Part 3 (2/2)

”Lady? Lady?” The Dap made a show of squinting through the darkness. ”I don't see a lady. You fellas see a lady?” The rest of the table snorted, a small spectrum of liking-the-joke. Bryson was silent. Romy was still.

”You're right, guy. We should be polite to a lady,” said The Dap, sitting down at last. ”But we should be ruthless...with a wh.o.r.e.” He folded pocked arms across his suit and leaned back, a satisfied smile on his twisted lips. He grinned up at Romy then with a look more galling, even, than Lefty's or Zaida's original appraisals in the cellar. The Dap saw neither object nor animal when he looked at Romy-he saw a victim.

In another cold flash of instinct, Romy followed the feeling of a set of eyes penetrating deep into her back. She scanned the room and saw Lefty DiMartino himself stepping out of the elevator. He smirked idly her way, appearing to drink in the scene of her tournament. He wiggled his eyebrows.

Romy suddenly felt short of breath. Her fingers trembled. ”Just a moment,” she managed, before locking her chip box down and lurching away from the table.

She found Zaida spying on the bar, prepared to pounce on a young server whose hair was sliding precariously away from the mandated ponytail. Romy gathered her courage and stepped forward. She tapped her boss on the shoulder.

”Hi, Zaida...I'm sorry to bother you, but-”

”Where is your table?”

”I'm just taking a quick breather. I have...I have a question.”

”NO BREATHER!” her boss screeched. ”NO QUESTIONS, NO TALKING!”

”I just need to know,” Romy pleaded. ”Please tell me-what are the stakes in the tournament's last round?”

Zaida seemed to cool and set her perfectly polished face. Then, the strained grimace from before reappeared. The two women stood for a moment like that, regarding one another.

”Please,” Romy begged. She knew her table's-Lefty's-security's-eyes were all on her. If she could imagine what Zaida would say, she couldn't imagine what to do with the information. She'd given her word, hadn't she? She'd seen the casino's secret rooms! And most of all, a reasonable part of her recalled the casual haunt in Lefty's early caution: this conversation never happened. What else would have never happened, were she to leave the Needle now? If she ran for the exits now, what would they do to her?

Abruptly, and with an unusual affection, Zaida curled her talons down and cupped the bottom halves of Romy's full b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She bounced them for a moment in her palms, grinning her grimace at the attention this garnered from several bar patrons. Then she leaned in to Romy's ear and whispered, with not a little tenderness: ”You smart girl, I think.”

CHAPTER TEN.

After an hour of play, four men remained in the tournament.

Earlier, Romy had watched another female blackjack dealer finish her games. A skeletal man with a laugh like a donkey's bray had gripped the woman by her shoulders and all but pushed her towards the elevator. A trail of other high-rollers had high-fived the creep on his way to the exit.

It must've been early, but Romy could spare no attention for the time. All she could concentrate on was the game before her. The outcome, it seemed, would decide her fate. She could feel Lefty and Zaida's eyes on her, during different moments of play. So as not to be distracted, she kept her own gaze all but pinned to the green felt.

To make matters worse-after Blonde Businessman Number One had made his outburst, a small crowd of hanger-ons had come to watch the rest of the game. Like a movie audience they clapped and booed at each elimination, leaving Romy feeling like a chained lion in a ring full of gladiators.

”Black. Jack.” This was the old-school rapper, who'd been silent up to now. He seemed respectful enough, if worse came to worse-but then, worse couldn't come to worse. Romy reminded herself: she wasn't just being ogled, she was being auctioned off. And the idea of being anyone's-even Bryson's-glittery s.e.x prize from a game of chance made the bile rise in her throat. She never agreed to this.

The rapper's win had seen the elimination of the ancient businessman-who'd busted after splitting 8's and not getting the cards he'd needed to beat Romy's 9 up-card-in the same round, and this left two remaining adversaries: Bryson, who'd broken a small but perceptible sweat in the s.p.a.ce at Romy's right hand, and...The Dap.

