The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6

by Jakubowski Maxim

  “Why was the pit boss bent?” Diamond asks.

  “I swear, you are so simple,” Mystique says. “He was pissed cause he knew that oil-man would’ve lost his money to the casino. Instead he lost it to her. And then she just used it to win more money. Ain’t that right, Lisa?”

  “Right-o,” I nod, grabbing my shot. I suck it down and add, “Lana. My name’s Lana.” Glancing outside, I see bright rays of sun cut through the gaps in the buildings. When I look back to the bar, the last hundred is gone.

  Fuckin’ thieving whores.

  Diamond’s trying to palm it in her left hand. I see the awkward half-fist she’s using, a tiny corner of muddy green peeks out between her thumb and index finger.

  Stupid cooze. I’d’ve given it to her if she asked. But she didn’t. I strike. I claw into the back of her hair with both hands and yank.

  She tumbles off her chair and I get a fistful of her expensive weave. Flat on her back, eyes wide, she screams. I throw a drink in her face. She cries when I pry the money from her fist. Maybe that’s what keeps me from punching her bloody – I pity her. She already looks like a corpse under the blue incandescence of the neon lights in here. Something holds me back. And I’m glad for it. Hands shaking, my stomach sours with the thought of what I almost did, could’ve done. Everyone always said I was Daddy’s Little Girl. Mystique’s gape-mouthed staring, but as I meet her eyes, she turns and runs.

  I tell the bartender, “I gotta go home.”

  “Time makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as ravens’ claws.” Or so I try to say.

  ’Cept doesn’t come out that way. I’m slurring.

  The driver corrects me. “Death,” he says. He’s not snotty. They’re never snotty to me. I squint into the rear view mirror to see him. It’s James. I like James. “Death,” he repeats. “Death makes angels of us all. You’ve been hitting the Bushmills again, Miss Rossi.”

  I correct him. “Lana, James. Just Lana.”

  “You always do this, Miss Rossi.”

  “I don’t, I . . . pfft.”

  “You get cross-eyed and misquote Morrison when you’re on Bushmills, Miss Rossi.”

  “I’m not misquoting! I’m not talking about death. ’S not the whiskey. James. James.” I sit up and lean over the seat. “Not the whiskey, James.”

  He laughs. “Bushmills brings out Morrison. When you’re tipped on martinis you sing Sinatra, Miss Rossi.”

  “Pfft.”

  “Sinatra,” he smiles. “Your father used to do that too, did you know that?”

  I just sigh. I knew that.

  “I drove him plenty of times. He was a nice man, Miss Rossi.”

  “Sinatra?”

  “Your father. I’ve heard stories, from others.” He looks back at me through the rear view. “He was nice to me though. Good tipper,” he smiles. “Same as you.”

  “Yeah, I bet you’ve seen a lot in this town, James,” I say.

  “I was really sorry to hear what happened to him.” He looks at me in the mirror again.

  I feel sick. But I stand by what I said about the time and angel business. Four hours ago I was looking oh-so-spectacular, but now that night’s bled away I’m a leftover sin vomited up for normal people to inspect and judge in the desert dawn. But that’ll change again come nightfall. “It’s bright. Got shades?” I ask him.

  “Just mine.” He points to ones on the seat next to him. Oh, James.

  Holding my glass in my teeth, I dig in my purse but don’t see any cash. I thought I got that hundred back from what’sher-name? There’s only chips, blurring and sifting through my fingers. It’s too bright. I feel sick. I pull one out and hold it up. Pink. I flip it up front, onto the leather seat next to James.

  Wordlessly, he passes me his sunglasses.

  I put them on and lean back. When we pull up, James stays in the car but Rod opens the door. I grab the decanter of booze and take his hand but stumble anyhow. I land hand-first, doggie-style on the marble stairs as the decanter shatters and my new sunglasses go skidding. As Rod hauls me up, I’m not so concerned with a skinned knee, bitten tongue, or torn Versace dress as I am consumed with awareness. Because even in my groggy alcohol stupor-haze, I know what these tourists are seeing. High heels and wild hair, can’t walk a straight line, night-hardened, high life-cum-low-life, breaking glass and whining over spilled booze in the sunshine while they’ve got their fanny packs and cameras, normal people ready to snap pictures of botanical gardens and Bugsy’s plaque; bright-eyed tourists assaulted with the anachronistic reality of one of Sin City’s living ghosts – me.

