Spin

by Lamar Giles

  “She hasn’t been by herself,” I chimed in, my irritation fighting its leash. Half of those new processes and procedures, I wrote. While maintaining my three-point-seven GPA, extracurriculars, and a secret side hustle.

  “Nikalosa,” she warned.

  Dan Harris may not have been an Uber driver, but he was smart enough to know when he should act like one then. “We’re here!”

  He drove under the canopy beneath Andromeda, into the hotel’s arching drop-off lane I called Andromeda’s Loop.

  We got sandwiched between a cab dropping off an elderly couple and a Hummer limo picking up some already wobbly Woo Girls. You know, packs of girls a little older than me, known for randomly throwing up their hands—especially when holding frothy drinks—and squealing, “Woooo!” They roamed Vegas like feral cats.

  “Nathan! My friend! Welcome back!” The jubilant voice belonged to Mr. Héctor, Andromeda’s head valet and most senior employee, who spotted us and left the ushering of guests to his underlings.

  When Dad recognized his old friend, he just about dive-rolled from the car. “Héctor!”

  The two of them collided in a hug, and Mom didn’t push our budding argument. I sensed we’d reached the end of family night. Just in time for everyone’s sake. She exited the backseat, tossing Harris a quick thanks. I did the same and thumbed a text to my crew.

  Me: it’s on.

  Dad held Héctor at arm’s length, patting his shoulders. “I’m surprised you don’t own this place by now, old man.”

  “I’m saving, Nathaniel. My mattress is stuffed.”

  Harris leaned into the passenger seat, tried siphoning some of Dad’s attention from Mr. Héctor. “Nathan. We’re going to talk about our plans, right? Soon?”

  “Okay.” Dad’s tone wasn’t convincing, and the accompanying nod felt dismissive.

  “Okay,” Harris repeated, snatching the handle on Dad’s still-open door and slamming it shut before gunning the engine back into city traffic.

  Dad watched the car go, practically sneering. The whole vibe between those two was so weird. I didn’t dwell on it—I had my own stuff happening and was running short on time. “It’s good to have you back, Dad.”

  His head tilted. “You’re going somewhere?”

  “A school thing.” Poker-face test right here.

  “Good,” he said, buying it. “Stay on top of your studies. It’s the only way to get ahead in this world.”

  We both knew that wasn’t true. “You’ll be okay for the rest of the night?”

  He nodded. “I will. Your mom and I need some time.”

  Mom stood away from us, arms crossed, missing Dad’s comment because her attention was elsewhere. On the casino doors.

  Beyond the tinted glass partition stood our head of security, Tomás Garcia, black suited, posted up in a way that wouldn’t seem suspicious to most people. I hoped Dad fell into that oblivious group. Wouldn’t do us any good if, on his first night back, Dad discovered a guy on the payroll was in love with his wife.

  “Mom,” I said, snatching her attention to us, her family. “I hope you and Dad have a great time tonight.”

  “Yes,” she said, “absolutely.”

  Seemed in that instance, she had a heck of a poker face, too.

  Good. Dad was home, I wanted my parents to be my parents again. There for each other. They’d need to be, once I was gone.

  A fire-engine alarm sounded from inside, a slot machine jackpot making someone’s night. My cue to leave.

  “I love you, Dad. I’m so glad you’re home.”

  He exchanged Mr. Héctor’s embrace for mine, kissed my cheek. “Love you, too, babygirl. Breakfast tomorrow? You and me?”

  “Absolutely.” And how many energy drinks would I need to keep me conscious for those early eats? If all went well, I was in for a long night.

  I sailed through Andromeda’s sliding glass doors into the foyer, intending to get upstairs fast, then back downstairs faster. I thought better. Tomás and I needed a word.

  Because I had way too much responsibility in our casino, I knew as much about our staff as I did about the gossip stars at school. The thing about Tomás that really bugged me … he was great at his job.

  A one-time officer for the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department and a former corporate security chief for a billion-dollar tech company in San Diego, he had taken a position that was, frankly, beneath him, for the close proximity to his sick mother, a Las Vegas native.

