kay.”

“Okay. Are you still going to hang out with
him?”

“Gabe, I love you, but you really, really can’t tell me who I can be friends w
ith.”

I gro
aned.

“I’m sorry. I understand why you don’t like it. But don’t you trust
me?”

“Yes. But I don’t trust
him.”

“Well, if you trust
me
, you have to trust that I can take care of mys
elf.”

Perfect. Now if I came back at her, I’d be saying she didn’t know how to take care of herself. Finally I said, “I can’t promise what I’ll do if I meet this
guy.”

“Hmmm,” said Irina. I could hear her tapping something on the other end. “I guess I’ll have to make sure that never happ
ens.”

CHAPTER NINE

O
n Christmas morning, or more like afternoon, I got out of bed and stuck a water bottle of vodka in one pocket and eight hundred bucks in the other. I wasn’t going to sit around and be depressed; no one-man party in my nasty digs. I’d find some
fun.

Before I left, I texted my mom
Merry Christmas
and turned off my ringer. Half of me wanted her to have a nice Christmas and the other half hoped she’d drink guilt champagne, eat guilt ham, and open guilt presents while she looked into the smug red face of her useless man-tool. Irina would be having a proper family Christmas with tree, presents, and the whole t
hing.

Micah better not try to “stop by.” That would put me over the
edge.

Driving was not an option considering what was in my
water
bottle. I was planning to hitch or walk to the casinos—the Strip was only a half mile away—but when I headed out my door, Berto was sitting on the steps of his quad, wrapped in a blanket, smo
king.

“S’up,” he
said.

“Feliz Navidad,” I
said.

He smiled. “Feliz Navidad. You going to your family’s house? Open some prese
nts?”

I thought about lying for half a second. It was embarrassing that I had no place to go. “No. My family’s in Washington. I’m flying solo to
day.”

“Me, too. My family’s in Mexico.” Berto picked up a coffee mug sitting next to him and took a sip. He held out a pack of cigarettes. “Want
one?”

“No thanks,” I said, but I crossed the pavement to his steps and sat down next to him an
yway.

“Man, look at us, no place to go on Christmas.” Berto shook his head. “That’s messed
up.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I can’t sit around staring at my walls, man. I’m going to go find something to do. You want to come?” I felt stupid asking; it’s always awkward the first time you ask somebody to hang out. Especially if it’s on Chris
tmas.

Berto looked at me. “Se
rio?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, we could see what they got going on up at the Strip. Maybe play some poker or someth
ing.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Only I got no mo
ney.”

“I’ll spot you a hund
red.”

“Damn, that’s generous.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “You know I won’t pay it b
ack?”

“I don’t c
are.”

Berto chuckled softly to himself. “Cool. Let me get dressed. Then we’ll r
oll.”

“Can you drive?” I a
sked.

“Yeah, okay.” Berto stuck one arm out of his blanket to grind out the cigarette. He was tatted from wrist to shoulder, with all kinds of skulls and clowns and banners with Spanish words. He’d be fun to have along on an adventure, no ques
tion.

Last time I was in a lowrider, I was in fourth grade and my friend Angel’s dad was giving four of us neighborhood kids a ride around White Center on his hood. Angel fell off and got a little banged up, and his dad made us all stop riding. I guess there had been some upgrades in lowrider style over the years, because Berto’s ride had subwoofers the size of rave speakers and a mural of a waterfall on the side. He turned down Trop, blasting hip-hop, windows down and cold air pouring
in.

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way,” I told him. “The Strip’s back th
ere.”

He shook his head. “The Strip is where tourists go to lose, bro. Let’s hit Boulder Stat
ion.”

“Where’s t
hat?”

“The other Strip.” Berto grinned. He was a mad driver, and the belly of his car scraped the road on every bump. He weaved through back streets in hoods even sketchier than ours, and finally turned onto a big wide boulevard. I could see what he meant when he’d called it “the other Strip.” It was like a funhouse mirror of Las Vegas Boulevard: Motel Sixes instead of fancy hotels, run-down casinos I’d never heard of, and RV parks crammed with trailers instead of l
imos.

