Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  Warm tingling begins to stir his groin as his mind slips into fantasies never shared, even with Howie. What does it feel like to touch a breast? To feel a nipple at your fingertips? To slide a hand down… He swallows and inhales into air-starved lungs and realizes he’s actually inching the laptop toward himself.

  What the hell harm would it do to look? After all, Howie’s his best friend, the one he’s shared everything with. Well, almost everything. There are things…

  Howie says, “Type, Las Vegas escorts, into Google, see what comes up.”

  Other than my dick?

  Arnold types in those words and watches the screen fill with pictures of women, some shots blatantly provocative, others coy, catering to just about any imaginable preference. Tall, short, plump, skeletal, Caucasian, Asian, African American, she-men, leather dominatrix all decked-out with riding whips and Stormtrooper caps, you name it, it’s there for the choosing.

  Howie’s beside him now, reading the screen, pointing to the one shot. “How about her? She’s really hot.”

  Arnold swallows again. The top half of the webpage contains two rows of thumbnail shots, the women’s names bannered below each one. He double-clicks one at random, watches the page change to her nude body in profile, wavy auburn hair tumbling over a bare ivory shoulder, eyes lowered in false modesty. Heather is her name. Which he’s sure isn’t the one on her birth certificate. The rest of the page contains a description of activities you might enjoy during an encounter with her. Also included are blank fields to complete should you wish to contact her for a “date.” Arnold reads her sketch word by flaming word, his groin now tumescent with explosive pressure as seminal fluid inches into his cotton briefs. Suddenly, his embarrassment over Howie leading him into a forbidden website is trumped by raw curiosity. So, after backing out of Heather’s page he clicks on Judy, a statuesque blonde who claims to love threesomes and taking it up the tailpipe.

  “Well?” Howie asks, sitting back in his the chair, shooting him a funny telepathic expression of knowing Arnold is intrigued.

  But by now, all Arnold wants is to relieve his pressurized groin, to go upstairs and privately fantasize about Judy or Heather or, best of all: Rachael.

  Instead, he side-steps to the subzero for another beer in an obvious attempt to hide his bulging crotch, which Howard undoubtedly notices. “I don’t know… Want one?”

  Howard has the good grace to not joke about the obvious. “You don’t know what?”

  That stops him. Good question. What exactly doesn’t he know? Whether or not to finally experience sex with more than a curled palm? But it is somehow extremely difficult to admit he’s actually considering…

  Why not fly to Vegas for a day or two?

  Seriously.

  What’s preventing him? He’s not formally employed. He does have the time. He can afford the flight. The only question is: does he have the nerve?

  The ungreased skids of being able to negotiate sexual intercourse with a living, breathing female—a prospect he’d never before considered to be anything but a distant fantasy—comes crashing down on him. Yes, it could happen. So forehead-slapping simple, too. Just book a flight, fill out one of the forms for the girl of his preference, and the entire transaction could be a done deal in the matter of a couple minutes.

  “Think it’ll do you some good,” Howie offers supportively.

  Arnold responds with a vacant nod, his mind working through the logistics.

  But the moment his mind visualizes the reality of stepping from an air-conditioned 737 cabin into the hot desert air at Maccarran airport, sobriety sets in. Making him flat-out reject the idea. Just can’t do it. Then again, if I don’t, I’ll end up in this chair 40 years from now wondering what happened to my life, asking how come I turned out to be a virgin curmudgeon, why didn’t I take the chance?

  He nods. “Why not?”

  Howard waits. But Arnold just sits there, doing nothing.

  “Well?” Howie goads.

  Why not? What’s to prevent me from doing it?

  Embarrassment?

  Maybe.

  Howie’s right, this would help guide him over the hump of social awkwardness, instill in him a bit of the confidence so desperately needed. Sure, he can spew out an endless litany of reasons not to—everything from contracting a flaming case of STD to getting ripped off in a scam, to say nothing of the morality of prostitution—but why not give it a try? At least, he will have done something to rectify his pathetic situation.

