by Loren, Celia
“Body that fine should have a nice driver.”
“Why didn’t you ask for his number?”
“Why didn’t he ask for your number?!”
“Trifling.”
“Men are scum.”
“But did you see his—”
Romy secured a moment to drift away from her “union break.” The other women would be content to talk about Bryson for the rest of the night. Truth was, Romy couldn’t stand to be the subject of their motherly pity and unsolicited advice. She didn’t need another mother—mothers, in her experience, were nothing but coincidental baggage. She far preferred to navigate romantic waters alone.
Though then again, why hadn’t Bryson asked for her number? What would be the point of his whole “remember me” act if he didn’t want to see her again? Romy felt a feeling she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for years: neglected. With a heavy heart, she began her binding trudge back to the pit. At least her shift was almost over.
Before she reached her table, Romy felt a hand on her shoulder. For an eighth of a second, she imagined it was Bryson—come back to kiss her, to carry her out of the casino onto some waiting Harley, a madcap adventure unspooling before them...but when she turned around, she saw only the rodent-y little face of the pit boss. Lou.
“Where you going, sweetcheeks?”
“Back to work, Lou. I’m just off break.”
“I don’t think so.”
Ugh. Lou Valentine was among the creepier of Romy’s immediate employers. He ogled and pinched freely, and had uncanny skill when it came to trapping people in unpleasant conversations. He was also a round little man with a preposterous toupee and breath like the devil’s dog. “I’m taking you somewhere.”
“I’m not in the mood, sir,” Romy said. She began to pull away from him, but Lou merely tightened his grip on her forearm.
“And I’m not playing around. Seriously, Adelaide. Boss wants to see you. Follow me.”
Romy’s stomach tightened. The boss? She knew of no boss beyond Lou. She turned towards her co-workers, but the unofficial break party had broken up at the manager’s approach. She imagined that Paulette and Kali and Anisette were each furtively avoiding her gaze at their own tables, already aware of some horrible truth in her future. Was she getting fired? Had the mystery bosses been taking note of how tired she seemed on her feet lately? Helluva way to go, Romy thought to herself, while Lou scurried through the crowd before her. Meet dream guy. Don’t get asked out. Lose job. Sounds about right for my luck.
THREE
Lou lead her first to the bank of elevators in the casino lobby, which—as a function of the hotel—Romy had only used the one time. Once inside the car, he swiped a key card from his belt, unlocking a floor below the basement galley. The button had no marking number.
“May I ask what’s this regarding?” Romy tried, though she couldn’t quite keep the quaver from her voice. Her head was spinning. She was suddenly terrified: if she lost the casino job, she’d lose her space in the Masters program—her academic scholarship only covered half of her tuition. Without school, she’d probably have to abandon Vegas (and subsequently, the closest things to friends she had) for some cheaper city. News of her release would prevent her from getting another casino job, which would make her fit for very little else outside her unfinished field. She’d have to go back to Reno. She’d have to face the chilly horror of her foster parents, and all the bad memories she’d tried to leave behind in that town. These possibilities were ruinous. Life-ending. Romy looked at the floor and tried not to cry.
“Can’t tell you, kid,” Valentine sang, clearly relishing his secret knowledge. “Who doesn’t love a surprise?”
The elevator opened onto a part of the casino Romy had never seen before. They’d landed in a brightly lit atrium space, off which three long hallways forked in different directions. She felt in her belly a quick, guttural fear: she could get lost very easily in a place like this.
“I don’t have all day, buttercup,” Lou wheezed. He was already a ways down the central hallway. The only sound she could hear, even straining, was the squeak of her boss’ rubber soles on perfectly polished tile. She hewed closely to him, though she was sorely tempted to sneak a peek into the few rooms along the hallway with windowed doors. Working at a casino, one heard all kinds of stories about things that went on in secret basements—but were the rumors true?
