Fake I.D. hcc-56

by Jason Starr

  “Why don’t you go for help?”

  “That’s what I’m gonna do. I’ve thought about it before, but now I know, I really know I need it. I’m gonna go to Gamblers Anonymous—quit once and for all. Please, Janene. I don’t know why I did it. I mean I liked you—I thought we had something special going. Then, as usual, I fucked everything up. But please, I’m begging you, please don’t tell my boss any of this. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m begging you.”

  She was looking at me like I was her kid that she’d just spanked, and now she felt bad about it.

  “How could you steal from me?” she said. “How could you do something like that to me, Tommy?”

  “I was out of control—what can I say? But I have some good news—I won at the track with your money and I can pay you back for everything. If you come to my apartment I’ll give you the money right now. Just tell me how much you think that jewelry was worth and—”

  “The money doesn’t matter,” she said. “It was the sentimental value.”

  “Jesus, you don’t know how sorry I am about all this,” I said. “Just tell me the amount—any amount and I’ll give you the money. Please—it’s important that I do this.”

  “I have no idea what it was worth.”

  “Give me a ballpark figure.”

  “I don’t know—maybe a few hundred dollars.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll give you the money right now—three hundred for the jewelry and the hundred I owe you—but you have to promise not to talk to my boss or the police.”

  “Do you have the money with you?”

  “Wait one second,” I said.

  I went back into the bar and asked Frank if he could cover for me for about fifteen minutes, a half hour tops. He said it was no problem and I came back out wearing my leather coat.

  “Where are we going?” Janene asked.

  “To give you your money.”

  “I thought you had it with you.”

  “No, it’s in my apartment.”

  “I don’t want to go to your apartment.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why don’t you just send me the money?”

  “Put cash in the mail? Come on, it’ll take two minutes. I really want to make up for what I did to you.”

  She looked away, trying to make up her mind, then she looked back at me and said, “All right, let’s go.”

  It was weird walking next to her. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest and she didn’t say a word. I didn’t say anything either. I was pissed at her for threatening to call the cops. After what Rodrigo pulled in the kitchen, I was getting sick of people trying to blackmail me.

  We turned on to Sixty-fourth Street. When we got to my building, I headed up the stoop, but Janene stopped on the sidewalk.

  “You coming up?”

  “No,” she said, “I think I’ll just wait out here.”

  “Come on, it’s freezing out.”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  “What? You don’t trust me?”

  “I just feel like waiting down here on the street.”

  There was a group of teenagers across the street, smoking cigarettes and laughing.

  “Whatever,” I said.

  I went upstairs and came back down with the four hundred dollars. She put the money away in her coat pocket.

  “I really hope you quit gambling,” she said, “for your own sake.”

  I watched her walk away toward York Avenue, hoping she was out of my life for good.

  Twelve

  Walking home after work, I didn’t feel like being alone. Remembering how Susan Lepidus had asked me to call her sometime, I stopped at the nearest phone booth. The phone rang four times and then her answering machine picked up. I was about to hang up when she said, “Wait—hold on,” then she turned off the machine and, sounding tired, said, “Hello.”

  I realized that one-thirty was probably kind of late to call somebody.

  “Hey, Susan,” I said, “it’s Tommy. You know, from O’Reilley’s.”

  She didn’t say anything for a few seconds then she said, “Oh, hi, how are you?”

  “Hope I didn’t wake you,” I said.

  “No...I mean I was just getting into bed...what time is it?”

  “About one-thirty,” I said. “I just got off work. I know it’s late to be calling, but I want you to know it was really nice seeing you again the other night. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since then.”

  “That’s sweet. It was nice seeing you again too.”

  “I know this is short notice, but I figured I’d be spontaneous. You want to go out for a late drink?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? There are a few places still open.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I mean I have to go to work tomorrow.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I always forget how normal people work in the morning.”

  She laughed.

  “Maybe we could go out some other time,” I said. “Unless...nah, that’s a stupid idea.”

  “What is?”

  “I was thinking, I could come by your place, if you want. Just to say hi, have a quick drink and leave.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Forget about it then,” I said. “I told you it was a stupid idea. I’ll call you some other time. I’m off on Tuesdays. Maybe tomorrow night we can do something.”

  “I have plans tomorrow.”

  “Some other time then.”

  “Wait,” she said. “I guess you could come over now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah...why not? Do you remember where I live?”

  “I sure do,” I said. “Should I bring over some beer?”

  “That’s all right, I have some in the fridge.”

  “See you in a few.”

  I started to walk, but my feet were cold in my motorcycle boots, so I jogged up First Avenue with the stiff wind in my face. Susan lived on Eighty-third Street between Third and Lex. It was about twenty blocks from the phone booth, but it only took me about ten minutes to get there.

  I’d walked Susan home that night after we went out dancing, but I’d never been up to her apartment. It was a doorman building, but not nearly as nice as Frank’s. The doorman buzzed her and I took the elevator up.

  Susan looked good, especially for two in the morning. She was wearing jeans and a long black T-shirt and she’d put on makeup—lipstick and blush.

