Card Sharks

by Liz Maverick

  Marianne tucked her feet under the one scrap of cashmere blanket that wasn’t swathed around Bijoux. “We could . . . go out or something. No, forget I said that. That’s obviously not working. All of the eligible men in Los Angeles—which isn’t a whole lot to begin with, I might add—all of the eligible men in Los Angeles are staying inside playing poker or watching it on TV!”

  “There is one thing we haven’t tried,” Bijoux said. “We haven’t tried meeting the boys at their own game. We haven’t tried going out and playing poker.”

  Marianne stared at her friend. “I’m not exactly sure how to process that statement. Is this because you went to that casino benefit?”

  “Sort of. Peter and I were talking about it. He says there are tons of rich, eligible men out there playing poker together.”

  Marianne narrowed her eyes. “He said that?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?”

  “He might have been joking.”

  “If that’s the case, it’s probably just as well. I’m not certain we want to be dating gamblers anyway,” Marianne said, popping open a bag of Skittles.

  “Some of those guys make millions.”

  “The professionals.”

  Bijoux cocked her head. “Then maybe we should go to Vegas and get ourselves some professionals. The thought has crossed my mind.”

  “Peter put this into your head?” Marianne asked, grabbing the remote and turning back to Pretty in Pink.

  Bijoux shrugged, distracted by the show and clearly disinterested in Peter. “You’re more his type than me,” she said. “Oh, my God. This is where she has to walk into the dance by herself. God, that’s just torture.”

  Marianne’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, and her hand maintained a rhythm as it steadily transferred Skittles to mouth in a never-ending stream of not really even conscious chewing. “What does he look like?”

  “I don’t know. He’s sort of a male version of you.”

  “I bore me.”

  “I don’t mean personality-wise.”

  Marianne’s hand stilled midway to her mouth. “I’m not quite certain how to take that.”

  “What I’m saying is that he might appeal to you aesthetically. But I’m not sure about temperamentally.”

  “Oh.” Marianne’s hand still didn’t move as she thought that over. And then slowly the Skittles treadmill started up again. “I’m not interested,” she said a moment later.

  Bijoux rolled her eyes and turned back to the screen. “This is it! Oh, poor Duckie.”

  “You’re hurting my arm,” Marianne said. “But you’re so right. Poor Duckie. Thank God he gets to dance with that other popular chick at the very end.”

  She and Bijoux watched the look on Duckie’s face as Andie went off with boring old Andrew McCarthy and the theme music kicked in.

  Both girls took a deep breath and exhaled. “It never gets old,” Marianne said.

  “No, it never gets old,” Bijoux said, clutching her chest.

  Marianne muted the TV as the credits began to roll. “Okay, so Peter’s out. But whatever happened with that one guy? What was his name?”

  Bijoux looked at Marianne, a crinkle of puzzlement over her nose. “What was his name?”

  “You know, the one who was about to make a billion dollars. You hung with him for, like, a couple of months and then completely stopped talking about him.”

  “Yeah. Well . . .” Bijoux sighed. “I broke up with him. I decided that ‘about to’ wasn’t worth waiting around for. I mean, if the guy I’m dating is technically poor at the time the relationship begins, there had better be some mitigating factors to tide me over while waiting for the payoff. But it was becoming totally stale. Finger there. Tongue here. ‘Ooh-ooh, baby.’ Yeah. Phew. Done. George falls asleep. Bijoux stares up at the ceiling, suddenly realizing she forgot to clean the spilled ground coffee out of the grout like she’d planned. . . .”

  “You mean forgot to ask the maid to clean the spilled ground coffee out of the grout.”

  “Yeah. And besides, I could tolerate less and less of him every time we slept together. The mole on his back I told you about? I got to the point where I just so desperately wanted to pluck the hair out, I was having trouble sleeping at night for thinking about it. I don’t know. Maybe we should try harder. Try some of the same things we’ve already tried, but . . . I don’t know . . . put more heart into it.”

  Marianne grimaced. “I couldn’t possibly. It’s horrible.”

