Page 3

By hour three, Baseball Cap’s been doing okay. Sunburn, too, surprisingly, although his eye wanders off the felt any time anyone female and younger than Linda walks by the table. Sure enough, he takes a good stare at the waitress as she deposits my drink, then back behind her to…someone else. I flick my gaze after his. She’s younger, all right, with dark hair and tight dress, and escorted by two guys the size of linebackers through a set of golden elevator doors.

Baseball Cap snickers. “Dream on,” he says to Sunburn, nodding. “Way above your pay grade, my friend.”

“Huh?” Sunburn says.

“Girl like that, going up there?” Baseball Cap tips his head at the sign above the elevator: CROW’S NEST – VIP ACCESS. “Well, she’s gonna be a, you know…” He stumbles a bit, catching a side-eye from Linda.

The back of my neck gets all stiff.

“Professional,” I mutter.

I’m no idiot. I know the Jolly Roger’s making up its cash margins somewhere. But still. Not something I want to see if I’m keeping my head in the game.

I try to shake it off, let my focus drift and reset as Linda starts up a new shuffle, and inadvertently let my gaze land on who must be the pit boss. I mean, not like I can read his name tag from here, or anything, but who else would be wearing a suit at the goddamned Jolly Roger, let alone a little red-wine tie to match the floormen’s shirts? He’s middle-aged, slicked-back hair, eyes everywhere and nowhere at once as he walks a chip across the knuckles of his right hand.

Thumb to pinky, pinky to thumb. All five fingers in smooth, perfect sync.

“Bets,” Linda calls, and I snap back to life. Fresh deal, fresh count, and above her, the jackpot’s hit $49,600 and change.

The timing’s too perfect.

Because the odds are in my favor. Lady Luck has smiled upon me. I flick my little fake ID, tally the suits, and after a few rounds I feel a prickle of excitement at the back of my neck. We’re getting somewhere. Lots of red bleeding out early on, and mostly diamonds, meaning the deck’s stacked with plenty of the other suits. Slowly but surely, Linda deals down toward her cut card, and soon the diamonds are basically gone, down to maybe a handful remaining. Which means everything else in what’s left is practically begging, and Linda’s got—I squint at the deck—maybe six hands before the reshuffle.

I swallow. I’ve built my pile of chips from a few pinched fives to a healthy stack. I’m impatient, itching, to do this thing already. Even though I know people are watching me.

No, especially because they are.

I count the stack in front of me, the whole sweaty pile of it, and slide the table max into the little treasure chest.

Baseball Cap lets out a low whistle. Sunburn just blinks.

First card: king of clubs. Second card: jack of clubs. My heart is in my goddamn throat as Linda flips the dealer’s upcard and…

Club. The motherfucking queen of, no less.

All hell breaks loose. Lights spin around the jackpot sign and some loud-ass bell bongs and the whole table loses its mind. Sunburn is suddenly shaking me by the shoulders, Baseball Cap raises his beer in a salute, even Linda mutters “hot damn.”

I keep my hands on the felt, but can’t keep the shit-eating grin off my face.

Fifty fucking grand.

Well, close to. The slip says forty-nine thousand and change when the floorman shows up, but I’m not complaining. He’s saying all kinds of salesy bullshit as he stands me up to walk off to the cage—VIP access, club card, comped plays, if I’m interested—but not before I notice Linda pick up her station phone. She listens, nods, and her eyes flick toward the pit.

Toward the suit guy with his chip.

And just like that, I know I’m on borrowed time.

“Name?”

The cashier behind the cage window squints at my ID. It’s my best one, and it’s…not that good, but judging by the glasses on a chain around her neck, her eyes aren’t, either. I recite it dutifully, and she starts stacking banded hundreds onto the tray while she tells me she needs my social and signature on a couple of forms for Uncle Sam.

“Dunno how this new game even works,” she mutters, mouth falling open as she shoves her glasses back up her nose. “Mandy? Are we supposed to pull this from jackpot reserve or the main cage bank? No, the new one. The blackjack thing they put in a few weeks back.”

I don’t care. I’m barely listening. Hypnotized by wad after crisp, banded wad of cold hard cash that is, by all rights, now mine.

A hand lands on the counter beside mine. Left hand. I jump.

“Evening.”