  After I kissed her hello on the cheek, she invited me into the apartment. It was a small place—bigger than my dump, but so was just about every other apartment in the city. It had an L-shape with a little kitchen and a living room in the big part, and the bedroom area was off to the right. A U2 poster was hanging on the wall above the couch.

  She took my coat and put it on the back of a chair.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” she said.

  She pointed toward a seat at the kitchen table.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “So this is a nice little place you got here.”

  “Thanks,” she said, twirling a few long strands of her curly red hair with a finger. “Can I get you a beer or something?”

  “Why not?” I said.

  She went to the fridge, took out two Heinekens, and put them down on the counter.

  “I’m really glad you called me,” she said, opening the beer. “I was hoping you would.”

  “I should’ve called you right away,” I said.

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “I told you I’d call you and I never did. That was wrong.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s just as much my fault as it was yours. I could’ve called you too.”

  I put my hands against her hips and turned her around toward me. I kissed her—gently at first, then I pushed her back against the refrigerator, kissing her all over her face. She was kissing me back, sucking on my earlobes. As I was unhooking
her bra she said, “Wait, you really think we should do this?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Unless you don’t want to.”

  Her bra fell onto the floor and she pulled off my shirt. I carried her to the bed, still kissing her, when the doorbell rang.

  Susan looked terrified.

  “Who the hell could that be?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “So let’s just ignore it,” I said.

  “We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he knows I’m home.”

  “Who knows?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “Ex-boyfriend. The guy I was at the bar with the other night.”

  The knocking was louder now. Then the guy—I remembered his name was Jim—said, “Come on, Susan, open up! Open the fuckin’ door, Susan!”

  “Just forget about it,” I whispered. “He’ll go away.”

  “No, he sounds drunk,” Susan said. “He’ll wake the whole building. Why did my stupid doorman let him up?”

  “Susan!” Jim yelled. “Open the door Susan! Open the fucking door!”

  “I’ll go talk to him,” Susan said.

  She put her shirt on.

  “You sure?” I said.

  “Yeah, it’ll be fine. Wait one sec.”

  Susan went to the door and I was thinking how, when she came back, I’d make up some excuse and go home. Although Susan was a nice girl and she was very good looking, we didn’t have anything in common and I couldn’t remember why I’d called her in the first place.

  Susan and Jim were talking at the door.

  “Come on, lemme in,” Jim said.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Susan said.

  “No, let me in now,” Jim said. “I wanna talk to you.”

  “It’s too late,” Susan said.

  “Why, you got someone here?”

  “Nobody’s here.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “No one.”

  “Stop it...Jim!”

  Jim pushed his way into the apartment. He stormed into the bedroom area and saw me sitting there on Susan’s bed without a shirt on. He was wearing a business suit, his tie partially unwound. His hair was a mess and he looked drunk.

  For a few seconds, he just stood there, shocked, then he said, “What the fuck is this shit?”

  “Just go home,” Susan said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You fuckin’ son of a bitch,” Jim said to me.

  He stood there for another second or two, then he charged me. I stood up and pushed him away, which wasn’t very hard. The guy was about five-six and probably weighed eighty pounds less than me.

  Susan was screaming for Jim to go home and I said, “Just take it easy—take it easy, all right? I don’t wanna hurt you, just take it easy.”

  “Fuck you,” Jim said, spraying spit. “Just fuck you.”

  He tried to punch me in the face and missed by about a foot. Then he came at me again and grabbed my chain with the little gold barbell. The chain snapped and the barbell fell onto the floor.

  “Look what you did,” I said. “Look what you did.”

  “Fuck you,” Jim said.

  I went after him, punching him in the face again and again. His nose started gushing blood, then he fell onto the floor, curled up into a ball, yelling, “Help me, Susan! Help me!”

  Finally, Susan pulled me away. She kneeled next to Jim and said to me, “What’s wrong with you? Why wouldn’t you stop?”

  I picked up my barbell chain, happy to see that only the clasp was broken.

  “Just get the hell out of here,” Susan said to me. “Leave!”

  I put on my shirt and coat and left the apartment. Walking home down Third Avenue, I finally started to calm down.

  When I arrived at my place, I went right into the bathroom and washed up. I didn’t even have a scratch on my face, but my knuckles were sore. I felt bad for hitting Jim as hard as I did and I hoped he wasn’t seriously hurt.

  I put the barbell and the busted chain away in my dresser drawer, then I sat at the table and counted the money I had left over from the robbery. The total came to about $1,700 and tomorrow was my day off. Maybe what I needed was to get away for a day or two—clear my head.

  Then, just like that, I drove out to La Guardia Airport and hopped the next flight to Vegas.

  It was last-minute notice so they charged me through the eyeballs for a ticket. I paid eight hundred bucks for the round-trip flight, when it probably would have cost me half that much if I bought the ticket in advance or took one of those gambling junkets. Now I only had about four hundred bucks on me—I’d left five hundred at home—so if I didn’t hit something right away it was going to be a short trip.

