by Jack Bunker
“You ever seen one of these suites? I think it’d be worth staying another day, don’t you?”
“You really want to?”
“Fuck it. When am I gonna hit a streak like this again?”
Wanda sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. She looked at her watch on the bedside table.
“Why don’t we go get some breakfast while they move us to the suite?” said Mack. “’Cause after that, I gotta get some sleep.”
Alvin Boyle, too, was tired. He hadn’t slept at all. The searing pain of his rash made his eyes water. After applying the cortisone cream, the little black spots now had little black scabs on them. He had to go to the doctor.
Something had never sat right with Al about J.T.’s doctor story. Without having even seen Mack, J.T. had given the guy $6,000, five grand of which Frankie Fresh would be holding over Al’s head. Yet the instant Mack’s accident got even a little wobbly, J.T. called off any notion of getting the money back. At 8:00 a.m., Al called the office of Dr. Sonu Chugh and asked for an appointment for later that morning. When the receptionist protested that Dr. Chugh’s schedule was booked with existing patients, Al told her, “Just tell him I’ve been referred by J.T. Edwards and that I’ll be there in an hour.”
“What was the name, sir?” asked the receptionist.
“McMahon.”
“And your first name, sir?”
Al realized he didn’t know Mack’s real name. He assumed Mack was just a nickname. “Piltdown.”
Mack took Wanda to breakfast while the Corcovado staff carried their two overnight bags to the new suite. Wanda mentioned that she really hadn’t packed for the extra day. Mack leaned back and pulled three black chips from his pocket. He thought about giving her more but figured they weren’t married. She wasn’t his girlfriend. He hadn’t even slept with her. Not yet anyway. Maybe after he got some sleep, they could go down to one of the chapels on the strip, and then he’d get to tap it for sure.
But he was crashing hard. Wanda teased him for yawning through breakfast. Mack told her about the offer of the comped spa.
“Wow,” she said. “You must have been the big winner last night.”
Was she angling for a share of his winnings? Mack leaned back and stretched his legs. On one hand he wanted to tell her he was up $40,000—enough that he could walk away from J.T. and his bullshit. For the first time since they’d hit Vegas, his shoulder started to ache. Wanda wasn’t even looking at him anymore, just staring off into the casino. Mack watched her in profile. J.T. was right. She was pretty. Maybe the spa would loosen her up, get her relaxed for later.
Goddamn, his shoulder hurt, though.
As he pulled into the parking lot at Mira Chiste, J.T. mumbled aloud the figures he’d worked out earlier. For the first time, he was hoping to bump into Frankie Fresh. With the settlement close at hand, and Frankie all but assured of a nice payday, J.T. figured charging a few more incidentals to the project wasn’t altogether out of line.
With the waiting room to himself at the office of Dr. Sonu Chugh, Al figured the full-schedule bit was bullshit. The receptionist looked awfully sexy to be sitting behind a desk answering a phone for some crooked sawbones. Pretty, but hardly enough to distract him from the scorching pain on his side.
A nurse led Al to an examination room. Al raised his shirt and looked at the reflection in a shiny chrome canister on a counter. He looked like a Gila monster. He started when he heard the brushed stainless steel door handle turn. Dr. Chugh was smiling and talking over his shoulder to the receptionist in the hallway.
“Ah, Mr. McMahon,” said Chugh, “you are the friend of Johnny’s?”
“Johnny?”
“Johnny Edwards. He referred you?”
“Oh, yeah, J.T.,” said Al. “Right.”
“So what seems to be the trouble today?”
Al raised his shirt. “This. It’s killing me.”
“I have to say, I’m surprised. Can you remove your shirt please?”
Al winced as he unbuttoned his shirt and slid out of it.
“For some reason I had expected you had a more orthopedic injury,” said Chugh, “not herpes zoster.”
“What? Whoa. Hold on, Doc.” What the hell was this quack talking about? No wonder he was crooked. Guy was probably run out of Waziristan for being a sorcerer. “No way do I have herpes.”
“Ah, but I’m afraid you do.”
“Impossible.”
“Who’s the doctor here, Mr. McMahon?”
