by AR Winters
I walked in just a few minutes late, but that’s all it took to get into the bad books in the Treasury, and I knew I was definitely in them.
I was forced to walk in midway through the shift manager’s speech, and tried not to make a face when I saw that tonight’s shift manager was Brian Wesley.
“And remember, weight controls begin next month,” he was saying. “All the dealers, now. Get in shape, or get outta here.” He looked at me pointedly, and I tried not to stick my tongue out in response. What was next, the dealers’ outfits being changed to skimpy lingerie? Many of the casinos were already forcing their dealers to wear such outfits, and I balked at the idea. If I was expected to parade around in front of gross drunken men in next to nothing, I needed to be paid much better!
Brian went on for a while, and I glanced at my watch. He seemed to be going on longer than usual—maybe someone higher up in the chain was watching us.
“And remember about the weight controls,” he finished, just as we were heading out. “You need to be within the ratios by the end of next month. It might be hard for some of you, but you can do it. Even you, Tiffany.”
There were a few snickers, and this time I really did shoot Brian a dirty look. He smirked back in response, as though he was just joking.
By the time I arrived at my first blackjack table and clapped out my hands, I was in a thoroughly bad mood.
I usually like being in the pit. The bright lights, garish colors and cacophony of gamblers and slot machines is somehow reassuring. Today, however, my bad mood persisted in hovering around me, like my own personal rain cloud.
“Cheer up, grumps,” slurred one of the drunken players at my table. “What’s a pretty gal like you doing bein’ so sad?”
I smiled at him politely and went on dealing. The table began to empty out, and then a few new people arrived. The drunken, slurring guy was still at my table, and he now began talking to his new gambling partners.
“All the girls here are so pretty,” he slurred. “I love being in Vegas.”
I stifled a sigh.
“What’s wrong?” the drunken guy asked. “You’re no fun today.”
I maintained my polite smile and friendly tone and said, “How much fun could you be, if someone told you to lose weight?”
The guy stared at me, eyes bulging. “You! Lose weight? No way, you don’t need to!”
I laughed, feeling slightly better for the first time since Brian’s “pep talk.” The guy was drunk off his kilter, but he was still good at boosting my ego.
“Your boss is nuts,” he declared, slurring his words. “And it’s time for me to end the party here. And if they don’t appreciate you, maybe you should too, chica.” He tossed a couple of chips on the table—fifty each—and left.
Maybe the drunken guy had a point.
I was moved over to the craps table next, where the crowd was having a blast. I got caught up in their enthusiasm—there was a young girl in her early twenties at the table, playing craps for the first time, who hit a hot streak and swept the whole table up with her wins. She placed a few dealer bets for me (of course, all of us dealers prefer to get paid in straight tips, but I wasn’t going to turn down free money) and won me some extra chips as well.
The craps party made me feel a lot better about life, and about working at the casino. So far, it hadn’t been all bad. And maybe I’d manage to get my weight under control by the next month. Anything was possible with discipline.
I was moved back to the blackjack tables, and my table stayed empty for quite some time. This gave me a chance to think back on Lana. Perhaps I was still basking in the positive post-craps glow, but I thought of her kindly. She was tough, she was cool, and she clearly got things done. I couldn’t imagine her sitting through snide remarks like Brian’s: she was far too “fabulous” to do so. But then again, she was a celebrity. I wasn’t, and I needed to earn a living.
Lana’s tale sounded a wee bit far-fetched, and there was always the chance that she might be exaggerating in an attempt to get some more media attention. But I liked Lana, and I wanted to believe what she’d said. She seemed smart; if she thought she was in trouble, she probably was. And though she’d claimed to have bought me my gorgeous, expensive new dress strings-free, I felt obligated to at least look into her claims.
Tomorrow, I’d visit the police station and have a chat with whichever detective had looked into Lana’s complaints.
Chapter Eleven
By the time I got home, it was almost three a.m.
I found a Post-it on my door from Ian: “Having a Star Trek marathon, come over to see Snowflake’s new trick. Doesn’t matter when you get home, I’ll be up. So will Snowflake.” And then, a stick-figure drawing of a cat.
