by Cassia Leo
“What have you two been drinking? Or smoking or snorting?” The other officer with the blond hair and mustache asks.
“I’m swear I’m fine!” Rosie whines as they wheel her into the elevator.
“Officer?” Dex’s deep voice startles me. His eyebrow is cocked at me as he holds a handkerchief on the top of his smooth bald head. “I think she clearly had too much to drink, but there was nothing illegal going on here.”
“What happened to your head?” the blond officer asks.
“I slipped in her vomit,” Dex replies, handing the handkerchief to Hector so he can use it on his nose.
“And your nose?” the fat officer asks. “You slip and fall, too? Bump into a door, maybe?”
“Caught an elbow at a party.”
Fatty doesn’t look too impressed with this lie, but there’s nothing he can do about it. They subject me to a half-hearted interrogation about what Rosie and I were drinking at the pool party—I don’t know what she was drinking, Officer. I only met her about ten minutes before we left together—Then they get in touch with the medics to make sure she’s still conscious before they roll their eyes and disappear into the elevator.
My stomach goes sour as I realize Hector and Dex just lied to two officers of the law for me, to protect me from the consequences of my own recklessness. And it’s not the first time they’ve done it. In fact, I can’t even count the number of times they’ve smoothed things over for me with the authorities. And how many times has David Nichols, the head press officer at Westbrook Oil, fielded questions about my latest scandal?
The tabloid headlines flash in my mind: CASH’S FLING RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER OVERDOSE SCARE… Just like all the headlines from the past two years: CASH AND TARA’S SECRET ABORTION… CASH’S WILD WEEKEND IN CABO… CASH’S JOYRIDE ENDS IN DUI… VANESSA ALLEN DEAD.
My dad’s words echo in my head: No, you can’t get rid of your bodyguards, Cash. They’re there to protect you from yourself.
Maybe it’s time I started protecting them from me.
2
Kara
Mick watches me intently across the blackjack table in the private audition room as I deal him an ace and a four. I deal myself a six, leaving my other card facedown on the tan colored felt. I’ve never touched felt this plush before. And I’ve sure as hell never dealt at a table with a $10,000 minimum bet.
He taps the table without doubling down, as I would have expected him to do. “Hit me,” he says, chuckling when I flip another ace next to his four. He taps the table again, and this time it’s a seven for a total of thirteen.
He pauses a moment, probably wondering if he should play “perfect basic” strategy and stay, since I’m showing a six. The corner of his mouth turns up in a half-smile as he defies strategy and taps the table for another hit. This time it’s a five for a soft eighteen.
“No bonus for a five-card Charlie, right?” I ask him, nodding at the five cards in front of him.
He shakes his head as he stares at my six, probably trying to decide if he should risk it and double down. Finally, he looks up at me and winks.
My stomach vaults as he places another $10,000 chip next to the one he already bet. Knowing this is just an interview, and there’s no real money at stake, doesn’t make me any less nervous. But I keep my poker face as I hit him with one last card and my heart races at the sight of it: a four. Busted.
Does that mean he’s not going to hire me?
After a long uncertain moment, Mick finally breaks into a savvy grin and nods at me. “Not bad. Let’s see you cut cheques, then we’ll start the real interview.”
The real interview? Great.
One-on-one interviews are not my strong suit, which is one of the reasons I had to settle for working at Smith’s Gambling Hall downtown instead of at one of the bigger casinos on the strip. It takes a special set of social skills to work in a big casino.
Blackjack dealers have to be charismatic to keep the player playing and keep them coming back for more after they leave. But I’ve been boning up on my people skills, and I think I might finally be ready to nail this interview, assuming that the other reason I couldn’t get hired at the big casinos doesn’t come into play.
