Wes narrowed his focus, studied his own features. No genetic celebrity. Questioning eyes, short brown hair and a body that screamed ex-military. A face that showed some time spent in the boxing ring before a glass jaw changed his fortunes. Wes dug out a quarter. Heads I use my head, tails I try to get some. He flipped the coin. Heads. So be it. Wes nervously tapped the money in his front left pocket. Four hundred wrapped around his driver's license by a red rubber band. Dude was right, he thought. Keep your mind on the job. Bros before hoes.
When Wes looked up again, open air mocked him. Ms. Hot was gone. He figured that was just as well.
A bus unloaded outside the sliding glass doors, a herd of maybe forty wrinkled, sagging seniors in shorts and tourist tees disembarked. Most were wearing the odds on their faces, looking pissed off and exhausted, although three were beaming like a cat that finally got to the goldfish. Vegas, baby. Vegas.
And Wes McCann thought, fuck it, I can do this . . . . Two grand, just two grand. Time to get on the bus, but first Wes had to make sure he wasn't running cold. He marched to the nearest slot, got four quarters in change, opted to yank the handle like the old days. The bandit ate the first two quarters but paid five on the third.
I'm hot. It's on.
Twenty minutes later Wes McCann strolled past the sun drenched windows and into the Wagon Wheel casino. He was the dude, broad shoulders back, smiling like a movie star. Maybe the cards first? The odds on filling an inside straight were about one in six, but at times like these Wes could feel the card he needed coming like something transported from another dimension; he'd just visualize the turn being that off-suit nine or four, filling the hand, depriving others at the table of the flush that could screw it all up.
The club was packed with chain-smoking seniors and cranked up bikers. Generally, this was the end of the road for gamblers down on their luck. Not me, Wes thought, not today. I'm on a rush streak . . .
The casino was cold, loud and garishly bright. Smoke hung in thick clumps like Halloween spider-webs in a haunted house. It looked like the staff of the Del Webb retirement home had handed every resident a five spot, planted them in front of the penny slots, and left them here to die. The carpet was so loud a man needed earplugs to cross the room.
It was time to find a machine. He walked the slots, touching some with the tips of his fingers, waiting for one to call out. Nothing happened. Then Wes spotted an obese woman "Gone Fishing." She'd clearly been playing the same row of multi-play progressive machines for quite a white. She was starting to slap the bastards like they'd tried to get fresh. Wes loitered, waiting for her to win or walk. Nickels seem like chump change until you realized with multi-plays she'd been playing from one to nine rows per board, and one to ten nickels per row, a max of ninety nickels, or $4.50 per spin. From the look on her face, she'd lost ten or twelve in a row. Wes figured it was time for the machine to pay off. He hoped she'd give up and walk, and sure enough, she did.
Wes slipped onto the cheap black vinyl stool, took a deep breath. He pulled a C-note from his pocket. Max coins per board for each spin.
The machine sucked like a vacuum cleaner and gave him two thousand credits. After the amount the old woman had played, the pump should be well and truly primed. The object of "Gone Fishing" was to line up three lures in adjacent rows. That popped up another screen that let him choose a fisherman to catch some slot fish. It took him a few tries, no major losses. Depending upon the type of fish, the payout was anywhere from fifteen to five hundred times the row bet. Wes bet three coins per row and got an ugly fish worth 200X. The jangling payout was six hundred nickels, or $30.00. Wes smiled confidently. He felt like people were already starting to look at him. He was clearly on a roll.
That little voice inside whispered, you damned well better be. . . . And right then the possibility of losing flashed through his mind like a tracer round in Afghanistan. Wes trembled.
A buxom red-haired waitress slinked over the free booze. Wes didn't want to draw any undue attention so he accepted a glass of champagne. He wasn't about to get hammered and lose his edge. Not this time. The big money would come if he got in on a fishing contest or hit the progressive. He started again at three nickels a row, times nine rows, for a board of twenty-seven nickels. Wes hit the spin button instead of the slot handle, just out of instinct.
Slow start. Nothing. Maybe it was because I didn't pull the handle, that's what was working before.
