By the time dessert arrives—an exquisite chocolate mousse, which I enjoy with a second drink, opting for a White Russian martini this time—we have waded through the stack of sheets Joe provided for us. And nothing out of the ordinary has popped up. In fact, all of the employees have been carefully vetted with extensive background checks and appear to have squeaky-clean reputations.
Frustrated, Hurley says, “I don’t see anything here to raise any eyebrows. The casino seems to be very thorough.”
“We take our responsibilities quite seriously,” Joe says. “In fact, after talking with you last night, I authorized an investigation into the current financial status and recent activities for all of our employees. We have a stable of excellent private investigators we use who are discreet but thorough. I had them start with the folks whose info you have there,” he says, gesturing toward our pile. “So far, nothing has turned up. But if it does, I’ll be sure to let you know. And you have my promise that if something does point to one of our employees, we will deal with it swiftly and emphatically.”
“Fair enough,” Hurley says. “I appreciate your cooperation.”
“My pleasure. And speaking of pleasure, may I invite the two of you to enjoy some of our gaming tables tonight while you’re here?”
“Sure,” I say.
“No, thanks,” Hurley says at the same time.
The two of us exchange a look, though a “stare down” might be a better term. Apparently, Hurley can sense my determination because he backs off first.
“I suppose a little fun is in order,” he says. Then, more pointedly, he adds, “As long as the stakes aren’t too high.”
Chapter 18
Hurley and I head for the blackjack tables. In no time at all, we’re settled in at a table with a five-dollar minimum. I buy a hundred dollars’ worth of chips and start off betting five bucks at a time. I win several hands and decide to up my bet to twenty dollars. Hurley, who has lost some fifty bucks, raises his brows at my new bet, scrapes his chips off the table, and says, “That’s it for me. Come on, Winston, you’re up quite a bit. Now is when you should quit.”
“I’m on a roll,” I say, shaking my head. “I want to see how far it will take me.”
“It will take you straight to the poor house,” Hurley says irritably.
I dismiss his objection with a wave of my hand. “I’m fine. Besides, with the money I have from the divorce settlement, I can afford to gamble a little. I think I’ve earned some fun time.”
“Fine,” Hurley says, shoving back his chair and getting up. “Have your fun. I’m outta here.”
Some small part of me is sad to see him go, but the pull of the table makes me quickly forget him. That, and the drinks, which keep on coming and get better with each new concoction I try. But though the drinks keep flowing my way, the money changes direction. I start losing, and in an effort to make up for each loss, I bet a little more with each hand. I win a hand, and then lose several more in a row. When my initial pile of chips is gone, I buy some more and keep on playing. To turn things around, I decide to leave my current table and move up to one with a fifty-dollar minimum and a maximum bet of a grand. Walking proves to be surprisingly difficult, however—no doubt from sitting so long—so I detour to the ladies’ room, where I can pee and also splash some water on my face. While I’m at the sink, I wash the handful of chips I have left for good luck. I don’t do much better at the fifty-dollar table and end up cashing in one of my cashier’s checks. Hoping to make up for lost ground, I move again to a higher-stakes table—this time with a maximum bet of two grand.
The remainder of the night passes by in a blur of shuffling cards, cash draws, and shifting chips. When I finally decide to quit, I have spent both of my cashier’s checks and have only one chip left. I shove it in my pocket and glance at my watch, startled to see that it’s almost three in the morning.
I get up from my seat, grab my purse, and start walking toward where I think the main door to the casino is, but my legs don’t seem to want to work right. Not only that, the room is spinning. I try to recall how many drinks I’ve had, but the only things I can see in my mind are cards and chips. Deciding that another cold splash to my face is in order, I switch directions abruptly and head for the bathroom. But my fickle legs clearly think this decision is a rash one. For a few seconds, I struggle to maintain my balance, but it doesn’t take long for me to realize I’m going down.
As I prepare for the crash of hitting the floor, a strong arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back.
“Whoa, there,” Hurley says as my body collides with his. “I think someone has had a bit too much to drink.”