I got this interview because my friend Suzy owed me big time after her sister vomited on my blackjack table at Smith’s and I let her go, pretending not to know who she was when my manager asked me about the incident. Those tables cost thousands and replacing the felt would cost at least one or two grand. I knew Suzy’s sister, Erica, didn’t have that kind of money, since she’s still in college and not exactly on good terms with her parents due to her excessive partying. I won’t admit this to Suzy, but if I do get this job, I’m glad Erica won’t be allowed inside the Billionaire Club unless she’s here with a member. And that would never happen.
Mick sits me down in his office and sits across from me in his tufted leather desk chair. The slick gleam in his gray eyes is unsettling as I wait for him to say something. Trying to maintain my cool, I take a quick glance around the room, and I’m not at all surprised by the sheer opulence of my surroundings. The walnut bookshelves lining the wall on my left are neatly stacked with God-knows-what kind of books a casino manager reads. Maybe Ten Ways to Catch A Cheater By Watching How They React to Silence.
“So, Kara, you’re a very pretty girl,” he begins, and right away I don’t like where this is going.
Whenever someone starts off a sentence with “you’re a pretty girl,” I can guarantee the next words out of their mouth will be something like, “but this isn’t going to work.”
He shakes his head. “But this job is about more than appearances. I need someone with more experience.”
I smile at Mick as I bite my tongue. I could comment on the liver spots dotting the strip of male-patterned baldness running over the top of his head. Or the scraggily hair sticking out of his ears as if it’s trying to escape. Or the round gut that looks oddly out of place on his thin five-foot-six frame. And I could tell him how he looks distinctly ridiculous in that Gucci suit. How no amount of tailoring or bling could wash the filthy streets of East Las Vegas off of him.
Yeah, I did my homework on you, too, Mick.
“This is because of my dad,” I reply, and he immediately looks uncomfortable. “My dad has lung cancer. He’s off the grid. You don’t have to worry about him ever coming in here. He’ll probably—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat, pretending it was a bit of phlegm, but the knot only grows with each passing second. “The doctors gave him three to four months. He can hardly get out of bed, much less try to sneak his way into a place like this.”
Mick stares at the top of the desk. “Look, kid, you’re the best I’ve seen this week. Shit, maybe the best I’ve seen all year, but my ass is on the line here. And I’m sure you’re well aware, your father’s been in the Black Book for too many years.” He looks up at me, an apology in his eyes. “I’ll give you a good recommendation.”
My hands grip the arms of the chair so hard I could probably tear them clean off. I’m about to get up, when I realize I’m so fucking tired of taking this shit lying down. My father’s legacy as a card shark has followed me everywhere. And it’s because of him that I wasn’t able to attend college, because I was too fucking busy working to pay the bills when he was up to his ears in bad debts.
“No,” I say, shaking my head as I look Mick in the eye. “I am not my father. Yes, he taught me everything he knows, which is exactly what makes me the best person for this job. Better than any fucking college graduate with a fresh gaming license. I can cut circles around any of them. I know how to deal with whales. I can spot a counter and a mechanic from a mile away. And if you need me to, I can break a streak better than anyone. And, let’s face it…you want to hire me.”
He chuckles. “Jesus, kid, you come in here with a spiel like that, I’m gonna think you’re desperate.”
“I am desperate,” I reply, and his smile drops. “My dad’s dying and I’ve got hosp
ital bills that would make some of your clients flinch.”
He chuckles again, but he appears uncomfortable. Good. This is my one and only shot to get this job. If I can’t convince Mick to hire me, I can kiss my dad, our house, my car, and anything else of value good-bye. Benny will take everything. And if we don’t hand it all over to him nicely, he’ll do as he usually does and create a fake last will and testament naming one of his girls as the beneficiary of my and my father’s estates. Then he’ll get rid of us and, for a cut of the proceeds, his girl will pretend to be my dad’s bereaved ex-girlfriend in probate court.
He sighs heavily. “All right, kid. I’ll give you one month to prove you’re everything you claim to be.”
“Yes!” I cry, smacking my knee. “Thank you so much, Mick. I swear you won’t regret this. I’ll be the best fucking dealer on that floor.”
“You’d better be because I’m putting my ass on the line for you, kid.”