He yanked and got an ugly fish worth two nickel credits. His instinct told him to spin, so he did, tried for the progressive and bet the max, ninety nickels per spin. He went back to the button, hoping to throw off the machine. It was now a living thing to him, an opponent out to ruin his life. Nada. This didn't make sense; the fat lady had primed the pump. This machine had to be ready to blow.
Wes downed the champagne. He took several deep breaths. The next roll got a twelve credit nibble. He kept going, knowing it had to turn soon, that the odds favored him. Within ten minutes he was down to eighteen credits of the 2000 he'd started with, and a cold chill was running up and down his spine. Fucking bastard machine, you're doing this to me on purpose, damn it . . .
Wes bet two credits per row, nine rows, for the entire remaining credits. He yanked the handle and watched without breathing. The first reel brought up the progressive lure! Spinning, yeah, yeah, go, go, spinning. . . . Progressive number two, then three. Right on! He double-checked the payout posted above the machines and confirmed 25,000 nickels, or a little over a grand. His body sagged with relief. He was still rushing, but it had been close, too close. Wes looked around the casino and was surprised no one was staring. He glared at the machine. No bells, no whistles. A block of ice formed in his lower gut. He pushed the attendant button.
"Yes, sir?"
The voice came from right behind Wes, startling him. He turned and looked into the bored eyes of one of the change ladies. "I won the Progressive, but nothing is happening," Wes explained. "It should have paid out a thousand."
The woman glanced at the machine. "Sorry," she said. She read his face and almost managed to give a damn. "See, it looks good, but too bad you only played two nickels per row instead of the max per spin. That's the only way you can win the Progressive. Better luck next time."
Wes sputtered, but sagged back. Damn it, she was right. He'd played the ten spins before at max nickels, but had run out of credits and had to play less the final time. The change lady wandered away. Wes swallowed bile. He felt lied to, as if the machine had drawn him in under false pretenses. It was personal. He got up and backed away, wishing he could kick it without being thrown out of the casino. The air seemed colder than before, and the stench of cigarette smoke even more obnoxious. The champagne had hit his bloodstream, and the sugar rush made him want another glass. He shaded his eyes and looked around.
There was a gloomy video poker bar midway across the casino, just past the rattling green roulette tables. Wes headed that way, suddenly feeling downright thirsty. He glanced back over his shoulder. Two old women were fighting over the machine he'd just left, figuring he was the sucker who'd primed the bastard to pay out big. Wes didn't want to admit it, but he had a nagging, queasy suspicion that this might not be his day after all. I can't lose, I can't . . .
He turned sideways to worm his way through the Old Folk's Home, figured he'd play some quarter poker video to get his chops back, kill time until the humiliation passed. Nobody wins pissed off. What the hell. I knew those machines were a sucker's bet. I was just killing time. You want to make money, got to play a serious table game like blackjack, craps or roulette. He tried to make it to the poker bar for a drink. The regular Loser's Club crowd kept blocking his way. He was maybe twenty feet away when a loud redneck on the bad side of sixty bumped into him. Weathered cowboy hat, blue work shirt stained at the pits, string tie. Wes took it all in. The old cowboy was thrilled because he'd hit his number with a five spot. The number three had come up hard and fast and paid him off at thirty-five to one. Wes
felt his fingers twitch.
Just then a waitress with modest tits and a big butt figured Wes was in the game. She offered him some liquid consolation. Wes downed one champagne, took another. And another.
The poker table was ten feet away now, two empty chairs sat beckoning, but Wes looked up and saw something at the roulette numbers board that made him stiffen. Three had come up the last two times, the numbers for the ten spins before that were almost all under twelve, with the exception of number thirty-six one time. He always played the numbers under thirteen when playing roulette. The bottom third of the numbers were close to the wheel, so he could see all the action and try to get a sense of the flow of the spin. One of his best gaming experiences had been playing the numbers under thirteen again and again for fifteen spins with his father Cal standing there stoned on grass, telling him over and over again that this was stupid and he was bound to lose his ass, but Wes kept winning and nailed twelve out of fifteen bets. He'd given his dad a hundred dollar chip to ease the pain, offering a dry grin that rubbed salt in the wound.
