Grift

by Jason Mosberg

  “What are you doing?” Jesse whispers.

  “My client? Who knows if I can get six grand out of him. But I have a feeling there’s a lot of cash in this room.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “You ever seen Bonnie and Clyde?” I ask.

  “No,” Jesse says.

  “Me neither.”

  I pull the gun out of my purse and discreetly hand it to Jesse just as the guys knock on room 1568. We stand about three doors down.

  “You shoot. I talk.”

  “Shoot?!”

  “Well, hopefully you won’t have to actually shoot.”

  “Pi, I don’t know about this. Max always said to never –”

  “I don’t care what Max said. I don’t answer to Max. Not anymore.”

  Jesse stares back with a blank look. He, of course, sees no basis for my sudden turn in loyalties. I’m dying to fill him in on Max’s betrayal, but there’s no time.

  The door to the hotel room opens. The hallway fills with hip-hop music. As the two guys enter the room, we hear high fives along with various drunk greetings.

  “Dude!”

  “Man!”

  “Bro! You guys made it.”

  Just as the closing door drowns the party’s noise, I slip my toes into the diminishing gap and prop the door before it fully closes. I feel nervous as hell, but I shove that feeling aside. I have to keep the momentum going.

  So I walk right into the room.

  About ten to fifteen more guys than I thought there’d be stand, all gathered in a semi-circle. My eyes go to a blanket spread out in the center of the room. Two naked dancers lie on it. A variety of sex toys and products near them.

  The guys all look at me. Wondering who the hell I am. “You guys hired another dancer, right? I’m Bianca.”

  Mass confusion and excitement ensues. Everyone asking each other who might have hired a third girl. That’s when I pull Jesse into the room. The drunk idiots are so busy arguing with each other about who hired another dancer, that none of them see Jesse holding the gun.

  “Hey!” I scream. “No one move. Everyone put your hands above your head!”

  Three quarters of the guys look ready to cry. The other quarter appear in disbelief.

  One especially drunk guy starts laughing. “It’s part of the act!”

  “You!” I scream. “Give me that cushion on the couch.” The timid guy’s hands shake as he passes me the cushion. I remove the pillowcase. “I need everybody’s money. Everybody pays and nobody gets shot.”

  Just then, a door opens.

  Jesse aims the gun at the guy rushing out.

  But it’s only some drunk idiot who was in the bathroom. He freezes when he sees the robbery in progress. He probably would piss himself if he hadn’t just taken a piss.

  “Get over there with everyone else!”

  While Jesse holds the gun and keeps everyone back, I go around and collect all the cash out of the wallets. Most people only have a hundred bucks or so, but here and there I get to a guy holding a thousand or more. One guy even has four grand on him in a silver money clip.

  “You! Don’t move another finger, or I’ll shoot you.”

  I whip around to see Jesse aiming the gun at a guy who had pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

  Jesse, the chameleon, has stepped right into his role as “maniac robber with a gun.”

  “Toss your phone on the ground,” Jesse continues.

  The phone barely clatters on the floor before Jesse has stomped it to bits.

  Jesus, I hadn’t thought about their phones. It’s my first robbery, so I’m winging it.

  “Everybody throw your phone on the ground.”

  They all remove their phones and slide them towards Jesse.

  “You.” I point to a short, stout guy wearing khakis. “Khakis. Yeah, you. Pick up all those phones and put them in a bag.”

  While khakis puts all the cell phones in a plastic CVS bag that was on the table, I keep moving around the room, collecting cash.

  As I scan the faces staring at me, I can’t help thinking about what Jesse and I are doing, and it instantly becomes clear why Max forbade me from doing any robbery like this. I remember when I was a little kid asking him if it would be easier just to rob someone. But he always said it was far riskier. And now that I’m seeing the faces around the room, I’m seeing the risk. These guys have just seen my face. My dress. My height. My weight. The mole on my left cheek. Twenty witnesses have just come into being. And they’ll definitely call the police when we’re gone. The genius to Max’s cons wasn’t getting the money. The true genius was in getting away with the cons.

