Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)

by Stephanie Guerra

The guy was wearing aviator shades indoors, and his skin was the dead white of a person who lives at night. He had long, straggly, blond hair, rocker style. “Close the door,” he said, leaning back in his leather armchair and kicking his blue cowboy boots onto the coffee table.

  I pulled the door shut behind me, looking around. It was a nice, big office with dark wood furniture and a wall of windows. There was another guy, Italian or Middle Eastern or something, sitting in the corner behind a desk stacked high with papers. He looked in his forties, and very slick, with expensive clothes.

  The cowboy boots guy said, “You’re Gabe?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m Lars.”

  “Nick,” said the one behind the desk. He leaned forward on his elbows, a coffee cup in one hand, and looked me over. He spun his finger. “Turn around.”

  I stared at him for a second. This was Paul’s connection? He looked like a pirate, even in that nice suit. He had heavy black brows, a dark tan, and hard eyes. A Rolex sparkled on his wrist. I turned around. I had spent a long time getting ready for the interview: fitted Abercrombie T-shirt, distressed jeans, hair gelled enough but not too much. But suddenly I was thinking I had it all wrong; I should have dressed up more.

  “Good-looking kid,” Lars said.

  Nick twirled his finger again. “One more time.” This was starting to feel sketchy. But I needed the job bad, so I did it.

  “Take off your shirt,” Lars told me.

  “What? No! Forget it.” I turned around and reached for the door, and they both started laughing.

  “Calm down,” said Nick. “He was kidding. We always do that, just a test.”

  “Although it’s more fun with girls,” Lars said.

  Nick leaned back, smiling faintly. “Paul said good things about you. He said we should give you a try. Go ahead and sit down.”

  I sat in an empty armchair, feeling spooked. But I rallied and said, “Paul’s good people. He taught me a lot.”

  “You don’t have any experience, though?” asked Lars.

  I shook my head. “But if you let me behind the bar, I can demo for you.”

  “Nah, anybody can make drinks. Just answer a couple questions for us.” Lars lifted his shades on top of his hair and squinted at me. His eyes were pale, watery blue. “How are you in a fight?”

  “Um . . . good, I guess. Why? You see me getting in a lot of fights behind the bar?”

  “Not behind the bar, necessarily. Could you double as bouncer if you need to?”

  I glanced at Nick. He was watching me, chin propped on his hands. “Yeah, sure.”

  “You catch a couple of guys in the bathroom doing lines. What do you do?” asked Nick.

  “Who are they?” I said carefully. Because I was thinking it could easily be Nick and Lars back there at some point.

  Lars nodded. “Great answer. Perfect.”

  I smiled in relief.

  “Let’s say they’re the mayor and the police chief,” said Nick.

  I looked at him. He wasn’t kidding. “I just back out nice and easy?”

  “Good,” said Lars. “This place is built on the reputation that all the bartenders are blind, you know what I mean? Okay, next question. Some little hottie gives you a fake card and her number. Do you serve her?”

  My mouth went dry. “No,” I said.

  “Right again. We’re blind where adults are concerned, but we never serve minors. That’s how Sirocco got shut down. You know Sirocco?”

  I nodded, keeping my face blank. Sirocco was a big after-hours place like this one, and it got shut down last month after too many raids. It was all over the media. My heart was banging in my chest and I had a bottomless feeling in my stomach, like these were exactly the wrong people to mess with. But I needed this job.

  Lars swung his feet off the table and reached for a stack of papers. I saw my name on top. Paul must have e-mailed them the résumé they helped me make at Crescent School. Lars turned it over, scanning. “You really haven’t done anything, have you?”

  I shrugged. There was no good answer for that.

  “You’re lucky Paul has your back.” Lars frowned like he was really seeing me for the first time. “You didn’t even graduate high school?”

  My face got hot. I’d told the truth about that, because I’d figured the one big lie about my age was all I could risk. If they checked on the high school thing, they’d find out how old I really was and the whole house of cards would come down. But I could see Lars wasn’t happy about it. He might not give me the job. “I got my GED,” I said. Another lie—although I did plan on taking the test.