The note made me smile. When I’d first met him, Ian had been a complete annoyance and pain in the you-know-what. But now, his annoying behavior seemed almost tolerable. He’d helped me out on a few cases so far. And more importantly, his kitten Snowflake was adorable.
Snowflake had been a tiny, tiny kitten when we’d first gotten her: nothing more than a ball of fur. She was still a ball of fur now, just a little bit bigger.
I took a shower, changed into yoga pants and a comfy tee, and went over to Ian’s place.
He opened the door looking bleary-eyed. His hair was normally a red, bouncy affair, but today, half his head had hair plastered flat on it.
He blinked slowly and rubbed his eyes. “You’re here.”
I peered over his shoulder, but I couldn’t see Snowflake. “Did you fall asleep?” I asked, letting myself in. “Is Snowflake asleep?”
Ian’s place is just like mine—a tiny, cheap one-bedder. But it’s furnished with items that seem to have been picked up from the dumpster, and the walls are lined with posters of “classic” action and sci-fi movies and TV series. There’s a wall-hung shelf of collectible action figures, which Ian tells me are in pristine condition, and the oven is as unused as the one in my apartment.
“I must’ve dozed off for a second,” Ian said. “I decided to do Star Trek another day. I thought I’d finish off the season of Desperate Girlfriends I’d gotten from Netflix.”
“Hmm.” I looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you have Singing Duos?”
“The show? Yeah, I think so. Why, d’you wanna watch it now? It’s supposed to be lots of fun.”
I looked around glumly. I couldn’t see Snowflake, and my bed was calling to me—crisp, clean sheets and a soft pillow.
“Here you go,” Ian said, hitting play. “Singing Duos.”
An MC came onto the stage and began talking about the show. “New auditions,” she said, and something about a first round. The camera shifted to show a line of contestants lining up at the door of an outdoor auditorium.
It was too late to process all this; but then again, Ian knew what the show was about, and I might as well learn something about Lana before I dozed off. “What’s going on in the show?” I asked Ian. “And where’s Snowflake?”
“Asleep in the bedroom.” Ian craned his neck to peer through the doorway. “I’ll get her in a bit. She’s learned this new thing. I got a new box of action figures and—oh, right, the show. Well, they make people sing in pairs, and select the best singers. The best couple gets a record produced for them and some cash. And anyone can try to enter. See, here they’re in San Diego, and these people are all lining up to audition.”
I nodded my head. It was making sense. “Like open call. That’s why they’ve got numbers around their necks.”
“Exactly.” At that moment, Snowflake chose to stroll out of the bedroom. She surveyed us regally, like she owned the place—which she did, sort of.
“I’ll get the box the action figures came in,” Ian said, disappearing into the bedroom.
Snowflake came over to me and rubbed against my leg. I stroked her gently and tickled her behind her ears. She purred and rolled over onto her belly. I could hear Ian moving things around in the bedroom, and I was tickling Snowflake
’s soft belly when he reappeared with a small brown box in his hands.
Immediately, Snowflake jumped up and walked over to Ian. Ian put the box on the floor, and Snowflake jumped into it. The box was about half the size of Snowflake, but she managed to squish herself in. Somehow, her body deflated like a balloon, until she was crammed into the tiny box. Her blue eyes peered out over the top of the box, and I laughed. Ian wasn’t exaggerating when he said the trick was cute.
“This is even better,” Ian said. “Watch what happens when—hey, Snowflake.” He walked closer to the box and crouched down. “You wanna give me your box? Maybe let me get inside?” He reached his forefinger out to touch the side of the box gingerly, and Snowflake narrowed her eyes at him. She made an angry, half-mewing sound. Clearly, in kitten language, she was saying, “Mine!”
Ian took a step back, and Snowflake relaxed. When he took a step forward and reached his finger out towards the box, Snowflake narrowed her eyes again. Ian and I grinned like idiots, and I said, “She’s getting cuter each day! I’m so glad you managed to keep her.”
“Me too,” said Ian, heading off to the kitchen. He found some coffee pods and turned to me. “Coffee or decaf?”