  She died last year, and he got even better at his job. Showing up earlier, staying later, never demanding a raise for his extra time. That should’ve made me happy; not like we could afford the pay he deserved. What made me unhappy, his looks. Tomás was hot.

  I don’t have a crush on him or anything. He’s old and that’s gross. In a way, it would be better if I was the enamored one.

  Mr. Héctor once joked that Tomás was too pretty to escort cranky gamblers and rowdy stewbums to the cab line. “He looks too much like Alejandro Fernández.”

  I didn’t know who that was and it showed. Mr. Héctor attempted clarification, “El Potrillo?”

  I frowned and shook my head.

  Sighing his disappointment, he said, “Let’s just say he’s got a face for the stage.”

  Anyhow, I’m only saying, objectively, Tomás was fine. That was a problem.

  “Everything all right inside?” I asked him, motioning toward the lobby check-in and casino floor beyond that.

  “Yeah, Nikki. Typical Friday.” He didn’t turn his head, remained fixated on my mom.

  Sidestepping, blocking his view, I said, “Are you sure? There’s nothing security-related we can talk about? At all?”

  He blinked slowly, shaking off all those feels. “The Gaming Board alerted us to a crew cheating tables around town.”

  “And what are we doing about that?”

  He stiffened, like a lot of the staff when they got interrogated by the boss’s daughter. He shot me a look but said, “My team, floor managers, pit bosses, and the dealers know. We’re switching decks every two hours. No one’s seen anything unusual.”

  “When’s the last time you checked?”

  He didn’t say anything. I didn’t stop pushing. “Maybe you should check now.”

  Finally, he took the hint. “Yes. Of course.”

  He left, sleeve to his mouth, speaking to the rest of Andromeda’s security team through Secret Service–style walkies. He slumped, seemed smaller. The posture of heartbreak.

  Once, after I’d noticed Mom and Tomás having a few too many business dinners in the hotel restaurant during one of his long days, after seeing her smile with her whole face at some joke he made, I asked Mom what was up. She didn’t hesitate or deflect. “We’re just friends,” she said. I believed her.

  Don’t know if Tomás would agree he had a permanent address in the Friend Zone, though. My stomach churned, sensing the potential crapstorm on the horizon.

  Nope. Not tonight. No fixing all of Andromeda’s problems like I’ve done for I don’t know how long.

  I moved through the lobby and onto the casino floor with forced focus.

  Technically, according to the Nevada Gaming Control Board, I wasn’t supposed to be on the casino floor, being under eighteen and all, but this was my home. Good luck making someone’s living room off-limits.

  Cosmos carpet stretched before me. A custom job of stars, quarter moons, ringed planets, and streaking comets over midnight blue. It gave the sensation of strolling through the heavens, and I imagined I was a celestial being blessing the compulsive gamblers on all manner of games from common to obscure. Craps and blackjack. Plinko and War and the money wheel. Of course, occasional Texas Hold’em and Omaha games in the Goddess Room, Andromeda’s sparsely populated poker room. Really, we should’ve sealed the room off with glass and called it an aquarium for all the fish—aka sucky players—it attracted. Maybe that would change now that Dad was back in the building. A name like his might draw some whales—
big-money players, high skill level optional. I hoped so.

  Pushing through a Staff Only door, I navigated corridors to a service elevator, my preferred mode of transport for avoiding liquor-soaked tourists and overeager college boys. On our floor, I let myself into my side of Mom and my—and Dad’s now—family suite. It’s what passed for an apartment when you lived at a budget hotel.

  After shimmying out of my dress, I replaced my prison-pickup outfit with jeans, sneakers, and a red Wonder Woman tee. Then I dug through my top dresser drawer, but not for more clothes.

  I pried up the drawer’s false bottom, revealing the fat roll of green United States legal tender. I peeled off five hundred dollars, reconsidered, peeled off five hundred more. With my hiding place sealed and buried under stockings and super-comfy fleece socks, I stuffed the folded twenties and fifties into my hip pocket, creating a bulge.

  A different elevator took me to the kitchen, where I greeted cooks and dishwashers on my way to the pantry and the door beyond. There were stairs, dark and partially blocked by long-forgotten casino junk. I took them to a not-so-secret basement room. My room.

