Ride the Lucky

by Kendric Neal

  Neely walked by the poker tables again and didn't stop. He wasn't sure why, he was itching to play and saw two tables with openings that looked good. Maybe he wanted it too much, maybe he was scared, or maybe he just wanted to do his dirty business somewhere else and leave his perfect mistress unsullied. He knew not to argue—when it came to hunches, he played them without question. He played video poker instead. He never liked the odds on the machines and he'd never won much, but he decided this too might remove skill and ability from the equation and reveal his luck in all its naked glory. He wanted to get to know this streak a little better, he wanted to know how deep it ran. The old woman's grasp had been firm enough, he'd felt her leathery fingers pressing into the veins in his wrist. Had she put it in him? Had she planted it securely? If it was in his blood it'd show up anywhere, right? Not just his game of choice…Hell, he'd just cleaned up at roulette, hadn't he?

  He put $2000 in credits on the machine and went back to martinis. He won the first hand, Royal Straight, $500. He lost two, then won three. He bet the max per line, feeling the first giddy effects of being a VIP in Vegas and having a respectable amount of credit on his card. He wasn't going to take that money home was he? It was found money to start with, so losing it wouldn't matter. Why be cautious? He'd already bottomed out and survived. Bottoming out again wouldn't hurt. With a new sense of freedom he played more freely, sucking down the rest of his drink and ordering another. Why be careful, it was just dumb luck, wasn't it? He could drink all he wanted, the luck would hold or it wouldn't. It didn't care if he was drunk. He lost steadily to go down $4000, then won a $6000 jackpot on a Full House. After another hour and three more drinks he hit a Flush with the maximum bet and cleared $26,000. He was up $32,400 when he quit. His fingers hurt from hitting the buttons and the max bet was cramping his style.

  He went to the Progressives, $25 a pull. He was out $2000 before he noticed and $4000 before he could find a waitress. He didn't care anymore, he wanted to piss it all away. He hadn't liked the way he'd gotten his early gains at roulette and video poker, he didn't like that it had nothing to do with him, he didn't like that it was easy, and he didn't like that it was meant as a curse. He was drunk, it was a factor, but he was also feeling a new worry rising. If the lucky streak was real, he would have a much bigger problem than having blown his life savings. Losing Hope and the kids, being the deadbeat addict dad would be nothing compared to what could be coming down the pike and he desperately didn't want to see it. He bet recklessly, approaching a $10,000 loss already and not slowing. Losing attracted no interest, he could lose a million dollars and no one would be a witness, but a $150 payoff drew every eyeball around. He was invisible again and he liked it. It felt like being home.

  He went for the next pull, sure now the credits would be expended soon and he'd have to stop. The arm wouldn't come down and he knew he'd have to go to another machine. He wasn't done with the Progressives yet, they were doing what Roulette and Blackjack hadn't—they were draining him dry. Blessedly dry. It was getting the frigging Quasimodo hump off his shoulders, and he felt he could breathe again, his chest had unclinched and he felt blissfully free. A clanging interrupted his reverie and he looked above his head. Someone had won and the LED's were rolling numbers. That was why he couldn't pull. It was the full Progressive jackpot and he wished, if only briefly, it could have been him. That was familiar, that petty jealousy, that irrational envy. Everyone in the casino was watching and he was sure that's why the LED's were still flashing. They'd watch til they knew, how much, how much? Was it enough to get excited about? Was it enough to change a life? Neely looked up at the read-out as he was the only one in the room who hadn't seen the total yet. $94,611.16. The crowd erupted and a dozen mad-eyed strangers swarmed towards him so fast, they cut off every avenue of escape. He wasn't prepared, he hadn't caught up to the rest of them yet and they were too close, TOO CLOSE, he could smell them, hear them, feel their breath on his neck, his cheek, feel their hands and fingers on his arms, his shoulders, his back and even his thigh.

