by Lamar Giles
An eye roll and engine rev later, he was gone. I returned to the bar’s entrance, where Davis waited.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just the way this town works. Let’s play.”
Fresh, stacked chips—courtesy of Goose—sat before me as the cigar-chomping Def Leppard fan dealt my first hand. Davis took a chair in the corner, patient, fulfilling his promise to help in any way I needed. This was it.
Three hours later and I’d turned Goose’s one thousand into five. Chomper took the largest hit, calling bets on pots he had no hope of taking. Not strategic, personal. He didn’t like losing to a girl, the Achilles’ heel of misogynists everywhere.
Davis hung in the whole time. Really, I forgot about him for long stretches. More concerned with Dad’s constantly vibrating phone. More messages from Mom, no doubt.
We hit early afternoon, and the other players called for another smoke break. I glanced to my driver and saw him in an animated conversation with Goose. Curious, I headed over and said, “Hello? I thought I was having my performance evaluated.”
“I stopped watching you after the first few hands. Me and your friend here had a little chat about motor vehicles,” Goose said.
Davis blushed mildly, but he had a sleepy look about him. He’d been patient, but pushing it further bordered on rude.
“Goose, I should probably go.”
“Feel free. You did good today, Little Nate.”
I flinched, stung. “What did you call me?”
“Little Tate. That’s your name, ain’t it?”
“Yes. You’re right.”
While he cashed me out, I turned to Davis. “You look like you’re in need of caffeine. I’m sorry you had to sit through that.”
“Been through worse.” He checked the time on his phone. “School’s almost over. Where to now?”
Good question. I still wasn’t ready for the wrath of Mom. “Is there anyone at your place?”
Davis’s cheeks flared. “My place?”
“Not like that,” I hurried to say, heat prickling my entire body. Although I kind of wished it was like that. “I just mean … can we hang there? Without anyone bothering us?”
My babbling clarification didn’t really make it any better. Too late to turn back.
“No one should bother us there,” Davis answered with a small shake of his head.
Goose returned, handing over a roll of cash. “Fifteen hundred here. Good haul, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll be in touch if some other opportunities arise. You do the same?”
Nodding, my eyes never left the cash in my hand. Seeds to a money tree, the start of a newer, bigger bankroll to put me back on track.
“Let’s go.” I took Davis’s hand, trying not to lose my cool (again) as electricity bolted up my arm, and led him back to the lot. Halfway to his car an angry dog started barking. At least that’s what Chomper sounded like.
“Hey, girlie! Hold up a sec. We need to talk.”
Girlie? I spun, defensive. Chomper, rage-faced, drew close.
Davis stepped in front of me. Chivalrous but unnecessary.
“Yeah?” I said.
“You’re real good. You’re going to be a monster in this game.”
I’m already a monster, tool. “If you say so.”
“Now hand over my coaching fee, I’ll let you be on your way.”
“Your coaching what?”
“Goose gave you something like two grand. That’s about what you took off me while you were getting in some of that good practice. I’ll take it back now and we won’t have any problems.”
The street, so far from the bustle of Downtown and the Strip, was quiet this time of day. Suddenly, coming here felt like a mistake. A trap.
Cigar Chomper extended his hand, palm up, the calluses giving a visual history of hard manual labor.
“I won this money.” I felt the futility in the words. He already knew that and didn’t care.
“Little girls can’t win here. This is a man’s game. Give me my money.”
“Dude,” Davis said, reinserting himself between me and the lowlife. “Walk away.”
Chomper sidestepped Davis, not sparing his scrawny junior a second glance. Until Davis said, “You know Big Bert Carlino?”
Chomper paused. Whatever intimidation tactic he’d been planning in the quest for my money was preempted. “Who doesn’t?”
Davis waved a hand near his own face. “Notice the resemblance?”
