Twenty minutes later, we stand in his hotel suite. It doesn’t matter that it’s his room. I won’t need him to flee it.
His hands have been on me for the whole thirty seconds we’ve been inside the room. Strange that his mandate was for one of Vegas’s top class women if he’s going to act like he’s in a strip joint ten miles off The Strip – one where you get fondling-rights for an extra Andrew Jackson.
No need to waste any time with this particular con. And I’m super f-ing glad because I’m queasy from his hands all over me, and not in a good way. Can you feel queasy in a good way? Jesse makes me feel queasy in a good way. But maybe people don’t call that queasy.
I step back. “Clark. There’s something we have to talk about.”
“A list of dos and don’ts?”
“Sit. Down.” Clark sits. Like a kid being scolded by a teacher. A little smile forms on his lips as if he thinks I’m playing some sexual dominatrix game with him. I’m not.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going tell you this.” His smile already starts to disappear. “I’ve been paid by a private detective agency.”
“What?”
“Some PI has been following you, courtesy of, I’m guessing, your wife. And he approached me and paid me to record our conversations. To get evidence of our… exchange.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking. Angela? Is that your wife’s name?”
The moment I mention his wife’s name, Clark turns white.
“She paid this detective to catch you cheating. The detective knew about our rendezvous. Maybe he has your phone bugged? Anyway, he approached me an hour ago. He offered me two thousand dollars to bring this with me.”
I pull out a small recording device from my purse.
Clark boils. Despite taking deep, quick breaths, he reddens in the face as if he’s not breathing at all. I start to fear how he will react. In my head, I flip through all my “emergency reactions.” What to do if he tries to hit me. If he tries to call his wife. If he demands to talk to the private investigator.
“Why are you telling me this?” His anger dissipates with each word. By “this,” Clark looks like he’s going to cry.
“Because I want out. I got accepted to Arizona State, and I want to go next fall. I’m telling you this because I’m for sale, Clark. You give me ten thousand dollars, and I walk away. I tell the private detective you didn’t show up.”
“Ten thousand dollars?”
“Don’t overreact, Clark. That’s the five you were going to pay me plus five more.”
Clark still appears unsure. Like a poker player debating whether or not to fold his hand.
“How much will a divorce lawyer cost?”
No longer unsure, Clark grabs a bag and counts out ten thousand dollars in cash.
What a joke. I wish all of my jobs could be that easy. Hats off to Paige, the spotter over at Ladies First, a high-end escort service. Max normally gives 10% for a tip, but I know he’ll break off 20% for Paige. After all, she sent us the perfect victim.
First off, Clark was thin and weak, physically. If the mark had been a 250-pound football player whose criminal record was splattered with assault and battery, it might not make sense to try to blackmail him in a hotel room. Second off, Paige knew that Clark’s wife was jealous and suspicious. Third off, Paige knew that Clark was a big gambler and usually came to Vegas with at least ten grand in cash.
Paige has spotted for Max for a couple years now. As an “escort liaison” for Ladies First, Paige deals with hundreds of men who come to Vegas in search of high-class young women. The men get comfortable with her, and she gets to know them over time. When she finds the right mark, she sends them to Max. The escort agency doesn’t pay her that well, so she’s glad to make some extra money here and there.
It’s the middle of the day in the desert, so I cut through a couple casinos on the walk back to Treasure Island to take haven in the air conditioning.
***
Jesse’s poolside with a book under his nose when I walk in the suite. He was reading in that exact spot the first time I saw him. Sophie and I were returning from a matinee, and when we walked in, there was a guy sitting by the pool reading. Looking cool without trying to look cool. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I won’t deny being drawn to him from the beginning.
As I approach, his wide eyes signal how engaged he is in the book. Jesse loves reading. Loves getting lost in other worlds. Just like in his real life.
Jesse looks up from his book and sees me. He has a tendency to worry. Like a brother. Blah.
Or a boyfriend? Boyfriends worry too, don’t they?
I didn’t tell Jesse I had a big job, but when he sees how I’m dressed, he knows where I’ve been. Before he can express his concern, Max and Mars stroll into the room, talking about Abigail Murphy no longer being a missing person.
“If she’s back, does that mean Murph paid a ransom to Charlie Moses?” I ask.
Before anyone can answer, Sophie enters the penthouse from the elevator, Rob just behind her. I’m shocked, having thought she was in her room studying.
Sophie wears a huge smile on her face. It makes her cheeks look chubby in an adorable way. She used to smile like that all the time. When she was twelve. But the next year brought her into her teens and gave her the sass, angst, and moodiness that come along with them.
“Before you get angry, you gotta know she was great,” Rob says, already getting defensive. At this moment, Mars, who never likes drama, stumbles back to his room.
“What did you do?” I ask, glaring at Rob.
“She helped me. That’s it. Piper, she was great.”
“What. Did. You. Do.” When he realizes how angry I am, Rob avoids my eyes like a kid avoiding the principal’s cold stare.
“She did the second half of the Good Samaritan,” Rob says, still eyeing the floor.
“The Guilty Conscience?”
“Yeah.”