The guy bumping me? That was a sign. Wes knew it as well as he'd every known anything in his life. He turned his back on the poker table and committed himself to the roulette wheel. He felt in his pocket for the remaining two C-notes. He took a seat in front of the lucky fourteen numbers right next to the wheel. When he sat down, the drunken cowboy left. Another good sign . . .
Roulette is run by a croupier and an assistant stacker. The table consists of a board of rows of numbers, 0-00 through 36. Each number is associated with a color, red or black. The 0 and 00 are green. A large wooden wheel sits at the head of the board, with a color coded pocket matching each number on the board. The croupier starts the wheel spinning, and places a ball against the circumference of it. No more bets. The ball thwacks around the wheel until gravity drags it down into one of the color-coded slots. Betting takes place on the numbers inside the board or on the colors outside; odd/even or a range of numbers such as third 1/2 numbers, like 25 to 36. Wes knew the odds of hitting an individual number were 81 to 1, but the payoff was 35 to 1. He decided to be logical this time. Best bet in roulette is red or black, eighteen are red and eighteen black so that was even money, just a coin toss. Meaning the house had less of an edge.
The waitress appeared and set a paid-for shot of Souza Gold tequila and a draft beer right where the cowboy had been sitting. Wes looked around. No one was watching. He slipped her a one dollar tip and downed the shot and a beer. She didn't seem to mind the size of the tip. In fact, she gave him a wide Cheshire grin and rubbed his arm before leaving. The booze went down like cooling lava. The world took on a rosy tinge and the racket in the casino seemed to drift further away. Don't be an asshole, ease up on the booze.
"No more bets!"
Wes watched the wheel. He'd already decided to bet "on the button" for each of the lower numbers, to go one through twelve and then zero, double zero. A $14.50 bet plus two five-dollar bets for each of the bottom three rows. Now he'd just watch and see what would have happened without risking the money. The wheel whirled and the ball landed in number five, before popping out and finishing in fourteen. Yes! What a lucky break, Wes thought. Stopping for that free drink saved me a damned C-note. I must really be on a roll, now . . .
He leaned forward and made the same bets, the ones he'd planned before stopping to drink and tipping the waitress. Let's do this thing. Around and around with the booze tilting the world to the right. The ball hit thirty-two and bounced to land in two. Yeah! Wes had two bets on number two, $5.00 on the button and a total of $10.00 on the outside of rows one through three. The on-button bet paid thirty-five to one, and the row eleven to one.
$285.00. Wes subtracted the eighty-five lost on the bad numbers. He'd cleared a cool two hundred. The tide was turning. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice reminded him of what he'd also lost on slots, but it was far too late for logic. He doubled down on the same bet. The croupier called out, the wheel spun. Wes imagined people were beginning to look at him again, like he was a big shot. And win he did. Number five. The payout this time was $570.00. He'd cleared another $400.00, despite $170.00 in bad bets. Someone whistled.
Let's go for it. This would be like whipping his father all over again, small numbers, big winner's paradise.
Wes dumped the outside row bets. He went heavy on the button. $25.00 each on the fourteen numbers, zero and 1-12, a $350.00 bet. He could feel it coming, a tingle that seemed to emanate from the center of the earth and run up the back of his legs like fire. He was thinking green and seeing green and whispering green zero, green zero.
"Yes!"
He'd screamed it, didn't care who heard. Won $875 minus $325 gone bad, for a total of $550 clear. Wes scooped up the chips. The waitress was back as if by magic, with another shot of tequila and a beer. An alarm bell went off but Wes chose not to hear it. If he could just maintain this pace, he'd be off the hook in an hour and on the way back home to Los Angeles a winner. This ought to shut Cal up once and for all. The shot went down easy this time, greased lightning, the beer tasted like flavored water. The people around him seemed to move in slow motion.
Time to make a killing.
Wes took a deep breath. He placed everything on the same numbers at $50.00 per number. $700 on the little guys. His hands were shaking. He wondered why. His mind said, Wait. Wait. Wait. The croupier spun the wheel before Wes could say anything. Around and around and around, but the whole fucking casino was spinning now, and sickening adrenaline hit him along with the certainty he'd messed up. Too late, though. Way too late.