After what felt like a good half a mile (Lou Valentine was gasping as he strode), he led Romy into a second elevator. This one all but blended into the wall, and Lou had to use both his keycard and a six-digit pass code to summon the car. It was a tight fit, and a creaking, lengthy ride. At last, the car doors opened right into a room. This place looked like no part of the casino she’d worked at for two years—or for that matter, any casino she’d ever seen. It was more like a hunting lodge.
The ceiling was high, especially considering the fact that they were several floors below the earth. The room was paneled with a dark, lovely wood. Every few paces, there were old-timey portraits on the walls depicting historical figure-types, though Romy didn’t recognize any of the names. Candelabras lit the space—this was easily the dimmest room she’d ever seen in Vegas. There were wall shelves also, each carting casino memorabilia: antique decks of cards fanned out in glass cases, dusty stacks of chips. An old slot machine.
They were walking towards a long table, which rested on a bearskin rug. There were three people huddled at the far end, by the former bear’s feet: a thin, blonde woman perched on the tip of an armchair, a corpulent man in a velvet sporting jacket, and a muscular black man in sunglasses. Sunglasses at night...that reminded her of Bryson. He seemed so far away down here.
“Romy. Adelaide,” pronounced the corpulent man. His voice was scratchy and crass; he sounded like a heavy smoker. “I’ve heard such wonderful things.”
“Got her to ya just the way you asked, eh Lefty?” said Lou, practically falling onto a lush green velvet chaise. Through an almost imperceptible shift in the room’s atmosphere, Romy could tell the large man didn’t care for Lou either. That fact made her smile.
“Just look at you,” the man called Lefty said, addressing Romy once more. His eyes oozed over her skin, starting at the top of her head and working down. It was an almost sexual appraisal, but there was something even stranger about his gaze: she briefly felt like an object, or an animal at auction. The large man was looking at her the way you look at something you use, or buy. She bristled in her skin. Felt the same original wave of nausea/terror she’d felt when the first elevator had released them into the casino’s bowels.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, my dear,” said the man again. The room was silent but for his resonating crackle. “And let me be the first to say: you aren’t fired.” That should have been a great comfort, but it wasn’t. Everything about this secret lair made Romy feel more and more like a Bond villainess. Or better yet, a hostage.
“My name is Edwin DiMartino, ‘Lefty’ for short. But maybe you already knew that.”
“No. I have no idea who you are.”
“Oh, smashing! Lou, you’ve brought me a firecracker!” Lefty DiMartino seemed delighted at this. He tilted forward in his chair and laughed a deep belly laugh, which the blonde at his right-hand echoed with a faint snort.
“Romy Adelaide, I know you because I know everything,” Mr. DiMartino said, inclining his head towards the far wall. Though she hadn’t noticed this coming in, a bank of HD TV monitors were flickering quietly above the door. Each displayed scenes from the different corners of the casino floor. Quickly, Romy confirmed Paulette’s suspicion about the innocuous spot in the ceiling: it was a security camera, all right.
“I own The Windsor,” Mr. DiMartino was saying, “as well as seven other properties on the Sunset Strip. Though we’ve never met, I like to keep a close, close watch over all my employees. I know you’re something of a math whiz, for instance. I know you’re a veteran of the broken American o
rphanage system, and the estranged foster daughter of Carl and Joanne Dickman. I know they were cruel to you.”
“What are you getting at, sir?”
“Easy, easy. I just wanted you to realize how deep my interest in your well-being goes. I am pure of heart—” here, Mr. DiMartino placed a thick hand over his chest, “—and I want my workers to be pure of heart as well. Do you know what I mean?”
Lou Valentine tittered. “Look at her. 'Sposed to be a smart cookie, standing there all slack-jawed…”
DiMartino visibly bristled. “Mr. Valentine, please. Ms. Adelaide is my guest.” He made a small motion in the direction of the black man in sunglasses. “Perhaps you’d like to hold off your commentary. Unless you think my friend Titus here would enjoy your jokes? The two of you could maybe go somewhere private, laugh it over?”