  “Then how come it’s not on there?”

  “I didn’t think of it.”

  Lars glanced at Nick, who looked disgusted. “If we give you the job,” said Lars, “we’ll need that paperwork on file.”

  “Why’d you drop out?” asked Nick.

  I thought fast. Best not to be too specific. “Something bad happened, and my family needed me.” I hoped he would picture my parents killed in a car crash and me taking care of little brothers and sisters. The truth was, my “family” was just my mom, who was kicking it in Seattle with a corporate tool and didn’t need me at all.

  Nick cleared his throat. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Well, thanks for coming in,” said Lars, folding his hands over his stomach.

  I looked down, feeling sick. A hundred bucks wouldn’t get me through another week, no matter how hard I stretched it. I’d have to wash dishes somewhere. Or hit the casinos again and try to make some money playing poker, but that was a rash move, considering the crap bankroll I had to start with. Or—and this was the worst option—go back to Washington with my tail between my legs and live with my mom and the tool.

  Lars barked out a laugh. “Don’t look so upset. I’m kidding. You can have the job. It was yours anyway, after what Paul said. We just had to give you the run-through.”

  “Don’t fuck it up,” Nick said, typing something into his phone.

  I smiled, shocked. “I won’t. I definitely won’t. Thanks. When do you want me to start?”

  “Come in Friday night for training. Ten o’clock. And dress fun and retro.” Lars grimaced. “Not like that. You look like a college kid.”

  My stomach tightened at the word kid. I nodded. “Okay.”

  Lars started ticking off on his fingers: “No Abercrombie, no Urban Outfitters, no Diesel. This isn’t a fraternity. Go shopping. Be creative.” He pulled his glasses down again and slid back into his chair. “Ciao.” He didn’t look up as I left.

  I closed the door behind me and walked fast down the shiny hall, a grin splitting my face. In about twelve hours, the room on the other side of that wall would be jumping with party-people, bartenders and dealers after their shifts, and tourists cool enough to find the place.

  As I was reaching for the glass door to the parking lot, it swung open and a girl walked in. I stepped aside to let her by. She looked exactly like Marilyn Monroe. She had to be an impersonator. Everything was the same: the puffed platinum hair, the curves, the pouty lips, the pale skin, even the mole on her cheek. She was wearing huge black shades and a long white coat.

  She smiled at me as if she was used to guys staring. Then she tapped past me down the hall. I shouldn’t have, but I watched her. I wanted to see if she was going to Nick’s office. She was.

  I blinked, shook my head, and felt in my pocket for my phone. I dialed Irina as I pushed through the door to the lot.

  She answered after one ring.

  “I got the job,” I said before she could say another word. “At Hush.”

  Dead silence.

  “Irina, come on. Can’t you be happy for me?”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You sound really excited.”

  Irina sighed. “I’m just worried,
okay? But I don’t want to be a wet blanket.” There was a pause, then she squealed, “Oh, wow, that’s so amazing! Congratulations! Like, wow!”

  I cracked up. “Thanks, you sarcastic freak. Remember, this is how I’m buying your ticket down here.” I climbed into my car and started the engine.

  “Is that Seth?” a guy asked in the background.

  “Hold on a second.” Irina’s voice got quieter, like she’d moved the phone away from her mouth. “No, it’s Gabe. I’m going to talk to him for a minute. Be right back.” Then she got back on with me. “Sorry, what were we talking about? How awesome it is that you got a job that’ll put you in jail?”

  “Who was that you were talking to?” I asked, pulling out of the lot.

  “Micah.”

  I frowned and eased past a Ford. “Why did he ask who you’re talking to? It’s none of his business. And who’s Seth?”

  “Relax.” Irina’s voice had an edge. “Seth is just one of our friends.”

  Our friends? So now she and Micah were an our? “What are you guys doing right now?” I tried to keep my voice cool. The thing was, she really did mention this guy all the time.

  “Just studying.”

  “For poli-sci?”