  “What about speed-dating?” Bijoux asked. “It’s low time commitment.”

  “Too public. Too obvious. Too desperate.”

  “Online dating?”

  “I’m not trying that again. Nobody can spell.” Marianne sniffed with disdain. “I refuse to waste my time going to coffee with men who don’t have the energy to punctuate or to capitalize ‘I.’ If they can’t be bothered to form a complete sentence, I can’t be bothered to meet them.”

  “How about going to a matchmaker?”

  “A coworker of mine did that. She paid a thousand dollars for the privilege of meeting a cowl-neck-sweater-wearing man named Saul with a comb-over who was very in touch with his feelings. Do I need to add that it didn’t take? I don’t think I do.”

  “Maybe the pet thing?” Bijoux asked tentatively. “I don’t think we’ve fully explored that possibility.”

  “Oh, my God! Are you joking? You said you almost got arrested.”

  “I was just worried about being arrested. But sometimes men find a criminal streak attractive.”

  “Sometimes they don’t,” Marianne said dryly.

  “Well, it’s not like walking a cat is illegal. I didn’t expect it to be so hot out, and as we’ve just established, we’d tried everything else. I like to be able to say I left no stone unturned.”

  After a pause, Marianne said, “Maybe we should go to Vegas and try to meet some professionals. Except we don’t even know how to play.”

  “Why don’t we ask Donny?”

  “Because Donny is playing poker with the boys!”

  “If there are boys there, then let’s ask Donny if we can join in. I was already talking to Peter about it. He wants to write a story about poker. And I told him that Donny has a regular game and that maybe we could all have a little poker party.”

  “I don’t see that Donny’s going to be excited about opening up his secret men’s society to a couple of girl pals. You know how boys are about that sort of thing. The vibe is never the same with women around. That’s what he’s always telling me.”

  “No, you’re missing the point. The point is that it’s a guy thing.”

  “Well, I’m not going to ask him. I’m not asking Donny to invite me to a poker game so I can get help for his replacement. That’s just wrong.”

  “Fine. I’ll ask him. I mean, come on, Marianne. It’s just one game. He’ll think it sounds fun. Besides, what’s the worst thing that can happen? You slay the men and take their money.”

  Marianne sat bolt upright. “What did you just say?”

  “Um . . . he’ll think it sounds fun?”

  “No, the other thing.”

  “Slay the men and take their money?”

  “Yes.” Marianne looked at her with wide eyes. “Now that’s a motto I can get behind. You know what I like about you, Bijoux?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I can eat an entire box of cupcakes and wash it back with a handful of Skittles, and then top it off with Twinkies and mai tais without feeling the least bit self-conscious in front of you.”

  “I’m so glad,” Bijoux said.

  “Me too.” Marianne looked over at her friend and smiled. “Now pass me that bag of potato chips, will ya?”

  chapter six

  Donny’s place generally looked like it was being bombed on a regular basis. He lived in Brentwood in a minuscule apartment just below Sunset Boulevard. It had white Pergo flooring and slightly curved edges, which gave it a totally e
ighties feel. He’d taken that theme and run with it, probably because going full-throttle eighties meant that he could decorate with all of the stuff he’d never gotten around to throwing away and calling it retro. Nagel posters tilted slightly off axis hung on the walls. The furniture was all pre–Pottery Barn nineties. It was the sort of place where a suspect from Miami Vice might have lived.

  He’d obviously cleaned the apartment for the occasion, because the various surfaces were cleared, and towering stacks of papers were piled on the floor up against the walls. From what Marianne had told her, with his new salary Donny would probably be moving to something much nicer, though.

  Donny was the kind of guy who could talk his way into just about any kind of job, with or without relevant experience. He just had the gift of networking and a massive sense of self-confidence, two things that never failed to appeal to job interviewers. So now he’d gone and probably landed a huge raise to go with his promotion. Marianne hadn’t talked that much about it, but Bijoux knew that Donny’s recent success was both a sore spot and a source of pride for her.

