Grift

by Jason Mosberg

  “I’m sorry,” Kim says.

  From her apology I infer she got bounced from the last two casinos, which means she’s tapped out. No casino within 30 miles will let her sit down at a blackjack table. “It’s okay.” I toss my arms around her, and we slump into a tired hug. “You were awesome.”

  “I’m done too, Piper. The owner of Club Cue warned me that the Russian I hustled sent his goons looking for me. I’d be more likely to get my ass kicked and robbed than make any more dough at this point.”

  “It’s okay. You did great, Mars. We all did. What do you have for me, Max?”

  “Hold tight. I think I have two for ya. I’m finalizing the details right now.”

  While I wait for Max to give me the info for my last two jobs, Jesse pulls me aside. His often hard-to-read face dashed with concern.

  “It’s on the news. Ladislav’s in a coma.”

  But it’s not Ladislav I’m worried about. It’s Jesse. “Did anyone see anything?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Did anyone see you or me?”

  “No, the police report just said he was hit with a golf club by a young white male.”

  “Okay good. The less details they have, the less we should be concerned.”

  The feeling of relief drains the pressure from my chest. A young white male? That probably describes a quarter of the city.

  Who knows what would have happened if people had seen Jesse or if someone had caught the incident on camera? Jesse would argue self-defense, but who knows if that would hold up? It would be our word against his (if he ever mutters another word). Our assumption he was a serial killer won’t hold for much in court. Ladislav was never found guilty or even arrested for killing any of those girls. On paper, Jesse just struck an innocent man with a golf club.

  But on the other hand, Ladislav did have a gun on me. What happened to that gun when he fell? Did his driver snatch it up?

  “Piper, what if he doesn’t wake up?”

  “Hopefully, he won’t. And then it won’t just have been my life you saved. It’ll be who knows how many other girls.”

  Before Jesse can respond, Max interrupts us. “Okay, here you go, Piper. I’ve got a 40-year-old Argentinian businessman for you to meet in 15 minutes at the Bellagio. Here’s his room number. If he doesn’t cough up the eight grand we need, I should have another job lined up through Paige by then. Okay?”

  “Alright.”

  Max hands me a piece of paper with the details of the Argentinian, then starts putting all of our money in a briefcase.

  “I’m going to count this up one more time, and then I got to head over to the restaurant,” Max says. “I’ll give Dennis what we have so far to secure your spot in the game. Bring over the rest once you have it, and then we’ll have our million.”

  ***

  The Argentine only yielded two grand. When I come out of the Bellagio, Jesse approaches from the escalators where I left him.

  “You get enough?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the play?”

  Before Jesse finishes asking, my phone’s already out.

  I look at my watch while it rings. Fifty-five minutes before Dennis Cane’s winner-take-all poker game begins.

  “Piper?”

  “Hey, I only got two. I need the info on that other job through Paige.”

  “Piper! Don’t worry! If you got two, that’s plenty. Rob texted me 15 minutes ago…he has six grand on him! That puts us at $1,001,046. Piper, we did it. A cool million!”

  Some unfamiliar, warm sensation runs through my body. Then I realize what it is. Hope.

  “We got enough? We have a million? You’re sure?”

  “One million. With change to spare. Just meet me at Dennis’s restaurant. Oh, and on your way over, grab Rob. He’s in some video game convention at Bally’s. He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Okay, yeah. Got it.”

  “Piper, now it’s time for you to play some cards.”

  “I know. I’m ready.”

  Am I? As soon as I hang up, my shoulders suddenly feel weak. Through my uneven breaths, I hear Jesse’s reassuring voice.

  “You got this, Piper. You got this.”

  ***

  Rob is about to reach his hand in an old man’s pocket when I put my hand on his shoulder. He jumps. “Jesus. Piper, you scared the shit out of me.”

  I don’t have to say why I’m there. He can see the smile on my face. “We got it?” he asks.

  “We got it! One million. That is if you still have six grand on you.”

  “Six?”