Good question. “Listen, Doc, there’s no way I’ve got herpes. Besides, how do you get herpes on your ribcage?”
“Ah, yes, now I see the confusion.” Chugh nodded and pushed his rimless glasses up to his forehead. “Herpes zoster is not a sexually transmitted disease. It is what we call shingles. You have heard of shingles?”
“Well, yeah. I thought it was something old people got, like…hemorrhoids.”
“Yes, like piles, yes. One of the charming British euphemisms, no doubt.” Chugh slid his glasses back into place and bent down to examine the rash more closely. “Painful, is it?”
Al shuddered. “Hurts like hell. I’ve been putting this cream on it.” Al pulled the tube of cortisone cream from his pocket.
Chugh had a creepy little laugh like breaking glass. “Oh, ho. You don’t want to be putting such creams on herpes zoster.” He chuckled again. “That is like giving the little devils vitamins.” He pronounced it vitt-a-mins, like a Brit. “Quite literally steroids. It will only make the little buggers grow big and strong.” Still chuckling and shaking his head. “Like little tiny linebackers, you understand?”
Al’s nostrils flared. “I got it.” He gritted his teeth. He’d thought the rash was the most annoying thing he’d had to deal with, but this clown was making it close. “So where does this come from? How’d I get it?”
“Veddy simple, actually. You have had chicken pox, of course.”
“Sure.”
“Herpes zoster is simply a delayed release of the virus. It stays stored in your spinal cord your whole life. This is why you see the breakout in an isolated zone emanating from your spine, see?” Chugh pulled off his glasses and pointed with the frame to the area of the rash. “The reemergence of the herpes is triggered by stress.”
“Can you stop calling it herpes?”
“Veddy well. I understand the unsavory implications. The shingles, is that better?” Chugh raised his eyebrows and smiled at Al as he readjusted his glasses. “The shingles can emerge during periods of stress. Tell me: Are you under stress at this time?”
“A little bit. Job stuff.”
“I see.”
“So what do I do to get rid of it?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. You should stop applying the cortisone cream. No good.” Chugh tsked. “I will give you a prescription for Valtrex. Otherwise, just keep the area as sterile as possible. Avoid stress.”
Chugh produced a prescription pad from his lab coat, scribbled on it, and tore off a page he then handed to Al.
Al’s eyes watered at the corners as he put his shirt back on. “Thanks, Doc.”
“It is my pleasure. Any friend of Johnny’s is always welcome.” Chugh brushed his nose with the back of his knuckle. “You did not fill out any insurance forms, correct?”
“No. J.T.—Johnny said it was taken care of.”
“Yes, that’s right. So you have the cash?”
Al winced as he stuffed the folded prescription into his pocket. “Excuse me?”
“The cash? Johnny said the fee would be paid in cash.”
Al’s head was buzzing. That son of a bitch. “There must be a misunderstanding. I gave the cash to Johnny. He didn’t give it to you?”
“No. I was under the impression your condition called for a much more…comprehensive diagnosis and treatment.” Chugh smiled at Al. “As it is, your condition is quite benign, actually. I ordinarily charge two hundred and fifty dollars for the consultation, but as a friend of Johnny’s and keeping the insu
rance companies out of it, why don’t we just call it two twenty-five, shall we?”
The audible wheeze that leaked out of Al brought his hand to his mouth. Not only had J.T. lied about the cost of Chugh’s diagnosis, he hadn’t even paid it. The fucking shyster was skimming six grand off the top of what he was already bilking GSAC. He took a deep breath. He didn’t know what J.T. had actually told Chugh. Al’s eyes darted around the room. Then it hit him. Let Chugh fuck with J.T.’s mind. Mack was in Vegas; he wasn’t even supposed to be seeing Chugh. The only name Chugh had was McMahon. When Chugh explained the rash to J.T., the shyster would put it all together and realize Al was onto him. There was a way Al could use this to his own advantage, he was sure. He just hadn’t yet figured out how.
Al reached into his wallet. He had $120. “Um, I didn’t bring that much with me. As I said, I’d understood Johnny had already paid for this visit.”