The next seconds ticked by long and slow, time stretching like taffy. Chomper leaned into Davis, removed his sunglasses, squinted. His eyes popped wide, recognizing bad news. “Wait. You’re not—”
“Look,” Davis said, clapping a hand on the stocky brute’s shoulder, “what if you came to the Nysos one weekend and played some hands? Give me your name, and I’ll tell my dad what a good coach you’ve been to my friend. Have him put you on our VIP list.”
A friendly invite that didn’t sound friendly at all. That charming side Davis showed with me, and at Brady’s party, and with Goose wasn’t on display now. This was something else.
Chomper’s eyes flicked to me, uncertain.
“Seriously,” Davis said, his voice so cold I expected a puff of condensation from his lips. “What’s your name?”
Chomper backed away, breaking Davis’s grip. “You know what, kids, I’m good. It’s been a pleasure.”
He shuffled toward the bar as Goose stepped out, lighting a smoke. He assessed Chomper’s shifty demeanor, then cast his gaze toward us. “Everything okay here, Little Tate?”
Davis never took his eyes off the startled goon. I said, “Everything’s fine. Thanks.”
Chomper ducked around Goose, disappearing into the shadowy watering hole. Davis turned to me, grim, forcing a smile. “You ready?”
“What was that?”
Davis shifted gears, maneuvering us back toward the Nysos. Engine noise and heat. Always the heat. I waited for his response.
He said, “You shouldn’t read too much into what happened back there.”
“You mean the totally not subtle way you threatened that sore loser?”
“He was going to rob you. So I just—I used a trick.”
“A trick. That was total dark side of the Force, Davis. I thought that stuff about your family wasn’t true.”
“He doesn’t know that. Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not. I just …”
“What?”
“I get you were trying to scare him. You scared me, too.”
A good minute of silent riding passed. Sixty seconds for me to regret the way I’d said that, or that I’d said anything at all.
Davis, speaking softly, no trace of annoyance in the question, asked, “Would you rather I took you home?”
No! Absolutely not. I’d have to go eventually. Visions of my basement card room converted to a medieval dungeon inspired me to stretch this time together. “I was scared for him. Not for me. I’m fine. We’re fine.”
For the moment.
At the Nysos parking deck, Davis asked the valet to detail Cedric’s car and keep quiet about seeing us. The man seemed hesitant until Davis punctuated the request with folded bills. With our cover bought and paid for, he took us through the Valets Only entrance, which led to a spartan cinder-block-lined corridor resembling the back passages of Andromeda’s Palace. The similarities ended when we reached the elevator. No buttons, only a digital keypad. Davis punched in a code, and the doors hissed open. The cabin wasn’t the boxy cars I was used to, but a glass cylinder loaded into a vertical tube like a bullet. We stepped in and were fired upward.
We cleared the first few floors in a breath, and once we passed the tenth story, views of the inner elevator shaft transitioned to more glass, the exterior panes of the hotel. Each story we rocketed past gave us a higher, more expansive few of Las Vegas. Traffic became ants milling along sanctioned routes, and people shrank, o
rganisms under a microscope. Davis’s great glass elevator began slowing around the sixtieth floor and crested to a complete stop on the seventy-seventh. We stepped into a short corridor of bleached wood floors that led to huge mahogany doors with long steel handles like you’d see on refrigerators. Davis retrieved a key card from his back pocket and touched it to a sensor in the doorjamb. The lock clacked, and one of the doors nudged outward as if by a breeze.
“Welcome to Casa Carlino.”
A penthouse I expected. Without any real experience in this kind of luxury, I thought that meant a single floor. I still don’t know if I was underestimating, or if this family was overachieving. The Carlino residence, with floor-to-ceiling windows as big as Jumbotron screens in football stadiums, was three stories high. Easy.
The huge living room rivaled the gaming floor at Andromeda’s. Pale bamboo flooring stretched before me, decorated only by slim beige couches and welded-steel coffee tables.
Beyond the lounge area, chrome appliances in a kitchen worthy of world-class chefs. To my right, a daunting view of North Vegas and the ridges beyond. Left, a staircase leading to a partitioned-off second level. I assumed that’s where the bedrooms were. Davis’s bed would be up there.