  For the briefest moment, that warmth of hope cools, but then Rob continues.

  “Six?!?! Shit, I got ten.” Rob smiles as he shows us his recent earnings.

  A few passersby look shocked to see Rob waving around so much cash.

  “Rob! Take it easy. Maybe you better let Jesse hold the money.”

  “Suit yourself.” Rob tosses the thick wad of cash to Jesse, who quickly pockets it.

  We surpassed a million by a good five thousand now.

  Jesse, Rob, and I walk out of Bally’s. Just as we turn down the sidewalk, headed back towards Las Vegas Blvd:

  “Stop.”

  An LVPD officer stands next to his bicycle just a few feet behind us. The bike cop, who has a ferocious potbelly, walks up to us. He eyes Rob specifically.

  “Is there a problem, officer?” Jesse asks.

  “There’s a description out for a pick pocket. Some teenager who ripped off almost a hundred people in the last 24 hours.”

  We all do our best to look surprised. The cop stops right in front of Rob. “We’re looking for a dark haired guy in the 17-23 range. Between 5’6” and 5’8”. About 150 pounds. Caucasian. Blue eyes. Scar above one eye brow.”

  The cop looks at Rob’s face and narrows in on his scar. The scar from Rob’s storm drain dwelling days.

  Selfishly, I feel less nervous about Rob getting arrested and more worried about us all getting taken in, guilt by association or whatever. If I get taken to the precinct – even if just for questioning – there’s no way in hell I’ll make it for the start of the poker game.

  Rob tries to remain calm, but I can tell he’s on the verge of a breakdown. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for.”

  “Well, I’m going to start by searching you. Put your hands above your head.”

  After muttering a series of four-letter words under his breath, Rob sighs, puts his hands above his head.

  The cop checks all of Rob’s pockets and feels up and down his legs. Thank god he gave the cash to Jesse. But won’t the cop search us next?

  The cop steps away from Rob, satisfied he doesn’t have any stolen money on him.

  “See, I don’t have nothing,” says Rob.

  “Exactly. Not even your own wallet. Seems a bit strange.”

  “Yeah, maybe this thief robbed me too,” says Rob angrily.

  The cop, now further annoyed, turns to Jesse and me.

  “I’m going to need to search all of you.”

  I debate the best course of action. Talk to him and hope we can convince him Rob’s not the guy he’s looking for. Run. Hit the cop and then run. Jesus. Hit a cop and then run? Some fucked pinch we’re in if this is an alternative I’m seriously considering.

  Before I can make up my mind, Jesse steps forward. “Listen officer, we’re in a rush. I can assure you this is not the guy you’re looking for. I understand. I get it. He looks similar, and you feel you got to take him in…but that’s going to put a huge dent in our evening. It’s hard to quantify a hassle, but maybe we can...”

  Holy shit. Jesse is trying to bribe the cop. If it works, he’ll be a hero. And if it fails, we’ll all end up arrested. As discretely as one can pull out a wad of money, Jesse discretely pulls out a huge wad of money. He reaches out his hand. But the cop doesn’t touch the money.

  “That’s five grand. Maybe we could all go our separate ways,” Jesse adds.
/>   The cop still doesn’t touch the money but instead stares us down with disgust. “Are you actually trying to bribe an LVPD officer?”

  Jesse retracts his hand full of cash.

  We’re screwed.

  The cop puts one hand on his cuffs. And looks around. Just when it seems he’s about to pull out the cuffs, he keeps looking. And looking. And looking. To make sure no else is in view!

  “Five thousand dollars is boring. Ten thousand is mildly interesting. But fifteen thousand? Now that would be fascinating.”

  He wasn’t a cop unwilling to take a bribe. He just wanted to squeeze out ten thousand more dollars.

  “We don’t have fifteen,” I say. “But we have twelve.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Jesse hands over Rob’s ten grand, and I cough up the Argentine’s two grand.

  The cop takes the cash. Before he stashes it, he glances right and left, ensuring no onlookers witnessed the blackmail transaction.