  Flinging a heavy latch, I unbolted a metal door that swung on groaning, protesting hinges. Once inside, I closed the door, putting myself in inky darkness that was pierced only by my phone’s glowing screen.

  I crossed the room while typing a one-handed text.

  Me: you here yet?

  A near-instant reply.

  Gavin: you know it. let me in.

  Not before setting the stage. A breaker box was mounted to the wall. I opened it without looking and flipped the lever inside. The room lit up. Small and cozy, but big enough for the only thing that mattered.

  At the center, under the biggest, brightest ceiling light, was a green octagon covered in felt. A card table.

  My table.

  Cards.

  Before Dad’s stay at Ely State Prison, that’s what he was famous for. Poker, specifically. It’s what he passed on to me, same as my eyes, my nose, and my stubbornness (if you let Mom tell it).

  No-limit Texas Hold’em. Or stud. Or draw. It didn’t matter. Anything involving diamonds, hearts, clubs, spades, a pile of chips, and someone willing to ante up was all good.

  Another set of stairs led to another door that opened to the alley behind the Palace. I undid the lock and struggled against groaning hinges, until Gavin slipped in a giant hand and tugged the door open with no effort. In the unblocked doorway, it still seemed like too little room for Gavin to enter. He was six foot six and double my weight. Some of the kids at school called him The Rock (because he looked like The Rock; sometimes it’s that simple). NFL scouts already had him on their radar despite him being a junior like me. Until those pro checks rolled in, he hustled to help his dad make rent and feed his three rapidly growing younger brothers. Brothers now big enough to steal his clothes, forcing him to write his name on tags of his favorite shirts. I extended to tiptoes and tucked one of those tags beneath his collar.

  “Thanks, Nikki,” he said.

  “I’m going to be packing you a lunch and reminding you to zip up your jacket next.”

  “Best. Mom. Ever.”

  Playfully, I punched him in the arm and almost sprained my wrist; it was like hitting a tree.

  He closed the door behind him and grabbed a nearby stool for his usual bouncer perch. He stripped off his hoodie and settled in. I pressed a fifty-dollar bill into his palm. He’d get another at lights-out (and maybe a little bonus if the night went as well as I anticipated). He pocketed the advance and went to work, waiting for the first of our arrivals.

  We had four confirmed RSVPs and thinking of each one made my stomach feel like a butterfly reserve. So much so, a dainty knock at Gavin’s door made me yelp.

  Game face on, Gavin slid the eye hatch aside. “Password.”

  “I so want to fondle your pecs,” said a voice from the other side.

  Gavin’s toasty complexion reddened around his cheeks. “Hey, Molly.”

  Yanking the bolt, he granted entrance to the marvelous Molly Martel.

  Molly stood at the threshold like a model taking the runway. With her blond hair swooped over one shoulder, combined with a desert tan, she looked ready for a magazine cover shoot. Her leather skirt and patterned black stockings showed off killer legs from all our years of soccer, suggesting that magazine should be Sports Illustrated. From the waist up, she was all business, a tuxedo top and bow tie. When Molly played dealer, she looked the part and would’ve been at home slinging cards behind a table at the Palms.

  She and Gavin were eye to eye, even though he was sitting. With hand on hip, she activated flirt mode. “Shouldn’t you be working over at Caesar’s? As one of the statues?”

  “Molly, I get objectified enough by the scouts at my games.”

  “And I don’t?”

  A soccer superstar, Molly took pride in being an athlete and never let herself, her sport, or her team be counted less than any other at the school.

  Gavin backed down. “Alls I’m saying is if you want a date, just say so.”

  Molly leaned in close enough for kissing. “Who said anything about dating?”

  She sashayed down the stairs and shot me a wink. She loved all games.

  “Stop accosting my security team,” I said while texting players for their ETAs.

  Drawing near, I expected some kind of snappy comeback. Molly only bear-hugged me. “How’d it go today?”

  “Great. We’re a big happy family again.” I gave her a quick squeeze and pulled away. “I’m expecting a little bit of a different crowd tonight. Don’t be alarmed.”

  Molly frowned, but rolled with the change of subject. “Alarmed? How different are we talking? Like, seniors?”