  He pasted on a smile, he knew how to play it, he'd imagined it often enough, only he felt empty when the truth settled in. He'd won. He'd won when he shouldn't have won. He'd won at Roulette, he'd won at Progressives. He'd won Jepp and the 500-year-old tree lottery. He was having the luckiest time of his life and stifled an urge to throw up all over the adoring, congratulating crowd. Casino employees stood on the periphery, waiting patiently. One, he knew, to escort him to one of the offices, one to watch the other one. They did everything in two's, these people. Nobody trusted anybody in banks or casinos. Human nature, after all, and all that money. There were two guards as well, two guards to keep back friends, enemies, exes, anyone who now might want to get a little too close to the winner, two guards to watch the casino employees, two guards so they could watch each other. Winners were magnets, winners drew it all, good or bad, and if there happened to be a lonely desperate guy in the crowd who'd just lost everything and was feeling despondent, well he just might not think Neely deserved the luck that had deserted him. He just might take a swing at him or jab him in the throat with his Camry key. They knew, it'd happened before, they'd seen it.

  The guards gave the crowd their time. Winners put everyone in a good mood, it led to more betting, higher betting, more persistent betting, more desperate betting. It was good for business. By the night's end the fevered atmosphere it inflamed would recoup some of their losses. By the end of these people's visits, the casino would come out ahead. Winning was good. Winning whetted appetites. Luck didn't build this place, Bugsy could have told you that. There was no money in luck. They took Neely into what looked like a high-end hospitality room. Winners were like royalty, winners were the dukes and duchesses of this place. They were coddled and adored. They were loved. It was all a ruse, though, just another step in the seduction. If they were loved, they stayed, if they stayed, they gambled, if they gambled…well, no one beat the numbers for long. Math was the real winner in Vegas. Winners shone, they burned brightly, then they just burned. Vegas loved winners, contrary to popular opinion. Vegas made a truckload of money off winners.

  A Victoria Secret model in a business suit sat next to him. She was too lovely to exist—some geeky hormone-addled kid drew her for the graphic novel he was writing, full of unreal proportions, pouting lips, and a ready smile. Neely bathed in her hazel eyes as a cascade of pillowy blonde locks spilled over her shoulder, catching the light like the brass of a well-loved trumpet twinkling in the moonlight. She was innocence fueled by starvation, a homely artist's vision of perfection, not a walking, breathing, stinking animal like the rest of us. “Congratulations!” she said.

  Neely took her hand and shook it, shocked by her warmth and closeness. She wore a casino blazer and the name “Cara” with the title “Hospitality Manager” written underneath. “Thank you. Cara.”

  She beamed. He wondered if that smile was what won her the job. It was utterly impossible not to smile back. “You'll have to forgive us all for being a little excited. Walking Willies was overdue for a payoff, and here it comes in the middle of the night rush! Wow!” She held her hand over her heart and he believed her, he actually believed it was beating fast. In fact, he'd believe anything Cara told him. Which was, of course, the real trait that won her the job. “I'm not sure I recognize you. Are you new to our casino?”

  So many things went through Neely's head, he had trouble responding. This seemed like a come-on and you're damn right, Neely, it was. Every goddamned thing in Vegas was. “I've visited a few times before. Not exactly a high roller.”

  “Well, you are now!,” she beamed and he beamed back, wanting to take her hand and plunge it in his heart for the precious few seconds he'd have before he died. Could Cara really be for sale? He didn't want to believe it, but a practical man is a cynical man, and he came back with Hell yeah, don't be an idiot, of course she's for sale, EVERYTHING YOU EVER REALLY WANTED IS FOR SALE. “We'll be transferring your winnings to your accou
nt right away, we just need you to fill out a couple of forms first.”

  She made it sound like a lot of fun, so he nodded and she slid a sheaf of papers over to him from a cubby he hadn't noticed earlier. They were pre-populated with so much of his information he was taken aback until he realized it was all from the account he'd set up to get the card. “You guys are efficient.”