“I won’t let you down,” I reply as I stand from the desk and hold out my hand.
He doesn’t stand up, he just reaches out his hand and gives mine a firm shake. “Go see Sheri on the third floor. She’ll get all your paperwork started. If everything checks out, you can start Tuesday.”
I nod, but he calls out to me as I turn away.
“And, kid, do something with that hair. This ain’t a strip club,” he says, looking at the left side of my head, where I have a sweeping streak of purple hair dangling over my shoulder. “And don’t get too friendly with the customers.”
“Yes, sir.”
After filling out an exhaustive pre-employment interview, Sheri makes me an appointment with the medical clinic they have on contract for employee physicals. Then, she makes me an appointment with an independent investigator for a polygraph. She doesn’t say it, but I’m pretty sure the polygraph is to make sure I’m not working with a blackjack team or, more specifically, my father’s old blackjack team.
I make it home around two in the afternoon. As I pull into the driveway of the house I grew up in, the gravity of what just happened finally hits me. I clutch the steering wheel and try not to cry as I realize I’m finally going to make enough money to pay off Benny. It won’t happen right away. I can’t make $140,000 in tips in one night. But I’ll make that in six months, tops. I heard the top poker dealer at the Billionaire Club rakes in almost a million a year in tips. I might even be able to get my dad into that cancer treatment center in Texas. Of course, the best case scenario would be if Union Oil would stop disputing my father’s health insurance claim.
My father was diagnosed with lung cancer a week before Union Oil in Las Vegas laid off twelve percent of their workforce. My dad had only been with the company for eight months. Trying to get his shit together, as he said, so he could pay Benny off. That was more than eighteen months ago.
Since then, Union Oil has repeatedly contested my father’s request for continued health benefits. By law, Union Oil was required to offer my father COBRA benefits at a group premium. But when they found out he had just been diagnosed with lung cancer, they changed his employee record so it showed that he was terminated for misconduct.
I wipe the moisture from my cheeks and snatch my purse off the passenger seat. Taking a deep breath as I walk past the bark chips covering the dirt field in the front yard, I slide my phone out of my purse and dial Suzy’s phone number. She answers when I reach the front door.
“What happened?” she asks, her voice tense with anticipation.
“I got it.” I hold the phone a few inches away from my ear as she lets out a loud scream. I can just imagine her brown curls bouncing all over the place as she jumps out of her desk chair at the dental office where she works.
“I knew it!” she shrieks. “Oh, I’m sorry. My friend just got a really sweet job. I’m just a little excited,” she says to someone at the office, probably a patient in the waiting room.
“I can’t thank you enough for setting this up,” I continue. “I almost didn’t get it, but something came over me and I laid it all out.”
“Because you fucking deserve it, and you don’t take no for an answer.”
I chuckle at her attempt to buoy my spirits. “I don’t know what I deserve, but I know you really came through for me, and I won’t forget it.”
“Oh, please. You don’t owe me anything, except maybe a few drinks. Want to go get a big fat steak to celebrate. On me?”
I glance over my shoulder at the security screen door with the steel bars, which matches the security bars on the front windows in the living room and dining nook. “Actually, I think a few beers at home would be better.”
Suzy pauses for a moment, probably considering whether she should fight me on this, insist that I celebrate this achievement properly, but she decides against it. “I’ll grab some Michelob Ultra on the way there.”
I smile. “You know how to navigate the watery, low carb path to my heart.”
“You’ve got that right, baby. I’ll be there in a few.”
I heave a deep sigh, mentally preparing myself to enter the house, then I pull the steel security screen open and push through the wooden front door. Jacie is on the sofa, changing the channel on the TV, while my dad sits with his hospital bed reclined, so he can see the screen.
My dad threw a fit when we had to get rid of his beloved beige recliner to make room for the hospital bed. He didn’t speak to me for more than a week. Part of me was relieved to be rid of that repulsive chair, another part of me felt like it was symbolic. It was the first piece of my father I would lose.