“I sink tho,” I hear myself say. “I mean, I think so.” The words come out slowly, carefully, as my tongue feels thick and clumsy. “Where ish my car? I need to go home.”
“You’re not driving anywhere,” Hurley says. “You’re drunk.”
For some reason, I find this statement hilarious and start giggling.
“Come on,” Hurley says. “I’ll drive.” He turns us in tandem as if we are dancing and steers my staggering legs in a different direction. I do my best to keep up, but I’m pretty sure that if Hurley’s arm wasn’t around me, I’d be flat on the floor . . . laughing hysterically.
A few steps later, the humor fades and I pick something new to focus on. “I thought choo were gone,” I say, my alcohol-hazed brain recalling his earlier departure. “Did you come back?”
“I never left,” he says. “I’ve been upstairs in the security area watching tapes and keeping an eye on you.”
This strikes me as the most romantic and sweet gesture ever in the history of such gestures. My chest swells with emotion. All misty-eyed and fawning, I look up at Hurley. “You kept a die on me,” I say. Then I frown, realizing the words didn’t come out right, but I’m unsure exactly what is wrong with them.
“Something like that,” Hurley grumbles.
We are near the front of the casino. Hurley props me up against a wall as he retrieves my coat and his jacket. He puts his on and then helps me with mine, a task that starts me giggling as I struggle to get my arms into the sleeves. When I’m finally dressed, he steers me toward the door, pushes it open, and hauls me through.
“You helped me with my coat. That is so shweet,” I croon, making my best doe eyes at him. I focus—if the blurry mess my eyes see can be called a “focus”—on the parking lot and my feet, trying to stay upright. Finally we reach a car that, through the fog that is my mind, I recognize as Hurley’s. He props me up by the back fender, while he unlocks and opens the front passenger door. I fall inside. When Hurley tries to help me get my feet in, my head ends up in the driver’s seat, my body awkwardly draped over the center console. He finally manages to get my feet in enough to shut the door. A moment later, he opens the one on the driver’s side.
I move my head on the seat a little and roll my eyes upward, until I can see him standing there. “Hi,” I say with what, I suspect, is a goofy-assed smile. I want to sit up, but my body isn’t cooperating.
Hurley reaches in and lifts my head from the seat, shoving me over into the passenger side. He drops himself in quickly, before I have a chance to slump over again. And slump I do. It’s as if all of my bones and muscles have left my body, leaving me with the strength of a wet noodle. This time Hurley’s broad shoulder stops me—that and his arm across my chest.
“You need to sit up and put your belt on,” he says, pushing me upright. Both his tone and his expression are serious and solemn; he’s making it clear he’s brooking no humor of any kind. I burst out laughing, tip sideways again, and my head lolls forward, hitting the steering wheel.
“Ow,” I say, putting a hand to my forehead as Hurley tries to push me back and straighten me up with his arm again. “That hurt.” I look at Hurley; and for one second I, too, am serious and solemn as I frown and rub at the offending spot. We stare at one another for several seconds, and I think I see the corners of his mouth twitch up
ward just the tiniest bit. That triggers my hysteria again and raucous laughter bubbles up from my gut, spilling out into the car. The laughter is quickly followed by everything I ate and drank tonight, which also spills out into the car.
“Aw, damn it, Winston! What the hell is it with you wanting to puke on me all the time?”
I try to tell him that I’m sorry, but another wave hits me. I manage to keep this one down, but I don’t dare speak. I’m afraid of what will come out if I open my mouth—and I’m not talking about words.
Hurley pulls a lever to pop open his trunk and then climbs out of his seat and heads to the back of the car. A moment later, he opens my door and hands me a towel. “Clean yourself up,” he says, keeping a towel for himself and trying to do the same. I watch, mesmerized, as he rubs at his crotch.
“Where are your keys?” he asks me.
“In my pursh, I guess.” I reach down to the floor at my feet, where he tossed my purse after tossing me into the car. I try to retrieve the keys, but I succeed, instead, in putting a dent in the middle of my forehead—compliments of the button on the glove box.