  The plane took off at around 6:30 in the morning. I switched planes in Detroit and arrived in Vegas at eleven o’clock, ready to rock and roll. I didn’t sleep a wink the whole flight, but I was wide awake anyway.

  I took a cab to the strip, shocked how big the place was. For years people had been telling me, “You gotta see Vegas to believe it,” and now I knew what they meant.

  I didn’t know where to go first so I had the cab driver drop me off at Bally’s. Sticking to the plan I’d made on the plane, I went to the first roulette wheel I saw and let three hundred bucks ride on black. The ball spun around, bounced out of a red slot, and landed in black. I let the six hundred ride and black came in again. I’d just won a free trip to Vegas.

  At a blackjack table my hot streak continued. After about ten minutes I was up over a grand. I could do no wrong—splitting nines and pulling aces, hitting on fifteen and sixteen and pulling fives and sixes, sticking with single digits and watching the dealer bust. I tipped the dealer fifty bucks for his trouble and headed over to the racebook.

  I bet on a couple of simulcast races from New York and Florida. I lost at Calder, but I hit an exacta and win bet at Aqueduct that put me up another G. I played slots for a while, breaking even, then I hit the blackjack tables again, winning another five hundred bucks. I had been in the casino for about an hour and a half and I was up about three grand. I was going to head over to another casino, maybe pick up a bite to eat, when I saw this blonde smiling at me.

  I knew right away she was a pro, sizing me up as a john. Her lips were painted with bright pink fluorescent lipstick and she was fluttering her long eyelashes. She had a big curvy shape in a silver sequined dress. Maybe this was exactly what I needed—some nice, uncomplicated sex. I went over to her and asked her what she charged. She said two hundred an hour. I told her I’d meet her in the lobby outside the casino in ten minutes.

  I cashed in my chips and rented a room. The hooker was waiting where she said she’d be and she was looking better and better.

  In the elevator she asked me if I’d been to Vegas before and I said, “No, it’s my first time,” and she said, “So how do you like it so far?” I said, “Not too bad.” We didn’t say anything else to each other until we got to the room. Then, as soon as the door closed, she said, “So where do you want me?”

  We did it once, fast, then I took my time. When we were through, I gave her that two hundred bucks, plus a fifty-dollar tip.

  “Thanks,” she said. “That’s so sweet of you.”

  She invited me to watch her “perform” later at some strip bar at the other end of town, but I told her I doubted I’d be able to make it.

  A few minutes after she left the room, I went back down to the casino.

  I wolfed down a couple of burgers at one of the hotel’s restaurants using a comp card, then I was ready for more action. I was planning to leave for New York early tomorrow morning and go to work tomorrow night. I probably could’ve used some rest, but there was no way I was going to miss out on any gambling time in Vegas—especially since I had about $2,600 burning a hole in my pocket.

  I wanted to check out as many casinos as I could so I went across the street to The Flaming
o. I bought two thousand bucks in chips and went right to a craps table, blowing a grand in fifteen minutes. Before things got really out of control, I got up and started playing blackjack again. I didn’t like the dealer at the table I was sitting at—he was smiling and joking around too much—so I walked around and found a table with an empty seat in the anchor slot. My chip pile was shrinking, but I guess my jet lag was starting to catch up with me because I was too tired to walk around anymore. So I stayed at the table and eventually I started to win again. After about two hours, I won back the grand I’d lost at craps, plus another seven hundred. I cashed in my chips and took my comp card and headed toward the restaurant, ready to pig out on a steak-and-potatoes dinner.

  “Looking for a date, honey?”

  I’d just left the casino when I looked over and saw the best-looking hooker I’d ever seen. She had long brown hair and she was wearing a tight black dress.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Five for an hour you won’t forget.”

  I guess I could’ve brought her to my room at Bally’s, but I was so tired I didn’t want to waste the energy crossing the street. Besides, I was rolling in dough so I just rented a two-hundred-dollar room at the Flamingo and took the hooker upstairs with me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get in two goes this time, but I got my money’s worth anyway.

  Later on, I could barely get out of bed and I had to pace around my room for about fifteen minutes before I could make it downstairs. Two rare steaks and a side order of shrimp pumped me up enough to make it into a cab and head crosstown to Caesar’s Palace for some poker action. Forty-five minutes later I was broke.

  I still don’t know how I managed to lose all my money so fast. It probably had something to do with being the worst poker player in the world and sitting down at a high-stakes table with blue balls on zero sleep. All I remember clearly is sitting across from two guys in cowboy hats, and next thing I knew I was sitting on a chair in the lobby with my head in my hands.

  I only had about forty dollars left on me—enough to get a cab to the airport and to pay to pick up my car from the airport parking lot in New York. I thought about going back to one of my hotel rooms, but I knew there was no way I’d fall asleep so I decided to just head out to the terminal and wait for my flight tomorrow morning. I sat down near my gate, so tired I was dizzy. I noticed that people kept sitting down next to me then getting up and moving away. Then I remembered how the cab driver had opened all the windows and how people at the poker table had been giving me funny looks. I hadn’t showered since Monday morning —over two days ago—and I probably smelled as bad as Pete Logan.