  I’ve been estimating the money in the pillowcase. We’re already over fifteen grand, and I still have four more guys. Three of them have about forty dollars each on them, but the last guy has five grand on him. That gives us twenty on the job.

  Next, I walk over to the two girls.

  “Put some clothes on, you good-for-nothing-trashy-sluts.”

  The girls look petrified as they put on their clothes and gather their possessions. I swallow, and the saliva feels like liquid guilt trickling down my throat. I had to do something to distance myself from them. If I hadn’t, I would risk these guys thinking they were somehow involved, and that’s the last thing I want. Chances are, the girls aren’t entrepreneurs. They probably have a boss. And I don’t want them to get hurt – which could and likely would happen if their boss suspected they set up a robbery.

  When the bald guy from the elevator fidgets, Jesse waves the gun wildly. “Next person who moves gets a bullet in the head!”

  While everyone looks at Jesse, I slip ten grand into one of the dancer’s purses. She sees me do it but doesn’t say anything. It’s the least I can do for them after ruining their night’s paycheck and scaring the shit out of them.

  “Now get the hell out of here.” The two dancers flee the hotel room.

  Next, I move towards khakis and tell him to hand me the bag of phones. I even go over to the hotel room phone. “Khakis, unplug that phone and put it in the bag.” The guy unplugs the landline and puts it in the bag with the other phones.

  Jesse keeps the gun on all the guys as I address them one last time. “No one leaves this hotel room for 30 minutes or we kill khakis. Got it!?!?”

  I grab khakis by his arm. I don’t want to take a hostage with us, but if I don’t, the guys will have hotel security waiting for us in the lobby.

  I’m ready to leave the hotel room but another precaution pops in my head. “You two,” I say, pointing at two guys wearing baseball caps. “Give me those hats.”

  With a pillowcase full of money, a bag filled with phones, one hostage, and two hats, Jesse and I exit the room. Jesse reaches for the down elevator button, but I pull him into the stairwell. “Cameras in the elevator.”

  So Jesse, our hostage, and I run down 15 flights of stairs. The hot, stale, dry air in the stairwell rushes in and out of my lungs. It would’ve been hard exercise even if I hadn’t been awake for 36 hours rushing around Las Vegas.

  When we reach the bottom, I take the gun from Jesse and point it at our hostage. “I want you to turn around and run up these stairs. Don’t stop until you get to floor 15. You can go back to the room. Okay?”

  Khakis nods as beads of sweat fly from his face. He’s dripping like a wet mop. Not sure if it’s from the fear of the robbery or from having run down the steps.

  “Go then!”

  The guy turns and dashes up the stairs. I dump all the phones out in the stairwell and stuff the empty bag into the pillowcase of money.

  “Bears or Phillies?” I ask Jesse.

  Wearing the two caps low over our eyes so that aerial security footage won’t show our faces, Jesse and I casually walk out of the stairwell and exit the casino.

  Back over one million.

  Eight minutes before the poker game starts. If we’re going to make it, we have to run.

  --Darkness. There’s darkness in him.
That darkness seeps into his desires and even his decisions. I guess I’ve always known that. But with all the highs and lows, and everything we’ve just been through together, I can’t believe he would con me.--

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN – My real hand

  With its grey walls and sparse lighting, Dennis Cane’s restaurant seems like one of those dingy-on-purpose places. As a restaurant, it might serve a hip(ster) contrast to the bright flashy city. But as a poker venue, its dreariness only foretells loss.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come in?” Jesse asks.

  “It’s not that I don’t want you to. I just think Dennis might be thrown by someone he’s never met showing up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”

  Though reluctant, Jesse knows he has to head back to TI and wait with everyone else.

  “Hey.” I was approaching the door, but I turn back when I hear Jesse’s voice. “Even if I’m not in there with you, I’m in there with you.”

  “I know.”

  With the invisible support of Jesse at my side, I meet Max in the lobby of Dennis’s drab restaurant. Part of me wants to have it out with him right now and show him my cards. How I know he used me. How he manipulated me. How he betrayed me. But I can’t. I have to focus on what I’m here for. To get the money.

  To get Sophie back.