  Howie sits back. “Know what you’re thinking. You really don’t want to use your real name. But computers and maintaining online anonymity are your thing, dude. You can probably get two to three false identities before I get home. Which, by the way, is where I’m headed.” He scrapes his chair back from the table.

  So much to think about… Can’t wait for Howie to be out of here.

  6.

  Two weeks later Howie is back in the kitchen sitting across the table from Arnold, drinking another long-neck Anchor brew, asking, “Taylor? Why the hell Taylor?”

  Arnold thinks, what the hell difference does it make? It’s only a name. He hesitates, trying to decipher any underlying tone in Howie’s question.

  “Well, I wanted something that doesn’t sound Jewish but is sorta common, but not something as common as Smith. I mean, that’s way too obvious, right?”

  Howie takes a pull of the beer and belches. “Yeah, but probably ninety-percent of the johns book those girls under phony names. Ask any of them, they’d probably be shocked to hear someone actually used their real name. And if we stay with that logic, use Gold and they’ll figure it for an alias anyway. But hey, Taylor’s as good as anything, I guess. What’d you come up with for a first name?”

  That one was a tad tougher, taking longer to decide. He figured as long as he was going through the hassle of creating a false identity he wanted something that, well, resonated with him. “I narrowed it down to two names, actually. Trevor Taylor and Toby Taylor.”

  “Toby?” Howie wrinkles up his face like a bad smell. “You’re kidding. Sounds like a name you hear on a grade school playground. Don’t you want something more adult, something more macho?”

  Why bother defending the choice? Howie isn’t the one who might follow through on the deal. Yet, for some ill-defined reason, he feels compelled to justify the choice. “There’s a country western singer named Toby. That macho enough for you?”

  Howie laughs. “Shit-kicker, huh?”

  Neither one of them listens regularly to that music genre, although when Arnold is really feeling down in the dumps, he admits that some of the low-down tears-in-my-beer country-western lyrics provides a touch of solace in knowing others out there on the planet have felt just as shitty. Otherwise they’d never be able to come up with those words and situations. Makes him feel less emotionally isolated. Maybe in a group-therapy sort of way.

  “You got trains, trucks, honky-tonk girls, prison, and hard drinking. Can’t get more macho that that. Right?”

  “You forgot Mama. Lots of country songs have Mama in there.”

  “Whatever.”

  Howie arches his back, stretching both arms high overhead, and yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth because they’re the type of close friends who don’t have to even worry about muffling farts, and in fact, often laugh at them, sometimes seeing who can gross out the other. Howie slips him a sly grin. “Okay, so you’ve taken care of the name. What about the woman?”

  “Not yet, still working on developing my,” he mimes quotation marks, “persona. You know, credit cards, driver’s license, everything.”

  Howie laughs. “Figured you’d stall. Why not just go ahead and do it?”

  Arnold jumps on the opportunity to explain. “No, no, listen, it’s not what you think. I’m really getting into this. Pretty interesting actually, developing a fictitious persona.” He remembers the high when he opened the envelopes and saw the actual physical pieces of Toby Taylor’s identity material
ize: California driver’s license, VISA card, Social Security number.

  Howie reaches for the beer again. “What’s the big deal, I mean, why go through the hassle if all you want is to get laid? Not like anyone really gives a rat’s ass who you are when you’re there. Certainly not the girl. All she wants is your money.”

  Typical Howard. So literal.

  Hands clasped between his thighs, shoulders hunched, Arnold rocks forward in the chair, eyes downcast, staring at the table, mind searching for the words to describe the voyeuristic thrill of creating the guy he wishes he could be. In the end, he answers with a simple, “You wouldn’t understand.”

