by Loren, Celia
Romy could only nod. She took a gulp of her drink, the whiskey didn't burn a bit...this was the good shit.
“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, 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.
CHAPTER 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, and 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 Aces 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.”
He’d recognized her immediately, of course—but the look on her face as she’d searched to place him in her memory had been too much to pass up. That was the same face she’d made the day after he hadn’t shown up for some stupid science class project back in high school: a face full of longing and hope and confusion. He’d never once been with a woman who made faces so complex, who allowed the world to keep them so very puzzled.
Of course in high school he’d been a cad of the highest degree—but he had noticed her. He’d noticed her blonde hair, natural and shining while the other girls’ were mini-Marilyns, made from a bottle. He’d noticed her full pink lips which never seemed to smile; the world was likely too puzzling a thing for a girl like her to smile about. He’d been distantly aware of her tragic childhood, which seemed to make her brains and guile the more impressive. He could also recall now plenty of time spent staring at the heavy-looking scoops of her breasts.
He didn’t date complicated girls. He didn’t really date at all. He was Bryson Vaughn, of the Devils Aces: women came his way freely, and he loved them in equal measure the way he loved bodies in general. But there was something about Romy Adelaide, the blackja
ck dealer at The Windsor. There was something about her inquisitive eyes the color of lake water, and her trim hips wobbling nervously above a thick ass and long, long legs. He wanted her for longer than a single night. He wanted to smell her and taste her and lick her and tease her through mornings and afternoons and evenings uncountable, because something about her face said he’d never be bored with a woman like her. And so, with a grand new resolution, Bryson Vaughn pledged to topple The Windsor. He wanted to save beautiful Romy Adelaide from all her tortures, and then he wanted to have her, and then he wanted to keep her.
Bryson kicked away his bike’s kickstand, and let the revving engine soothe what had become a massive erection pushing against his slacks. He took a deep breath of the dirty city air before shoving off into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the locker room before shift the next day, Paulette hovered around Romy like a butterfly. While she wouldn’t come right out and ask what had taken place the night of Lefty DiMartino’s secret proposition, she made a big show of asking Romy if she needed anything. As if the trade of information was to be quid pro quo:
“Ro? You hungry? Because I made a pot roast big as I am the other morning, and if you’re hungry, I can give you half. Happily.”
“Romy, you look sleepy again, doll! Want me to cover for you on the floor tonight? I’m sure we can get you out early!”
“Ro—I got my sister tickets to Cher for next month at the Bellagio. Want to come with?”
As much as she wanted to tell her friend all the down and dirty details, Lefty’s words would not leave her head: This conversation never happened. What was that supposed to mean? Was it a threat?
And why was the VIP room such a secret endeavor, anyways? Plenty of other casinos had “secret” VIP rooms, for those celebrities, CEOs and politicians who preferred to keep their gambling addictions under wraps. She knew of girls who worked those tables—their salaries were higher and they were expected to keep quiet about whatever personal information was divulged around the table, but their very jobs weren’t a secret.
Perhaps Lefty had meant to tease her, with the whole silent treatment. Perhaps this was a form of hazing. Romy turned the evening’s events over and over in her mind, still flummoxed.
Sunday was a slow day at the casino, typically—businessmen were headed home, and locals had to turn in early for work. The biggest clients this night were usually what the floor referred to as “industry people”—casino-workers from other spots on the Strip out for a change of scenery, or sex workers and hustlers looking to spend a little of the weekend’s hard-earned dough. The Windsor was well loved on this inside track, because it was one of the more low-key spots overall. A high-roller on their blackjack floor was Bryson, as opposed to a traveling CEO paying his way through games with gold bullion. I guess everything would be different in the VIP room, Romy thought to herself. Life would likely be a lot less “low-key” if she took Lefty's offer...
Though Romy was grateful to have a quiet night to consider her options, the empty spaces on the table only served to remind her of Bryson. She would probably never see him again. He was a conjured mirage, surely—the kind of man who appeared to lonely women only in their dreams. He probably pulls that “remember me” line on everyone, Romy thought. As the hours ticked slowly by and no sign of Bryson appeared, she grew only more convinced: I need to think practically. There’s no knight in shining armor coming to save me from this life.
On her first union break of the night, Romy pulled out her checkbook. A grim, familiar list of responsibilities snaked its way down the page. First, a hunk of fall tuition was due at the end of the month. Student loan payments from her undergrad in Arizona were also just around the river bend, set to spike in January into the triple digits. There was the credit card, there was rent, and to boot, the cranky old Thunderbird had started making a highly distressing noise whenever she changed gears. More likely than not, she’d need to replace the car’s transmission in a month or so...perhaps even invest in a less-shitty car altogether.
