by Mike Monson
After breakfast, he searched the casino floor until he found the five-dollar poker machines. This was more like it. These were his favorites. With a possible five-credit bet each hand, he could bet $25 each time. The payout for a royal flush could be tremendous. He’d won several hundred dollars on these dozens of times. Now, with so much money to spend, he figured he could do it again, but bigger. No problem. He just needed to get some four of-a-kinds and some royal flushes. He’d done it before.
As long as he was playing, he knew he’d get free drinks. He settled into a spot and got a double tequila and a glass of water from a waitress. Took out his envelope of hundreds. Grabbed all the bills and put them next to his drink. Fed ten hundreds into the machine and began to play.
He bet the maximum on his first hand. Drew a deuce, a three, a ten, an eight, and a five in various suits. Kept the ten and drew another ten. A pair of tens. Nothing, only Jacks or better paid anything.
Quickly, he bet again. He drew another bad hand, didn’t even wind up with a pair. This went on for about a dozen hands. He was $300 down. Just like that.
He played faster. He kept losing. He grabbed his drinks and his money and moved to a different machine. He hit two pairs and a three of a kind right away. He relaxed. He signaled the waitress and got another double.
He switched to multiple play. Five hands at once. This gave him a chance to lose more, faster. He got into a rhythm: drink, bet, lose, and then feed more money into the machine. Convinced that if he just amped up his speed he’d eventually hit some big hands again, he kept putting in more money. He was amazed at how quickly it all disappeared. The more and faster he lost the more convinced he became that he was just about to start to win. It didn’t make sense to him that he could bet so much so many times and always lose.
At just before 10, he ran out of the money from his stack. He took the four hundred dollars out of his wallet and changed stations. He loaded the last of his cash. He figured he needed to start over with a new, more positive attitude. He could still get ahead. So what if he was losing? It was his money, and he had a right to spend it however he wanted.
At ten fifteen, he had 20 dollars left in the machine. He was having trouble reading the cards. He knew he was fucked. Went to the ATM and tried to get cash advances from his Visa, his Master Card, and his Amex. His credit cards were all denied. Then he remembered that he’d maxed all those out last month at Black Oak Casino in Sonora. Checked the balance on his bank debit card: just over fifteen hundred dollars. Tried to take it all out, but all the machine gave him was three hundred. So what if Lydia knew where he was? Fuck that bitch.
All he needed was a little bit of luck to turn things around, and he could put the money back.
After ten minutes, he turned the three hundred into twelve hundred. He kept telling himself to go deposit the three hundred back into the bank and then play with the nine hundred, but he held off. Twenty minutes later he was broke again. He went back to the ATMs, and his request for more money was denied. Now, he was really broke.
Oh, shit.
He went up to his room. He didn’t know what to do. He had no money. He only had one night left in his stay. He was so drunk. He passed out on the bed.
It was 11 A.M.
Chapter 17
Lydia managed to keep Hunter out of her ass most of the night by repeatedly giving him the best head she’d ever performed. Amazing how creative a desperate person can be. Of course, he was high on meth, so he stayed hard for hours. Eventually, at about three A.M., she accepted his offer of a snort of the shit for the first time ever. After that, she stopped caring where he fucked her, just as long as he kept fucking her. It felt fantastic.
When he wasn’t actively attending to his hard on, Hunter communicated with his contacts at the casinos.
She called in sick to work. They told Tanner what was going on, and he helped monitor the bank account whenever his mom and Hunter slipped back into the bedroom.
Hunter gave her one more snort of meth.
“That’s all you get sweetheart,” he said. “I won’t allow you to turn into some ugly meth skank. I need you to stay young and hot and sexy.”
Lydia had never felt so excited and energetic. She could not believe how good Hunter’s cock felt. She remained vaguely aware of Hunter and Tanner’s ongoing search for Matt, but she really wasn’t interested. She was certain the money was gone. Poof. Let the guy have his little adventure. So what? Did she really need all that surgery? She was a totally hot bitch already, right?
