by H. T. Night
Fuck sleep.
This pain was unbearable. I needed to play poker. Serious poker.
Rat Pack style.
I had always been a lot better at poker than I gave on to my friends to try to win their money. These days, everyone thought they were an expert. So, I usually allow my big mouth friends do all the talking. Somehow, I usually would come out with the most money at the end of the night.
I wanted to get into big games. But I needed to get better.
So, for the next thirty-six hours I played nonstop poker in a small poker room at the Rio hotel. The buy-in was forty dollars each times. So I wasn’t losing insane money as I figured out how to play this game with intelligence and intimidation. The same way I fought MMA. The big difference between poker and mixed martial arts... you can participate at one drunk off your ass. And that’s just what I did now. The more I drank, the better I became.
After my thirty-six hour poker game, I headed back to my hotel at eleven in the morning and slept ten hours.
When I woke up, I was ready to play some real poker. I heard from some of the better players that there were good games at the Venetian Hotel. I was a serious sports better in my time. I had quit it when I admitted to myself that I loved the gambling high way too much. When I’d quit, I’d lost a lot of money and I’d promised myself that I was quitting for good. The truth was, no one ever quit while they were winning. Not one gambler. Ever.
Now, I was going to try take a shot a big-time poker.
So here I was back again in Vegas, about to slay this inner need in me to even up the loss in my life. Not that anything could ever replace Maya. I just knew that right now, another woman was the last thing on my mind. Gambling would have to provide some small compensation. I shut down all of the jangling alarm bells in my head as my old frenemy—that is, compulsive gambling—reared its seductive head from the depths of where I had buried it and had replaced it with MMA fighting. And with a zeal, too.
It was not a secret to me that I liked winning. Whether it was MMA fights or gambling. Or once upon a time, women. Many women.
But now, even that old fire inside of me wasn’t enough to overcome the need to take risks and feel the zing of pleasure at beating the dealers at their own game. The pain of losing Maya was too much to bear, and gambling would ease that pain in some small way.
If I won.
No. When I won.
I took a quick cab to the hotel. It was faster than waiting for the valet guy to fetch my car. It was about a ten-minute ride versus an hour walk. And the sidewalk burned my feet through my shoes.
When I arrived to the Venetian Hotel, I grabbed a Red Bull and I admired the casino’s architecture. I made my way to the middle of the casino. I stopped by the ATM machine and pulled out $500, my bank’s per-day limit on my ATM card. I imagined I could come back to the cage later and get more cash. But they charged a lot of fees to pull out money from an ATM in this town. And if I used my credit card to pull money, the interest would be astronomical. The only reason I knew this last fact was due to my last trip to Vegas, which was a financial debacle of epic proportions.
And yet, here I was, again, giving myself rope with which to hang myself.
I was hoping this five hundred would be all I’d need.
I had done some ridiculous gambling in my day. Of late, I had steered away from it. There wasn’t any way that I would have let Maya see me do it, and truthfully, I had never needed it with her in my life. The whole time I was with her, I don’t think I ever even thought of gambling. Not once. She was that much magic in my life.
But now, with her gone, well, it was time to revisit one of my old and much-maligned friends: risk. The click of the chips, the soft whisper of cards turning over. The stoic dealers pushing the stacks of chips my way. It had so much allure that it was nearly sexual. Plus, I freaking loved playing poker. I had always been good at math and odds—and pushing my luck. And wasn’t life itself about pushing one’s luck?
Outside the casino, the song playing was “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.”
“Sing it, Frank,” I said aloud.
When I walked inside the massive casino floor, I discovered that $500 games weren’t even their biggest games. They had a $10,000 buy-in room in the back that was protected by a couple of guards. It had a sign that read: Highest Stakes Poker Room. I guess that meant there was no limit to a buy-in. Well, I had $500, so that was the game I played.
I went up to the floor man who was assigning tables. I told him I wanted in on the $500 game. He said there was immediate seating. Another guy led me to the table. It was near the front.
I sat down at the table and I looked across the table. There was a blond woman who looked a little like Maya. Her eyes caught mine and she gave me a sexy little smile. I smiled back but was not about to get involved any kind of flirting. I wasn’t over Maya. Not by a long shot. I wouldn’t be over her for a long time. If ever. I didn’t even want a one-night stand to let out all my frustration and pain. That kind of sex wasn’t good for anyone involved. I may have done stupid things in my life, but since I had met Maya, misdirected physical passion wasn’t one of them. The ache of a woman I loved, lost and missed could not be filled with a surrogate body. It had to be someone I loved. Maya.
The brunette flipped her hair just in the way that Maya used to flip her blonde hair, and the familiar gesture almost gutted me.
Okay, I wasn’t going to be celibate either. Well, not forever. But damn, I was going to respect the memory of Maya long enough to not jump for the first girl to smile in my direction. I knew all about rebound women from my earlier mistakes in life. Live and learn.
I sat down and took out my five bills and handed them to the dealer. He counted the C-notes and gave me one rack of $5 chips. I had a hundred chips. I felt rich. If I was smart, I would have cashed them in and left Las Vegas, but what would be the fun in that?