I sighed. Decaf should’ve been the logical choice, but now that I was here, I might as well try to understand what Lana was doing on the Singing Duos show. “Coffee, please.”
As Ian made my drink, I turned my attention back to the TV. The contestants were now singing, and the two girls on stage actually sounded quite good.
Lana cut them off mid-verse. “Enough, honey.” She raised one hand and leaned her head back as though the song was giving her a migraine. On the show, her Southern accent was much less pronounced, and I guessed she was trying to downplay her Southern roots. “I can’t take any more.” The camera zoomed in on her. Lana leaned forward and began talking slowly. “That. Was. Horrible.”
The camera panned back to the girls, who looked shocked by that judgment. And then it turned to the other two judges.
One of the judges, a blond-haired, blue-eyed man with chiseled model-like features, was watching Lana seriously. The other judge was a bearded man with dark curly hair who was leaning back in his chair and staring up at some point on the ceiling. His eyes were blank, and I wasn’t sure if he’d even heard Lana. Or the songs.
“It’s atrocious,” Lana said. “A professional needs pizzazz.” She flung her arms open, as though making her point. “This kind of bland, namby-pamby stuff just won’t fly. Next.”
“Bu-but,” stammered one of the girls. “I thought we did well.”
Lana laughed bitterly. “Sure, if you’re singing for your high school reunion. Next.”
The camera panned to the other judges, and the good-looking blond nodded. “Yes, I agree with Lana. I’m afraid this just isn’t what we’re looking for. You did sing very well, however.” He flashed the contestants a brilliant smile. “Keep practicing, and someday you’ll be at the top of the charts. Good luck!”
The girls were shown again. One of them gulped, looking like she was ready to swoon, and the other grabbed the mic and mumbled, “Thank you.”
The camera showed the third judge, the curly-haired daydreamer. He jumped up as though someone had poked him from behind. “Er, yes.” He blinked as though he was seeing the contestants for the first time. “That was wonderful, brilliant.” He looked over to Lana, who was frowning and shaking her head. “But, um, not quite—not quite what we need. Good luck to you.”
The cameras went back to the line of contestants, waiting outside the door, and then it showed the two girls, in some room where they were being interviewed. They both had tears in their eyes and were sniffling.
“That judge, Lana Fierst, was really mean,” said one.
“Yeah,” said the other. “The other two judges were okay. But Lana just sabotaged our chances. Maybe she’s jealous of us, because we can sing and she’s not a superstar anymore.”
The other girl laughed bitterly. “Yeah. That might be it. But we’re not going to give up. We’ll show her!”
Ian finished up his coffee production and handed me my steaming mug.
“Fun show, right?” he said. “There’s so much drama. And then it gets more tense later on.”
“How many seasons has it been on?”
“Three, I think. They’re starting a new one now. Did you know they’re going to shoot in Vegas?” He looked at me excitedly. I took a sip of coffee and didn’t answer. I didn’t need to, because Ian went on. “I used to want to be a singer. Maybe I could audition for the show. But I just need a partner.” He looked at me hopefully.
I took another sip and said, “That judge, Lana, seems quite mean.”
“Yeah,” said Ian. “Everyone hates her. Sometimes the judges disagree. Usually Carlos, the one with the curly hair, says crazy stuff. And then Gordon, the blond one, agrees with Lana but not completely, you know? Anyway, in later stages, the judges aren’t so important. It’s the viewers who text in or email their votes.”
“Right,” I said. Another batch of contestants came onstage; this time they were all horrible. Carlos seemed to get slightly more awake as the show went on, and I figured that one of the producers must’ve forced some coffee into him.
I’d almost finished my drink when I noticed the paraphernalia on Ian’s kitchen countertop. “What’s all that?”
Ian beamed. “It’s for making cupcakes!”
I looked at him warily. “You’re going to make cupcakes?”
His enthusiasm died down a bit and a guilty look crossed his face, kind of the way Snowflake looks when we find her scratching the furniture. “No. I was thinking you could.”
“Why would I make cupcakes?”