Just before dawn, Fuckhead Roy called Hunter. He went into the other room to talk. Lydia lay on the bed and touched herself all over with her nails. She heard Hunter shouting into the phone. She thought she heard Tanner laughing. Then, there was silence. She thought about Matt. She missed the asshole. Realizing this made her laugh.
“I need to show you something,” Hunter said. He was in the doorway holding his phone.
“What?”
“Is this your husband? I can’t tell.”
He showed her the image on the screen. It was the close-up of a man from the chest up. He was wearing a coat and a tie. He was on the ground. He had two black eyes. There was blood coming out of his left ear. He looked dead. It definitely wasn’t Matt.
“Is this him?”
“No. It’s not Matt.”
“Okay, good. Fuckhead Roy said he was broke anyway.”
“Is that guy dead?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hunter said. He closed the door, lay on his back, and lifted Lydia onto his cock. Lydia closed her eyes and tried to get lost in the fucking, but all she could think about was Matt’s dead face on a cell phone screen.
Chapter 18
“Mom!” Tanner shouted at 10:30. “Uncle! He just used the debit card at the Peppermill in Reno.”
Lydia barely heard him. She was sucking Hunter as hard as she could, and the bastard just would not come.
“You guys, we got him!” Hunter shouted again. “He’s in Reno.”
Lydia extracted her mouth from Hunter’s cock.
“You know what this means, right?” she said.
She put on a robe, Hunter pulled up his sweat pants from around his knees.
“It means we got to get the fuck up to Reno, ASAP.”
“If he used the debit card, then he’s broke already. He spent all 12 grand. There’s nothing to get, there’s no reason to find him.”
Hunter sat on the bed looking up at Lydia.
“You don’t know that for sure. Who knows what that crazy drunk-ass is up to or how his addled mind works. Either way, dude has to accept the responsibilities for his actions and make this right somehow. He had an agreement with you.”
“Can we just let it go?” She opened her robe and tried to push Hunter back onto his back on the bed. “And get back to what we were doing?”
Hunter pushed her away and stood.
“No, fucker’s got to pay somehow.”
“But, legally, you know, it’s his money. Proceeds from an inheritance are not community property in the State of California.”
“Don’t give me your legal shit, counselor,” Hunter said, putting on his Nikes and his tank top. “According to Hunter Manning’s law, he owes you that money, and I intend to get it.”
“But there’s nothing to get, Hunter. I’m sure he’s just up there totally broke, desperate for a drink. His mother’s Mercedes is the only thing he has left.”
“Exactly. That’s why we got to get up there before he sells that car and loses all that money, too. I just hope he hasn’t gotten that far down already. He’s only had the money for 24 hours.”
Hunter went into the living room followed by Lydia.
“Tanner, Nephew. Go on the web there and find out a quick turn-around price for a mint, low mileage, 1971 silver Mercedes-Benz 280SE convertible. Quickly.”
He pulled Lydia back into the bedroom.
“Now, you. Shut the fuck up and get dressed. And do you have your own key to th
at MB?”
Lydia nodded.
“Then fucking get it. And the pink slip. We are leaving now.”
Chapter 19
Matt woke up at five P.M. He needed a drink. Luckily, there were bottles of tequila and scotch and vodka and bourbon and cognac on the bar, all large bottles of premium brands. More Patron, as well as the half bottle of Johnny Walker Black, Grey Goose, Jack Daniels, Hennessey. The little refrigerator contained twelve Anchor Steam beers. Cool, very cool.
Nice. Thank god he got the Villa.
He had the same elegant highball glasses as the ones in Herman and his wife’s room. He took one out of the plastic covering. Brought it into the bathroom. Turned on the hot water and waited for it to get as hot as possible. Rinsed the glass until it was clear and clean. Dried it with a hand towel. Went back to the wet bar and filled the glass with ice cubes. Let the ice sit in the glass for a full minute. Dumped out the ice and then filled the class with tequila. Opened a beer.