  “We’re on track,” Max says. Then he eyes me skeptically. “You okay, kid?” He says it like he cares. Well, shit, maybe he does care. He wants me to win the game so we can get Sophie back so everything can go back to normal. A normal where we all make him money that he spends on young prostitutes.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Just nervous.”

  “It’s okay to be a little nervous. You’re ready for this.”

  Next, Max takes my hand and leads me through the restaurant towards the back where the restrooms are. Men’s on the left, women’s on the right. In the middle is a door you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it. It appears no different from the wood paneling that runs along the hallway. Max pushes open the hidden door and leads us down a dark hallway.

  At the end sits a small office home to Dennis’s accountant. Officially this accountant oversees the restaurant’s finances, but unofficially he oversees the money side of Dennis’s poker endeavors.

  The accountant has our money spread out on the table. His angry sneer and continuous sighs suggest the state of our entrance fee annoys him. Most of the players showed up with a briefcase of cash. All in hundreds. Specifically a hundred stacks, with a hundred bills in each stack – a million dollars, neat and tidy.

  Not only did our money initially come eight thousand dollars short, ours came in no such order. Though in 10G stacks, all the stacks vary in size because of the variety of bills jammed together: twenties, fifties, and hundreds. One large stack even contains a bunch of ten-dollar bills. And an even larger stack includes fives and ones.

  “And here’s the final eight thousand,” Max says, handing the accountant the money from the last batch Jesse and I just brought.

  We look like amateurs, but at the end of the day, it’s still seven figures, and Dennis’s accountant won’t keep us from playing for the extra twenty minutes it takes him to ensure the money’s all there. Max, sensing the accountant’s frustration, even offers him a thousand-dollar tip.

  “For your trouble,” says Max, slipping him a wad of cash.

  “Money is money. Your million adds up, without gratuity,” says the accountant, pushing the cash back to Max.

  Next, the accountant walks us to the stairwell at the end of the dark hallway. He nods to a Jamaican bodyguard armed with a semi-automatic handgun. One only semi-concealed. A dead giveaway he’s Jamaican from the way he says, “good luck, man.” He assumes that Max will play in the poker tournament, not the 17-year-old chick with him.

  The last time I walked down these stairs, I carried dreams of winning enough money to get Sophie out of Las Vegas and into some safe, suburban life. This time, I carry dreams of getting Sophie back. Dreams of keeping her alive.

  The small room at the bottom of the stairs contains rocking chairs and leather couches. A green room for the game room. Except not green. It’s grey. Max can’t go any farther. He won’t be allowed in the poker room.

  The point of no return: players only.

  Before I enter the poker room, I slip into the bathroom. Although it doesn’t look dirty, it smells terrible – like fresh vomit. Putting a million dollars on the line is probably enough for someone to vomit. I sure as hell feel nauseous.

  Once I close the door, I pull my lucky long sleeve t-shirt out of my purse and slip it overtop my dress. The one Sophie gave me. The shirt completely covered in replica size playing cards. My opponents will probably laugh at me when they see it, not just because of its gaudiness, but also because I’m wearing it over a Louis Vuitton dress. But I don’t care – I need to be wearing Sophie’s shirt.

  While washing my hands, I watch my face in the mirror. All I see are the facial features I share with Sophie. In my nose, I see her nose. In my jaw, I see her jaw. And in my eyes, hers…

  I close my eyes, try to eradicate all thoughts by focusing on my breathing. When I first made the transition from working cons with Max to working men solo, my nerves became an issue, and Max taught me to meditate as a way to cool those nerves.

  When I walk out of the bathroom, Max rests a hand on my shoulder. “This is it,” he says. “Win.”

  I don’t want a pep talk right now. Not from Max. Not given what I know about him now. He leans in to give me a hug.

  Max has given me hundreds of fatherly hugs. But this one feels different. This one feels creepy. The mechanics of the hug are no different. I suppose it only now seems creepy because of what I know about him. One of his hands clutches my shoulder blade while the other pulls me into the embrace at the small of my back. My breasts unavoidably pressed up against his sternum.

  His breath hits my scalp, and it sends a shiver down my neck.