“Because you love them. Come on, you’ve got no cupcakes in your fridge right now, and Glenn’s asleep. But if you made some, you could have a cupcake right now. And then you’d have extras that you could have for breakfast tomorrow.”
“That makes sense,” I admitted, “but it all seems really hard.”
“C’mon! These are chocolate cupcakes. You’ve seen Glenn make them a gazillion times, and he gave me the recipe when you ran off to talk to Cal. And he said you could borrow his stand mixer, and I got all the ingredients from Anderson’s. I could help you.”
Ian looked at me hopefully, and I rolled my eyes. “You just want to eat some chocolate cupcakes.”
“Don’t you?”
“I do,” I admitted. Chocolate cupcakes for breakfast sounded like a good idea. Chocolate cupcakes right now sounded even better. “What do we need to do?”
Ian handed me the recipe that Glenn had written out for me, and I scrolled through it. “Right,” I said finally. “This calls for buttercream icing, which seems separate from the actual cupcakes. If we divide up the work, it’ll be faster. You do the icing, I’ll do the cupcakes.”
We got to work immediately, before either of us could chicken out. Singing Duos kept playing in the background, and we heard various contestants being ridiculed for their “horrible singing” which could never make it in the industry. Once in a while, somebody sang spectacularly well, and Lana would begrudgingly allow them on to the next round. In almost every case, she’d say something about how their voice was okay, but they needed to develop a lot more. And Carlos and Gordon would wax lyrical. Carlos seemed to be getting more and more awake as the show went on.
I used the mixer to combine the butter, sugar, and vanilla, followed by eggs and then flour, just the way I’d seen Glenn do it. It looked so delicious that I decided to taste it. Which made Ian pause in his making of the frosting and try some too. Pretty soon, we’d grabbed spoons and bowls and started eating the mixture raw.
“I’ll bet the cupcakes are going to be nommy,” Ian said, in between licks of his share of the mixture. “We should make some more.”
“Do you have enough eggs?”
“Of course. You have to buy a dozen at once. You’ve only used two.”
“Okay,”
I said. It made sense to double up the recipe. If the cupcakes were any good, we didn’t want them to be finished too soon. And I’d have to share them with Ian, which automatically halved my share. I did some math, told Ian how much of each ingredient I’d need, and got back to mixing everything together.
“It says here it’ll take twenty minutes to bake,” Ian said. We’d used two cupcake trays—my first time handling those strange pokey things—and figured we’d get two dozen big cupcakes. “I can’t wait twenty minutes.”
I looked down at the buttercream mix. “Your icing mixture’ll go dry.”
“What if the mixture’s no good?” Ian said. “That’ll ruin the cupcakes.”
I looked at him, worried. “Glenn told me you can get insta-frosting.”
“Right here,” Ian said, producing two cans of chocolate insta-frosting.
I took the one that seemed lighter and pressed down, and a bit of fluffy frosting puffed out onto my fingers. “Mmm,” I said, licking my fingers clean. “This is delicious. And half-empty.” I shook the can gently. “Did you spend all afternoon eating this?”
“Just a bit,” Ian said. “We should test the frosting I made. It might be no good.”
I agreed. So we got two spoons, sat down with the bowl of frosting, and began tasting. It was delicious.
Fifteen minutes later, the frosting was all gone.
We stared down at the bowl in dismay. Ian said, “Now I’m really hungry.”
I agreed. “The cupcakes are probably done already.”
I took the trays out of the oven, piled insta-frosting on top of the cupcakes, and handed one to Ian before biting into my own cupcake. Singing Duos played in the background, and I vaguely heard Lana criticizing one of the contestants as I gobbled up my cupcake. Ian and I finished our first cupcakes and then had another each.
“These are good,” Ian said. “Perfect.”
The exhaustion from the shift had worn off now, and so had my hunger. With that came the reminder that I was supposed to be losing weight.
I stared at all the cupcakes we’d baked. Ian and I had eaten four in total, and there were twenty more left. Twenty cupcakes meant a seriously overweight Tiffany. Probably a Tiffany who’d no longer fit into her dealer’s outfit, let alone meet the new stupid weight ratios.