  “Well, sure, you just took us for $100,000, we want a chance to win some of it back!” she said, and he noted a definite Minnesota lilt in there. They couldn't have cast Cara any better. Damn, he could have taken her home to Mom's for dinner and she'd have passed with flying colors. Come to think of it, there's no way she's for sale. She's done even better, she's got some casino rat tied up, doesn't she? They get first pick, those guys, and this guy tossed her a six-figure job just to keep her busy.

  “What's this?”

  “That's an LOC. If we sign you to our Emerald Room you're committing to playing only with us.” Well, well. He'd heard of such things, but men such as himself only heard rumors. When it comes to inner sanctums, people love to tell you about them but no one will lend you their key. “And this is the nasty old IRS sticking their nose into things.”

  “Party poopers,” he said, getting into the pep rally spirit of the thing. It was the first time anyone had ever used an IRS tax form to distract him from something else, which only made him more suspicious of what that Emerald Room membership actually entailed. He signed the IRS 1099-G instead, at least that was a familiar evil. “Can I hold onto this and get back to you?” he asked, holding the Emerald Room agreement.

  “Oh, no,” there was that smile again. “We need it now or the offer is rescinded.”

  “Maybe you can tell me about it?”

  “I can do better than that,” she said with that all-electric smile, sliding her arm in his in a way that said, without a doubt, without any possible mistake, yes, Neely Thomas, indeed I am the Grand Prize and you're the next contestant.

  He and Cara rode up in a private elevator only accessible through another private elevator. They got out on an unmarked floor the building didn't have and stepped into a hallway decorated with what Neely's untrained eyes knew to be at least $15 million worth of plein-air masterpieces. As he stopped to admire a Sisley, Cara turned and said, “You have good taste. That's worth more than the rest combined.”

  “I know,” Neely lied. This hallway, this floor, this life, all seemed to call for lies.

  He prepared himself as the double-doors opened but was still caught by surprise. Most of Vegas looked like the Disney version, but that's because it was. When they wanted to do it right, they did it right. The inner sanctum, the kingdom everyone wanted a key to…what was possible when the first conquerors took power…Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Caesar…gathering all the world's wealth…pressing millions into slavery, raping countries, stripping their resources, laying waste to foreign lands…This was the kind of treasure that kind of ambition brought you.

  The floors were a stone he'd never seen before with fossils of ancient creatures embedded in them. The walls were covered in a thick, rich wallpaper that looked like crushed velvet edged in gold. The tables were polished walnut, marble and burnished copper. The fixtures were silver, platinum and rough-finished crystal, and the bar was quartz, onyx and heavily-pitted brass, and all of it was clad with sheets of cool glass. Nothing he'd ever seen glass forced to do before—worked, etched, rounded, and sculpted into elegant and undulating shapes so delicate they defied the material's own physical limitations. A high-wire act of form. It was a melding of old world and new, exquisite workmanship setting off spare and elegant modern lines—the styles didn't compete, they danced a tango. This room was grounded in the old world, but had its gaze fixed on the new, on traveling the stars, building Utopias, colonizing Jupiter… Overhead were chandeliers with thousands of miniature diodes creating a million amber suns receding in endless reflections, flickering softly like imaginary candles dancing off what looked like real emeralds. The light they created was dreamy and dazzling.

  “In the Emerald Room, everything is complimentary and there are no limits.”

  “I'm underdressed.”

  “Yes, you are. Our tailor shop offers expedited service if you'd like to play tonight. Complimentary, of course.”

  Of course. Everything's free if you don't need it to be. “What are we waiting for? Sign me up,” he said. That smile again. What it would feel like to wake up to? He'd give the last shred of his soul to find out.