He went that way, beckoning me. I climbed stairs into the lavish living quarters of one of Vegas’s wealthiest families, my bag bouncing on my shoulder. In the corridor at the top of the stairs, photos were arranged in neat grids along the wall. Casual smiling pics of a round-bellied Big Bert when he was a size more fitting his name. Cheesy matching sweater family photos featuring super-young Carlino brothers, Big Bert, and a pretty brunette woman.
I lingered on those. “Your mom?”
“Yes. And those are all our horrible haircuts.”
“Please. Your haircut’s way worse in this one.” I pointed to a grade-school photo of snaggletoothed Davis rocking shaggy, foppish locks. He didn’t disagree.
A whole section of wall was dedicated to Davis and his brother. Davis receiving a blue ribbon at a science fair. Cedric in peewee football pads. Davis dressed as a cowboy at some Wild West–looking amusement park. Several snaps of Cedric in his baseball glory days, sliding into base, or looking every bit an all-star in pinstripes with his bat cocked.
Of all the dark stuff I’d heard about Big Bert Carlino, this elaborate display presented undisputed truth. He loved his sons.
“You little turd!”
I spun at the shout. Cedric shot past me and decked Davis in the jaw, sent him sprawling.
“Take my car? Again? You know how much it cost to fix that dent in my Bugatti?”
Davis shifted onto his butt, massaging his jaw. “More than my orthodontia, I’m guessing.”
Cedric huffed, his eyes flicked to me. “Nikki, you might need a new boyfriend after today. This one’s gonna get broken.”
My mind whirred with the sudden ferocity, and the question of whether Davis was my boyfriend. Also how calmly Davis took the sneak attack. Did this happen a lot?
With clenched fists and jaw, Cedric rushed Davis. Before I could stop myself, I had jumped on his back, trying to redirect him. “Cedric, no!”
“Get off me,” Cedric said, whipping back and forth, trying to throw me as gently as he could, though I hung tight.
Davis was on his feet then. “Stop before you hurt her.”
Too late. One hip twist and lost grip later, I collided with the wall, sending about a dozen photos clattering to the floor with me in a rain of sharp, poking frame edges. “Ow!”
At that, calm and self-deprecating Davis disappeared. He caught a distracted Cedric—who was trying to help me up—off guard with a swift hook that rocked his brother. Cedric stumbled, rebounded off the opposite wall, regained his footing in a bouncy boxer’s stance.
But a referee ended it before it began. “Enough, you two!”
Big Bert stood at the top of the stairs, taking it all in, none too pleased.
Cedric said, “Dad, he—”
“Shut it!” He was speaking to his son, but looking at me. “Nikki, come with me.”
The casual use of my name shook me more than if he’d sprouted fangs and pinned me with glowing red eyes. “Wh-where?” I stammered.
Davis interrupted. “Dad.”
“Quiet.” Barely a whisper, it shut Davis down. To me, Big Bert said, “Come on, young lady.”
He offered a hand to help me up. I was scared not to take it. When his fleshy fingers grasped me, I felt the potential power in them. The palm was sandpaper rough, and the knuckles were bolts beneath his skin. Tugged back on my feet, I accidently stepped on one of the downed frames and cracked it. “I’m sorry, really sorry.”
I attempted kneeling to collect the things I’d knocked over and destroyed, but Big Bert still had my hand, and his grip tightened. “No need. Delano!”
Was Delano an Italian curse word? Did he just recite an incantation like Harry freaking Potter?
Footsteps reverberated, the sound growing louder and closer. Big Bert’s funeral escort and Davis’s sometimes driver rose from the stairwell. “Yes, sir?”
“Could you collect these pictures and make sure my sons don’t kill each other while I attend to Nikki.”
There it was again. My name rolling off his tongue with such ease.
He finally released my hand and I knew I should follow. Davis and I locked eyes, his concern for me obvious. For the first time, our own telepathy kicked in. Each of us silently assuring the other we’d be okay.