It’s a twist on the Good Samaritan. Here, Rob picks a pocket. An accomplice – in this case Sophie – empties the cash then walks up to the victim, hands them the wallet, and says you dropped this. The person is appreciative, but then Sophie, while looking at the ground with a guilty conscience, pulls out the cash from her back pocket and says, “I was going to keep this, but here…” 90% of the time the person rewards the child for their honesty by giving them all or a portion of the cash. And the nature of the con avoids drawing attention. It’s an elegant grift. One that Max taught me early on.
“Don’t get mad at him. It was my idea.”
I ignore Sophie and instead look to Max. “Did you know about this?”
Max shakes his head. Now I turn to Sophie. “Go to your room. Now.”
“I thought you’d be proud of me.”
“I’m not. Go.”
“Piper, I…”
“GO!”
Sophie storms off to her room, her cheeks wrinkling up as she holds back tears. Now I turn back to Rob.
“Pi, girl, you need to relax. Don’t you think you’re being just a tad too–”
“Never again. Or you’re out.”
“What? Out!? The hell is that? You can’t say that… Max?”
Max’s simple nod provides all the backup I need.
“My sister is off limits for cons. Period. Are we clear?”
“You’re making way too big a deal out– ”
“Are we clear?”
“Yeah. Whatever. Fine.”
***
When I walk into Sophie’s room, she won’t look at me. She’s on her waterbed. Facedown. She lies as still as possible, evident by the lack of ripples in the bed. Before I say anything, I just stand there watching her for a moment.
I want to let her take part in grifts. In fact, I want to teach her. It would give us something to bond over. But I just can’t risk it. If she got arrested, the state would find out she has no legal guardian. They’d take her away. And sinc
e parents looking to adopt don’t normally seek a 14-year-old juvenile delinquent, they’d put her in a group foster home or some place worse.
“Sophie.”
She won’t roll over. Or look at me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of everyone. But I had to make it clear.”
Now, she rolls over. Her face swollen and red from tears. “Why? Why do you get to do it, and I can’t? You did it when you were my age! When you were younger than me even.”
She’s getting older and smarter. Better at arguing. “Half the reason I’ve been doing this all these years was so you would never have to.”
I sit down on the bed next to her and play with her hair. I know she’s still mad at me, but she doesn’t object to it. We sit there for a while in silence.
It’s true. Sophie is half the reason I carry on the way I do. I’ve always wanted a different life for Sophie. I thought about turning her in to social services, but I’ve heard such horror stories about foster care, and I know I can take care of her. I know I can.
A year and a half ago, I thought maybe I could give her a more traditional life. I had saved ten thousand dollars. Only about four thousand came from Max. The other six I won playing poker.
I had gotten good at poker. I played for hours every day. On the internet. In casinos. Maybe I was addicted. Am? Either way, I won more than I lost. It might sound simple, but that’s what makes a professional poker player successful. They win more than they lose, and nearly every single day, I won more than I lost.
Various daily underground poker tournaments exist in Vegas. Some people play those circuits because they’re not legitimate residents. Others play them for tax reasons. Some don’t like to give the casinos any money simply out of principle. I choose them because I’m underage.
I used to believe, if I can win one of these ten-thousand-dollar buy-in tournaments, I can walk away with a hundred grand. That, I figured, was enough to move away from Las Vegas. I had calculated that a hundred grand was a comfortable amount to rent an apartment, get health insurance, and buy food for four years. Enough money to get Sophie through high school. She could have a more traditional social and educational experience. Maybe go to college. I had even found an apartment online in St. George, Utah that was close to a public high school with a great reputation.
If I could pull this off, I figured I could leave behind the life of a con artist and adopt the life of a professional card player.
Max tried to talk me out of it. He didn’t want me to squander the money. We argued for a full week. In the end, he knew he couldn’t convince me, so he supported me. He even helped me get into the tournament where he figured I’d have the best chance. The game was run by Dennis Cane. Dennis holds daily ten-thousand-dollar buy-in poker games in the basement of his restaurant. Actually, twice a year, he holds perhaps the biggest underground poker tournament in Vegas – a million-dollar buy-in winner-takes-all tournament. Those stakes make his daily game seem like small potatoes.
I took all my savings and entered one of Dennis’s daily “small potatoes” games. There were twelve players that day, and I made it down to the last two. Me versus Dennis. I went all in on three jacks. But the fourth jack was in Dennis’s hand, giving him a full house. Tens over jacks.
My three of a kind went down the shitter along with my dreams of a regular suburban life for my sister. Famous poker player Nick “the Greek” once said, “The next best thing to playing and winning is playing and losing.” In this case, the next best thing would have been not to play at all.
I was dejected. So was Max. I don’t know why. Maybe because I lost, or maybe because he’d let me play. But it was the only time I’ve ever seen him cry.
Since then, I abandoned dreams of using poker as a stairway to a better life. But I didn’t quit playing. I couldn’t, and I still can’t. People say quitting poker equates to quitting smoking, but to me, it’d be more like quitting walking or breathing. It’d be like quitting Jesse.