  CHAPTER 11

  They took his measurements while he sipped a cappuccino. They said they'd deliver it the next day and offered to loan him something so he could play right away. As much as he was tempted, his instincts told him to wait, to gather his strength and do it on his own terms and not in someone else's tux. Instead, he went to DeNavio's downstairs and had a 16 oz. New York Strip. There'd be no buffet lines, rushed dinners, or quick bites in the sports book this trip. He was going to see the other side of Vegas if it killed him. Old Vegas may have been dying out, but it still lived where the money was and that was his new address as well. He'd always wanted it this way and, besides, he had a feeling he'd never be back, so why wait? If his suspicions were true, Neely Thomas was on a real, bonafide, Naccahaw-approved, once-in-a-frigging-lifetime lucky streak and he was going to suck down every drop, lose himself in every benefit and perk Vegas could stroke him with, as anyone should do when the last dance was called and the homecoming queen looked their way.

  After the meal and a bottle of '08 Spottswoode Cabernet, half of which he left on the table just because he could, it was time to get serious. He walked into the poker room with a new air of confidence; he had the feeling he was known by some of the crowd now thanks to his earlier victories and he wanted to make the most of it. He decided it would be a quiet night—he wouldn't tell jokes, wouldn't engage in any friendly banter, he would pick a table and sit like there was a night's work to be done. He handed over his card and that too didn't go unnoticed, as Cara had given him a new one and it was made of thin, highly-polished stainless steel with the casino's name embossed in deep purple ink. Even the dealer looked at it with hesitation—Neely guessed few who'd gained access to the Emerald Room ever graced these shores again. This would help him set the stage for Saturday, yes, this was where he belonged at the moment. He asked for “a hundred” and let the dealer guess, correctly, it turned out, he wanted $100,000. He had the table's attention now, as the bulk of his chips were in placards and he didn't see many others around the table. Neely nodded to them all and asked the waitress for a 7-Up, wanting the table to note he was old school and wasn't drinking.

  It wasn't a suspicion, he knew now he was being watched. The Poker Manager, the section boss, that was to be expected, but he noticed a guy behind the ropes whom he was sure was a spotter who would follow him anywhere he went in the casino. They took care of you when you won, but they also wanted it back and didn't want anyone messing with you until they got it. No one pitching money schemes, talking you into private games or coaxing you into that 44D three-way you've always dreamed about, or the chorus of altar boys or the 998cc Aprilia RSV outside, ready and waiting to slide between your legs. Everyone knew you had money in your pocket, they'd seen you win it, and they knew won money didn't have the same stickiness as earned money. You wanted to spend it. They wanted to help.

  Neely admitted to himself as the first cards were dealt that much as he liked his new role as a high-roller, his nerves were also in a high state of alarm. He'd always been able to mix with the crowd, there was protection in that. He'd used the ability well in his poker playing, as he often did better than the man or woman most people thought was the big player at the table. He was quiet, he folded a lot and, for the most part, played a conservative game. He knew he might have to change tactics when the stakes were bigger and he was under scrutiny. He wanted to go easy and see how things played out before he took on the deeper pockets upstairs—this was just a sparring ma
tch.

  He drew a pair of Jacks and decided to go big on the first hand. It was something he'd had a lot of luck with before, as it set up a whole evening's worth of bluffing which more than made up for his occasional overreaching. He was in for $6,000 before the river, which gave him an unexpected trip. He was in for $9,000 when he looked around the table—five players were still in, and he knew one of them had a stronger hand. At $12,500 the river was a fourth Jack and he felt crushed. He didn't look it, he felt it, as he knew the more experienced players would read behind his poker face. It was an easy emotion to feign, an epic losing streak would do that for you, you spent the rest of your gambling days knowing the worst was never far away and sometimes you smelled it even when you couldn't see it. They topped out at $15,600 and laid down their cards. Neely took the pot with a pained smile. The chatter around the table went on without him.

  A honeymooning Singapore couple were smiling and flirting the whole time while a black cowboy to his right told a nonstop stream of off-color jokes with the apparent intention of disarming those around him. Neely thought the guy should be a stand-up, he'd probably do better at that than he did at poker, as his face was too expressive to hide much. Neely tipped the dealer, then declined further drinks from the waitress but gave her a $100 chip anyway. He liked to bluff the first couple of rounds, it set him up for later. This changed everything, though, now he had room to bluff outrageously, he just had to wait and time it right.