Headlock

by Adam Berlin

  18

  I WASN’T SURE WHAT time it was. It was Tuesday. I had stayed in bed while Gary called the front desk, asked for a wake-up call in half an hour, told me to meet him in front of the elevators. He stuck his fist over his mouth and pretended to play the bugle. I pulled my head under the covers to avoid the sound and the spray. Gary walked over, put his mouth against the blanket where my head was, told me to rise and shine, get my ass out of bed when the wake-up call came or else he’d come up and wake me less gently.

  He was up twelve thousand dollars. We were at a hundred-dollar-minimum table and Gary was playing two hands at a time. There were no other players. Just Gary. Me behind him. The pit boss watching the dealer. My finger was doing a lot of pressing. He was past the Monday deadline but so far nothing had happened. He wanted to make the money as soon as he could, drive back to New York, pay what he owed. It was close to the end of the shoe and the picture cards, the tens, had to start coming out. Gary put down a thousand dollars on each hand. He drew a four and a six on one hand, a ten and an ace on the next. Blackjack. The dealer’s up card was a five. The dealer paid off the blackjack, odds and a half, fifteen hundred dollars. Gary doubled down on the six and four, drew a king for a twenty. The dealer flipped his bottom card. A jack. Fifteen. House rules said he had to take a card. Another jack. Bust. The dealer slid two thousand dollars to Gary.

  Gary clicked the chips against each other, then stacked them up. Their sound was pleasing. Their texture was pleasing. The count was plus seven. I pressed Gary twice. He pulled apart the stack and bet two thousand on each hand.

  The dealer dealt. Gary got twenty on the first. Eighteen on the second. The dealer flipped his bottom card. He had nineteen. The dealer slid two thousand dollars to the twenty, pulled two thousand dollars from the eighteen. The count was plus three. Gary bet two thousand dollars. He got a blackjack on the first. Twenty on the second. Easy money. When the shoe ran out, Gary stood up and filled his left pocket with eight thousand dollars worth of chips. He was up over twenty thousand dollars.

  “Finally,” Gary said. “It’s been a struggle since the first night. All we need is a streak, a real streak.”

  “That was a streak.”

  “You can feel a real streak. That was just a few good hands in a row. I was starting to fade. I was betting too much and I have to stay smart.”

  “Let’s take a nap.”

  “No time. We’ll eat something.”

  He looked tired standing there with his hand on the seat for support. The pit boss had moved two tables down.

  “You have a quarter?” I said. “I want to try a slot machine.”

  “Don’t do it.”

  “It’s just a quarter.”

  “Famous last words. It’s a sucker’s game. They’re rigged to pay off ninety percent, give or take a couple fractions. You put in a buck, you make back ninety cents. You put in ninety cents you make back eighty-one.”

  “What about a quarter?”

  “Twenty-two and a half cents.”

  “Good job.”

  “I’m quick with the figures.”

  “Maybe you should pick up one of those CPA applications my dad sent you.”

  “Maybe I should. Maybe I should fast today. Only water and fried foods.”

  Gary gave me a quarter. I walked over to one of the slot machines polished silver to pick up the light. I looked at the list of payoffs on top. The maximum payoff for five quarters was five hundred dollars. The most I could win for one quarter was one hundred dollars. The least I could win was two quarters. I put the quarter in the slot, pulled the lever. It had a nice weight to it. The fruit spun and clicked into place. An orange. A lemon. A bar. The least I could win was nothing.

  “Nothing for the bar?”

  “You want another quarter?”

  “I just wanted to see what it felt like.”

  ‘How did it feel?”

  “It felt like I lost.”

  A machine behind me started paying off coins. There was always some ringing in the distance, a jingle-bell promise in the air. I followed Gary to the cashier’s window. He was given crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Eighty-three of them. I could have lived for six months on that, figured some things out maybe, or maybe I just would have killed more time.

  The bathroom attendant was glad to see us. He was an old man with greased-back hair and a thin neck that didn’t fill his collar. He smelled too sweet. I couldn’t blame him for that. He asked how the day was treating us and Gary said Great. I took a piss. Gary worked to piss next to me. I washed my hands and looked at my face in the mirror. The knot above my eye had turned into a small bruise. The purple highlighted how pale and tired I looked. I was in the middle of the desert and my skin was not dark like it got in the sun, like waiting outside for the cars to come in, the construction workers not the only ones to get the first tans of the season. I told my dad that garage work couldn’t be all bad if I looked good at the end of a day. The bathroom attendant held a paper towel in his manicured hand for my dripping hands. The attendant called me son, asked how I was doing today, son. I said I was fine. He asked if I wanted some cologne. I said No thanks. The attendant pulled a fresh towel from the dispenser and handed it to Gary with a flourish. He knew where the money came from. Gary let out a loud fart.