  I’m not sure where I’ll go or what I’ll do, but I know that as soon as I get Sophie back, my future won’t involve Max. It can’t. Not with what I know.

  When I turned 15, I had slowly started losing interest in life as a grifter. Around that time, Max said that it was because I no longer looked like a child that he wanted to switch up our grifts and start conning johns. He knew that he was losing me, but he also knew where I came from: where my sympathies lie and where they don’t. He used my resentment towards my mother and father to keep me motivated. To keep me interested in being his protégé. To keep me working for him.

  I already had this hatred towards men who buy sex and this sympathy towards women forced for one reason or another into prostitution. Damn, it all makes sense now. Slick Max tapped into these emotions and then fed them. I remember us watching this documentary on human trafficking and child prostitution. Wasn’t it Max who had turned the television to that channel? He was fueling the fire, knowing my deep-rooted daddy issues would motivate me to work hard.

  Daddy issues? Who am I kidding? I have mommy and daddy issues.

  While Max sputters off another motivational speech, my mind scans back through decisions he’s made and the various talks we had. Max suddenly seems smarter to me. And much more conniving. He took all my abandonment issues and steered that energy towards hating johns.

  Max. Max. Max. My mind lingers on Max. It’s easier to stand here and obsess over his manipulative betrayal than face my challenge. But I have to focus on poker. I have to walk into the room.

  I walk into the room.

  There are already nine players standing around the fiberglass table. That damn table. I make 10. Dennis Cane will make 11. That means there will be $11 million on the table.

  Initially, 12 players were going to play, but I overheard the accountant mention one dropped out. Cold feet. With a million on the line, it doesn’t surprise me one dropped out. More surprising the others stayed in.

  The players all chat quietly i
n groups of two or three. All eyes fix on me as I approach the table.

  One of the nine other rounders plays in my Thursday morning Treasure Island private celebrity game. Bradley, heir to a fish taco chain. “Look who it is,” says Bradley, seeming more surprised to see me than I am to see him. “Didn’t know you… well, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Yeah, good to see a friendly face,” I reply.

  “Absolutely!”

  Bradley appears more excited than nervous. It must not have been him who puked in the bathroom a few minutes ago.

  Damn, in fact he doesn’t look nervous at all. Is he hiding it? How much money does he have if he’s not sweating putting a mil on the line? Regardless of his wealth, I’m sure his father would be beyond disappointed to see his son spending a million dollars on a game.

  But no one has more to gain or lose than I do. I study the players’ faces. What paths lead their lives to this point, about to drop seven figures in some seedy game of poker? My eyes stop on a middle-aged bald man. He looks white in the face. Queasy. I first suspect his jaw is chattering out of nervousness, but then I catch a glimpse of chewing gum. A queasy guy chewing gum? He’s probably trying to mask his vomit breath.

  Twelve total seats at the table leaves three seats left open, two of which Dennis and I will fill. The dealer will fill the final seat. I choose my place. For a moment it looks like Bradley will come over and chat with me, but then Dennis Cane enters the room.

  Everyone nods and waves. All appear to know him. Makes sense. After all, how could they get in the game if they didn’t know him? But no one says anything. Everyone seems too nervous to make small talk.

  Dennis breaks the silence, “How’s everyone doing?”

  He does not specifically direct the question at any one person, so everyone responds with mere nods, grunts, and waves.

  I find myself looking for the tiny earpiece that I know is tucked into one of his ears. But I can’t see it.

  The door creaks open again, and all eyes turn to see Dennis’s dealer. Her hair looks less grey than last year. Either she reversed the aging process or she colored it. As she sits down at the head of the table, I can’t help wonder whether or not she knows the game is fixed. Does she know about the cameras and the second lady in the backroom? And if she does know, does she lose any sleep over it? She catches me staring at her, and our eyes meet. Her soul feels cold and her eyes look tired – but I doubt it’s ripping off naïve gamblers that makes her lose sleep. She has the jaded look of a Vegas veteran. Someone who’s seen a lot of bad shit, some of which probably led her to a lowdown job like ripping off naïve gamblers.