My dad slowly turns his head toward me, but he doesn’t smile. And I don’t begrudge him for it. I get the feeling even a smile would take far too much energy in his condition.
“Hey, Dad. How are you feeling?” I ask, setting my purse down on the little metal and glass table that used to function as a phone table until we got rid of our home phone. Landlines are a luxury when you owe $140,000.
My dad opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t seem to muster the energy. He looks to Jacie and she answers for him, her face etched with regret.
“He had a pretty bad coughing fit today,” she says.
She doesn’t have to say it for me to know there was blood. I can smell it in the air. It’s strange how you don’t realize how strong the smell of blood can be until you walk into a room and the fragrance overwhelms your senses.
The thing most caregivers will never say aloud, but they almost all think at some point, is that sometimes you just wish the person you’re caring for would die. I hate seeing my dad suffer. My dad was my hero after my mother died when I was six. I had all the newest toys and gadgets, and I knew eventually I would also have my dad, as soon as he didn’t have to work so much.
I was about twelve years old when I realized my dad didn’t work. He hustled. And he was addicted to it.
Overnight, I suddenly hated the game. By then, he’d already taught me how to count cards and deal single-deck blackjack. I refused to touch a deck of cards for years after that realization.
Then, high school graduation was approaching, and I wasn’t stupid. I saw the late payment notices coming in the mail. I knew I had to get a job as soon as I graduated, and there was nothing I was better at than blackjack. No job that would pay better straight out of high school. I took a one-month blackjack class—as if I needed it—and got my license to make it official, then I went to work. That was five years ago, and my father’s debts have only multiplied since then.
Living with an addict is hell. Loving an addict is a slow, painful death.
After I get the rest of the daily updates from Jacie, we say our goodbyes and I begin fixing my dad’s dinner and late afternoon cocktail of supplements, which are supposed to boost his immune system but haven’t seemed to do a damn thing. I fix him the only thing he seems to keep down lately: bologna and cheese sandwich and a glass of seltzer water. I think it’s more psychological than physiological.
My Grandma Candy used to put a b
ologna and cheese sandwich in his lunchbox every day. My mom continued the tradition. He stopped eating them after my mom died. Then, my grandma died about eight years later. Now, all the sudden, he wants nothing but bologna and cheese sandwiches. It’s sad and unhealthy, and it may be the last bit of comfort he’s going to squeeze out of this life.
Suzy arrives while I’m still sitting with him. “Hey, Papa Smurf,” she says as she sits next to me on the sofa.
My dad and I dressed up as Papa Smurf and Smurfette for Halloween when I was nine years old. Suzy and I didn’t become friends until my sophomore year in high school, but ever since she saw the picture of us with our painted blue skin, she’s always called my dad Papa Smurf. He loves it. Even now, the sound of it turns up the corners of his mouth, making his normally sullen, emaciated face look almost freakishly happy.
Suzy and I chat about work as I hand my dad pieces of the bologna sandwich, as if this is normal. And he forces himself to take each piece and stuff it in his mouth. Forces himself to chew it and winces when he swallows. Once he’s fed, I give him a Dilaudid tablet and he begins to drift off within twenty minutes. Getting him to fall asleep after he eats helps the food stay down more often.
Suzy and I grab a couple of the beers she brought and go out in the backyard to sit on the patio chairs and watch the sun go down over the Las Vegas Strip.
Suzy kicks off the comfort heels she wears to work at the dental office and puts her feet up on the iron patio table. “Pretty soon, you’ll be watching the sunset from a penthouse on the Strip.”
I chuckle and take a long draw from my bottle of beer. “It’s gonna take a lot of tips to make that happen.”
“You never know,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “Maybe you’ll meet a hot billionaire who’ll pay off all your debts, if you know what I mean.”
“Is that supposed to be an innuendo? Because if it is, you’re doing a bad job.”
“Okay, maybe you’ll meet a billionaire who’ll bet everything on you.”