“Veddy well,” said Chugh. “Not to worry. I’ll give Johnny a call. I’m sure he’s good for it. I’m afraid I must withdraw the offer of the discount, but that can be our little secret,” said Chugh winking. “Can’t it?”
“Sounds good to me, Doc.”
NINETEEN
Up in the suite, overlooking the pitiable hopefulness of the Las Vegas skyline, Mack McMahon was unable to sleep. He was tired. He was plenty tired, but even with the blackout curtains drawn, every time Mack closed his eyes, his heart raced thinking about the $40,000 in his pocket.
He thought about Wanda. Probably stretched out in the spa on a table getting worked over by some little Vietnamese honey. That’d be a nice little snack right there. Mack sensed the familiar tumescence beneath the sheets. Maybe the little Vietnamese girl would be rubbing those big shoulders. God, if she could only shrink them some. Work her way down…over those big tits with the berry-colored nipples…down under that towel.
Mack’s nuts started to hurt. He knew this would happen. He wondered how long Wanda would be in the spa. Maybe he should rub one out. No, then he might only be able to go one time this afternoon once they started their honeymoon. He thought about taking a shower, but he was hoping to take one with Wanda. Get a look at the goods up close and soapy.
He did feel kind of funky. Maybe he should just take a really fast cold shower. That would do it. Then there was the question of washing off his good luck. No, better not risk it. He changed into the clean shirt he’d brought. He made a mental note to go by one of the boutiques in the lobby and pick up a bunch of those Tommy Bahama shirts those rich fuckers wore at the golf course.
He went back down to the casino. Wanda could find him if she wanted to. He asked the first waitress he saw for a Red Bull. He circled the floor looking for a familiar face among the dealers, but of course it was way too early for any of them to have been back on shift.
After ten minutes of watching tables and looking at dealers’ name tags, he finally found a guy from Beaumont dealing at an empty twenty-five-dollar table. He sat down and ordered another Red Bull from a hovering waitress. He was surprised how much action was going on in the casino given that it was still only eight thirty in the morning.
Mack still felt the same as the night before. He never lost two hands in a row. He kept ordering Red Bull, he kept sitting with Texas dealers, and his chips continued to mount.
What if he could run it up to a hundred grand? Wouldn’t that be some shit?
J.T. met Frankie in the men’s locker room. Frankie handed over an inch-thick envelope.
“I’m guessing you don’t need a receipt,” said J.T.
“Don’t worry about it, counselor. I know what’s in the envelope. You know what’s in the envelope. That’s pretty much all that matters, isn’t it?”
“And a point a week?”
“And first dollar off the top of the payout.” Frankie worked a toothpick around a bicuspid. “You know what you’re doing, right, partner?”
God, he wished he’d stop calling him partner. It was bad enough Mira Chiste was the only golf he could afford anymore; owing money to this menacing tapir was just a grim reminder that rock bottom was looming closer.
“Yeah. Just squaring away a couple of things so there are no surprises at the end.”
“Hey, how was the spa?”
“Ohmigod,” Wanda groaned, “it was fantastic.” She scoped around the casino floor. “Have you been here since I left?”
“Naw. I tried to sleep but I was too jacked up after all. You feel like getting some lunch?”
“It’s not going to mess up your system?”
“Naw, I’ve been doing a little recon. I don’t think any of these dealers are from Texas.” Mack watched Wanda’s body turn as she looked up at the ski lifts floating overhead. She was graceful for being so thick through her back and shoulders. “How ’bout that Mexican place upstairs?”
“Sure.” A slot machine pealed in the distance. “You give any more thought to J.T.’s thing?”
“Yeah.” Mack’s boot was tapping on the floor. “I reckon we still got time for all that. I don’t think it’ll take very long. Maybe we can catch a show or something later. The guy said we’d be comped.”
“What the hell,” said Wanda. “Why not?”
The farther he got from the casino floor, the more Mack’s shoulder ached. The knot on his head had gone down, but he could still feel a dull pain under his scalp. He had the waitress bring margaritas two at a time. After his fourth, he switched to tequila on the rocks.