Berto pulled into the sprawled-out lot of Boulder Station. It didn’t look too bad, kind of a Mickey D’s of casinos. You could play your game, but there was no red ca
rpet.

“You like Texas Hold’em?” I asked as we walked through the sliding glass doors to the casino. Berto shrugged and looked off at the slot machines, which I took for a
no
. In the middle of the lobby was a giant fake tree covered in glitter, with wrapped presents under it. “Santa Baby,” the most obnoxious Christmas song ever, was booming from the spea
kers.

As we followed the signs to the Poker Room, I got this good feeling that I was going to win. I had to—it was Christmas. I guess a couple other degenerate gamblers had the same idea, because the tables were busier than I’d expected, mostly with seedy-looking dudes who clearly had nowhere better to be. I signed up, got some chips, and the hostess walked me over to a table with two cowboys, one young and one old. Berto stuck with me, but when we got to the table, he shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his
head.

“Come on, man. You can’t just watch. Here.” I passed him the bill I’d promised, and it disappeared in his po
cket.

“I like Keno,” he
said.

“Fine, play Keno, then. I’m playing poker.” Berto disappeared and I bought into the game. Cowboy number one had enough chips to fill a suitcase. He was an old dude with long iron-gray hair under a Stetson and yellow chewing-tobacco teeth. Cowboy number two looked like less of a threat. He was younger, with grizzly black stubble, but he was down to his last ten chips and acting edgy. The waitress brought me my free drink, I won a round . . . and I started to cheer
up.

I had a sweet job. I was seeing my girlfriend in less than two weeks. The GED thing would never quit bothering me, but other than that, life was
okay.

“Your action, sir,” the dealer said, and I looked up. For some reason—maybe because I was thinking about Irina and the GED—I wasn’t playing as sharp as I should have been. Stetson was winning this round. I decided to go big. It was Christmas, not a time to hold back. I pushed half my chips in the pot, and he chuc
kled.

“Something funny?” I a
sked.

“No, son. Just looking forward to taking your money,” he said, tugging at his Ste
tson.

I frowned at him. He wanted to play? We’d play. I focused on the cards in my hand and tried to concentrate. Not an ace in my hand and not a heart on the b
oard.

Fifth street came and I got nothing better than a three of a
kind.

Black Stubble was blowing smoke rings. He smiled and set down a straight. My gut bottomed out. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not on Chris
tmas.

Like he read my mind, he said, “Merry Christ
mas.”

“Whatever,” I muttered. I didn’t have enough chips to keep playing. I wanted back into that game so bad I could taste it. Just one more round. Lady Luck couldn’t stay permanently with this freaking boozehound; she never stayed long with any
body.

“Excuse me, sir, would you like me to call a chip runner?” asked the de
aler.

Was I going to keep playing, or cut my losses now? “Yeah,” I said, before I could think too hard about
it.

The chip runner was a cute girl, of course—all part of the house strategy. She smiled encouragingly at me, but I felt panicky handing her my last bills. I had to win
now.

Stetson played cold and focused, and Black Stubble played like a psycho. He was rash, backing us into corners, bluffing big. But he didn’t seem to mind that Stetson was raking in every pot. That’s what got me suspic
ious.

Then I caught a look between them—it wasn’t much, just a glance—but after dealing with Tony and Marquis, my gambling buddies in Washington, I had a sensor for that stuff. Black Stubble was playing like a lion to mask the fact that they were working for Stetson’s
win.

As soon as I figured that out, I asked for a reshuffle. I knew some tricks myself. Like making irrational plays, bluffing for weird cards. Confusing them. But I still needed the right cards. You can’t win on deuces and treys, no matter how slick you
are.

I was building a little bit of my stack back when Lady Luck decided to give me a Christmas present of some
aces.