Though he might have been kidding, once again Romy felt the air in the room constrict. Lou Valentine shut his mouth tight.
“As I was saying. What I know about you could—does—fill a dossier. But mostly, I know you’re the most capable female dealer on my blackjack tables. I know you’re well-liked. I know you’re intelligent. I know you're trusted. And I know you’re beautiful. I think all these things and more would make you an excellent addition to a sort of secret project I’ve been running at the casino for years now. And where are my manners? Would you like a drink?”
The sun was coming up out on the Strip, and here she was in a secret casino room being propositioned by the head honcho. This was weird—but then again, what wasn’t weird about this town? Romy thought back to Bryson’s exit. He’d seemed so calm yet so brazen walking off the floor with a tidy five grand. All her life, she’d been wishing for moments like that—moments that felt free, that made the job of living look effortless. Without quite articulating a decision, Romy sunk into an armchair. “I’ll have a seven and seven.”
“Good. Great. I’m delighted. Now Ms. Adelaide, because you’re intelligent, I’ve no doubt you’re curious about the details. These are they:
My ‘VIP’ dealers work with the top of the line clients exclusively. These men—and some women— play strict, serious blackjack in the club private quarters; rooms very much like these. They meet only on Saturday nights. If you agree to the position, this means you’ll only work on Saturday nights—leaving you a great deal more time to study for school.” Mr. DiMartino passed her the cocktail. “Because the position demands high levels of precision and discretion, the casino is prepared to contribute 20% of your new income to a 401K account. Your health insurance plan will be re-evaluated. We’ll match any and all contributions to retirement, any and all contributions to charity, and ditto to college funds. We consider non-indentured tuition assistance as well. You with me so far?”
Romy could only nod. She took a gulp of her drink.
“Here’s the number for your new salary, which is open to negotiation. Titus, show her.” A stone-faced Titus drew a casino cocktail napkin from the folds of his jacket and deftly slid this across the table. Opening the folded message, Romy almost yelped. The figure was her current salary times four.
“Room for growth. Nightly bonuses in the five, six figures. And, of course I’m sure you know how well high-rollers like to tip a pretty face.” Mr. DiMartino nodded again at the bank of monitors. So they had been watching her all night down here—they’d seen the whole flustery Bryson encounter. She began to blush.
“I wouldn’t be embarrassed, if I were you,” said Mr. DiMartino. His omniscience was beginning to startle—it was like he knew what she was thinking before she’d even articulated it to herself. “Having that kind of power over a man is something to be cherished, if not painfully squandered. So, Romy. Does any of this sound interesting?”
The room was silent again. Feeling the urge to make noise, Romy shifted in her chair. She clinked the ice cubes from her drained cocktail together in the glass. She tried to reconstruct just what had happened here, just who these people were and what they wanted her to do. Breathe, Adelaide, she willed herself. Don’t be foolish.
“It’s a bit much. I can see that. So listen,” Mr. DiMartino said. He was easing back into his puffy chair. “How about you take three days to think it over? I’ll be back on site this Wednesday, and we can talk more details then.”
“That would be great,” Romy breathed. She felt like she was speaking for the first time upon waking in the morning—the desperation in her voice surprised her. “I—I need to think about all this.”
“Yes. Think. You’re a smart girl.” Mr. DiMartino shot her a meaningful look, and then nodded at Lou, who leapt quickly to his feet. She was being whisked away again. “Oh, but Romy? Do remember. Whichever decision you come to, this conversation never happened. You have a nice day, sweetheart.”
He may as well have spun around in his chair, or removed a sinister white cat from the folds of his cloak. A panting Lou shuttled them back down the hall, up the elevator, and down the other hall, while Romy gripped the folded cocktail napkin with the neat sum imprinted on its surface. She had to hold on to the napkin, she knew that much. It might very well be the only proof that tonight had ever happened.
FOUR
“Come onnnnnn, Brysy. Give mama a little coin for the juke box!”