  “No, we’re auditing this other class, ‘The Novel and Marriage.’ It’s through the Romance Languages Department.”

  I let out my breath. Micah was clearly the type who takes yoga just so he can be the only guy in a class of women. Or maybe the only guy in a class with Irina. “What’s he look like?” I asked.

  “Gabe, shut up.”

  “Take a picture. I want to see this guy.”

  “No.”

  “Seriously, what does he look like?”

  “I can’t exactly tell you right now, can I?”

  I wanted to reach across state lines to Washington and grab this Micah around the neck and shake him until his teeth cracked. Step off my woman. But I couldn’t be Mr. Psycho Overprotective Boyfriend. That would make Irina mad. I knew her well. “Call me when you’re done studying, okay?” I said in an easygoing voice.

  “Okay. I’m happy you got the job. Sort of.”

  “Thanks. Me, too. Love you.”

  Irina took a second coming back with, “Love you, too.” And she sounded quieter than usual.

  “Irina?” I said. But she’d already hung up.

  I dropped my phone on the seat and drove faster down Trop. On both sides of me, glass-walled casinos threw back the afternoon sun, like I was driving through a burst of light. The sky was the kind of blue it only gets in the desert. I had a job, an awesome job less than a mile from the Strip, after a month of wondering if I could make it on my own. I should have been flying. But I was stressed about this Micah.

  Was I an idiot for thinking I had a chance with Irina? She was the whole package. Funny, smart, hot, a ten. Blew the top off the scale—higher than ten. And classy, way classier than me. At some point she’d realize that.

  Maybe Micah was knocking over the first domino in a chain that would have to fall no matter what.

  I burned through twenty of my last remaining dollars getting Chinese takeout to celebrate my new job. Then I went home, set my cartons on my “table,” and pulled out my phone. I was burning to tell my news to someone who wouldn’t give me a hard time like Irina. This was the biggest heist I’d pulled off in my life. I sent a few experimental texts to see who was around.

  My rich friend, Kyle, was the first to text back. What’s up?

  Finally got a job, I texted him.

  Cool! Where?

  Bartending

  What???

  For real. This club Hush

  Sweet. I’m definitely coming to Vegas soon

  You should

  Mueller’s on patrol—CU

  And that was it. He was gone. Mueller was our high school English teacher at Claremont, a real sick, twisted lady. It’s not like I missed her. But knowing Kyle was sitting in her class gave me this crappy feeling. Before I dropped out, I’d been sitting in her class myself, not too long ago.

  I tore into my takeout. I didn’t really feel like texting anyone else my news.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I sat in my car, tilted my head back, and tried to breathe. I wiped my hands on my pants. It was a quarter to ten. I’d already been sitting in the lot fifteen minutes, waiting until it was just the right amount of early to walk in. Long enough to think, What the hell am I doing? about five thousand times. It wasn’t the police I was worried about. It wasn’t even Lars. He seemed kind of goofy. It was Nick and his little sound bite: Don’t fuck it up. And his killer face.

  Even if they never found out my lie, would I be any good at this job? What had Lars meant by dress fun and retro? He’d said, Be creative. Go shopping. Well, I did. I went to Salvation Army, because I had almost zero dollars left, and it smelled like wet dogs and mothballs in there. I’d gone through every rack, and all I could find were plaid grandpa vests and tight suits from twenty years ago. And this insane thing I was wearing.

  I looked down at my clothes and felt sick to my stomach. If I kept sitting there, I’d drive myself crazy with worry. I jumped out of the car, locked up, and walked fast across the lot. Hush looked like a black box from the outside. The only clue that it was a nightclub was a line of neon blue around the door and a caged box, like a phone booth with bars, where the cashier usually stood. But inside, it was anything but boring. I’d been there twice to party.

  I reached for the door and tried to pull it open, but it was locked. I shook it, panic roaring through me. I’d be late, and Lars would fire me, and . . .

  “Hang on, I’ll let you in,” said a woman’s voice. “The employee door is on the other side of the cage.”