  They probably think I’m a hooker. Come sunrise, there’s no moral difference between Versace and Frederick’s of Hollywood – they’re both just breast-baring, sleazy attire.

  I start laughing as Rod pulls me up and away from the broken glass. I accidentally crush the shades under my heel.

  Fuck the tourists. I’m not a hooker. Las Vegas is my whore.

  Rod takes me up and closes the drapes as I find some cash for him.

  He nods, “Thank you, Miss Rossi.”

  Miss Rossi. Get the fuck out of here, Rod.

  He does.

  I stagger and pull off the wrecked dress, make my way to the bathroom and sprawl on the cool tile floor and fall into a dreamless sleep.

  Later, the phone rings, dragging me awake, so I answer the one near the hot tub.

  “Lana.” The voice is sharp.

  “Maria.” She’s my sister. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want? What are you doing? When are you coming home? Normal people don’t live in hotels, Lana.”

  “Normal people pop Prozac like Pez, spend a fortune on therapy, and live like lemmings, Maria.”

  “Don’t you try to make this about me,” she hisses.

  I laugh.

  “This isn’t right, Lana. What you’re doing . . . you’re going to die broke and alone.”

  “I’m not afraid of dying,” I tell her and start filling the hot tub. “Most people are so afraid of dying they end up forgetting to live.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I can.” I dangle my foot in the warm water and look at my newly skinned knee. I’m just too tired to explain. “Maria, I’ll give you ten thousand bucks to leave me alone for another week.”

  She scoffs. “This isn’t about me needing money, this is . . . You know what? No matter what, you’re just living off dad’s name out there.”

  “At least I’m not living off his money!” I shout and instantly regret it.

  Icy, “No, you’re living off Vinny’s.”

  Just the mention of his name sends a frisson up my spine and flushes me everywhere. The wrongness of that pisses me off. I know I shouldn’t take her bait, but the smartass in me does. “I gave him collateral for the money he lent me.”

  “You broke his heart by giving him that ring back.”

  “Vinny’s a big boy.” Now I’m exhausted, so I lower myself into the tub and try again with her. “Fifty thousand to leave me be for two weeks.”

  “What?” But there’s a waver in her voice. Oh, Maria. “Vin’s on his way out there.”

  There’s no denying the hitch in my heart. And it’s not the still-drunk hangover that makes my pulse patter and my crotch throb. “Screw Vinny. I have his money. That’s all he wants.” That’s something I wish was true.

  “Then why wouldn’t you send it to him?”

  “Madone,” I sigh as I slip further under the water, letting it lap against my shoulders. “I can’t wire money to a guy called Guinea Vinny. Let him come get it.”

  “He is! Or that’s his excuse.”

  “I’ll handle Vinny. Just, stay off my back from now on.”

  Prickly, “I won’t. You’re my sister and I’m worried.”

  Maybe she is.

  I say, “I’ll wire you a hundred thousand dollars today. Do with it what you want. And you let me do what I want.”

&nb
sp; “Lana . . .”

  “Hang up now, Maria. Or you don’t get a dime.”

  “Take care of yourself,” she says. And then there’s silence.

  I drop the receiver and imagine melting in the stream of the tub. But when I close my eyes, all I see is Vin, and instead of melting, I simmer. I push the button to start the water jets, but instead of the bubbling noises drowning things up, all they do is work my heat up into a frothing lather. I reason that if I give in I’ll be able to relax and go back to sleep.

