Losing Enough

by Helen Boswell

  Maxwell’s is excessive, from the guards posted at the entrance to the stakes involved. It’s busy today, and I take up position to the right of Maya as she takes out a marker for her buy-in. A few minutes later and the dealer pushes her a stack of chips worth a small fortune. It used to be harder than it is now, watching players like Maya take a marker for thousands of dollars from the house like it’s nothing, to watch her count out the money to cover her losses. Just another thing I learned to distance myself from.

  Two hours later, Maya pushes her chips over to get changed over to larger denominations, passing the dealer a hundred dollar chip for a tip and telling me to collect the rest. She was up almost eighty thousand at one point, but with her chips colored up, there’s not even enough to rack. I’m used to her being quiet after she loses, but I notice more strain around her eyes than usual when I stand to face her in the elevator. She needs the downtime in her room before going back out there.

  I know that Maya’s perfect exterior is how she shows the world that she’s on top. But the financial and emotional stress for the high stakes player can be off the charts, and I noticed over the past few visits that she stays away for longer after a heavy loss. Given how hard Maya played over the past two years, I wouldn’t be surprised if she stopped making Vegas trips soon. It’s inevitable, and it goes against my better judgment to care. Still, I hope she doesn’t crash too hard when it’s all over.

  She lets go of my arm as we approach her suite. Inside, she glides over to the couch, and I follow with her chips, setting them down on the coffee table.

  “You don’t want to have a drink with me before I have to go back downstairs, do you?” she asks, her eyes intent on me. Her words drag out a bit, her drawl more pronounced than usual.

  I hesitate because it’s out of character for her to ask. I never drink when I’m on the job, not even with Maya.

  “Not while I’m working,” I remind her. “But I’ll pour one for you before I leave.”

  She puts her feet up and rests her elbow on the high arm of the couch, her hair spreading out in golden waves around her shoulders. “Pity,” she sighs. “All right then. A gin and tonic. A good stiff one.”

  Maya’s eyes are still fixed on me when I return with her drink.

  “See you in an hour, gorgeous,” I say lightly.

  I wait for her usual comeback, but she just sips her drink and nods. I wonder what’s up, but Maya is a big girl and formidable in her own right.

  Whatever’s eating her, I’m sure she can handle it.

  7

  Alex

  Mom’s in the living room, Dad’s working the floor, and I’m taking full advantage of the giant bathtub in my bathroom. I sink down so my chin is engulfed by bubbles, willing myself into a state of total relaxation.

  But my brain doesn’t cooperate. I can hear Mom singing, and I listen to her sweet soprano voice lament about love and broken promises. I remember she used to sing in the community choir back home, but she gave it up when I was little. I can’t stop thinking about what she confided in me when we were at the pool this morning, and I wonder what else she’s had to give up.

  I know she gets stressed out during the rest of the year when she has to deal with reality. Back home, Dad is a total workaholic. He says he does it all for her, but the fact is that he’s gone a lot because of it. Mom gets restless and anxious over it, and then they fight. Vegas is their place to come to make things good again, which is why hearing that Dad might have to cut the trip short makes me worry.

  I need to take Mom out to see a show, like she asked.

  I dunk myself completely in the tub, hair and all to more fully wash out the chlorine from the pool. Elle is at her social work internship this afternoon, but prior to me jumping into the tub, she and I were texting each other about what to do about the Alysa’s Empyre concert tonight. She’s stressing out about it and wants to try our luck with the scalpers.

  The lead singer of Alysa’s Empyre is super-talented, her voice and energy both inspiring. It’s the entire reason that Elle loves the band so much, and if there’s any concert worth going to this summer, this one’s it. But even if we could manage to get three tickets from scalpers, they’d be for tix on the floor. Mom wouldn’t be able to handle that, and there’s no way I’d let her deal with the all of the b.s. that comes with being shoved around by the general admission crowd.

  Elle had been the one to ask if there was a chance my dad could get us in, and I’d told her I’d ask. Never hurts to ask, right?

