by Liz Maverick
Bijoux frowned. “Don’t you want to go out and have some dinner?”
“No,” Marianne said. “I’ll get room service. I’m officially in fighting mode.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to go out to a nightclub and flirt with boys?”
Marianne looked at her like she was insane. “This isn’t about boys anymore.”
“It’s not? You’re not going to look around at all?”
“Bijoux, this has nothing to do with boys anymore.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No! This is about . . . me! I’ve got to conserve my energy. There will be ample time to play around, but I don’t want to get bounced on the first day. I’ll need all my wits about me.”
“I guess I just didn’t realize you were taking this quite so seriously. I mean, it’s Vegas.” Bijoux chewed on her lower lip and glanced around at the activity. “I thought we’d take advantage of that and have some fun.” Bijoux shrugged and nodded to the desk clerk to have a porter bring their luggage to the room.
She knew what Marianne was thinking. She was thinking that they would still be there when the tournament was over. That the boys would always be there and, like poker, it was just a question of timing and luck. All well and good for Marianne. She seemed to have plenty of time and luck.
After the door to the hotel room opened, the first thing Bijoux always did was run into the bathroom and look at the toiletries. The only thing better than free toiletries were really tony free toiletries, and it was always fun to see what the hotel had to offer.
A high-pitched giggling and the sound of springs expanding and contracting signaled the other hotel tradition. Bijoux raced out of the bathroom and leaped up on the bed next to Marianne, who was jumping up and down, laughing hysterically.
Bijoux always let Marianne pick which bed she wanted and which drawers suited her best. She took what was left and quickly unpacked her things, hanging up the clothes and arranging her vast collection of makeup and toiletries over the expanse of the bathroom counter.
The unspoken rule was that Bijoux owned the lion’s share of the closet and the bathroom. In exchange, Marianne got to choose her side of the room, her drawers, and the average room temperature. They’d successfully traveled together many times under this arrangement.
Marianne flopped down on the bed and, still giggling, picked up the phone to order room service. As she launched into strained negotiations with the room service people about the meaning of “on the side,” Bijoux just tossed the gift she’d brought for her friend onto the bed, meaningfully arched her eyebrow, and went in for a quick shower.
The powerful hotel spigot sluiced away the travel ick. Bijoux took a deep, calming breath of hot steam and told herself not to be irritated with Marianne. Bijoux had been hoping for more of a romp through Vegas, not an episode of the Marianne Show, as she sometimes called it when she thought the two of them were going off to do something together when really it was more about Marianne obsessing about something specific to her.
She should have known, though. Marianne had a competitive streak a mile wide. And she also had Donny to fall back on. So it would be Marianne focusing on her game this weekend and Bijoux romping about by herself trying to get the Fates to coordinate things so she could meet somebody perfect. If the Fates worked quickly enough, she’d find someone to romp about Vegas with her while Marianne did her thing.
Turning off the spigot and pulling the shower cap from her head, Bijoux made quick work of toweling off, pausing to wait a moment as Marianne settled things with the porter and the door slammed shut.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, Marianne had unwrapped the gift and had already buried her nose deep into it: Caro’s Book of Tells. “This is fantastic,” Marianne said. “Thank you so much!”
“You’re welcome,” Bijoux said. “I wasn’t sure if it was a joke gift or a serious gift, but since you’re serious, it’s a serious gift.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Nah.”
Marianne looked up at Bijoux and made a face. “What am I thinking? Can you tell what I’m thinking?”
Bijoux stared at Marianne for a few seconds. “I have no idea.”
“Okay, how about this?” She stared at Marianne, then shifted her gaze quickly from left to right. “Well? What do you think that means?”
“Um . . .” Bijoux slowly shook her head. “I really couldn’t say. Though they say that people who don’t hold your gaze are lying.”
“Perfect! This book is awesome.” Marianne stuck a cocktail straw in her mouth and scrunched up her features. “How about now? I’m thinking something. . . . Can you read my tell?”
