The Men of Laguna
Page 31
As I watch the reflection of the numbers flashing across the television screens in the mirrored bar, I suddenly realize the depth to which Phillip Foxtrot is fucking me up the ass right now.
I don’t even have to look at the piece of paper he slid my way to know what this is.
To know this isn’t a promotion.
That this is insider trading.
That this is me being named the sacrificial lamb. The stories weren’t lies. Fuck me. This is how Bill made his money. What was said about him wasn’t just hearsay. Nor was the guy in the federal penitentiary right now acting on his own behalf, as he claimed when he was hauled away, right after I was hired.
I’m not naïve.
I’m anything but, yet this has blindsided me.
I’m also not a pussy.
So what the fuck do I do?
Mr. Foxtrot laughs warmly, and the shoulders of his five-thousand-dollar gray pin-striped suit rise and fall with each chuckle. “You look uncertain, Keen. I’m surprised. Tom Workman, the guy who hired you, told me what big balls you have. He told me about how you pitched him stock right in the middle of your job interview.”
I say nothing.
The prick is still chuckling. “He was impressed with you from day one—he told me to watch out for you. That you would be going places.”
Sweat coats my brow, and I try to hide my nervousness. “Yeah, I was worried he wasn’t going to hire me. There were twenty other MBAs interviewing, so I figured I’d better do something drastic—you know, make an impression.”
Mr. Foxtrot steeples his hands together. “So your hesitation, then—is this about a girl, perhaps? Some good pussy that you can’t stay away from got your mind all fucked up?”
“No,” I answer immediately. “Absolutely not.” Just then my phone pings, reminding me I have unread messages. Fuck me right now.
At that, he smirks and motions with his chin to my pocket. “Listen, Keen, why don’t you go into the bathroom and jerk off to whatever conversation you are having on that phone of yours, and then come back with a clear mind, ready to talk.”
This conversation is not happening. “I’m good, sir.”
“You like jerking off, though, I assume, right?”
I am a bit taken aback by the question. “Yeah, I do.”
With that he simply shrugs and stands. “What guy doesn’t, right?”
I nod, fully aware this conversation is taking the wackiest twist.
He nods back, as if relieved with the way I answered him. “Good, that’s real good. Jerking off is key to forgetting about whatever it is that has been distracting you the last couple of days, Keen.”
A moment later my phone fucking pings again.
The look he gives me is that of the devil reincarnated.
I swallow. “I’ll turn it off, sir.”
Two seconds later, he’s sitting on the desk in front of me with his arms crossed, watching as I power down my iPhone.
Then he extends his arm and turns his palm out flat. Like a scolded child, I find myself handing him my phone. Promptly he walks over to the bar and drops it into his ice bucket that has yet to be refilled today, so is filled with water. When he turns back around, he says, “Now do you need to use the bathroom to take care of your cock, or with the distractions out of the way are you ready to talk stock?”
My hands are shaking.
What he wants me to do is illegal.
No one will know.
I’ll be a rich fucking son of a bitch if I say yes.
I’ll be on top of the world.
No! I really will be the Wolf of Wall Street.
I take a weary breath…look around…and then stand up like the fucking man I am to deliver my answer.
What can possibly happen?
7
THE MOMENT I KNEW
Maggie
Date: January 3
Time: 6:31 a.m. PST
Me: Never? Really?
Date: January 3
Time: 6:33 a.m. PST
Me: Okay, then you win. Here’s the pic you asked for.
Date: January 3
Time: 6:34 a.m. PST
Me: I’m still waiting for my first real dick pic.
Date: January 3
Time: 6:35 a.m. PST
Me: And by the way, I’m changing your name to Best Phone Sex Ever.
Date: January 3
Time: 5:00 p.m. PST
Me: Are you working late? If so, call me.
Date: January 3
Time: 8:13 p.m. PST
Me: I’m home if you’re around. Call me.
Date: January 4
Time: 10:09 a.m. PST
Me: I left you a few messages, did you get them?
Date: January 7
Time: 11:10 a.m. PST
Me: Where are you?
Date: January 10
Time: 9:44 a.m. PST
Me: What happened?
Date: January 15
Time: 11:17 a.m. PST
Me: Talk to me, please.
Date: January 17
Time: 9:08 p.m. PST
Me: Was this even real?
Date: January 24
Time: 10:43 p.m. PST
Me: You’re such an asshole.
Date: January 30
Time: 9:51 p.m. PST
Me: I’m deleting your number. Have a nice life, ASSHOLE!
8
JUMP THEN FALL
Keen
The faces on the original LeRoy Neiman painting seem to be glaring down at me with disdain. I wipe the sweat from my brow and try to focus.
Thirty hours without sleep—or is it forty?—make it hard to concentrate. And all the scotch isn’t helping.
Lyle Berman, Bobby Baldwin, Doyle Brunson, and Chau Giang aren’t giving me any guidance either. Then again, the mouths of the most famous poker players in the world can’t offer up advice when they’re painted on a canvas.