  I finish shampooing and rinsing my hair, pop the drain, and drag myself out of the water, wrapping my body in one of the big soft hotel robes and my hair in a fluffy towel. The suite is quiet again by the time I’m out, and Mom’s door is closed, which means she probably went to lie down for a quick nap before dinner.

  I sneak over to the desk in the suite and perch on the edge of the chair on rolling wheels. It’s Dad’s desk, or at least it is for the time he’s here. My hand runs over the smooth polished mahogany surface. I know his iPad is sitting in the top drawer, and all I have to do is unlock it to see his schedule for the day. He plans down his days to the minute, the same as when he’s at home working as an accountant.

  I pull open the drawer, my finger hesitating less than an inch above the screen. When Dad’s on the floor, he’s in another world. He doesn’t want us around him. I have vivid memories of Mom telling me this time and time again when I was a kid. She’d almost look scared when she said it. We were not to approach my father when he was working, not under any circumstances.

  Yeah, well, I’m going to take my chances this time. I want to surprise Mom with this.

  I unlock the iPad and go into his scheduling app to find his list for today. He doesn’t always play in the casino where we’re staying. Right now it looks like he’s at the high roller room in the casino across the street, and it looks like he checked in an hour and a half ago. I don’t know everything about Dad’s method, but I do know one thing. For every two hours that he plays, he walks away for a half hour, minimum. Even if he’s winning. And that means he’ll be coming out soon.

  I run in bare feet to my room and throw on my favorite t-shirt (the one with skulls) and favorite rockstar grunge skirt (the one with the grommets). I take a few minutes to apply light makeup, and I run a pick through my hair. It’ll dry pretty much instantly the second I step outside, anyway.

  I start to put on my favorite sandals but considering the distance I’ll have to walk, throw on a pair of sneakers at the last second. Nobody’s going to care.

  Casinos are super annoying if you ever want to leave in a hurry because they’re designed so you have to walk forever to get to the exits. I suppose they do that on purpose, figuring they can entice you with an additional mile of poker machines before you can find your way out. I jog that mile, ignore the machines, and hold my breath as the hundred plus degree air slaps me in the face when I push the doors open to the outside.

  Not in the clear yet. Las Vegas Boulevard is like an obstacle course right now, packed with slow-moving tourists fanning themselves with fliers. Every ten feet, I’m accosted by someone who jumps out at me with one of those same fliers, trying to get me to try out some prime rib or check out a new comedian or “ladies only” show. Yeah, no thanks. I glance at my watch and grind my teeth together. This almost feels like the universe throwing small roadblocks in my way, but I refuse to acknowledge them this time.

  I breathe easier when I make it across the street and inside the casino. Until I realize that I have no idea where the high roller room is. It’s not like there’s a sign pointing the way, but I should be able to figure it out.

  The casino has a tropical theme, and I walk through a simulated rainforest and around the perimeter of the main gaming floor, the lights and sounds from the slot machines bouncing off me as background noise. I glance at the time, and my heart skips a beat. By my estimate, Dad’s due to be out of the high roller room soon, and the size of this place is insane
. I veer directions and stop by the nearest cashier to ask where the high roller room is.

  The woman looks about ninety, her skin brown and wrinkly like a walnut. She shrugs. “Those who are suited to go there do not need to ask where it is.”

  Huh. I wonder if she has a slip from a fortune cookie back there that says this very thing. I bare my teeth in a smile. “Well, I’m trying to find my father, who is suited to go there. If you can’t tell me, I can always ask your supervisor.”

  Her lips press into a thin line as I continue to stare her down. Finally, she points behind me and to my right. “Past the blackjack tables. Corridor behind the fountain.”

  “Thanks. You’ve been so helpful.” I smooth back a strand of hair from my face and walk away, shaking my head. Some people should not be allowed to interact with the general public. Seriously.