  “Thanks for helping me keep the peace. Now don’t let me see you again.”

  After the bike cop disappears around the corner, our celebration only lasts ten seconds. We have to face reality. We’ve gone from a million and change to not quite enough. And $992,000 won’t get me into the poker tournament that’s set to start in 40 minutes.

  It looks like I’m going to have to take that last appointment after all.

  Max must be in the restaurant dealing with Dennis Cane because he’s not picking up his phone. I remember the restaurant’s basement having terrible reception. So I’ll have to go to the escort service and see Max’s contact.

  As Jesse and I leave to go see Paige, we send Rob to update Max.

  “Hey, Rob,” I say just before he turns to go the other way. “If you can, pick up a couple thou on the way.”

  He nods before he turns and runs. I’m not sure how much this last job is going to pay out so every bit Rob can rope in might make the difference.

  Jesse and I take a cab to Paige’s office, which sits on Flamingo Road a half a mile east of The Strip. Jesse suggests it’d be better if I go in alone, so I leave him sitting outside at a bus stop.

  I’ve never actually met Paige before. I’ve heard Max talk about her many times. The nondescript beige office building office gives the Ladies First escort service a generic feeling. The inside appears even more vanilla. From the front desk and cubicles, it looks like they could be selling cardboard boxes or silly puddy. Instead of sex.

  There’s a South American woman sitting at the front desk. Photos feature dozens of different family members on her desk. Real family place.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “I need to speak with Paige.”

  “And you are…”

  “Tell her I’m a friend of Max’s.”

  The South American lady grabs a pen and pad. “Max? Max who?”

  “Just tell her. Paige’ll know.”

  The South American lady sighs, annoyed with my curtness.

  “Please? It’s urgent.”

  She stands up and disappears into a back office. Thirty seconds later, she reappears, waving her hands for me to follow. Ten steps later, I’m in the office of the infamous Paige.

  Pictures of baseball players cover the office walls. Many of the photographs feature Paige with the players at different clubs and restaurants.

  Paige looks older than I expected. In her 50s. From her appearance, I stereotype her as a former dancer or hooker or a hybrid of the two. As one of the many ladies whose careers in Vegas ran dry once they passed 35.

  From the pictures all over the walls, I’d say she was a jersey chaser. She probably had a decent run. Making thousands of dollars, running in various circles of professional athletes. Only to find herself too far over the hill to find a job dancing. Only to find herself working on the other end of an escort service.

  “Hi, I’m Paige. And you are…”

  “I’m a friend of Max’s. I can’t get ahold of him, but he said you had a job for us.”

  “I don’t know who or what you’re talking about.”

  “Paige, it’s me. Piper. I’m the girl. Max’s girl that he uses for the jobs.”

  Paige stares at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m lying. As if she thinks I’m undercover or wearing a wire.

  “Listen, I know this must seem strange, but I’m in a pinch. Max and I both are. We need money now. He said you had an appointment for us.” Her face is painted with skepticism. “Please, lady, I need your help. The money… it’s important to me. It’s for my sister. If I don’t get this money, I –”

  She interrupts me. Her calm voice sounding especially monotone juxtaposed against my desperate muttering. “I’ll help you. I don’t know you or your sister, but I’ll do it for Max. He’s given me a lot of business over the years.”

  Business over the years? Is she referring to her 10% cut on the cons we’ve pulled courtesy of her referrals?

  While Paige clicks away on her computer, getting the information I need for this last job, I can’t resist trying to feel her out a little bit.

  “Well, you know Max,” I say.

  “Yeah. Most of my customers come to Vegas a couple times a year and call me for business. I have a handful of local clients who call me a couple times a month. A few who call me once a week. But Max? The guy doesn’t miss a day. He’s like the Cal Ripken of Sin City. You know, the Baltimore Oriole.”

  For a moment, I try to remember who the hell Cal Ripken is, but then I stomach the first part of what she just said. Max not missing a day? Max the customer?