  Even as Marianne introduced Peter to Donny, Bijoux could see the proprietary nature of her friend’s body language. She still loved him. No question.

  “Donny, this is Peter Graham,” Marianne was saying. “He’s an old friend of Bijoux’s. Peter, Donny. He’s . . . an even older friend.”

  The two men shook hands and swapped pleasantries, clearly sizing each other up. Bijoux took the opportunity to glance at the other men in the living room as she detoured into the kitchen with the sack of beer they’d brought.

  Donny followed behind. “Here, let me take that,” he said, lifting the heavy sack out of her arms.

  “You’re such a gentleman.”

  “I try.” He put it down on the ground in front of the refrigerator and started unloading the bottles. “So you dating this guy?” he asked, gesturing over his shoulder toward where Peter was chatting with Marianne and the other guys around the poker table.

  “Oh, he’s just a family friend.”

  “He’s not your date?” Donny asked, clearly caught by surprise.

  “Nope. Just a friend.”

  “No money,” Donny said with an understanding nod.

  Being with Donny was so easy. He understood Bijoux’s plight and she didn’t feel the urge to cringe when they talked about her impending financial disaster and what she planned to do to solve it.

  He suddenly turned and looked behind him. “Is he making a play for Marianne?”

  Bijoux looked over her shoulder. “Everyone makes a play for Marianne. You know that. Poor thing is cursed with natural charisma,” she said dryly.

  They both watched Marianne who’d already drifted across the room, drawing the other men to her like a magnet.

  Bijoux chewed on her lower lip and watched. You’re going to have to turn it on, Bijoux. Turn it on. It’s why you’re here. She might be the one wearing a bright-turquoise-and-white-polka-dot silk miniskirt and a silver-and-turquoise tank top. She might be the one with piles of blond hair and loud makeup, but when Marianne was in the room, Bijoux always felt like her shadow.

  Marianne had two calibrations: “on” and “really on.” Bijoux’s own calibrations read, “I know you” and “I don’t know you—panic!” That was just the way she was. So this whole business about going to play cards with strange men as a construct to meet them and divine their eligibility was really quite preposterous and merely reminded Bijoux just how desperate she really was.

  She wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t as if she had nothing to say. She’d read the latest books, watched bad television, picked up People magazine instead of Forbes in the dentist’s office. She knew how to flirt, how to work a room . . . but it didn’t come naturally. She could fake it, no doubt. She could make people think she knew exactly what she was doing, that she had all the confidence in the world, but the reality was that she was going to sit down at that poker table and smile like she meant it and try to meet someone nice (and rich) while feeling just about as uncomfortable in her own skin as a person could feel.

  Donny finished unloading the beer and kept the last one for himself, popping the top using just his hand and the counter in that way boys did that always gave Bijoux a bit of a thrill. He continued to watch Marianne through the opening under the cabinets that went straight through to the living room, the look on his face careening from neutral to negative.

  “You okay?” Bijoux asked.

  He came to with a start, as if he’d been far, far away, and put his beer down. “I’m brilliant,” he said, grabbing both sides of Bijoux’s head and planting a loud, obnoxious kiss on the top. “Are you?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Now get out there and have some fun.”

  Bijoux moved into the living room, where everyone was assembling around an ugly black-lacquer table that just screamed, I am a bachelor.

  Marianne, Peter, and Donny she obviously knew. And of the five remaining men, two were a couple of Donny’s old pals she’d met before; two were guys of reasonable (if not inspiring) wealth whom she’d already flirted with before under other social circumstances and had established absolutely zero chemistry with; and the other was . . . well, physically out of the question.

  At least there was nothing to be nervous about. Bijoux checked her watch and sighed. It had seemed like a reasonable experiment at the time of conception, she supposed. But now she was stuck playing cards with a bunch of guys who clearly would have no influence on the solution to her financial and romantic predicament.

  She took a seat and looked at Marianne across the table. Marianne and Peter sat side by side, and to Bijoux’s sudden horror Marianne released a giggle and slapped Peter playfully on the hand.