He took off his clothes and his shoes and went into the bathroom with his drink and his beer. There was a lovely sunken tub, and he filled it with the hottest water possible. He drank and drank. The tequila felt so good inside his mouth and going down the back of his throat. He left the cold beer chaser in his mouth until all the clean bitter taste was completely savored. Swallowed and paused and felt the hot bath water with his hand.
He felt unusually calm, peaceful even. He looked at his watch. It was 5:20. Figured he had about twelve hours left to drink and enjoy the room before he had to kill himself. There was plenty of liquor and beer to last until then.
He turned off the water. Chugged down the rest of the tequila and beer. Went into the other room, refilled the glass and got another beer and got into the tub. Put the glass and the bottle on the nice and roomy tub edge. Drank slowly. Luxuriated in the hot water.
Dying on this night, in this room, made perfect sense to Matt. He realized that events had brought him exactly to this point, and there was nothing else he could do. He couldn’t check out and just go home. No, he wasn’t going to face Lydia and her shit.
That was done. Over forever.
He thought about trying to return some of the clothes he bought and get some cash that way. Maybe try the slots this time, get a little lucky finally. No, that was bullshit, and he knew it. He was a loser, and he was just going to keep on losing. It was no fun to lose. He’d rather drink in this wonderful suite.
He considered checking out and then finding some place to sell his car and then … what? Put some money in a new bank account and then go to rehab for a month or two? Yeah, right. That was a joke. Stop drinking and become some good normal citizen with a job? Become a blackjack dealer or a waiter or something? Get a sponsor, work the steps, make fucking amends? Pay back Lydia all he owed? Go into the sunset all right and clean and good? Sure, he could imagine all that, and at one time, he might actually have made himself believe in the pretty picture in his brain. But no more, he’d told that lie too many times already.
He was a worthless drunk and things were just going to get worse and worse. About six or eight hours after he finished all the booze in the room, if he didn’t die of alcohol poisoning, he’d go into convulsions and probably die anyway. That was his future for real. There was no escape.
Lydia would be glad, he knew that. She’d gotten some kind of life insurance on him at work. Not much, about fifty grand, just enough to put him into the ground and cover some of his hypothetical lost wages for a couple of months. She would be happy with that, of course. Plenty to pay off the credit cards, get a tummy tuck, and whatever other work she might want. Matt’s little trip to Reno was going to put her way ahead. It was actually a pretty good investment for the bitch.
All he needed was a method.
He got out of the tub. Dried off while staring at himself in the full-length mirror. Wondered how different his life might’ve been if he had one of those big penises, like Tanner’s. Would he have been more confident? More lucky in general? He looked at his face. He could see what the blonde woman saw in the bar last night. He was such a loser. God, he couldn’t wait to be dead. He deserved to die.
He put his new shorts back on and a clean, new, bowling shirt. Put on his shoes and combed his hair. Refilled his empty glass of Patron. Drank it down, fast. Finished his Anchor Steam and opened another. Looked out the window at wonderful Reno.
He grabbed his bottle of Grey Goose. Walked down the hall to the older couple’s room. Ran into the wall several times.
He figured he could get her into the bedroom and then somehow get the gun from the drawer and hide it in his waistband or in one of his pockets. They’d get it back. After.
He wasn’t sure what to do about Herman. He’d think of something.
He knocked. The lady opened the door. She wore a pink silk pantsuit. No wig. Just nice grey hair in a shoulder-length bob. Bangs. Still had the great cleavage. Not bad.
He held up the bottle.
“Hello, sweetie,” she said. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”
“I got some food, I feel better now,” he said, putting a foot into her room. “Why don’t we finish what we started?”
“Now isn’t a good time.” She tried to close the door, blocking his entry.
