As we finish separating the money into nine stacks of five grand each, Max squints at me.
“There’s over 45 grand in here, Piper.”
“Yup.”
I try to hide it, but no poker face will keep Max from the correct conclusion. “Piper, I gave you that gun for emergencies.”
“I know. Why?”
“Never mind.”
I know he doesn’t buy my playing dumb, but he also doesn’t press me further.
***
My next two appointments go smoothly. I get five grand from one and rely on my gun to get eight grand out of the second.
But it won’t be three quick and easies in a row. My next client doesn’t show. After waiting ten minutes, I figure I’ll wait only ten more.
I pace in what was the Sands Motel. Before they blew it up. I remember Max telling me they used the footage of the motel exploding for this movie Mars Attacks. I liked the young actress in that movie. She starred in this other movie I saw on TV once that really got in my head. It was about this little girl in New York City whose family got murdered. This hitman (I think he was French or Italian or something) took her in. The hitman fed her, housed her, and trained her. He looked after her like a father. The movie stuck with me because I was about the same age when Max took me in. In the movie’s finale, the hitman ends up sacrificing himself to save the little girl. I cried when I saw it, imagining Max would probably do the same for me.
Waiting means thinking. How are the others faring?
I hope Kim and her friend Vivi are filling their purses. Who knows exactly how talented a counter Vivi is, but I do know they’ll be much more effective working together, especially if they stick to Max’s “face off” card counting strategy.
In this system, the two players sit at different blackjack tables that face one another, so they can always have a view of the other. Each of them keeps the count for the decks at their table. When one table gets hot (where it would be a great time to increase the betting) they signal the person across from them. So if Vivi signals, Kim tells her dealer she needs a change of luck. She switches tables, joins Vivi, and immediately starts playing for ten thousand per hand. Since Vivi’s the newcomer, no one will suspect that she’s been counting cards. And she hasn’t. Kim has. For Vivi’s benefit. By the way Max devised the system, the counter never bets big.
This strategy would be obvious to the security team watching the surveillance footage of all the blackjack tables if Kim and Vivi continued to play at separate tables and then kept joining one another at the same casino. But, a key component of Max’s system keeps the pair on the move. Let’s say they’re playing in the Venetian. Vivi’s table gets hot. Kim comes over, starts betting ten thousand per game. She makes sixty grand before Vivi alerts her that the count has cooled. At that point, they both leave the casino and go somewhere else. They can move from casino to casino all night.
While waiting for my client to show, I stare at the casino door, half expecting to see Kim and Vivi walk in.
They don’t.
My mark’s final ten minutes expire, so I abandon the job. It happens. A client doesn’t show. Sometimes, they lose track of time in a casino. An easy mistake considering casinos are all decorated and lit in a way that makes it impossible to tell the time. It always feels like ten o’clock at night – a good time to have a cocktail and put down $50 on black.
Leaving the Venetian, I decide to swing by TI to dump my cash. And, more truthfully, to hear how Kim and everyone else are doing.
By the elevators in TI, I sense someone walk up behind me.
“Gimme all your money.”
I turn to see Rob with a big smile on his face. I’m guessing the smile is from picking pockets. His ability to smile given the circumstances perplexes me. But if happy-go-lucky makes him go, then I’ll take it.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“Good. We’re getting there.”
The elevator doors open.
“You see anybody else?” I ask as we step into the elevator.
“Yeah, I ran into Kim and her friend the last time I circled back. I think they’re doing good.”
The elevator doors open, and a tourist with a Hawaiian shirt joins us. Rob and I halt the conversation as the elevator rises. The doors open on floor 16, and the tourist exits.
“Aloha,” Rob says with a smirk on his face.
The man doesn’t bother to turn back or respond.
As soon as the doors close, Rob opens a large brown leather wallet. Pulls out some cash from the wallet, then tosses the wallet on the ground of the elevator.
“Aloha, $300.”
I can’t help smiling. I didn’t even see him take the tourist’s wallet. That’s how sly he is.
When we get upstairs, Max informs us we’ve crossed $200,000. Twenty-seven hours before the poker game starts.
While I pound a glass of water, Max updates me on Kim. I had hoped she and Vivi were kicking ass. And according to Max, they are.
“And Jesse?” I ask.
“I realized I still had about five thousand dollars in fake Luxor casino chips. He went to go move them.”
“Every dollar counts, especially when it’s five thousand of ‘em,” I say just before I bolt.
***
In a cab. At a traffic light. I stare out the window at an electronic billboard. An advertisement catches my eye. It calls Vegas “Heaven on Earth”. I’ve heard it called heaven on Earth and I’ve heard it called hell on Earth. Neither Madeline nor Max raised me Christian, so I don’t necessarily believe in hell or heaven. But if I did, I’d say Vegas always seemed more like purgatory. The ultimate temptation destination where people are judged on whether they’re going to heaven or hell. Given that I con men who go to prostitutes, would that send me to heaven or hell? Probably neither. I’m destined for purgatory. Destined for Las Vegas.
My cab drives through purgatory, turns off The Strip and heads down Flamingo Road.
My watch strikes 6:00 AM on the dot when I climb out of the cab and enter the Rio.