”Hot dog!” The Dap shouted now, with unrestricted glee. ”Gonna get me some lovin in the oven tonight!” The more he drank, the more grotesque the man became. He'd managed to alienate the whole table with remarks variably rude, bigoted, and generally disgusting. Still, security had not been summoned to remove him from play. Romy took note-as she supposed both Lefty and Zaida did, hovering elsewhere around the Needle-of the man's fat stack of chips he'd initially brought to the table. He may well have been the wealthiest client at the casino that night. If this was the case, Romy knew his wishes would be placated-no matter what the cost.

”You know the rules, gentlemen,” Romy stuttered to the table. She shuffled her KEM cards. Sent up an anonymous prayer: please oh please, G.o.d-let Bryson stay in. She dealt swiftly. The men eyed the cards in front of them and seemed to settle deeper into their seats, with new conviction.

The Dap let out a belch mixed with a chuckle. And for an instant, Romy let herself imagine this man moving violently inside of her, a lecherous grin on his face, his sweaty belly rolling across her body. To love The Dap would be her rock bottom, surely. In no uncertain terms, she would rather die. And so she dealt the cards.

”AND, SUCKS TO BE YOUR a.s.s-MAR, Dr. Dre!” the monster slurred. The rapper was slinking away from the table with an amount of apology in his tread; he'd been third to last to be eliminated. Had she imagined it, or had a player who'd just lost $50,000 shot her a look of pity above his own black sungla.s.ses? In any case, his shoulders swung low as he moved beyond her sight.

The two remaining contestants faced each other: Bryson to her right, The Dap to her left. Zaida was walking slowly towards the table. She spoke in a low voice, but the crowd of onlookers didn't crane to hear her speech. They all seemed to have heard her words before.

”For two remaining, there is new stake. New buy in is fifty-thousand, minimum bet is $2,000 per hand. Winner takes all, but both of you reap reward,”-with a sweep of her hand, she invoked Romy-”which is to say, winner take other players' money-$150,000 after casino's take. If he want. But if he want dealer, as prize, and chips in front of him-then loser will have what winner discards. Understand?” The Dap chuckled. Bryson clutched the table felt tighter. Zaida bent low over the players, like a matador. A new, malicious smile curled across her lips.

Bryson had been playing well all night, but he lacked the ease of his current opponent. He was hyper-attentive, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense, his eyes scarcely left his cards. Romy kept glancing his way for confirmation, encouragement, a grin...anything-but the biker's concentration wouldn't break. It made the match seem all the more frightening-what was he up to? What would really happen at the end of this game? What if her dark knight couldn't-wouldn't-save her?

”Deal me in, cutie,” The Dap said. He oozed back in his chair. No, Romy told herself. Bryson wouldn't just be here for the money. He's going to win. She inhaled sharply through her nose, and laid out the first hand.

The men were silent for a long spell. Bryson doubled-down on his 3, 6 against Romy's 5 up-card. She dealt him an Ace to make a soft 20, and he waved his hand to stay. The obese buffoon wanted in on the action, the alcohol clearly clouding his judgment. He also called to double-down on his pair, a 2 and a 10 against Romy's 5, a foolish move. The man stared at Bryson as he moved two more orange chips onto the table behind his first bet; and Bryson met the man's gaze with steely resolve. They regarded each other like lions in a pit, like fighters circling...

”Twenty. One.” the slovenly man said smugly, as Romy dealt him the 9 he needed to clinch his Hail-Mary play. She dealt herself a 10, and a 2 and stood on 17-both players won. Bryson was visibly p.i.s.sed, the man just made a f.u.c.king stupid play and came out on top anyway.

”What d'ya say, young fella, we up the minimum bet to get this thing over with fast? A gentlemen's agreement?” he said, gulping the last of his drink and taking the ice and sliver of lime down as well. ”If I don't f.u.c.k soon, it's not gonna happen.” he chuckled, patting his bulbous belly. Romy's skin felt like it was about to crawl off her body.

”Sure, $5,000 minimum bets.” Bryson agreed, shaking the fat man's hand.

Bryson placed five orange chips in the circle in front of him. The other man placed ten, and sat back with hands folded on his belly smirking at Bryson. Bryson upped his bet to $10,000 as well and Romy dealt the cards. Two 7's to Bryson, two 10's to the fat man, and a 3 up-card to herself. She peeked at her hole card, an Ace. Bryson made the appropriate move in this situation and split his 7's, offering up another $10,000 to see two more cards at least. Romy dealt a 4 to his first 7 to make 11 all together, he offered up another $10,000 to double-down. Her heart was racing and she fought to steady her hands as she dealt the next card. Bryson had $30,000 on the table, he was about to gamble it all on this hand. With a great sigh of relief she dealt him a Queen to make it 21. As long as she didn't deal herself 21 he'll have made at least another $20,000 to pad his bankroll.