I figured I didn’t need poker to give Sophie a better life. I could keep working with Max. I could homeschool Sophie all the way through high school. Help her get her GED. Then have her take the SAT’s. Get her into a community college. After two years, she could transfer to a university.
At that point, her unorthodox upbringing would be in her rear view mirror. And on the open road ahead, she could have a normal college experience. Have a boyfriend. Post drunk pictures on Facebook. Become a doctor or a teacher or astronaut or whatever the hell she wants to be.
I’m sure most people would say I’m doing the wrong thing. That Sophie should have a legal guardian of legal age. That she should be in a real school. That I, another orphan, am not fit to raise her. But screw that. I don’t trust anyone else.
***
After I leave Sophie, I scan the penthouse’s common areas for Rob. In my search, I stumble upon Mars watching SportsCenter.
“You seen Rob?”
“He’s in his room.”
“His room? I was going to check and make sure everything was cool. I guess it’s not.” Mars chuckles as I make my way towards Rob’s room.
Rob is the most social of any of us. Simply put, he likes to be around people. Thus, unless sleeping, he’s never in his room. With the exception of when he’s angry or embarrassed. And right now, based on how I chewed him out, he’s probably a bit of both.
I knock on his door.
“What.”
“It’s Piper. Can we talk?”
The door opens. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to make sure we’re cool.”
“Yeah. Whatever, I get it, Piper. Stay away from your sister.”
“That’s not it.”
“That’s exactly it!” he yells.
I’m tempted to yell back. To have it out with him. But I know if I remain calm, and slip him some niceness on a nice little plate, he’ll serve it back.
“My sister likes being around you the same way I do.” I’m ready to keep going and describe specifically why I like him, but I don’t have to. I gather from his posture and his breathing, he’s already calming down.
“You guys can play video games, watch movies, whatever. Just nothing that involves–”
“I get it.” There’s still some edge to his voice.
“She’ll hate me if you stop hanging out with her all ‘cause of this incident. She likes you, Rob. She likes your magic tricks.”
“Tricks? They’re not tricks.” And he pulls a quarter from behind my ear. It’s not that impressive, but then as he passes the quarter from hand to hand, making it disappear and reappear at his whim, I quickly become impressed.
“So, you going to come out of isolation time?”
“What, Rob can’t have any time to himself?”
I can’t help laughing. It comes out more a snort.
“That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t…”
“You are good with your hands…”
He flips me the bird, and we both laugh before I turn and walk away from his room.
Rob has been into sleight of hand magic since he found an old magic set in the attic when he was six years old. His adoptive mother died when he was nine, and her boyfriend (who Rob thought of as his stepfather) became his legal guardian. Rob never told me the exact situation with his stepfather, but whatever it was caused Rob to run away from home at 15. He came to Las Vegas and got a job working at a little magic show inside the Circus-Circus casino. When he first applied for the job, he lied and said he was 18 years old (the minimum employment age at a casino). After he was hired, he bought a fake ID to secure the job.
But after six months, Rob’s loose tongue created rumors about his true age. The hotel investigated and promptly fired him.
Rob stayed in a motel as long as he could afford. Three weeks. And then it was the street. Or rather, below it.
He found a place to live in the storm drains underneath Las Vegas. They were dark and damp, but no one bothered him
there. Plus, it was cool. Las Vegas sits in the middle of the Mojave Desert, and in the summer time, the average high temperature reaches triple digits.
Another homeless man helped him build a hanging bed two feet above the damp ground. Rob described his bed as akin to the ones mountain climbers build halfway up an arduous climb.
Rob refers to his months in the storm drain as an adventure, but he’s also quick to list the drawbacks. The smell. The drug addicts. And then there’s what he initially thought was the worst drawback: the black widow spiders.
Rob had just become comfortable living below ground when he found out the actual biggest drawback. And nearly died as a result. Las Vegas gets four inches of rain a year. Not much, but when the rain comes, it comes quickly. Rob was asleep when a flash flood came through and nearly drowned him. He was swept down the drain four hundred yards, spraining a wrist and a gashing his forehead above one eye. Before he finally grabbed a pipe and climbed out, vowing to never again enter the storm drains beneath Las Vegas.
The next day, Rob stole for the first time. It came easy to him. He had quick hands from thousands of hours of training in sleight of hand magic. He applied that talent to lifting wallets from pockets.
Initially, Rob stole only for his food (fast food) and shelter (cheap motels). But overtime he became more and more ambitious. He started to appreciate what money could buy. He liked going to hip-hop and rock concerts and paying to get into the swankier pools at the larger hotels where he could meet girls his age. And one day he realized that beer wasn’t just a glass of yuck for adults.
So he stole more and more to finance his desired lifestyle. Along the way, he learned wallets were just one of many possessions to steal. Example taken: casino chips.
But success brought along its dark shadow, cockiness. One night at a Kings of Leon concert, Rob went on a tear. He picked pockets, collected cash, and discarded wallets. He wasn’t counting how many he took, but the police report later said that an unidentified thief had stolen over seventy wallets before three security guards chased him out of the Coliseum.
Grift Page 5