  I walk past the blackjack tables and spot the fountain. I also see some guy in an expensive-looking suit walking with some dude in tow. I’ve observed the high roller crowd enough to know that there are two types. Type one always walks alone. Type two always has someone as an escort, usually some thug-like dude who I assume is an overpaid bodyguard or sometimes a drop-dead gorgeous woman that looks more like a good luck charm. My dad happens to be the type that always walks alone.

  The type two heads down the short hallway off the main gaming floor, and I follow.

  Bingo.

  There’s a thick, muscular guy complete with an earpiece and black suit posted outside a set of heavy-looking doors made of opaque glass. His jacket is loose, and as I walk past him, I see the butt of a pistol sticking out of a belt holster. Cold eyes graze over me as I go by, dismissing me as insignificant. But as he is armed security, I sincerely doubt he’ll tolerate me hanging out by the doors to wait for my dad, so I keep walking until I get to the end of the hallway. It’s a dead end, occupied by a lit sign advertising some of the shows at the casino, and there are restrooms off to the side. It’s almost time for my dad to be out anyway, so I linger near the ladies’ room door and whip out my phone. The sound of a voice stops me before I can dial.

  “Good afternoon, Reggie.”

  “Afternoon, ma’am.”

  I glance up at the sound of the Texan drawl and see another type two. She’s beautiful, blonde, perfect. But that’s as much as I notice about her. Because the guy with her, her escort who doesn’t look like a thug or a good luck charm, is looking over at me.

  And he has the most intense blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

  This morning I struggled to recreate events between pounding down Manhattans and puking my guts out. But I remember him. The guy who spilled my drink on me at the bar last night. The same guy who wound up driving me to my hotel. Anti-Prince Charming. Connor something-or-other.

  He’s wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, a dark blazer jacket. His gaze locks with mine right before the guard opens the door, and I see something in his expression that’s more than simple recognition. Like he’s looking at me but seeing more than me.

  Like he’s not happy about what he sees.

  He doesn’t say a word, but the unspoken judgment in his eyes surprises me. I tense up, even though I have no reason to feel defensive, and glower back at him.

  His jaw tightens, and he breaks off the eye contact. The beautiful blonde walks into the high roller room, and I watch as he follows. The door shuts behind them, and I’m alone in the corridor with the guard.

  My hand clenches into a fist, my fingernails digging into my palm as I turn away. What was his deal?

  “Alex?”

  I’m still in the same place – by the ladies’ room and slightly annoyed – when the sound of Dad’s confused voice brings me down off the ledge and fills me with a different sort of edge. Damn. I almost lost focus as to why I’m here. All thanks to tall, dark, and jerkface.

  Dad hurries toward me with concern written on his expression. His questions come out rapid-fire, his voice low.

  “Alex, is something wrong? Why are you here? Is it your mother?”

  Yikes. I hadn’t banked on him panicking when he saw me, though maybe I should have. How else would he react to his kid showing up at his “work” if I’ve never done this before?

  “No, no.” I add quickly, “I was hoping that you might be able to help me arrange a surprise night out for Mom.”

  “Oh!” He exhales out of relief, a genuine smile breaking out on his face. “What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s a band playing that I think she would really like. And my friend Elle also, if that’s possible.”

  I catch a flicker of something on his face – sadness maybe? – before he nods, and it makes me curious as to the reason behind it. “When is it?”

  “It’s tonight at The House of Blues. But it’s sold out.” It sounds insane as I hear myself say it. I fold my lips inward, waiting for his reaction.

  He nods again, and I can almost see his mind switch over from dad to businessman. “I can make this happen. Come with me.”

  Dad extends his arm out to me, and I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow. We walk through the tropical-themed gaming floor together, and he drops little facts as we go. How much it was said to cost to make the simulated rainforest. How they’d originally put plants in there that they later found to be poisonous (and had removed). Rumors about the next casino and what theme it’ll have. And it’s like a magical switch turns on that wipes away any of my worries. He’s always so centered, focused, a calming influence that balances out my own fire. And as he reaches over and affectionately pats my hand that’s nestled in his arm, I’m glad that I came to find him. That he doesn’t always have to walk alone.