Looking at the bills listed together like this made her sick. She felt impotent, and out of control—the only thing that kept the fiction of fine-ness intact was the predictability of the blackjack floor, where her money was stable and her days were bland. Romy glanced up at all the other industry people—bitching at the bar, grinning at the slot machines. She wasn’t even allowed these kinds of miniature indulgence. Not with lab papers to write and a future to plan for.
It occurred to Romy that last night’s brief encounter with Bryson Vaughn had been the sexiest thing to happen to her in a year or more. The un-special one night stand with the Silver Fox had been months ago, and before that she hadn’t had sex in two years. Her whole body ached almost constantly with yearning to be touched, to be held, to be wooed—and yet she couldn’t even begin to address sex or love as a concern, not when there was so much else to think about. Money was silly at root, but it sure could make a difference in her day to day. With money, she could make time to eat. She could eat more than the occasional snatched granola bars. She could extend her days at school, take an extra semester to finish all the coursework. She could start a savings account.
There were plenty of women working the Strip who did wild, humiliating things in the name of financial freedom. Romy wouldn’t judge them. And what, a two-bit gangster wanted her to prance around a VIP room dealing blackjack and flirting with the one percent? Things could be a lot worse. Hell, they were.
Romy rose as if bitten, and scanned the pit quickly for Lou Valentine. Her boss was leaning casually against a bank of slot machines, his arm curled around an unwilling-looking young woman Romy recognized as a door-girl at The Venetian. As she got closer, she overheard Lou’s sloppy come-on:
“Really, baby. You want what I got. I can make you feel better than any slob in this place.”
“Hey Lou! I bet you can!” Romy sidled up to her boss and placed a hand on his chest. He looked baffled at the attention—and, saved by the diversion, his conquest scurried away.
“That’s right, cutie. I want another meeting with Lefty. Can you make that happen for me, stat?” Romy batted her eyes. If her new job demanded that she schmooze with high-level creeps, what better way to practice than on Lou?
“Look at you, Miss Moneypenny. Want a little more change in your pocket?”
“I just like to make a good man happy,” Romy said. “I want to do that for Lefty. For all of you fine fellas.”
Lou glanced down at her hand on his chest, seeming to size her up. “I thought you were a bit too shee-shee for this line of work,” he said finally, pressing his own greasy paw against her lower back. “I’m very glad you decided to see reason.”
“So you’ll tell him? You’ll tell Lefty?”
“Will I, baby. Will. I.” And with a twisted smirk, Lou lifted himself off the slot machine and made for the edge of the floor. He squeezed Romy’s ass in farewell. It took a heft of professional willpower to keep a horrified grimace from winding its way across her face.
In her usual way, Paulette seemed to appear out of the ether at Romy’s elbow already equipped with an eyewitness account of recent events.
“ICK. Doll, there’s nothing creepier than that man. Not on God’s green earth. I’m surprised you let him touch you like that!”
“Plenty of creeps in here, Paulette,” said Romy, swishing her hips back towards her table.
“Yeah, but remember you had that handsome fella all but dangling from your arm last night? You could do a lot better, Ro. You remember that, sweetie.”
Romy planted herself at the table and gave her supervisor an emphatic look. Paulette truly was a great friend, but she was also a mother, and the loved, respected lynchpin of a giant family at that. There was no way she could be expected to understand Romy’s choices. Paulette had been taught to always think of other people before herself.
“Babe, I could also do a lot worse,” Romy said finally. Then she glanced up at the innocu
ous spot in the ceiling where she knew the security camera in Lefty’s lodge to be, and she winked.
CHAPTER SIX
When he heard about Romy’s enthusiasm, Lefty moved their Wednesday meeting up two days. At the beginning of her Monday night shift, Lou pulled Romy into a dark corner and informed her that the boss “would be around later to talk contracts and uniform.” If uniform seemed an odd addition for a business meeting, Romy didn’t let it show on her face. After Sunday, she’d decided to show no cards about the promotion: she was merely going to be the most determined, the most adorable blackjack dealer the VIP room had ever seen. Her heart didn’t factor; this was all about the benjamins.
Everyone had taken notice of her shift in attitude. Paulette, Kali and Annisette each commented on her manner with the customers. While Romy was usually known as the subtle cynic of the floor team, on Monday she was aglow with praise for winners and losers alike. She complimented the Long Islanders, in their checkered suits and greased back hair. She laughed at the un-funny jokes of all the bachelor parties, throwing her blonde hair back and showing all of her teeth. That morning in Special Topics in Probability, even Professor Hinegart had taken notice of her zeal—she’d caused the poor old man to blush when she put a hand on his knee mid-tutorial.