“Let me,” Hurley says.
He reaches down between my legs and feels around for the purse, brushing the insides of my thighs with his arm. Even though I’m wearing slacks, I can feel the heat of his arm against my legs. It’s almost as if his touch is 100 degrees hotter than my body; it’s an incredibly sexy sensation. For one second, I imagine myself grabbing his arm and guiding it—and his hand—a little higher. I actually do grab his arm, but then I just hold it there, between my knees, looking up at him.
“We can’t do thish,” I say, while some distant part of my mind wonders, Why the hell not? Then I remember: my job.
“Do what?” Hurley asks, looking amused.
“This,” I say, squeezing his arm. “You touching me like this. It makes me . . . it makes me crazy.”
His lips broaden into a smile as he stands there beside me, bent down with his head in the car, his arm still in my grip. “Good crazy or bad crazy?” he asks.
“Oh, very good crazy,” I say, closing my eyes and enjoying a slightly pornographic vignette. But then, things start spinning and I open my eyes in a panic, trying to focus. “No, thash not right,” I hear myself say. “It’s not good. It’s not good to want you like I do.”
“You want me?”
“I do.” I smile, even as my brain struggles to convince me that this is a very serious moment.
“I think you’re safe for now, Winston,” he says. “The whole puking thing is a definite turnoff for me.” He shakes my grip loose, grabs my purse, and pulls it up between my legs. After a moment of rummaging around inside it, he comes up with my keys. “Come on,” he says, tugging on my arm and helping me out of the car. “I’m going to have to drive that monstrosity of yours home. You can lie down in the back and puke in it all you want.”
I’m vaguely aware of Hurley dragging/walking me across the parking lot and tossing me into the back of my hearse. It’s not so bad, I realize, being laid out in the back of a hearse. In fact, this incredible idea flashes through my brain as I lie on my back and stare at the fabric on the ceiling. Why not make caskets with windows in the lid so the people inside can see what’s going on around them, and where they are. My mind senses that there is something a bit off with this idea, but I can’t put a finger on what it might be. Then I remember that the dead don’t see. Once again I’m struck by the hilarity of both my thoughts and my situation, and I start giggling uncontrollably. The echo of my maniacal laughter bouncing around inside the hearse is the last thing I hear for a while.
Chapter 19
When next I try to open my eyes, I’m hit with a white-hot pain that slices through my brain like the laser we used in the OR. I squeeze my eyes shut and curl in on myself, trying to block out the offending light. I wrap my hands over my aching head and hear myself moan. At least I think it’s me I’m hearing; the sound seems awfully far away.
After a few minutes, I try again to open my eyes, doing it in small increments this time. Gradually I’m able to focus without the pain rendering me helpless and I recognize some of my surroundings: my quilt, my bedroom furniture, the picture on my bedroom wall.
My stomach churns threateningly and I swallow hard, trying to convince my peristalsis to move in one direction only. I manage to toss back the covers and sit myself up on the side of the bed. Every square inch of my body aches, though my head is definitely the worst, pounding away as if Thor himself is in there. My bladder feels like it’s about to burst. When I look down at myself, I see that I’m in my bra and panties and struggle to remember how I got that way. The last thing I recall clearly is playing blackjack at the casino, then Hurley, and cars, and laughing at something that was very funny.... Whenever I try to recall anything beyond that, I get nothing but blinding pain for my efforts.
I can hear faint noises coming from the main part of the cottage and I’m momentarily filled with fear, thinking that someone has broken into the place. But then I realize that Rubbish and Hoover aren’t in the bedroom with me, so I figure that whoever is out there must be someone I know.