  No way can he explain to a guy slick as Howard Weinstein how it feels to stand in front of the mirror and see Toby Taylor transformed into a young man with a clean slate, one that can become just about any person his fantasies dictate. How it feels to create an entire back-story along with a real career. Perhaps make Toby a law student, or Wall Street options trader, or movie star. Toby can do things Arnold Gold would never in a million years hope to even try. More importantly, in developing Toby’s character down to the granular level, he’s gaining the confidence to be with the woman who will strip him of sexual naiveté. These are feelings and emotions Howard would never comprehend for the obvious reason that he’s always had life by the balls. Sure, an element of luck modulates everyone’s life, but it’s also true that to a large extent you create your own luck and opportunities. They are very different people, he and Howard, meaning there’s no way in hell to explain this feeling in a way he’d grasp. In spite of being best friends their entire lives, Howard can’t begin to fathom a life shackled by insecurities.

  “Yo, Arnold,” Howie says, miming knuckling a hard surface: knock knock.

  “Sorry. Got off on a tangent. What?”

  “You picked one,” fingers making air quotation marks again, “yet?”

  Arnold feels his face burning once more. Damn it!

  This time Howard, reading him correctly, grins broadly. “I take that to mean yes. Show me.”

  Arnold has her page bookmarked on the Tor browser, right up there on the toolbar for easy access. He clicks it, pulls up the picture and text, rotates the laptop for Howard to see. “Here.”

  Howard elbows him. “Using Tor, huh? Man, you are paranoid.”

  What’s to say? Wish to stay anonymous when web cruising, don’t use Internet Explorer or Firefox, go Darknet via Tor. He can see no upside, and a definite downside, to leaving digital signatures for anyone—including the NSA—to follow.

  Howard studies the picture, absentmindedly pulling his right earlobe. “Huh. Didn’t think you’d go for a darker one for some reason. What you think, Pakistani, Indian, Tajikistani?”

  “Christ, Howie, how the hell would I know? Or care.” But the thing was, he didn’t want to pick a girl who resembled Rachael. He wanted his fantasy about Rachael to remain, what, unsoiled? Yeah, perhaps. Jesus, how crazy is that?

  “Well, she certainly isn’t a two-bagger.”

  “Huh? What’s a two bagger?”

  Howie grins. “That’s a girl who’s so ugly you put a bag over her head and then one over your own, just in case hers falls off while you’re screwing.”

  Arnold laughs out loud.

  Howie studies the screen a moment longer before starting to read aloud in a bad imitation of a female voice. “Hi, I’m Breeze, the exotic treat you’ve been craving. With my petite five-foot three-inch frame, toned physique, and flawless skin, our meeting is guaranteed to be unforgettable. I’m not just a pretty face though; my naturally sweet and sensual personality will be just as enjoyable for you during our time together. Call me now and we can enjoy an erotic, sensual encounter today.” Howie pauses a moment before returning to his normal voice. “I’m getting hard just reading this. What you waiting for? Call her.” He rotates the computer, sliding it back to Arnold.

  With him listening? No fucking way!

  “C’mon, dude, stop farting around, do it.”

  What the hell. After all, I’m Toby Taylor now.

  Arnold picks up the phone, his stomach churning with butterflies.

  7.

  Arnold stands at the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at the impressive circular pool with ever-changing streams jetting twenty feet skyward as colored lights refract and shimmer off droplets, creating the impression of the hotel’s jeweled crown. His left hand holds a tumbler of ice and scotch. His right hand presses to his ear the technological umbilical cord that links him to familiarity and security as he listens to a hollow echo of microwave energy travel through air and wire at the speed of light to form a magical connection from his ear drum to Howard’s lips, the entire trip measured in milliseconds compared to the hours spent flying the same distance in a jet. One ring, then another until Howie answers with, “Yo, Dude, the hell you wasting time calling for? You’re supposed to be down there getting laid.”

  Arnold rocks the heavy crystal tumbler back and forth, sloshing amber fluid around the sides and over the rounded cubes, diluting the alcohol he hopes will bring him—trite as it sounds—courage. He wants a dose of his friend’s reassurance as an antidote for the straight-up, flat-out frightened ghost niggling away in the back of his mind. But he sure as hell won’t admit that to Howie. Howie would only laugh at him and tell him to loosen up. Yeah, easy for Howie to say. He wondered how many times his friend has had sex with girls and just where he learned how to do it, both subjects the two friends have never discussed in detail. Was Howard as nervous losing his virginity as he is now? Highly doubtful.