The confine of the glass wall that surrounds me makes me feel like I’m in a fishbowl with all eyes on this Wall Street wolf. Technically ex, but why spill what no one needs to know?
Pulling strings got me in here. Unraveling them will get me kicked out.
“Blue Suede Shoes” is playing overhead and I think to myself, now Elvis, he was one hell of a man. Good with the ladies, and according to legend, one hell of a card shark. And let’s not forget he could hold his booze.
Seconds tick by and all I can do is stare down at the dwindling pile of thousand-dollar chips in front of me. I’d roll up my shirtsleeves to ease the stress, but I did that eight hours ago.
All or nothing.
It’s all or nothing.
The hot little cocktail waitress is making her rounds again, and even though I raise my glass to indicate a refill, she still saunters behind me and presses those big tits of hers up close and personal. “Another?” she purrs into my ear.
I nod with a dip of my chin and give only the slightest glance into that ample cleavage of hers.
Under any other circumstances, I’d excuse myself from the table and take her into the bathroom to fuck her against one of the stall doors.
But right now, getting laid isn’t on the top of my list.
Winning is.
All or nothing.
It’s all or nothing.
Shifting the jack of diamonds next to the queen of diamonds, I try to study the tells on the players’ faces. They all seem like professionals, though, and they don’t have many tells.
What the hell am I doing here?
Bobby’s Room at the Bellagio hosts the highest-limit poker action in the United States, with $20,000 minimum buy-ins. And although I’m good, I’m definitely not a professional player.
Still, I had the cash, and the connections, so the higher Vegas powers that be extended an invitation.
And I figured, why not?
You see, after I quit my job on Wall Street because my prick of a boss pushed me to the edge, he insisted on firing me. Fuck him, I let
him, and then I cashed in all $500,000 of my severance and decided to let the chips fall—literally.
That fucking job was my life.
I didn’t give a shit about the money. I was making double that in a year. For five years, I worked my ass off. And the last two years I was working seventy-hour weeks. All that for it to come down to a would I or wouldn’t I—cross the line, that is.
I’ll be honest: I thought about it. Long and hard. The FANG market is blowing up. No one would question me. Facebook, Amazon, Netflix, Google. Everyone wants a piece. All I had to do was what he said. The problem? You can’t come back from insider trading.
I might be a dick, but I’m not stupid.
As the air fills with another Elvis Presley tune, it’s the shuffling of cards that sounds the loudest in my ears.
I shift the king beside the queen. Blink. Focus. Concentrate. Or try. I’ve been out of it for a while now, and I think it’s finally sinking in. I lost my fucking job. My fucking life, and—oh right—Maggie.
Maggie.
Right girl.
Wrong time.
After that day, I couldn’t think about the possibility of a relationship—my life was in a million pieces. I gave everything to that prick. That firm. Everything! And when I said no, he fucked me, right up the ass.
The dealer’s hands are flying around the table, pushing chips and flipping cards, and then his round eyes are fixed on mine.
I push all that shit aside.
I’m here now.
Living the dream.
Everyone at the table is holding their breath, or maybe just me. I have no idea if I can pull this off, and the suspense in the air is palpable.
The giant stack of chips in the center is holding 90 percent of the money I arrived with. I think about tapping my knuckles on the gold felt. I don’t. I wonder if I should fold. I don’t. I consider doing something certifiably insane. I might.
It’s not a bluff if you can back it up—and I almost can.
Almost.
I quickly allow my eyes to trace the perimeter of the table to see who still has cards. The Texan is out. Good. The movie star too. Great. The real-estate tycoon as well. Fantastic.
Not many sharks left in the game.
Looks like insanity it is.
Without another thought, another breath, another twitch of my eye, I announce, “Call!”
Everyone looks at me in shock.
“Call?” several players echo in bewilderment.
“Yes,” I say in a much stronger voice than I thought I had left in me.
One by one, the remaining players push their cards toward the dealer.
Fucking hell, I did it.
I fucking did it.
The dealer pushes the winning pot in my direction.
Setting my cards face up on the table, I stare down at all the chips in awe.
I should quit right now.
Walk away and head to some exotic place where the women are plenty and the drinks never end.
But with over one million dollars’ worth of chips in front of me, there’s no stopping me now. Yesterday, had I walked away, I’d have had two million. The day before that, I was broke. And the day before that, I was up three million. Tomorrow it might be four. The next day five.
You never know.
By the time I leave here, my fucked-up life might just have turned around. Who knows, I might do better than a house in the Hamptons. I might just be able to buy my own island, where I can lie in a lounge with girls in bikinis fanning me and feeding me grapes, ready to fuck with a simple curl of my finger. Screw the king of Wall Street—I could be king of the world.
All or nothing.
It’s all or nothing.
Chairs move; players leave; new players arrive; I stay put. Over the buzz of chatter comes the dealer’s booming voice, “Place your bets!”
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I’m more than ready for this.
Just as I’m about to pick up one of the giant stacks of chips in front of me, my biggest bet yet, a dark shadow looms over me.