I had come here to gamble and drink my pain away, and I would be doing plenty of both. Booze, the world’s most popular anesthetic and gambling, the world’s second-most popular indoor sport.
The dealer was an older Scottish gentleman. I liked his accent. It was real burly, as if he was going to break out in a song from the Brigadoon musical. He looked like an old-school dealer from the 1920s. Craggy face and all.
And away we go.
We were playing Texas Hold’em. In Texas Hold’em, everyone at the table was given two cards. They were called pocket cards. High cards were what you wanted in your pocket cards or you wanted a pair of the same thing. After everyone looked at their cards, there would be a round of betting. After the betting was done, the dealer would lay down three cards, burning every other card. This was called a ‘flop.’ Everyone who was still in the hand would be able to use the three cards on the table, along with the two pocket cards they received in the opening deal. Another round of betting. Then, the dealer would burn a card and lay down only one card. That was called ‘The Turn.’ Another round of betting would occur. Again, everyone left in the hand could use all four cards to help their hand.
Finally, the dealer would lay down one final card. That card was called ‘The River.’ Everyone left in the hand would place a final bet and if there was a call, they’d turn over their cards to reveal the winning hand.
I sat at the table, itching to play. Itching to get back to drinking. Because the two things went together so well. I didn’t think I could gamble without drinking. A drink in one hand, cards in the other. Luckily, Las Vegas had no last-call time on drinking. In California, they couldn’t serve me drinks at this hour. In Vegas, anytime was drinking time. I got the cocktail server’s attention and ordered a double tequila shot.
I was finally dealt into a hand. There were nine people at the table. I was dealt two cards. I peeked down at my cards the way the guys do on TV, so nobody would see my hand. I had an ace and a king of spades. Nice starting hand. Very pretty.
I bet it hard and the cards held up. By the river, I had two pair and took do
wn a $600 pot on the first hand. My drink arrived and I pounded the double shot of tequila in one gulp and ordered another one.
I was just getting my swagger on. This was going to get fun. There was nothing like drinking and gambling to help a hurt guy forget his troubles. So, I wanted to drink and stay at the table as long as I could.
Stay up, I thought, willing my cards to be good. Really good. And they were.
I sat there at the table for eight hours and was up three grand. The cards were going my way. At least, something was. I’d had about 20 shots of tequila in the process—werewolves could hold their liquor better than humans. I was pretty drunk, though. I was slowly becoming more and more belligerent and I was aware that I was loud and annoying. I didn’t care. I was in Vegas.
What were they going to do to me?
Tell me to behave when thousands of people walked the Strip, drinks in hand, bellowing their joy or pain into the desert night like a cacophony of pleasure and pain bursting simultaneously?
I was soon going to put that to the test, how far I could push the envelope in Vegas.
I decided to get up. I was still dizzy from being drunk, but damn… I had a shitload of chips.
I went to the cashier and I cashed out, walking away with almost $4,000. Turn $500 into $4,000 in eight hours?
Shit, this is great! I should be a professional gambler.
That was what gamblers always thought.
When they won.
Chapter Three
The alcohol was making me tired. I needed my second wind. I looked at the casino’s main lobby and saw a sports book and another bar right next to each other, both calling my name.
I liked the bar part. I made my way over and there were three ladies in their mid-twenties at a side table who were starting to get loud. The blondes were even catcalling the guys as they walked past, sizing them up in a most unladylike manner. A brunette with them smiled softly and sipped her drink.
Obviously, some of them at this table were looking for trouble on a stick. Well, they’d just found it.
I decided to do something I’d never done. I would have probably never had the nerve to do something so bold and so silly when sober. But I was far from being sober. I grabbed a napkin and a pen from the counter near the cash register.
I walked over to their table and stood there and waited. I was quiet as I stood. I wasn’t being intimidating, but just more waiting for my turn to speak. I had learned that with some women, to get a word in edgewise, you had to stand and wait with an expectant expression on your face, as if you had some important reason to interrupt them. Like maybe their hair was on fire.
The three ladies all stopped talking and looked at me.
“Oh my,” said the oldest-looking of the three. She had a bump-it under her teased hair that lifted her hairdo into a most impressive height that was a throwback to the 60s, though she didn’t appear old. She was dressed all retro in a white mini-dress, even in white shiny go-go boots. Boots in this heat. She crooned, “Aren’t you a popsicle on a hot summer’s day.”
I looked at her, completely confused, and said, “What?”
“She thinks you’re tasty,” said the only brunette at the table, the quiet one who sipped her drink and didn’t catcall the men walking past their tiny table.
“What do you think?” I asked the brunette. The girl was pretty, but I was far from truly flirting with her. I was looking at this as a game. A game where no one wins. I just entertained myself while I was drunk by interacting with others. Especially those of the opposite sex. Deep down, I was a dirty dog like that.
“I think a girl could get pretty full on whatever you’re dishing up,” the brunette said to me, a bemused expression on her face as she subtly looked at my face and shoulders, sizing me up. But in a classy way.
I nodded my head and smiled. I put the pen in my mouth and gave her a wink. She looked at my lips and licked hers ever so subtly. Damn, I didn’t want any of that, but it was still flattering.