With a sigh, Bijoux studied Marianne’s face once more.
“I really think that out of context—”
“Just pretend we’re there at the tables. I’m a player, you’re a player . . . what am I thinking?”
“Am I a man player? Are you a man player?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
“If I’m a man and you’re a man, I’m thinking you’re thinking that the cocktail waitress has big tits, which I would know because if I’m a man, that’s what I’d be thinking.”
Marianne “arghed” and went back to the book. Her finger slid down the page as she read. “Oh, shit. I so do that.” She tapped the page. “Oh, my God. And I so do that.”
“You’re obsessing,” Bijoux said mildly, actually pleased that she liked the book so much.
Marianne pulled a deck of cards from her suitcase and splayed them out on the bed. Then she suddenly leaped up and went to the full-length closet door mirror and made a face. This procedure repeated itself over and over as Bijoux readied herself for the evening.
Marianne would read a passage about a particular “tell” or another, stare at her face in the mirror from a couple of different angles, deal the cards out in a specific situation, and repeat the whole process.
“Um, you know . . . I meant to ask . . . do you mind if I don’t watch the whole day tomorrow? I mean, I really have faith in you, which means that you’re going to be sitting in that chair playing for hours.”
“Of course not. Go do your thing, too.”
“Cool. I was thinking of maybe getting some sun tomorrow. Just sort of relaxing. I need to get my mind off my money and my money off my mind,” Bijoux said as she whipped her bathing suit out of the drawer. “I’m going to get some sun and relax.”
“There’s a pool at this hotel?”
“No, I’m going to Caesar’s. I’m going to wallow in the delicious excess of the Roman Empire at the Garden of the Gods Pool Oasis.”
chapter ten
“What, are you insane? You can’t wear that.” Bijoux blocked the door, her mouth gaping wide-open.
Marianne looked down at her outfit. She’d worn it to work a million times and had received lots of compliments. True, she was wearing a cardigan. But it was a cardigan with cool beading, a tight fit, and creamy butter-yellow cashmere. “What?”
Bijoux cocked one hip and glared at her. “You’re the businesswoman. You’re supposed to understand image. Or have they pummeled every ounce of creativity and marketing smarts right out of you? Do you want to blend into the crowd? Do you want to be just another amateur?”
“Um . . . no?” Marianne turned and frowned at her reflection, a little taken aback by the uncharacteristic vehemence of Bijoux’s feelings. Maybe they had pummeled every ounce of creativity and marketing smarts right out of her. She did look a bit . . . timid. “Being underestimated is a kind of strategy, too, though.”
“No. You’ll already be underestimated based on the fact that you’re female. Don’t add a bunch of sappy clothes into the mix. You’ll wash right out. You won’t feel powerful and confident. You’ll sink yourself. You need to make a statement. A statement that reflects confidence, not . . . conventionality.”
“You’ve always liked this outfit!” Marianne said as Bijoux took the sides of the cardigan and yanked it backw
ard off Marianne’s shoulders. She pointed to the closet. “You know what to do. Go!”
Marianne glared at her friend and opened the closet door. Her glare-worthy feelings vanished as she stared into the candy store of Bijoux’s wardrobe. Bijoux’s clothes were the best. Marianne’s fingers twitched as she reached out and ran her palm across the wild fabrics.
Bijoux crowded up behind her and began to art-direct Marianne’s new look. “Take that skirt . . . that sweat—no, the jacket. Take the jacket and wear . . . that . . . underneath. And those shoes. Done. Put the outfit on and we can discuss.”
Marianne changed clothes, not missing how Bijoux immediately tried on the offending cardigan. With her tan and her platinum hair, it looked great, and somehow not so prissy. But the cardigan went in the discard pile anyway, as Bijoux changed into her bathing suit, pulling on a pair of flowing white silk pants over the bikini bottoms. The gold lamé bikini top was covered only by a skimpy turquoise mesh top.