I left the brothers, followed Big Bert downstairs.
He walked to the nearest couch, motioned for me to sit. I did.
“Does your mother know where you are?” he asked.
I almost lied. This felt like a lying situation. I had my own questions, though, and gambled on some honesty quid pro quo. “No. Why were you at my dad’s funeral?”
He heavy-sighed. Focused on the city well beyond his glass walls. “We knew each other before his incarceration,” he said plainly, unexpected. “Vegas isn’t as big as you think.”
“Knew each other how?”
A cordless phone sat on a table next to me. He passed me the handset. “You should call your mother.”
Him, a few feet from me, concentrating on the view, was different from the cool and scary demeanor he’d perfected in news photos, and when he’d come to offer condolences. He seemed sad. Torn.
Something hit me. A remote possibility that never crossed my mind during these trying days since Dad died. “Mr. Carlino, were you and my father friends?”
His back straightened, raising his height to something more appropriate for his nickname. “Call. Your. Mother. Right—” He erupted into a coughing fit, doubling over and clapping a hand to his mouth. The sound like an old car engine fighting to start.
“Mr. Carlino.” I was on my feet, unsure how I could help.
“I’m fine,” he managed between moist, harsh hacks. He took the seat I’d abandoned.
“I’ll get Davis and Ced—”
“No. It’s passing.” His breathing steadied. He planted the hand he’d used to stifle the cough on the couch cushion by his thigh. “I’m going to have to insist you call your mother now.”
I might’ve resisted more, pushed to know if him and Dad were indeed friends. But he lifted his hand, the one that caught those horrible coughs, from the couch and didn’t realize what he’d left behind.
“Yes, sir.” I dialed Mom’s phone, putting one hundred percent of my attention on the numbers I punched. Anything so I didn’t look at that cushion. The one smeared with Big Bert’s blood.
My call with Mom was scary brief. She ripped into me immediately. What did I think I was doing? Where did I get off running wild all day? Where was I?
That last question was the only one I answered. “I’m at the Nysos.”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“Bert’s there, isn’t he? Put him on the phone.”
I passed the handset.
“Gwen,” he sa
id.
Notes and inflections flitted from the handset. Nothing I could make out. Big Bert nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose as if staving off a headache.
“She’s fine,” he said. “I’ll have security escort you up when you arrive.”
Mom’s volume increased sharply. Big Bert twisted away from me. “Yes, I like all my parts exactly where they are. No need for threats, Gwen. She’ll be waiting for—” He held the phone at arm’s length, perplexed. The universal look of getting hung up on.
“That went about as well as expected,” he said.
“How’d you know my dad, Mr. Carlino?”
“It’ll take your mom a while to get here in traffic,” he said, totally glossing over my question.
“Mr. Carlino—”
“I have Davis to deal with. Your mother has you. That’s all you’re getting.” That came with an edge. I didn’t push further.
“Wait here.” He said it like I had options.
He ascended the stairs, letting out a few light coughs, but nothing like before. I sat there for the eternity it took Mom to reach the Nysos. For every single second of it, Big Bert berated his youngest son in thumping bass tones that reverberated throughout the residence. I couldn’t discern words from where I sat, but I took it as a preview of what I’d be getting soon enough. In the midst of it, Cedric descended to my level, smirking. He flopped onto the far end of the couch, kicked his feet up on the coffee table, and bobbed his head like his father’s yelling was his favorite song.
I said, “You didn’t have to hit him, you know.”
“Oh, yes I did! Little thief.”
“So you’re enjoying this?”
“A little. He’ll probably hear about it for the rest of the night. Maybe lose his phone and Internet privileges for a while. It’ll blow over.”
“Lucky him.”
His smile retracted. “How bad will it be for you? I have a hard time thinking your mom’s going to take this well.”
He was right, but I didn’t feel like agreeing with him, so I said nothing.
“Your family doesn’t seem to like us much,” Cedric continued.