  Important-looking casino personnel in expensive suits keep giving him courteous nods as we pass. It’s cool. My dad is a VIP, and it’s like being at a concert with backstage passes. We stop at the VIP lounge, and I hang back as Dad speaks to the suit behind the counter.

  I automatically wander toward the bar, but after what happened last night, I could probably stand to be sober for an entire year. I pour myself a glass of orange juice on the rocks instead, glancing through the lounge and vaguely wondering if I’ll see anyone I know. But the Strip is like a city in and of itself, and the chances of running into someone you know are slim to none.

  Except that I just did. That guy from the bar. Connor.

  No clue why he got to me like that when we were outside the high roller room, but I’m still feeling slightly prickly about the whole thing. I look at my reflection in the gilded mirror above the bar, trying to see what Connor saw in me that made him look so…I don’t even know. Disgusted? It’s not like my boobs are popping out of my shirt or my ass hanging out of my skirt. My hair maybe looks a little wild but has a natural wave to it today. My makeup is light but fresh. I look good. Not like that angry pukey mess that Connor met last night.

  There’s no need to second guess myself. I push back a strand of hair behind my ear, summoning up all of my good energy as soon as I have the thought.

  “Done,” my dad suddenly says from next to me. “The tickets will be waiting for you at the box office tonight under your mother’s name. One for your friend Elle, too.”

  I release an audible gasp. “Dad! Thank you! How did you do that?” Elle will probably scream and then die when I call to tell her the news. “What about you? Will you come with us, too?”

  He chuckles but shakes his head. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I beam back at him, feeling absurdly and sublimely happy. “The casino really got us tickets? For free?”

  He pats me gently on the back and glances at his watch. “Nothing’s for free, Alex. I’ll go work it off.” His eyes rest on my face, a thoughtful expression on his, and a brief smile touches the corners of his mouth. “Would you like to come with me for a bit?”

  “Really? Like your good luck charm?” I backtrack quickly, thinking about the type two high rollers. “I mean, I’ll hang out in the background and watch, so I don’t disturb yo
u. Unless you want me to do more… like, um… what do you want me to do?”

  Dad barks out a laugh. “Just come and sit with me. And don’t tell your mother,” he adds with a wink.

  We go back to the high roller room, back to the guard and the heavy doors made of opaque glass. And when we step across the threshold, it feels like we cross into a different dimension. The room is bathed in soft lighting that gives the atmosphere a hazy, dreamy feel, the air cooler and lightly fragranced with something that reminds me of rain and springtime. The walls are made of the same opaque glass as the door, but they are layered with floor-to-ceiling metal partitions that gleam under the lights. The carpet feels as lush as a forest floor under the soles of my sneakers. We walk past a table that holds a towering arrangement of branches holding pink orchids.

  I’ve eavesdropped on my parents enough to have heard all sorts of stories about the high limit room, the room where high rollers came to play. Someone losing the deed to a house in a single game of poker. Crazy stuff that I never imagined would really apply to my dad in any way shape or form.

  But we’re here now, and it’s so surreal to see Dad step up to a baccarat table and the dealer smile at him like he’s greeting an old friend.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Lin.” The dealer is an older man who looks Chinese. After the more formal greeting, they start to speak in Mandarin. I can understand bits and pieces when other people speak it and can insult people in Chinese, and that’s about it. But when my dad rests his hand on my back, I sit up straight. I recognize a few words and hear my name in the mix. He introduces me to the dealer as his baobèi, a term for someone who’s precious to you.

  “It is a great honor to meet you, Ms. Lin. I have known your father for many years. A great man.” The dealer bows to me, and I smile and bow back.

  “I’ve known him for many years, too, and I agree. A great man.”

  Dad laughs a happy laugh and puts his arm around my shoulder. He gestures for me to sit, and I perch on one of the leather seats at the baccarat table. My eyes bug out as Dad hands something to the dealer and gets a huge pile of chips in return. This is my dad, who scrimps and saves all year long. Who started a college savings account for me when I was born so I wouldn’t be slammed with student loans.