  Very senior. “I’m tired of taking allowance money.”

  Before Molly could ask more questions, there was another knock at the door. Slow, heavy sledgehammer thumps.

  “Password,” Gavin said.

  “Margets.”

  Gavin opened the door. A man nearly as tall and much wider than him entered. Tattooed sleeves ran the length of each arm. His kinky beard was an untrained pet reaching for his sterling silver belt buckle. Most noticeable was his leather biker vest—his “cut.”

  Gavin took it all in and hesitated in his duties. “Gotta frisk you, boss.”

  “I know the drill.” The burly man raised his arms and rotated slowly as Gavin patted him down, giving us all a view of the dingy gray patch on his back.

  It read “The Pack” above the logo of a feral wolf gnawing the back tire of a classic Harley. Most Nevada residents knew of the Wolfpack Motorcycle Club. And knew to avoid them.

  Warily, Gavin gave me a thumbs-up and returned to his stool.

  The lumbering biker took the steps, gave the room a once-over. “Where’s Nick Tate?”

  “Nikki.” I met him with an extended hand. “And you’re Goose.”

  “Goose?” Molly snorted.

  The biker ignored her inappropriate amusement, remained focused on me. “You’re joking.”

  “Not if you came to play cards,” I replied.

  He reexamined the room, the high corners and the floor around him, like looking for traps. He turned abruptly. “I’m gone.”

  “Wait.” I shuffled around him, tried to block his way. “What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is you’re a toddler.”

  “A toddler who can play. It’s an illegal card game, Goose. Me being young doesn’t make it more illegal.”

  His belly bounced with his laughs, making him look like Santa Claus the Road Warrior. “Ever hear of contributing to the delinquency of a minor? Please don’t try to tell me you’re over eighteen.”

  I didn’t.

  “That’s what I thought.” Goose stepped in close. “Don’t make me move you.”

  Sidestepping, I dug in my pocket as he climbed the stairs. I threw my whole stash on the risers ahead of him. “I’m pretty sure that’s over eighteen.”
>
  Goose stopped, stared at the fluttering bills. It occurred to me that this move was a huge mistake. What would stop him from scooping up my cash and leaving anyway? No way was I gonna let Gavin tangle with a Pack member, though he’d almost certainly try.

  So I waited. Playing out my first bluff before Molly’d even dealt a single card.

  Rob me or play me, whichever way Goose was leaning got interrupted by another knock, this one shattering a world of tension.

  Gavin stuttered, “P-password.”

  The new arrival uttered the correct phrase. Gavin let in a slim, clean-shaven man with touches of gray at his temples and sunglasses on at night. His polarized lenses tipped toward the money on the stairs.

  “My kind of place,” the newcomer said. Then added, “What up, Goose.”

  Goose grunted. “Mahoney. You play with these kindergartners?”

  Mahoney shook his head before aiming his chin at me. “First time, but the kid’s got a nice little buzz to her. She’s a legacy. Nathan Tate’s.”

  He raised his arms to be frisked while Goose picked up my cash. My pulse thumped in my ear. Dad’s name still meant something in Poker World; whether that currency could be exchanged in Biker World remained to be seen. I waited to see if the outlaw would lighten my hard-earned stash.

  After a stretched second, Goose handed me my money—thank god—and removed his own tube of bills from his vest pocket. “Turn those into chips and let’s see what you got, Legacy.”

  “Gladly.” I made for my cashier’s cage, which wasn’t a cage at all but a worn blackjack table with drawers for holding chips and cash. Molly mouthed some choice words at me as I passed her.

  No time to explain. A third player showed up and my phone hummed with texts from another en route. Besides, as competitive as Molly was in sports/school/life, tonight shouldn’t mystify her too much. My dad, one of the best poker players this town ever saw, was back. Dan Harris told him he needed to make a statement. He wasn’t the only one.

  I separated Goose’s bills and stacked chips in the appropriate denominations. “Don’t worry, Goose. I’ll leave you some gas money.”

  After four hours (and many, many hands), I considered upgrading from my false-bottom drawer to a safe-deposit box down at Patriot Trust bank. I’d more than tripled the thousand bucks I started with.