  I whipped around, feeling spooked. The voice came from the cashier’s box. I hadn’t realized someone was inside. And now whoever it was had gone, I guess to get the door for me. I stepped around the cage to see where this “employee door” could be. It was almost invisible unless you were looking for it, just a rectangular crack in the black wall.

  I didn’t have to wait long. There was a click, and the door swung open—and there was Marilyn.

  I swallowed. She had on a silver dress that hung on her like a sheet of moving water. Her skin was pure cream. I knew there were plenty of Marilyns floating around Vegas, but she had to be the best.

  “You’re the new bartender?” she said, looking me over.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m Gabe.”

  “I’m Marilyn.” She smiled. “At least, that’s what you’re supposed to call me. Nick wants people to feel like they’re in fifties Hollywood. My name is April.”

  “Hi,” I said again, like an idiot.

  “Lars is in there, waiting for you. Go on in. I have to get my cage ready.” She stepped aside to let me by and swished through another black door into the cage. Her dress made a glowing outline of her curves.

  I walked down the short hall and entered the club, feeling dazed. The lights were low and a gleaming wood bar stretched along one wall. On the other wall were plush red VIP booths, roped off from the dance floor. There were old-school slot machines in the corners, and gold-framed pictures of movie stars on the walls. Showgirl costumes dangled from the ceiling, sparkling in the lights.

  The place was usually packed with bodies, the VIP booths spilling over. But now there was only Lars counting cash behind the bar and an old man sweeping. As I walked in, Lars looked up. His eyes swept over me and he chuckled softly.

  “Hey, Lars,” I said, heat rising in my face. He thinks I look stupid.

  Lars came out from behind the bar. He was doing it up Steven Tyler–style: tight white pants, shiny blue shirt open to his belly button, silver necklace resting on his pale chest. He shook his head. “We’re going to have to work on your look. What are you, a frat boy at a seventies p
arty?”

  I looked down and grimaced. I knew I’d gotten it wrong. I was wearing jeans and a brown polyester shirt with peach-colored ladies on it. “You said retro,” I said lamely.

  “The pants are fine, but not the shirt. You can borrow one of mine.” Lars jerked his head. “Get to know the bar while I find you something.” He disappeared into the back of the club.

  I went behind the bar—my bar—and slid my hand across the wood. There had to be an inch of varnish on there. Everything was neat and clean, ready for action. Upside-down glasses, stacks of napkins, hoses, liquors, jiggers, strainers, speed rack, well full of fresh ice. The fruit tray was open, and there was a cutting board with a knife and a couple limes ready to go.

  When Lars came back out, I was prepping fruit. He tossed something shiny and white over the bar. “Try this on.”

  I wiped my hands and grabbed it. “Oh, man, Lars.” It looked like it would fit a five-year-old girl. It had blue stars on it.

  He sat on a barstool. “Let me explain a little about this place.”

  “It’s cool, I’ll wear it.”

  He held up a hand. “I know you will. I just want you to understand the vibe we’re trying to create here.” He pushed his straggly blond hair off his forehead. His eyes were wide and bright, kind of whacked-looking. Under the bar lights, I could see wrinkles across his forehead. “You know why this place is doing so well? We’re not just selling drinks. We’re selling what Las Vegans need.”

  “What do they need?” I set down the shirt, worried.

  “An identity. Vegas people are insecure about that.” Lars leaned forward, and for a second he looked exactly like the crazy guy in that kid movie Willy Wonka. “So at Hush we give them a sense of history, a sense of class. And, of course, a good time.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  He pointed at a slot machine in the corner. “There’s history. That’s from the original MGM.” He pointed at a glass case on the wall. “That’s one of the bullets that killed Bugsy Siegel.” He pointed up. “Original showgirl costumes.”

  “So this is like a museum,” I said carefully.

  “Exactly. Full of history that could only have happened in Vegas.” Lars held up a finger. “Then class. We fake that with a high cover and retro drink names. Then a good time. That’s where our staff comes in. It’s a crime to take yourself too seriously in this city.” He tugged at his blue shirt. “From now on . . . think Liberace meets Frank Sinatra.”