Looking at her watch, Marianne swallowed nervously. “Can we discuss now? I’ve got to get down there.”
The two girls faced each other. Bijoux had added a gold wristlet and a pair of sunglasses. She raised the sunglasses off her face and examined Marianne’s outfit.
“You look . . . way better than I look in that stuff,” she said, not even concealing her surprise. “You always do. It’s uncanny. That’s exactly what you should be wearing. You’ll feel powerful and confident. Clothes matter, Marianne. They really do. I may not know a lot, but this I know.”
Marianne looked down at the layers of clothing, from the tips of her black high-heeled boots to the flippy black miniskirt to the irreverent tight glitter-decal T-shirt to the brightly colored deconstructionist puffed-sleeve jacket. She looked . . . badass but feminine. She leaped at Bijoux to give her friend a hug. “You know plenty. This is perfect.” She took a deep breath. “Are we out of here?”
“We’re out of here,” Bijoux said.
Okay. Day one of five. Out of a field of over 6,000, I, Marianne Hollingsworth, am randomly listed as number 763 on the board. Number of waters already consumed: two. Number of bathroom breaks likely to be required: seven. Number of hands blatantly groping me in a crowd since I came down this morning: four, plus one brushing of the buttocks with questionable intent and purpose.
This is it, Marianne. This is the big time.
The floor of the casino was packed with poker tables and jammed with spectators probably waiting for a glimpse of the heroes and heroines of the poker world. Moving through the tables was like trying to get to a middle seat in a crowded movie theater.
It looked like the population of a small suburban California town had emptied into the arena. Shorts, sunglasses, baseball caps, for the most part. And it didn’t seem glamorous in the least. At least not yet, with all of the riffraff and dead money like herself clogging up the works. Well, the wheat and the chaff would be going their separate ways soon enough. And if Marianne had anything to say about it, she was going to hang with the wheat this week.
As contenders began to fill up the tables, the more famous players began to stand out from the crowd, distributed about room.
Cameras dotted the playing floor and a bleacher area for spectators. It looked like some people had coaches. Some people had pals. Some people had loved ones. And just about everyone was taking this seriously. Nobody wanted to go out, much less on the first day. But it happened to even the best. For a ten-thousand-dollar entry fee, you just didn’t want to have to admit you went out on the first day.
Peter had finagled a press pass somehow. He was talking to one of the cameramen and taking notes again.
Bijoux clutched at Marianne’s arm. “This place is packed. Absolutely packed.”
“Ow! Oh, my God. Doyle Brunson just knocked me in the head with his elbow.”
“Who?”
“Doyle Brunson. Super System Doyle Brunson. One of the granddaddies of poker. He knocked me in the head with his elbow.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“No, I mean, it’s a good thing. A good sign.”
Bijoux knocked Marianne upside the head.
“Ow! What the hell?”
“I thought it might help,” she said. “Is that a good sign too?”
“No!”
Bijoux grabbed Marianne by the shoulders and with utter seriousness shook her a bit. “Don’t fall into the mystique of all of this. You’re here to win. Remember? You’re here to win. We’ve both got a job to do while we’re down here. Let’s keep the focus and do what we came to do.”
“I know, I know. Sheesh.” Marianne rubbed her temple. “I don’t think brain damage is going to help my game any. And let’s not even begin to discuss the potential impact of shaken-gambler syndrome.”
“Sorry. I’m suddenly nervous.”
“What are you nervous for?”
“Well, look at all these people.”
“So what? They don’t know anything you don’t know.”
“How do you know what they know?”
“I just know. Where are you going to sit?”
Bijoux chewed on her lower lip and surveyed the bleacher section. “I guess I’ll wait and see what table you end up at and then I’ll find a seat. . . . I wish I could take pictures.”
“Me too. But I don’t think it’s allowed. Doesn’t this all sort of remind you of standardized testing?”