As their pile got a dent in it, Black Stubble started giving Stetson questioning, angry looks.
That’s the thing with cheaters. They can’t trust anybody, not even each o
ther.

I decided it was time to cash in. I’d won my own back plus a good chunk of theirs, and these guys weren’t the kind I wanted to keep playing with. I’d caught on to their game and gotten lucky with some good cards, but if I stayed in, it was only a matter of time before they got back on top. First rule in gambling: you have to know when to
walk.

Black Stubble, who was on his fourth beer that I’d seen—which meant he was probably on more like his eighth—sucked in his breath. “Don’t tell me you’re walking,” he said in a low voice. “You weak son of
a—”

Stetson touched his arm and Black Stubble shut up. But I felt their eyes on me as I went to the cage and cashed in. I looked over my shoulder. Yeah, they were staring. Black Stubble had a dark look on his face, and I realized it might not be healthy to hang around this place much lo
nger.

I bailed on the Poker Room and went to find Berto. He wasn’t in the Keno Lounge. He wasn’t in the Sports Book. He wasn’t at the blackjack tables. I finally ran into him coming out of one of the hotel clothing stores, holding a bag with tissue paper spilling over the s
ides.

I chuckled. “You go shopping,
man?”

He nodded but didn’t say anything. I figured he hadn’t played Keno after all. Whatever. It was Christmas, and he could do what he wanted with his m
oney.

“We should split. I won some money and pissed off a couple cowboys,” I
said.

“You want to go eat somewhere?” said B
erto.

“Yeah. You like st
eak?”

“Okay. Hang on.” Berto wheeled into a men’s room. I followed him, because I had to take a leak, too. We did our business, and I was zipping up when I heard the door swing open and fast footsteps—too fast. I turned, already knowing who I’d
see.

This was no accident. It couldn’t be. I didn’t make eye contact. Just stuck to Berto like a burr. Maybe since he was with me, they’d let us thr
ough.

No chance. Black Stubble stepped in front of the door, blocking our way. I could smell the booze from three feet away. “You can go, but not him,” he said to Berto, not taking his eyes off
me.

Berto’s body tensed like a cat. “Let us by, man,” he said in a soft v
oice.

“I guess he wants to stay,” Black Stubble said to Ste
tson.

“Why don’t you just pay us back our money, and go have a nice Christmas?” Stetson said quietly to me. His hat sat low on his forehead. His eyes were steady. I didn’t think he was drunk at
all.

Berto looked at him, taking in the situation. “You’re on camera, bro,” he said suddenly, pointing at the cei
ling.

We all looked up. There was nothing on the ceiling. At least, nothing that I could
see.

“You’re full of shit,” said Stetson. “This place ain’t wired.” But his voice trailed off and his eyes po
pped.

Berto had snaked his arm inside his jacket and the sleeve was dangling. There was a bulge poking out of the side, the shape of a gun. “Move,” he said so
ftly.

Without a word, Stetson and Black Stubble stepped
back.

“Open the door,” Berto told me. He was walking backward, the gun staying straight inside his jacket, covering the cow
boys.

My mouth was dry, my chest squeezing. Berto wasn’t playing. I opened the door and darted into the lobby. Berto was right behind me. “Be cool. Walk to the door,” he
said.

We walked past the ugly tree in the lobby and out the big glass doors to the lot. Then we hauled ass. Berto tore open the doors of his ride and jumped in. We screamed out of there, the car belly catching the asphalt hard as we turned onto Boulder Hig
hway.

Finally I started to breathe again. “Oh, shit!” I managed. “I didn’t know you were pack
ing!”

Berto chuckled. “I wasn’t.” He twisted up the volume until the music was so loud, the beat was slamming through my whole
body.

“What are you talking about?” I ye
lled.

“It was just my hand, man.” He lifted his hand and stuck up two fingers. “Looks like a gun when you push it through your jac
ket.”