“He’s out.”
The voice of the person is so close it makes me think he is proclaiming I’m the one that is out. I ignore it and take hold of my chips. Just as I’m about to toss them into the center, a hand grabs onto my arm.
“He’s out,” the voice repeats.
“What the fuck—?” Wheeling around with my arm in swinging motion, I’m about to clock this asshole when he grabs my arm again in midair.
The move is so familiar I don’t even have to look at his face to know who it is. There’s only one guy who knows me well enough to know I might rake with my right but I swing with my left, who’s fast enough to catch me, and who’s stupid enough to try.
“What is your problem?” I bark.
The glare he gives me reminds me of days gone by. I guess it is the wrong question to ask since it’s obviously me. “You. Everyone has been worried about you.”
That piques my interest. “They don’t need to be.”
“Well, they are.”
“You’re boring me with all the concern shit.”
“Then let me get to the point. It’s time for you to leave,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
My fingers spread and my hands are lowering as if to calm him down. “Whoa, man, chill,” I counter as I look into the eyes of Camden Waters. Cam has been my best friend since, well, maybe since I was born, and right now he doesn’t look any too happy about it.
He narrows his steel-gray eyes at me and then lifts the dark aviators from my face. “I’m serious. We need to talk.”
I check out his suit, his shirt, those shiny shoes. Then I reach and pull on the red tie. “Nice threads. I haven’t seen you dress like this since your brother’s funeral.”
Okay, that was way out of line. “Sorry, man, that was uncalled for.”
Cam shakes his head at me. “You can be a real asshole.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Come on, man, you know me.”
Cam glares at me and then lets his eyes scan my attire. Black jeans, more on the dirty side than grunge, a very well-worn white button-down, and the Adidas that I normally only wear for running. Since I left Wall Street, I’m not even sure I’ve changed my clothes. “Now!” he snaps.
“Fine.” I hold a finger up. Turning back around to the dealer, I ask, “Could you give me a minute?”
The shake of his head is immediate. Guess I’m not the bigwig I thought. No special treatment given here.
Looking back at Cam, I shrug. “Sit down. I’ll front you.”
Those narrowed eyes become slits. “You and me, outside now.”
Something tells me this could turn into a scene, and that would get me kicked out. I don’t want to be tossed. “Fine,” I mutter. Taking a handful of chips, I push the rest in the dealer’s direction. “Cash me out and put the money on my account. Keen Masters,” I tell him, tossing him a chip, and then I pivot back around. “What are you doing here, Cam?”
“Putting an end to your self-destructive behavior,” he tells me.
I laugh under my breath. “This is a vacation. What are you talking about?”
“Right, that’s why you’ve been MIA for weeks. Not answering your phone, not returning calls. Fuck, man, everyone has been worried about you.”
Unlikely, since it’s been since January 3.
To put him at ease, though, I wrap my arm around his shoulder. “I’m alive, and living life in the fast lane. Come on! Join me at the tables. It’ll be like the old days when we ran those high-stakes games in grad school.”
Just like the dealer, he shakes his head no. “That was you, not me. And you got kicked out, remember?”
One of the bouncers heads in our direction. There’s no loitering in Bobby’s Room. I give him a smile and indicate the doorway to let him know we’re headed out. Again, I’d hate to be tossed.
The bouncer stops and crosses him arms.
Giving him a smile, I redirect
my attention to my buddy. “Way to crush a guy’s memories,” I tell Cam.
He shakes his head at me.
“Wharton was a better school anyway,” I mutter under my breath.
This time he narrows his eyes at me. “You’re still delusional I see, bro.”
“Whatever. How did you know where to find me, anyway?”
Keeping in step with me, Cam looks around and then points just beyond the exit.
Right here, right now, everything crashes down around me. The pain. The sorrow. The heartache. It feels a little less intense. A little less important. It’s like I suddenly remember there is more to me than Wall Street. That the man that I am isn’t only defined as that prick in a suit that sat at his desk every day wheeling and dealing. That being a part of the merry band of stockbrokers isn’t all that matters in life.
Standing outside the confines of the glass with his hands in the pockets of his board shorts, and looking really tan from the California sun, is a guy who has the very same crystal-blue eyes as I do, same nose, is the same height, and by looking at him now, might weigh close to the same as I do. The only major difference between us is that his hair is lighter than mine. If it weren’t for that, and the twenty-month age difference, you might think Brooklyn James and I were twins, not half brothers.
Emotion surges through me. I’m a fucking mess. My head snaps back to the guy I might soon be calling my former best friend. “Fuck, Cam, you brought my little brother? Why would you do that?”
My brother is the last person in the world I want to see me at my worst. I’ve always been the older brother. The one he’s looked up to. The one he calls when he has a problem or wants advice. And I like it that way. Even though he grew up in California and I grew up in New York, the distance never mattered. Neither did the fact that we have different fathers. We are brothers. And he is the most important person in my life right now. Cam coming in second, but he doesn’t need to know that.