Bryson turned his head towards his whiny “date” (Tiffany? Amber? Who remembered?). He cursed himself silently. This evening, he’d broken a cardinal Vaughn family rule: never boast in the strip club about heavy pockets. He could perfectly picture his father, Hughie .V, leaning forward in his beloved rocking chair to dispense his typically (unsolicited, nonsensical…) sexual advice: “Broads are like dogs. They can smell fear, and they follow money.”
“Baaaaaaby. I know you want to dance with me. Just a couple bucks, eh?” Tiffany was grinding her slender hips against his groin, but Bryson couldn’t summon the energy. He looked up at this incidental companion: she was a tawny, scrawny redhead with close-cropped hair and long eyelashes. Amber was pretty enough, but for once in his life, he found that his mind was haunted by another woman: Romy Adelaide. He liked rolling her name around in his head—Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide…
“Here, just take fifty,” Bryson said. “And why don’t you go get yourself some dinner?” He kissed his date on the cheek. “I’m really not feeling up to a long night.” The woman’s face hardened at the insult, but when he handed her the cash he could see that she wouldn’t protest further. She shot him a last rueful smile before leaving the honky-tonk.
“AS I LIVE AND BREATHE!” hollered Rigel from down the bar. Whenever he came through Vegas, Bryson was obliged to stop in at ‘Ricky Dee’s,’ off the boulevard. Rigel Mathers (a.k.a., Ricky Dee, “in the country parlance”) was a longtime friend to the Devils Aces, and as good as a Vaughn brother from back in the Reno days. Though Rigel’d left the club to start a business in the big city, the Aces considered Ricky’s a special haven. Even if the establishment’s proprietor was a consistent loudmouth busybody.
“You’re in no position to be shunning tail so fine,” Rigel said, still several decibels above an indoor-voice. “That’s not the Bryson Vaughn I know.”
“People change, Ricky.”
“You know you don’t have to call me that. What’s gotten in to you?”
Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide… “It’s nothing. I just have a lot of work to do.”
Rigel snorted. “Since when have you ever had work to do, son?”
“Since the Big Man put me on a casino case.”
“A CASINO CASE?!”
“Lower your voice!” Bryson flicked his bottle top in the direction of his friend. “Can you keep a secret, Rick? For real this time?”
Rigel’s face readjusted. Loud though he might be, Bryson knew a good friend when he had one. “You can trust me. I won’t breathe a word.”
Bryson swallowed. “The Devils’ have got wind of something strange going on up at The Windsor.”
“Funny money changing hands?”
/>
“Exactly.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be one of Lefty DiMartino’s joints? Guy is B-A-D.”
“Yup.”
“Guy’s like a modern day Al Capone.”
“Yup.”
“So what are you gonna do to him?”
“Get as close as possible,” Bryson said. He lifted a cigarette from the inside of his jacket and placed it between his lips. “Suss out the scene. Went by there today to get a lay of the land. See if I still remember how to...well, shall we say ‘improve my odds with astute mathematics.’”
“Goddamn card-counting sonofabitch!” Rigel yelled. Several customers glanced up from their beers. “And I’m guessing your little feathery fixture, she’s just a perk? Of this so-called JOB?”
“I didn’t even know the lady’s name, sir.” Bryson inhaled deeply. A moment of silence passed between the friends.
“You do seem preoccupied.”
“Well…”
“I mean, outside of work. You should get back out there, find yourself a nice woman. Or two. Or three,” Rigel started a titter which evolved quickly into a guffaw. Then he fondled his wedding ring. “Don’t know what I’d do without Stacy. Just remember, B, when you’re chasing road and toppling the mafia—love of a good woman. That’s the hardest thing to find.”
Bryson stubbed out his cigarette in a lone glass ashtray. He placed several crisp bills on the bar, picked up his coat and slid on his sunglasses before grinning at his friend. “I know it,” he said. “Or in any case, I’m beginning to.”