  The actuality of meeting the escort isn’t the biggest nerve-grating issue. And hey, the scotch will help him slide past that part. No, his nervousness stems from the knowledge that prostitution is a business surrounded by myriad wide-ranging criminal activities. Not only is he sexually inexperienced, he’s criminally naïve: the wide-eyed kid in a chocolate store. Which makes him a ridiculously easy mark for a hustle. What’s to say that when he opens the door—even after looking through the wide-angle security lens—some thug isn’t going to Bogart his way into his room and rob him? Well, he tells himself, this is exactly the reason for having booked an “independent” escort. From all he’s read, most of these girls are exactly that: independent. They don’t rely on pimps and are not necessarily supporting drug habits. Especially the really attractive ones. Some of those women—if the pictures are truthful—must spend hours sweating in gyms while dieting 375 days a year. They’re not the meth-mouth, burnt-out, beat-up, 50-miles-of-bad-road specimens the vice squad busts at truck stops and street corners.

  Besides, he asks himself, what about gambling? Isn’t that activity equally permeated with criminal activities? I gamble and I’m no criminal.

  True, but online gambling isolates him from any street element. Besides, he’s never done anything even remotely encroaching on the line of criminality. People, he believes, gamble out of greed and the lust for fast bucks and zero work. He, in contrast, gambles because he knows from objective hard-cold data that, over time, his computerized analysis will be right more frequently than wrong. That’s why he keeps refining his system. The more frequently and more accurately it can predict outcomes, the less “gamble” it entails. He is now at the point of being able to earn a respectable living from his winnings. Simple enough. He views the small improvements he occasionally achieves as similar to what any well-managed business would do under the guise of research and development. “Improving, always in all ways,” is his motto. Besides, what about our federal and municipal governments and the tons of revenue they generate peddling lotto tickets? So, they have, in essence, legalized gambling regardless of whether or not they admit that seemingly minor fact.

  Perhaps that’s a rationalization but it’s one that works.

  Now, standing in this beautiful Bellagio suite, in a city developed by and devoted to organized crime, he intends to add a few bucks to their sustaining fund. But that still bothers him somewhat because, regar
dless of Breeze’s gentrified job title of “Escortm” she is—and let’s not beat around the bush—a prostitute, a whore. The intended act is to exchange money for sex and, therefore, is likely to be associated, directly or indirectly, with criminal elements.

  This thought ripples another chill of fear through his gut.

  “Just calling to check in, Mom,” he jokingly tells Howie in a lame attempt to mask his nervousness in spite of knowing his friend can probably sense it in his tone of voice. They’re that close, and good friends are canny that way.

  Howard laughs. “Okay, son, but why aren’t you getting your brains blown out?”

  Arnold nervously checks his titanium Movado, a new watch purchased in anticipation of this trip. The big bulky timepiece is so Toby Taylor and so not Arnold Gold. Big, black with orange in the dial. Very cool. One he saw in a full-page WIRED advertisment. Not close to anything he’s ever owned. Living this fictitious life is definitely turning out to be a rush. “I’m waiting. She’s supposed to call from the lobby so I can give her the room number.”

  “Ah ha, so you haven’t even seen her yet?”

  Why did I even bother calling?

  “What does it sound like?”

  The multiline phone on the desk trills in muted European notes he finds pleasing, not the usual jarring ring so characteristic of American phones. Time comes to a screeching halt. Another cycle of trills echo through the room before Arnold can get his act together. “Oh shit, that must be her on the house phone. Hold on.”

  After transferring the cellular to his left hand, Arnold picks up the handset. “Hello.”

  “Toby?” Her voice is pleasant, the tone soothingly warm and breathy. Sexy even.

  His mouth immediately dries, making “Yes,” come out as a croak.

  “What room shall I come to?”

  He tells her the room number, hangs up, and says goodbye to Howie without mentioning being scared shitless. He sets his drink on the table and walks to the door to peer through the fisheye peephole as he waits. Will she look anything like her picture?