The ball bounced from six to eight and came to rest in thirty-six. His fogged brain whispered two small numbers side by side equal a big number. This was not good, not good at all. Wes could feel people turning away now, almost as if they were embarrassed for him. He'd rolling high for a minute, but now . . .
Wes opened his wallet. Empty. Panicked, he searched his pants pockets. The pocket of his faded tee shirt. Nothing. What happened to the other C-note? Did I give it to that bitch thinking it was a one? Shit! No wonder she smiled and rubbed up on me like that!
Two working girls strolled by to plop their Stairmaster asses on bar stools. Their clothes were so tight they looked like they'd run naked through spray paint. The black one caught Wes searching his empty wallet. She turned to the faux blonde and whispered "Vegas, baby." The two exploded into giggles. Wes felt his face turn and burn. Vegas, baby. He jammed his hands into his empty pockets, fingered lint. Wes closed his eyes, imagined a spinning quarter. Heads I try again, tails I cut and run. It landed on heads. He stomped off like a Bigfoot searching for an ATM.
It turned out to be outside the men's room, a large and gaudy R2D2 clone. Wes tried to con the implacable machine into squeezing something, anything out of an account he already knew would be empty. Shit, hadn't Cal already told him it was empty? He was broke. They were broke.
We're going to be two grand short. Roth and Quinn are going to kick the shit out of both of us over this . . .
The two shots and two beers had conspired to tie his guts in a knot. Swearing he'd never gamble again, Wes ran into a men's room, crashed into the filthy stall and began to vomit.
FOUR
Tuesday
There was only one downside to the meeting with Jerry and the executives. Callahan had no idea what the hell they were talking about. He was bored much of the time. He caught that the technology of handheld devices was moving so quickly that the e-book had almost destroyed an already sluggish New York publishing industry. The woman, a gorgeous blonde named Alice Henderson, smelled like cinnamon. She kept patting Mick's knee. She went on and on about her plans for pre-selling downloaded commercial spots with a variety of files, from new books to first-run motion pictures. She kept trying to sell Callahan on the idea of writing a self-help book, something he could hold up for the camera like a hooker at the end of each and every show.
"I love to read, but I'm not much of a writer."
"We can find you a ghost to do it," she said. This time when grabbed his knee for a panicked second it seemed she'd let her fingers crawl higher. "Think of the possibilities. Even that business has changed, it's all print on demand now, no inventory to speak of, no way for the investors to get hurt."
The three of them discussed the way similar technology had thrashed the music business. As a Country Music fan, Callahan thought it obvious that abrupt changes in formatting and production had opened the floodgates to piles of mediocre, self-produced material. The competition buried people who'd spent decades honing their respective craft, made it even harder to break out of the pack. And that was a question of marketing and promotion, assuming the quality was there. This was their area of expertise, not Callahan's. He smiled. It was fun to see his friend Jerry holding court, relaxed despite his disfigurement, trusting his formidable intelligence to supply sufficient charisma. Callahan subtly failed to respond to Ms. Henderson and she eventually turned her romantic attentions back to Jerry. Callahan had a feeling Jerry might be getting lucky, so he left the stage. It was good to see Jerry so happy.
Outside the restaurant, Callahan texted Jerry. Wished him luck with the rest of the meeting, then asked him to do some research on a local named Marvin Roth. Roth was the man Calvin McCann was so afraid of, the badass bookie.
The day was warm and bright. A lazy Santa Ana wind twirled through dry leaves and subtle dust like an invisible broom. The sky was a blue-tinged glass bowl, few wisps of clouds hurried by like white rabbits late for a very important date. Mick pulled into a parking lot near Riverside and Fulton and got in line to buy an over-priced iced coffee. As is always the case, when you have recently broken up with somebody, there seemed to be couples everywhere. Young women with bare midriffs and tan lines clung to hormone-addled men, who in turn glared at large guys like Callahan as if their very presence presented a threat.
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 4