Slowly I stand, testing my legs and giving my body a minute or two to get used to being upright. Like Frankenstein rising from his table for the first time, I take one unsteady step, then another, repeating the process until I stagger my way out into the living room. I shuffle toward the kitchen, where I can smell the heavenly scent of freshly brewed coffee. There, standing in front of the counter, with a white apron neatly tied over his pressed black slacks and green sweater, is Dom. At his feet are Rubbish and Hoover, who are both staring up at him patiently as he pours a cup of coffee. Dom, with his fine reddish hair, slender body, and fair skin, looks like the perfect housewife standing there. Come to think of it, Dom is the perfect housewife—if you overlook the fact that he has a penis. He’s a killer cook, has excellent taste in interior design, and loves to clean house. Izzy is a lucky bastard.
“Good morning,” I mumble.
Dom turns around, holding the mug of coffee he just poured, smiling brightly. But as soon as he sets his eyes on me, the smile freezes and he gasps. “Oh, my,” he says, looking a bit horrified. “Welcome back to the land of the living . . . I think.”
Hoover glances my way and whimpers. Rubbish spares me a look of quiet disdain before dismissing me and starting to groom himself. I take a step toward Dom and the coffee he’s offering, but he stops me with a pointed look. “You might want to put on a robe or something.”
I remember that all I’m wearing is my bra and panties. Blushing, I mumble an apology and shuffle my way back to my bedroom, where I have to dig around in the closet to find my robe. I slip it on and then head for the bathroom, where I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is matted down in some spots and sticking out in wild, tangled clumps in others, making me look like a long-haired cat with mange. The remains of my eyeliner and mascara are smeared and smudged zombie-style, and my lipstick has somehow spread well beyond the corners of my mouth, like some drunken clown. My zebra stripes have faded from flaming red to brown, but that hasn’t made them any less noticeable. The overall effect is a frightening one. No wonder Dom gasped. I make a halfhearted attempt to rub away the makeup smudges and smooth the wilder parts of my hair, but I realize it’s going to take more than some spit on my palm to fix this mess.
When I come back out to the living room, Dom hands me the mug of coffee, lightened with heavy cream the way I like it. I take a sip and then hold the mug close to my chest, as if it’s the dearest thing in the world to me.
“How did I get home?” I ask, dropping onto my couch and nearly scalding my chest in the process.
“Hurley drove you in your hearse. Apparently, you turned his car into a giant barf bag.”
I groan, both from the humiliation of this information and the persistent pounding in my head. “How did I get to my bed?” The hidden implication behind this question is clear, and I can tell from
Dom’s silly grin that he understands. He knows I don’t really care how I got to bed. What I really want to know is how I got stripped down to my undies . . . and who did it. And did any other embarrassing things happen?
“Hurley woke up Izzy and me. Together, the three of us got you inside. Then Izzy and I stripped off your clothes and dumped you into bed. Your clothes, which were a bit barfy, are in the washer. I imagine you’ll want to take a shower and throw your sheets into the washer next.”
I wince, and not just because of my pounding head. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Dom. I don’t know what the hell happened. One minute I was having a little fun playing blackjack, and the next thing I know, I’m here.”
“Hurley said the casino was plying you with drinks the whole time. It’s a ploy they often use to keep folks at the gambling tables and, hopefully, winnow away some of your common sense. Apparently, it worked, because according to Hurley, you managed to gamble away about fifteen grand last night.”
I stare at him stupidly a moment, trying to parse the meaning from his words. “As in I lost that much?” I say, shocked.
Dom nods.
I hang my head in shame and embarrassment. “What must you all think of me?” I whine. Then it hits me. I snap my head up and look over at the wall clock. “Shit, it’s after nine o’clock already. I’m late for work.” I push up from the couch and feel both my balance and my stomach reel threateningly.
“Steady there,” Dom says, hurrying toward me and grabbing my arm. “No need to rush. Izzy said you can have the day off.”
“No, I need to go to work. I don’t want Izzy giving me any special consideration, especially now that I’m trying to win back his trust.”
“I don’t think it’s a smart idea, but if you insist,” Dom says, shrugging. “Why don’t you go take some ibuprofen and a shower. In the meantime, I’ll fix you my special hangover breakfast.”
Lucky Stiff Page 17