The casino looks clean and relatively new compared to some of the grungier casinos like Circus-Circus. You wouldn’t know it was dawn given the activity on the casino floor. And it definitely doesn’t feel like dawn to me since I haven’t been to sleep yet.
As the elevator doors close, I hit the button for floor 50, which is adjacent to the 39 button. The elevator contains no buttons for 40-49 in the Rio because in Chinese culture, the number four is considered unlucky. With Chinese tourists making up a big chunk of your clientele, it’s easy enough to forego fours.
My client is staying on floor 50, but that won’t bring him any luck tonight.
He opens the door less than two seconds after I knock. His appearance hypnotizes me. Adorable baby blues shine from a flawless face. A youthful buzz-cut matches his facial features and athletic build. He’s tall. A touch over six feet. His tight shirt reveals an upper body that spends a few days a week in the gym. He looks like he should be on a giant billboard advertising some overpriced tighty whities.
“Come in.”
“How is your evening thus far?” I ask as I enter the room.
“Okay.”
“Okay? We’ll see what we can do about that.” Without thought, lines like this roll off my tongue from an arsenal Max stored in my brain.
I look around the room. In theory the room should be nice. Nice carpet sits below nice furniture that sits below nice paintings. And it all goes together nicely. But something about the room feels off, and I can’t put my finger on it.
An old rumor in Vegas suggests that the hotel rooms are designed in a way to make you not want to stay in them. Makes sense: the casinos want you downstairs gambling, not upstairs lounging and watching TV. Looking around the hotel room, I wonder if the rumor is true.
I wonder how architects and interior decorators handled an assignment with a mandate to subtly inspire people to leave the room.
“Drink?” my client asks.<
br />
“I’m okay.”
He sinks into the couch. “Come here. Sit with me.”
I’m about to sit down next to him on the couch when he puts his hand on the small of my back. It’s a tell – he wants to make love. Not simply have sex.
With his other hand he takes mine, and whisks me on top of his lap. The last guy who had me sit on his lap insisted on playing Santa Claus and hearing all my naughty Christmas wishes. My current client only looks in my eyes and runs his fingers through my hair. Now that his face is in the light, he’s even cuter than I thought.
Rob has asked me on two different occasions if I ever get turned on while doing a job. He likes to think that I do and refuses to buy that I don’t. In his mind, there have to be times when I get caught up in the moment. I don’t. The con is what exhilarates me. I have too much negative energy towards the sex industry. Towards Madeline and the man who impregnated her. Towards all men who cheat on their wives and girlfriends and come to Las Vegas to pay women for sex. Way too much negative energy to be turned on during a job.
This moment provides a perfect example. Here I am sitting on this gorgeous man’s lap, and I’ve been more turned on from watching Friends reruns.
“Am I your first job today?”
“I don’t talk with clients about other clients, so please don’t ask me anything else… but yes, you are my first job today. This week actually.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
Uh oh. We’ve got a talker.
“No?” I ask as my finger traces his pecks.
“My wife is leaving me. I just found out this week. She said she just doesn’t love me anymore. She said it like loving me was something that fell out of her pocket.”
Now his hands rub his own face rather than mine, and I can see pain present even in his posture. He’s not faking it. Why would he? Guys might fake sensitivity to try to get into a girl’s pants. But not if they’re paying the girl to get in her pants.
I knew when he put his hand on the small of my back and sat me down on his lap the night he wanted. And now, from his confession, the whole picture becomes clear. He wants me to replace the emotional void his wife left.
I put my hand on the top of his head. Stroke his hair. In different circumstances, I might think about letting him off the hook. I might contemplate leaving his suite and specifically leaving him with his money.
Only one time did I ever choose to let a mark get away with his money. There have been plenty of times when a con didn’t work or I had to flee in the middle of a job. But only once did pity alone convince me to let a mark escape.
This was a year ago. The client was a bankrupt banker, a victim of the recession. His wife had left him for a wealthy entrepreneur, and he only had his two daughters every other weekend.
He had come to Vegas with his banker friends, and those friends had bought him a high-end hooker. He didn’t even know his friends had done it until I knocked on his door. That guy didn’t have it in him to sleep with a prostitute. He just wanted somebody to talk to. So I talked to him for a few hours and didn’t rip him off as planned.
I think about that poor guy as I sit here in the Rio on this other man’s chiseled quads. Does he get to see his daughters? Did he ever remarry?
Hands wandering from my back to my stomach to my breasts grope me out of my daze.
Time to get moving. That man I let off the hook a year ago hadn’t hired me – his friends had. This man here doesn’t have my sympathy, and even if he did, no one gets a pass in the next 26 hours.
***
Part of the reason a stripper or escort can make great money in Las Vegas is the hours. At a normal strip club in a normal city, dancers or escorts might be able to work the 8:00 PM to 4:00 AM window. But in Vegas, it’s 24/7. Or at least 21/7. Strip clubs and escort services’ only quiet time runs from 9:00 AM to noon.
So I plan to take care of a few things during this slow period. First, I drop off all my earnings back at the penthouse and get an update from Max.