“Excuse me? Who are you?” the youngest-looking of the three asked. I was especially ignoring this one on purpose. She had platinum-blond hair and probably had never paid for a drink in her life. She didn’t look to be much older than 21, but I wasn’t going to give her an ounce of my attention. I knew it made her nuts. She’d had guys fawning over her for her whole life. She wore that whole entitlement attitude like an invisible tiara.
In contrast, I’d often thought of Maya as the girl-next-door type. Pretty, sweet, and genuine. She was a natural blond and she oozed innocence. This girl was a fake platinum blond and oozed—let’s just say—not so much innocence. In fact, I suddenly realized that maybe she probably charged for her time. Whatever the brunette was doing at the table, she wasn’t engaged in their activities.
“What are you girls drinking?” I said, pretending to be a waiter.
“Are you a waiter? Or, are you a guy buying us drinks?” the platinum blond asked.
I looked at her and said, “Rest assured that I am not.”
“You’re not what?” she asked.
“Ever going to buy you a drink,” I said plainly.
“Who the hell are you?” the platinum blond said to me. She had probably never had a guy treat her that way in her life and I found it amusing. “Do you fucking work for this casino?” she continued. “Because if you do, I want to talk to your manager.”
“Go right ahead. His name’s Willy. Tell him I need to change my I-9 form to 10 dependents to get that tax break.”
“Jill, it’s okay,” the brunette said. “He’s just having fun with you. Let it go.”
“Okay, I’m totally confused,” Jill said. “Does he work here or not?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Exactly what?” Jill said.
I think I literally saw her brain explode behind her bewildered, irritated eyes. She had no clue what was going on. She was drunker than me. She knew I was playing her, but she didn’t even understand how. Which made it even funnier to me.
I looked at the smart brunette and said, “My name is Tommy, and I might only be a busboy in this casino, but I would sure like to buy you a drink.”
The brunette smiled at me and said, “My name is Annie.”
“Annie?”
“Yes, Annie.”
“Well, Annie. I lied about one thing. I’m not actually a busboy, but why don’t you and I go somewhere else and get a drink?”
“And leave my friends from work? I don’t think so. And no offense, but you smell like you’ve been drinking for days. Your liver is screaming.” Annie looked at me with a tad of disdain. It was weird—I could tell she wanted me and yet, she despised me in the same moment. That gave off a weird energy.
Good girl wants the bad boy. The big bad wolf boy.
I looked at her and laughed out loud. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You’re turning me down for drinks?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “You’re kind of already pushing it, if you are aiming to be a drink container.”
I leaned in and said to Annie, just so she could hear, “That’s too bad, because I clean up quite nice.”
“I bet you do,” Annie replied. “I bet you’re this real ho,t mysterious guy who will make me fall in love with you. But I haven’t had the best month of decision-making… and leaving with a hot, drunk guy at six o’clock in the evening to go to another bar… to get a drink… wouldn’t crack the list as one of the smartest decisions I have ever made.”
“Wow. What happened?” I asked. I was drunk, but I knew this girl had a lot on her plate. No one comes out and gets that real right off the bat unless they’re—“Are you fed up?” I asked.
Annie stopped and looked at me and said, “I am. I’m fed up. Exactly.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I’m going to leave you ladies alone. I’m going to grab a drink and make my way over to the sports book.”
“No one asked you to stop bothering us,” Jill said.
“Someone wanted me to,
” I said, winking at Annie. Then I turned around walked away and went to the sports book.
That was the last I remembered until I heard a guy say, “Hey, man. You can’t sleep here. You need to go up to your hotel room.”
I opened my eyes. I was still drunk. The room was spinning, but I wasn’t sick. “What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock, nighttime,” the man said. He was an older gentleman in his sixties. “I mean it,” he continued. “No sleeping.”
“I got you, Pops.” I reached into my pocket and grabbed a twenty. I took it out and put it in the guy’s shirt pocket. “Thanks for the wake-up call. My night is about to begin.”
And boy, did it.
The next 48 hours were mostly a blur.
I do remember kissing a clown, riding in a helicopter, eating hummus and other appetizers at a Kosher restaurant, and watching Carrot Top’s Las Vegas show. Twice. I remembered a few other things, but one thing I knew for sure, I never had intimate relations with anyone in that blur of a night.
I didn’t want that. I only wanted to forget losing Maya and the more I drank, the more I couldn’t even see anymore. I remember talking and it was pitch black. I remembered crying out for someone to hear me. Then I just remembered blackness, a hot velvety blackness. Feeling things, but it was black. As if I was being moved, but I was too tired to move. Too tired to say, ‘let me go.’
The fade was slow. The fade was long. The fade paralyzed me. All I knew was…
I was out.
Chapter Four
The only reason I woke up when I did was because the pavement was burning my skin through my clothes.
I heard laughter, voices, footsteps and cars whizzing by. I felt the sun beating down on my face like the business end of a clothes iron.
I didn’t want to, but I opened my eyes and was shocked to discover that I was lying next to a busy street with people walking around me like I was a trash can. At least no one had stepped on me. And, at least I wasn’t in the gutter. There was that.