Wanda pushed the basket of tortilla chips away from her. Mack kept scooping up salsa as she talked him through her massage and various spa treatments. He shifted in his seat on the banquette as she described lying completely naked on the table while a young Vietnamese girl, just like Mack had imagined, gave her a sixty-minute full-body massage.
She picked at a taco salad. Mack, ignoring the ache in his shoulder, attacked his enchilada platter. He took one bite of his refried beans, a favorite of his back in Van Horn, then remembered his pending honeymoon and thought better of it. He pushed his plate away and leaned back on the banquette.
“So how much are you up?” asked Wanda.
“I don’t know exactly,” said Mack, knowing he was up exactly $58,650. Unbelievable. More than halfway to a hundred grand. “A lot, I reckon.”
“Maybe you’re one of those guys you hear about that goes on a million-dollar run.”
“Maybe so,” Mack said, leaning forward, “but we ain’t married yet. Don’t go getting any ideas about community property.”
Wanda chuckled and shook her head. “What a charming conversationalist you are.”
Mack quit smiling as he saw he’d hurt her feelings. He hadn’t really said anything mean, and she wasn’t really his fiancée, but he still felt guilty. “Aw, listen, I was just kiddin’ around, darlin’. Hell, easy come, easy go, right?”
Wanda nodded with a fragile smile.
Mack didn’t know whether it was the lack of sleep, the tequila, or the crashing from all the Red Bull, but he now felt exhausted. “Listen, you mind if I go up and try to take a nap again? I’m ’bout dead all of a sudden.”
“Yeah, okay, I guess. I can just wander around.”
“Why don’t you check out what the shows are and get us some tickets?”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Look here,” said Mack, leaning back and pulling a handful of black hundred-dollar chips from the pocket of his jeans, “why don’t you go do a little shopping this afternoon?”
Wanda’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Sure. What the fuck.” Mack was relieved to see her smile return. “You want to do me a favor?” He pulled two more black chips from his pocket and laid them on the table. “You mind picking me up a coupla them Tommy Bahama shirts I seen in the window of that store off the lobby?”
“Yeah, of course, no problem. What kind did you want?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just use your taste, darlin’. I’m sure you know what you’re doin’.”
TWENTY
> Between the platter of enchiladas and the half-bottle of tequila, Mack was finally able to get some sleep. Before again drawing the blackout curtains, he counted his money three times and locked his wallet in the safe. He called down for a wake-up call in four hours, just in case.
Mack awoke disoriented when Wanda entered the suite. He sat up as she showed him the shirts she’d picked out for him. She had a couple of other shopping bags, but he didn’t bother feigning interest in what she’d bought.
He was thirsty. Unlike the standard room, the suite had an impressive minibar, and Mack cracked open a Red Stripe. As much as he’d wanted to wait, he decided he had to take a shower. He paused by the bathroom door. Wanda started looking through her shopping bags.
“I’m gonna hop in the shower.”
“Okay.”
“You feel like joining me?”
“Thanks, but the girl in the shop forgot to put one of my tops in the bag. I’m going to go back for it.”
Well, that wasn’t a complete shutout. With a little patience…“I can wait, if you want to run down.”
“No, that’s okay. It’s down at the Bellagio. It’ll take a while.”
“Gotcha.” Mack was disappointed but undiscouraged, as Wanda had clearly indicated that it was the errand and not an aversion to him that was keeping her and those big tits out of the shower with him. “If I’m not here when you get back, you know where to find me.”
When he heard the door shut, Mack came out of the bathroom and checked the safe. Still secure. He took a cold shower and hoped that it wouldn’t change his luck. He wasn’t able to stand the freezing water for more than thirty seconds.
He pulled the tag off one of the three Tommy Bahama shirts. He put it on and checked himself out in the mirror before he went to the safe and collected his wallet.
Downstairs on the casino floor, Mack looked for familiar faces. The lurid cold of the shower had worn off and the fatigue started coming on again. He asked a passing server for a Red Bull and vodka. It was still pretty early for any of last night’s dealers to be back on, but then there was always that chance.