She dealt a 3 to his second 7, and he pushed another $10,000 up to double-down. Romy pulled a Jack out of the shoe and placed it sideways on top of Bryson's 3, 7 cards to make 20. Her dark knight had $40,000 sitting on the felt, not leaving much of a buffer if he were to lose these hands.

The fat man was getting upset now, and had already worked his way through two more Johnny and c.o.kes while Bryson was taking all the action. In his inebriated state, he decided to take a gamble. ”f.u.c.k you kid, you think you can push me around with a couple lucky hits? Well I can get lucky too, this b.i.t.c.h'll see just how lucky I can get soon enough.” And with that he pushed another $10,000 beside his original bet to split the 10's in front of him.

Romy knew that any self-respecting blackjack player knows to never ever, ever split 10's, no matter what-unless you're counting cards, which this man clearly was not. She split the man's cards and dealt him a 6 on top of the first 10. ”f.u.c.k” the man screamed, clearly unhappy with his 16. He pushed another $10,000 to double-down, an impossibly stupid move, and Romy dealt him an Ace to make a hard-17, and knowing he'd pushed his luck to the limits, The Dap was satisfied with the draw.

Romy dropped a Jack on top of the man's second 10, and much to her surprise he chose to split these again. She dealt a 2 on his second 10 and he doubled-down to receive a 6 to make it 18. She dealt a 3 on his Jack and he tried to double-down but had no more chips left, and still took a hit receiving a 4 to make it 17. The man seemed quite happy with himself, even though his entire bankroll was on the table at this point. It was all up to the dealer now.

Romy flipped her hole card over, she knew it was an Ace, giving her a 4 or a soft-14 with her 3 up-card. She dealt another card from the shoe, a King, giving her a hard-14. She looked in Bryson's direction, she could tell by the look on his face that the antic.i.p.ation was killing him as much as it was her. She closed her eyes as she pulled another card from the shoe and flipped it over.

For a dizzying moment, she couldn't register what had just happened. Romy kept her eyes shut tight. She waited for the room to tell her-she listened for the inevitable groans of pleasure an audience might make, imagining a man like The Dap and a woman like her in bed. Then: ”You. G.o.d. d.a.m.n. Sonofab.i.t.c.h!” roared her vision's offender. Romy opened her eyes. She'd dealt herself a 6 to make 20, beating all of The Dap's hands, but Bryson's 21 still won, and he pushed on his 20. Bryson was standing, The Dap jumped out of his seat to standing: they squared off toe to toe. t.i.tus and another security guard had materialized from the room's sides; both now flocked towards The Dap. They pinned his arms to his side.

”Why dontcha pick, ya G.o.dd.a.m.n HUSTLER? He was CHEATING! Sonofab.i.t.c.h was counting CARDS! I saw it!” The tattoos on Bryson's neck were bulging with his muscles. He looked as if he was about to say something, but a quick glance at t.i.tus stopped his voice.

”I said PICK, motherf.u.c.ker! You want the money, or the wh.o.r.e?” The Dap leaned toward Romy again. ”Look at her. She's not so special. Why don'tcha take the cash, filthy no-good Chris Angel-looking creep? Everyone can see that's what you're here for! You probably need it!” He spat in Bryson's direction, though his aim was wild. ”Walking like you belong in here, f.u.c.king white trash motherf.u.c.ker. When we can all see who you are.”

With a well-turned flick, Bryson moved the dark sungla.s.ses off his face. For the first time, Romy could see that his eyes were moist. His face was sweatier than she'd imagined. He was trembling. Engraged.

”I want the dealer,” her hero spoke. Then he shot The Dap a look so hateful that the man looked briefly startled. ”Why don't you take the money, you fat piece of s.h.i.+t? Spend it on some f.u.c.king liposuction or a gym members.h.i.+p for Christ's sake. Better hope I don't see your fat f.u.c.king a.s.s out in public.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

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