  Bijoux looked over at Donny, who sat at the head of the table, his eyes narrowed and fixated on the very same scene.

  “Okay, so everyone has a drink? Oh, no. Wait. We’re missing a beer down there,” he said loudly. He got up, picked up a bottle of beer from the cooler on the floor at his left, and loudly slammed it down on the table between Marianne and Peter.

  The beer did its job, and the two of them separated. Donny hoisted his glass. “To . . . us. Drink up!”

  Much clinking and toasting ensued.

  “Well . . . let’s just deal the cards and begin.” Donny sat down and shuffled a deck of cards with an excess of flourish. He dealt two cards to each player and carefully tapped the remainder of the deck against the table. Bijoux looked at her cards. A ten of spades and a three of diamonds. She wasn’t exactly sure what they were playing or what she was supposed to do next, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell her that this was not a good hand.

  She looked over her cards at Marianne, who stared back at her with furrowed brow. “So now what?” Marianne asked Donny.

  “So now we show our cards. . . . Right, just lay them faceup on the table. . . . Okay, uh-huh, I see. . . .”

  Bijoux put her cards faceup along with everybody else. Marianne had only an eight and a three. So depending on what game they were playing, that probably meant that Bijoux was . . . safe. Or whatever.

  “What are we playing?” Marianne asked, as if she were reading Bijoux’s mind.

  Donny didn’t answer. None of the guys did. He just looked over all of the cards around the table, then leaned back in his chair and unveiled a slow killer smile. “Well, Marianne, that’s you. You’ve got the worst hand. So you’re going to have to take something off.”

  Bijoux whipped her head around and looked at Donny, then looked over at Marianne.

  There was a palpable silence. Finally Marianne said the only thing she could say: “Um, what?”

  “Worst hand strips,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a helpless gesture, then folding his arms over his chest.

  Bijoux and Marianne looked at each other once more and then looked around the table at the men. They all wore . . . expectant loo
ks on their faces. Even Peter.

  Marianne narrowed her eyes at Donny. “You imbecile,” she muttered.

  “What did I do? You said you wanted to play poker with the boys.”

  She leaned over the table. “This isn’t real poker. We might as well flip a coin!”

  “ ’S okay with me,” Donny said. “It would be faster.”

  Bijoux suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She tried to remember exactly what she’d discussed with Donny when she’d called him up and suggested the poker game in the first place.

  “Bijoux, we need to use the ladies’ room,” Marianne snapped, standing up.

  Bijoux didn’t need any persuading. She got up, and the two of them headed into the bathroom and locked themselves into the cramped space. “Oh, my Lord,” Bijoux said as the locker-room stench hit her olfactories. She reached down and grabbed the matchbox sitting on the sink. She lit a match, let it burn for a second, then blew it out and waved the smoke around in the air.

  “Good God, watch your foot,” Marianne said.

  Bijoux looked down and recoiled in horror as she tried to shake the item off her spiked heel. “Is that what I think it is? Get it off!”

  Marianne used the toe of her own shoe to nudge the jockstrap off Bijoux’s shoe, then grabbed Bijoux’s shoulders. “Focus! We’ve been set up. Do you realize that?”

  “I . . . I,” was all Bijoux could say.

  “What exactly did Donny say to you when you asked him if we could play?”

  “Well, I just said I had this friend who was interested in finding a poker game and that you and I wanted to come play too, just once, and if that was okay with him, we’d really like to. . . . He immediately said it was a great idea and that it would be lots of fun.”

  “Immediately?” Marianne asked suspiciously.

  “Yeah, I thought, ‘Well, that was easy.’ And I guess it was too easy.”

  “That scoundrel. He had strip poker on his mind from the very first second, I’ll bet. We’ve . . .” Marianne picked her hand up from where it had been resting on the towel rack and looked at her palm. Her lip curled as she wiped her hand off on the toilet paper roll. “We’ve totally been had. . . . And how do these men live like this?”