  Turning sideways in the tub, I dangle my legs over the edge and position one of the jets directly on my crotch. Squeezing my eyes closed, I force myself to picture other men: Keanu Reeves, George Clooney, Rod the bellman. Anyone. But as the sensations build and my hips undulate, the water rushing and forcing heated, pulsing pleasure to me, I mentally lose control and the visions take on a life of their own. I don’t care. At this point, I just want, I just need the release. Muscles tensed and teeth clenched, I picture Vinny watching this, looking over me right now. I raise up, press against the jet, and as I shudder and come, I know exactly what he’d look like.

  He’d be loving it.

  When I wake again, it’s twilight. At the window, looking out at my city, I prepare to tackle night 136. Gazing down at the sparkling pool, I wish I’d gotten a swim in. They’ll let me even if it is closed. There’s not much they won’t let me do these days. Everything has a price.

  The irony is that now they don’t want me to pay for things. They just give it free. Rooms, food, drinks, entertainment, midnight swims, limo rides, Versace clothes, a Cartier watch, whatever. They give me anything they’ve got because I’ve got something of theirs.

  Money.

  I’ve got it, and they want it back. But they don’t want me to purchase things. They just want me to gamble. Well, that’s not true. Technically, they want me to Game. That’s their word for it these days: “Gaming”.

  It’s still gambling to me and all the other suckers who sit at the tables. Except right now, I’m not a sucker. Because right now, I’m a winner.

  I’m on night 136 of an unfathomable winning streak.

  It started with blackjack, because I had skill. My dad taught me to play before I could read. He was even better than me. He used to clean up out here before they cracked down. I wasn’t allowed in the casinos as a kid, but me and Maria and dad always had fun, looking at the too-bright lights, eating lobster dinners, playing at the pool. That was the life.

  This trip, I had my big coming-out party with blackjack. I got nailed quickly, but not before I got a bankroll started. Poker rooms are still good for winning. Dad taught me how to win at that game too. But it’s the craps tables that have become the magic. I suppose it holds the most allure since there’s no skill involved, it’s just dumb, blind luck. It makes sense. Dice is the quintessential, existential gangster game.

  With cards not being a viable option for me anymore, it’s a good thing I like the dice. Even better that they like me. James was right about my fifty-minute roll at the Palms last night. And I’m not shocked he’d already heard about it.

  Legend.

  Myth.

  That’s what this whole town is built on.

  That’s the only thing that keeps the suckers coming back. If they didn’t think someone won every once in a while, they wouldn’t bother. That’s the synergy.

  I pull on a suit and pad downstairs. Steve the pool host invites me to swim as long as I like. I stuff his pocket with green. Tipping isn’t just courtesy out here – it’s lifeblood. They’re nice to me because they want something from me. So I give it to them. Same as the rest of the world. Everybody wants something, and everyone has a price. It’s just more blatant out here. It’s more honest.

  The warm water feels good on my knee, and as I paddle under the protective eyes of the marble griffons, I already know that tonight won’t be the night I lose.

  Maria’s right. Eventually, if I don’t stop, I’ll lose. Everyone does. I’m the anomaly right now. But even though I’m making the suits scratch their heads and clench their teeth, it’s an unspoken, uneasy alliance. Because I’m an anomaly they need.

  I’m upholding the illusion.

  It’s happened before, it’s happening now, and it’ll happen again. Because if it doesn’t keep happening, the whole system turns to shit. So it somehow finds cracks in the logic, splinters in the odds, and holes in the safeguards to allow the statistical rarity to survive.

  It’s not about the money. That’s what the non-gamblers and skeptics and pragmatists will never understand about this place. They blame it on greed.

  But they’re wrong.

  It’s the hope of winning.

  If people didn’t have hope that they could win, the neon lights would slowly burn out and this city would shrivel and die.

  In the middle of the pool, I climb among the fountains and relax in front of the bronze statue of Julius. Hail, Caesar.

  Veni, vidi, vici.

  That’s what people who never gamble won’t ever understand. It’s not just entertainment. Winning is a buzz. It makes you feel alive.

  Once I’m dressed, I go downstairs to the old casino with its vaulted ceiling and merry-go-round twinkling lights. It’s different from the first time I was here. It’s been nipped, tucked, painted, sprayed, and polished. But just like the daily take, the memories linger – tangible. I pick a craps table in the high roller area.