Next I take a shower. As much as I don’t want to break my momentum, I can’t play the role of a high-class call girl if I smell like a low-class drug addict who just hit the gym. I’ve been running all over the desert. No strong enough for a woman deodorant can replace a shower in this circumstance.
After a three-minute shower, I down a turkey sandwich. I struggle to differentiate the aches in my stomach. The twinges of fear. The pangs of hunger. But I know I need to eat. It’ll give me energy. It’s the fastest two slices of turkey have ever been slapped between two pieces of wheat bread.
Though I’m reluctant, Max convinces me to take a twenty-minute power nap.
“You’re not going to find work for another hour anyway,” he says.
I lie down. But I don’t ever actually fall asleep. Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Each second clicks her name. I can’t stop thinking about her.
About her with that 18-year-old guy. I was terrified about her being in danger then. Worried that older guy would have made a move while they were kissing in the pool. That? That was nothing compared to the danger she’s in now.
After the fact, I asked her why she was downstairs at the hotel pool when we had a pool in our suite. She didn’t answer me, but I now realize it was because she was lonely. The only thing the hotel pool has over our penthouse pool is people.
When – not if – I get her back, I have to make an effort to give Sophie a chance to make friends her age. Her homeschool education results in a lack of interaction with kids her age. Sure, she’s friends with Mars, Rob, and Kim, but they’re all a few years older. Occasionally, she’ll make friends with a boy or girl her age that’s staying in the hotel, but those friendships – like the visits of the tourists – are fleeting. There’s got to be a way I can grant her a safe but fun social life. Maybe I’ll put her in camp this summer.
That’s a pleasant thought. Sophie in summer camp. Safe.
It’s almost a pleasant enough thought to ease me into a nap, but then my mind goes to the proof of life photograph.
And with that image, I’m up, dressed, and back on The Strip.
***
Entering the hotel, I can’t help thinking about how my client, who I know to be a big gambler, chose to stay in THEhotel at Mandalay Bay, one of the few hotels in Vegas without a casino. Does he fear losing too much money? Like somebody trying to lose weight not wanting to live next door to McDonalds?
I still don’t know when I leave the hotel, having conned him for seven grand.
I have 40 minutes to kill before my next appointment. Not quite long enough to pick up and con a stranger, so I decide to walk over to Club Cue to check on Mars. I’ve gotten updates on everyone else.
I make my way from the Venetian back towards The Strip. As the escalator descends, I take in a deep breath of air. The Venetian, like the Bellagio and a couple other hotels, use a company called Aromasys to pump these “good smells” into the air. An urban legend suggests that there’s something addictive in the gasses to make you return to their casino. I wouldn’t put it past them.
Walking along, I consider the long-term trouble some of these cons will cause the spotters and therefore Max. Normally we devise the cons in a way to protect the spotter at the escort service. If a mark flees a hotel room, thinking I’m underage and unconscious, he’s never going to go to the escort service, claim the escort conned him, or demand his money back.
Because we haven’t been able to cover our bases as cleanly, some of these cons are going to cause problems. In a couple cases, I’ve flat out robbed clients at gunpoint. There will be some damage control to deal with over the next few days, and I suspect some bridges will be burned permanently. But those are all future problems. In the present, only one problem exists: Sophie.
I try to cut through the casino to get to The Strip, and I find myself getting lost. I turn around in a full circle, but all I see is a spinning collage of tables to the soundtrack of buzzing slot machines. It feels like I�
��m trapped in the center of a casino-themed merry-go-round. Which way is the exit? I’m not some tourist. I grew up here, and I’ve been to this very casino dozens of times, but I’m still disoriented. All the casinos will give you signs that point to the slot machines, poker rooms, bars, buffets, restrooms etc. But they’ll never tell you how to get out.
I remember Max saying casinos are like mazes. You are the mouse. Except instead of the cheese being at the end of the maze, there’s cheese everywhere. You wander around eating cheese until you’re broke.
“Where’s The Strip?” She doesn’t hear my question the first time. I practically scream it the second time. “Where’s The Strip?!?!”
The fifty-year-old Hispanic cocktail waitress glares before nodding her head to the right.
Zigzagging around tables through the smoky casino, I suspect she steered me wrong out of spite, but then I finally spot daylight.
At Club Cue, past a dozen green felted tables, I notice a flood of people in the back of the pool hall. After pushing my way through the crowd, I see Mars’s opponent is an older Russian man. It looks like they’re playing nine ball. Mars sees me and nods.
Nine ball is a game of pool using only the (you guessed it) first nine balls. It’s fairly simple. The main rule is that you have to hit the lowest ball on the table first. If the cue ball hits any other ball first, it’s a scratch. If you sink a shot, you get to go again. Whoever hits in the nine wins. Combination shots play a big part of the game. For instance, you could hit the one into the nine into a pocket on your first turn, and you’d win.
The Russian guy goes on an impressive run. He knocks in the seven, eight, and nine balls on three consecutive shots. Game over. I nudge the surfer-looking guy next to me.
“You know what the score is?”
“The Russian just tied it up at four. They’re playing a race to five.”
While the Russian racks the next and final game, Mars walks over to me.
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