  She scribbles down the job info on a post-it. I nod, take the paper, and smile appreciatively, but my abdomen tightens in a painful knot. And I can’t feel my legs below the knees. It seriously seems like I have nothing below my knees and I’m just balancing on stumps. I try to take a couple deep breaths, but the extra air can’t stop me from feeling like I’m going to puke up all my internal organs.

  Suddenly it all makes sense. The walks that he takes every night. He wasn’t going for a drink or taking a stroll around Vegas. This whole time, every night, he’s been going to escorts. He’s been going to hotel rooms. That’s how he knew all the “spotters” who facilitate our cons. That’s how he knew how to teach me the trade. How he knew the way I should look and act. Because of all the time he’s spent with high-class escorts. He didn’t learn about the business from his spotters at escort services. He learned about them by being a customer.

  And the money. That’s why Max had way less in the safe than Charlie Moses thought he did. I thought Max’s expenses were limited to food and shelter and taking care of us, but his entertainment budget probably ran a couple hundred grand per year. He always wanted more money. I always thought that his greed was just him saving money to make up for his former gambling problem. But his greed wasn’t to save or to give all of us long-term stability. It was all to finance his nightly sexual habits.

  And it was us. We financed every one of Max’s nights. Max has been using us to support his daily purchase of sex. And I’ve been his top earner.

  I swallow repeatedly, resisting the urge to vomit. He was like my father. Or at least I had always thought of him like a father.

  I’ve pretended to be a whore hundreds of times, but for the first time, I feel like a whore. Max’s whore.

  This whole time I’ve been trying to escape my mother’s past. Trying to run away from my mother the whore.

  But maybe those were just the cards I was dealt. Maybe life is less like poker and more like blackjack. Maybe life is more about the cards you’re dealt than the way you play them.

  Maybe in some way, I was always destined to be a whore.

  I used to think of Max as my father. But Max is no better than Madeline. I didn’t have parents. And the people who I thought of as my parents only let me down.

  But I won’t let Sophie down. I can be the parent I didn’t have. The parent she didn’t have. The parent Madeline never could be. The parent
Max pretended to be.

  ***

  “What if it’s not enough?” I ask, blocking the urge to tell Jesse what I’ve just learned.

  The two of us sit in the back of a cab headed for Imperial Palace.

  Jesse doesn’t answer. What can he say? We have no idea how much cash this guy has on him. Paige has assured he’s good for the fifteen hundred he’s willing to pay to have sex with me, but there’s no guarantee that he’ll have much more cash than that. And even pulling out my gun can’t conjure up cash he doesn’t have.

  As we approach the elevators in the back of the casino, Jesse clutches my arm.

  “I’m coming up with you. I’ll be just down the hall.”

  According to Paige, I’m supposed to go straight to this guy’s room. It comforts me to have Jesse as my bodyguard.

  The guy’s room number is 1914 so I press floor 19. Just as the elevator doors start to close, two drunk suits stumble on the elevator. One bald and one with shoulder length hair. They press floor 15. Jesse and I can’t help overhearing them whisper back and forth.

  “I can’t wait to get up there, bro,” the bald guy says.

  “Yeah, Derrick texted me,” replies long hair. “He said they’re making the two girls do all kinds of fucked up shit to each other.”

  Jesse’s rolling eyes mirror mine. This is ordinary in Vegas. Bachelor parties and other generic collections of assholes that get together and pay dancers to come and put on sex shows. The more money you pay, the bolder the activities.

  The guys continue talking until they exit the elevator on floor 15. Just before the doors meet, my foot interrupts their closing. I don’t know whether it’s ‘cause I’m all fired up from learning about Max or whether it’s hearing these two assholes in the elevator. But I’ve changed my mind. We’re not going to floor 19 anymore.

  “What are you doing?” Jesse asks. “This isn’t our –”

  He stops when he sees my finger pressed to my lips. I walk out of the doors, and Jesse follows with some reluctance.

  The two guys make their way down the hall, Jesse and I tailing them a safe twenty yards behind.