  I go up and down as a guy chicken-feeds the dice. When a rhythm shooter takes over, I play a two-way thousand dollar yo and it hits. The rest of the table celebrates, but I’m low-key. I don’t cheer much when I’m sober, and I don’t want a drink. And at this point, that’s not a big enough hit to trigger the rush. I let five grand ride on the yo, and damn if that guy doesn’t hit that eleven again. I laugh this time. The absurdity of it, the contagious, reactive shouts all around, and the thrill of a win all conspire to buzz me up. The shift manager looks ready to swallow his face. I figure the pit boss is tapping my shoulder to distract me, but he whispers in my ear. “There are some gentlemen looking for you.”

  “Did they give a name?”

  “Mr Vendetti,” he says. I can tell from his expression that Vin’s demeanor has already left the mark that earned him his nickname of Guinea Vinny. “Should I have him wait?”

  “No, thanks. Take me to him,” I wave to my chips, and he nods that he’ll handle them.

  I get to the lobby, then hesitate as I see him. He’s sipping a highball, gold ID bracelet flashing, dark hair gleaming, head to toe in black, looking every bit the New York thug that he is. God help me, my knees get weak and my blood sings. I’m suddenly aware that it’s not only been 136 nights of winning, but also 138 nights of a dry spell. 138 nights since I last saw him. Ashamed of my body’s response, I straighten my back, grind my teeth, and stride over.

  He kisses my cheeks, puts an arm around the small of my back and whispers, warm breath tickling my ear. “Cara mia.”

  Now I want a drink.

  “Vincent,” I say and push him back, signaling business first. No, business only.

  He brought Tony Calabrese with him, so I nod and have them follow me. As we settle in the Shadow bar, Vin dismisses Tony before he can take a seat. Ignoring the cocktail waitresses and dancers, Vinny stares at me, leans his shoulder into mine, saying, “You’re looking good, Rossi.”

  “It’s the clothes. Designer shit. Gucci.”

  “It’s not the clothes.”

  “I have your money.”

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoff, nearly spit my drink out. “Then why’re you here?”

  He brushes his thumb against the back of my hand. “I came here for you.”

  I ignore the shiver his touch gives me. “Yeah, well, Vin, I’m doing fine. I don’t need you.”

  “Mmm. But do you want me?” he nudges his shoulder into mine, but I don’t bend. “Lana,” he says, “I know you didn’t need me. I needed you
.”

  Now I do spit my drink. Is he fucking serious? I take a look at his face. He is serious. Oh, Madone. No wonder he sent Tony away. Worse, he lets me look him directly in the eye, unflinching.

  Reaching in his pocket, he pulls out my ring, huge and sparkling. Saying, “I’ll be glad to take back the twenty large if you’re ready to take this back.”

  “Guinea Vinny,” I sigh, avert my eyes, and lean back, ignoring the ring. “How much vig I owe you?”

  “You never owe me vigorish, babe.” He slips the diamond back in his pocket. “There’s talk back home. You’re doing well. Got a run going nearly as big as that Greek guy had.”

  “I’ll beat his streak.”

  “Is that what this is about? You know, he ended up losing it all. Everyone who pushes their luck does, babe.”

  “I assume you want paid in cash, Vin?”

  “So how much is it you’re up to, huh?”

  I shrug.

  “Aw, c’mon. Don’t be that way, sugar. Tell me. Five mill?”

  Silence.

  “Ten?”

  Silence.

  “Fifteen?”

  I sip my drink and he laughs, showing off his dimples. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me. That’s . . . that’s insane cash, babe.” The martini is warming me, but it’s not the only thing generating heat. I order another round. He sips. I gulp. He leans close again, the soft lights making his dark eyes look bottomless. Quietly, “Your dad would be proud right now.”

  “Yes. Yes he would.”

  “You miss him.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  A heavy pause. Now, “He gave us his blessing, Lana. He wanted us to be together.”