“Janet?” Herman said. His voice was coming from the bedroom. “What’s going on? Who’s that?”
“Herman is very drunk and full of piss,” Janet said. “Believe me, you do not want to be here.”
“Come on, baby,” Matt said, slipping inside and leaning against Janet. “Do you have any idea how much you turn me on? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since this morning.”
“Janet!” Herman said. “Who is that at the door?”
“It’s nobody, dear,” Janet said.
To Matt she said, “You didn’t seem very turned on earlier. The way I remember it, you couldn’t wait to get out of here.”
Matt moved in close and gave her a long sloppy kiss. This time, her tongue barely moved.
“That was nice,” Janet said.
“Wasn’t it? Let’s have a drink, come on.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw a naked Herman rush up. He held his pistol above his head by the barrel. Matt ducked just as the old man aimed the big grip at his face. Herman missed Matt and struck Janet on her left temple. Hard. She went down and was still.
“What the fuck are you doing you crazy old man? You might’ve killed her. Jesus.”
Herman dropped the gun. He got down on the floor and checked his wife’s pulse. Matt picked up the gun.
“I’m going to need this.”
“She’s dead,” Herman said.
“Oh fuck.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Herman rushed at Matt and tried to grab the gun. Matt held the pistol by its side in his open palm. He swatted at Herman, careful not to hurt him.
“What were you doing with my wife?”
Herman put his hands around Matt’s throat. The old guy was a lot stronger than he looked. Matt backed up and whacked at Herman’s arms.
“Stop it,” Matt said.
“You killed her,” Herman said, squeezing tighter at Matt’s throat.
“I didn’t kill her. You did, Herman. Just calm down.”
“How do you know my name?”
Herman had Matt backed up against the wall by the bedroom. Trying his hardest to choke Matt to death.
“I recognize you,” Herman said. “You’re that lousy poker player who made a fool of himself last night at the high stakes table.”
Matt kicked at Herman with his feet, hoping that would dislodge his hands. He didn’t want to hurt the guy, he just wanted the pistol.
“You’re that loser,” Herman said, just as Matt, now in terrible pain, lashed out and hit Herman very hard with the gun. Matt heard the awful sound of something breaking and something bursting. Herman went down. Matt felt sick. He gasped for breath.
Herman wasn’t moving. Matt got
on his knees beside him and saw that he was breathing but not conscious. His left eye was gone and blood and something yellow oozed out of the socket. He could see the white of a bone poking out. Matt vomited all over the floor.
He went into the bedroom. Sat on the bed. Put the gun in his mouth. He started to pull the trigger.
He noticed there was a wallet on the dresser. It looked like it was stuffed with money. He put down the gun. Picked up the wallet and looked inside. Twenties and fifties and hundreds, an inch thick. He counted. Seven thousand six hundred and nine dollars. He looked at the credit cards: An American Express Black, a Black Visa, and a Citi Chairman card. The dude’s name was Dr. Herman Dodd, and he was rich as fuck. Matt put the money in one of his front lower pockets. Put the wallet back on the dresser.
He went into the other room. Herman was moaning. He found Janet’s purse. He didn’t look at her body. Her wallet was also stuffed with cash and plastic. It looked like she had more money than Herman. He put it in his other pocket after counting. Nine thousand eight hundred and seventy five dollars. Wow.
He kept looking around the room. He looked in the closets. There was a safe in one, and it was open. It contained stacks of fifty and one hundred dollar chips. Jeez, high rollers. A lot of the chips used to be his.
Fuck suicide. Like he would ever shoot himself.
Matt realized he was sober. It was an odd feeling. Unfamiliar. Like something from another life.
The old man cried out and tried to turn over. Matt watched. Dude was so fucked up. It was all his fault.
He knew he should call the police, get an ambulance. Deal with the consequences of his actions. But, that idea had no appeal. He had another idea. One that also held little attraction, but one that he knew he was going to try. No one had ever said he was a good person.