The tables were strewn with water bottles and snacks. Jittery participants waited with unlit cigarettes and cocktail straws flopping from their mouths. Most wore incredibly bored, jaded expressions on their faces clearly meant to give the impression that they’d done all of this a million times before. Marianne figured that at least half of them were just like her; fresh and new, without big expectations, and really mostly just thrilled even to be here.
Of course, anyone could win this thing. And “anyone” had. Since Chris Moneymaker in 2003, more and more amateurs were entering the game and getting lucky. And that was part of the mystique, that anyone could win. It was the only professional sport in the world where amateurs could regularly sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the best players in the game and make a case for membership in the championship ranks. The World Series of Poker actually had the largest purse of any professional championship, and for as little as her forty-dollar online tournament fee, Marianne had won the opportunity to gun for millions of dollars that would go to somebody in the course of less than a week.
If there really were two different camps, the experienced killer-champion type and the fresh and new low-expectation type, she figured she might as well ally herself with those who’d come here to win. But doing so suddenly made the entire championship incredibly important to her. She clutched at Bijoux’s arm. “I’m nervous.”
Her friend wheeled around, her eyes like saucers. “What are you talking about? You don’t get nervous.”
“Well, I’m nervous now.”
“Don’t panic. Whatever you do, don’t panic,” Bijoux said, clearly panicking on Marianne’s behalf. “Remember what you told me. You said that the first strategy is to sit back and let all the idiots lose their chips in the first moments. Don’t let anybody rile you up or tinker with your strategy. Just play your own game and let the idiots shake out. Remember that? You don’t even have to play that many hands to make it through. So just sit back and let the idiots shake out.”
“Huh. Now that you mention it, that mantra actually sounds like something that could be useful in many facets of our lives.”
“Good, then. Just keep repeating your mantra. Let me hear you say it.”
“Let the idiots shake out.” Marianne said robotically.
“Perfect. You’re ready. And for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t be one of the idiots. At least make it to day two.”
Marianne stared at her. “Are you doubting? Are you doubting that I’ll make it to day two? I thought we agreed there was no way I’d lose on day one. Are we suddenly doubting? Should we be n
ervous?”
“Okay, deep breath. Deep, cleansing breath. And let’s hear the mantra.”
“Let the idiots shake out.”
“Great.” Bijoux took Marianne by the shoulders and turned her around to face the tournament tables. “Now go find your seat.”
Marianne steeled herself, stiffening her posture. “I’m going to find my seat.”
Bijoux gave her a little push and she was off. She suddenly turned around. Her friend was still standing there, and gave a little wave. “Have a great day, Bij. Good luck to you, too!”
Bijoux smiled and blended into the crowd.
Marianne checked in with one of the tournament staff and received what seemed to be a randomly assigned seat number, but on her way over she was stopped by a guy wearing a headset, an ESPN baseball cap, and a clipboard full of dog-eared pages.
“Yes?”
Gripping her arm with one hand, he hadn’t even turned and spoken to her yet, engaged as he was in a fierce whispered conversation with a tournament seating official and another ESPN baseball-cap guy.
Suddenly she was magically (and not quite so randomly) reassigned to a table in the center of the room located directly behind the table where TJ Cloutier already sat waiting patiently as a couple of techs set up camera lighting.
She searched out Bijoux, who’d found Peter in the crowd and was following him to the seats behind the roped spectator area. Bijoux looked up, and Marianne pointed to the rigged lighting and mouthed, ESPN!
Donny would totally freak if he could see her now. The table being set up in front of her was the ESPN “featured table.” She’d be in the background of any of Cloutier’s shots; ESPN obviously had liked her look. Marianne silently thanked Bijoux, who had put together the outfit this morning and insisted on extra makeup.
Marianne moved her chair just slightly to the left to give the camera a better view over Cloutier’s shoulder. Her heart started pounding as she watched the camera assistants scurry to and fro. She’d never felt more ready for a close-up in her life.