  “Are we a little gassy today, sir?”

  “We’re always a little gassy,” Gary said. “If it was helium I’d be a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.”

  “That’s a good one, sir. That’s one of the better ones I’ve heard.”

  “You must hear all kinds,” Gary said.

  “Yes we do. That’s one of the benefits of the job. People come in here to freshen up and they start talking.”

  “Any celebrities?”

  “I don’t like to name names. An attendant has to learn to be confidential. For instance, you wouldn’t want me telling your boss about that flatulence you just let go.”

  “I’m my own boss,” Gary said. “I know exactly how much I fart.”

  “We’ve had plenty of celebrities visit us. Movie stars. Television stars. Politicians. Athletes.”

  “Any gangsters?”

  “Confidentially speaking, yes we have, sir.”

  The attendant seemed proud. He passed the day keeping the bathroom clean, wiping up water spots, arranging colognes, replenishing mints and listening to the confidences of famous people while they pissed and shit between bets. I took a mint, unwrapped it, put the plastic wrapper in my pocket before the attendant stuck his outstretched hand in front of me.

  “Any of the old-time gangsters? The guys they make movies about?” Gary said.

  “My old man worked as an attendant right here in Vegas. One night he comes home and tells us we’re not going to believe who came by. Bugsy Siegel. He had his own private washroom in the casino so my old man never saw him, but on this particular day he used the public washroom. He was a very good looker, Bugsy Siegel, and my old man spotted him right away. Mr. Siegel does his business and my old man takes care of him and Mr. Siegel drops a fifty spot in the basket, which in those days was a heck of a lot of money. They get to talking and it turns out Mr. Siegel’s in a very good mood. A high roller had come in and won a lot of money at the craps table, but it so happens this same fellow was a big wine drinker. Mr. Siegel, he put two and two together. He tells the fellow the casino just received a shipment of fine wine and if he waits half an hour he’ll have his workers in the dining room pack up a few bottles for the trip home to help him celebrate his good fortune. The fellow says that’s a swell gesture and since he doesn’t have anything else to do for the half hour, he goes back to the craps table and starts rolling. By the time the wine arrives, the fellow has given all his winnings back to the casino and then some and the only thing Bugsy Siegel lost was a couple of bottles of wine. Do you know what the kicker is? He told my old man that the wine wasn’t even that good.”

  “I’m glad I don’t drink,” Gary said.
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br />   “Mr. Siegel was gunned down a couple months later. You meet all kinds in here.”

  Gary took a mint, put the wrapper in the attendant’s open hand, took fifty dollars from the roll he kept in his shirt pocket, tip money for the cocktail waitresses and buffet workers, and put the bills in the attendant’s tray. The attendant looked at the money, smiled.

  “You’re a class act, sir.”

  “Just like old times,” Gary said.

  The attendant wished us good luck and we went back to the casino floor.

  “How’s about a little walk?” I said. “A little exercise before we eat?”

  “You feeling out of shape already?”

  “Come on.”

  I spread my feet on the thick casino carpet, crouched, wrestling match ready.

  “Don’t let me get a hold of you,” Gary said. “If I pin you, they’ll have to scrape you off the floor.”

  Outside everything seemed muted. The door closed and only then did I realize how bright the flashing lights were inside, how loud the gambling sounds. There was traffic on the strip but the car engines were quiet by comparison. The sun washed out the colors of the passing cars and the row of casinos.

  We walked along the strip. Gary’s fat body moved as much side to side as forward, his feet angled to support his weight, his thighs rubbing together, breathing heavy. I kept two feet between us as we walked so he wouldn’t keep bumping into my arm. There weren’t many people on the sidewalk and it felt good just to be outside. We walked past a row of shops selling tacky trinkets with racks of postcards in front. Pictures of half-naked women standing in front of slot machines, pulling at the one-armed bandits, legs poised midair in exaggerated excitement. Pictures of the different casinos lit up on the strip. Pictures of the surrounding sights. Grand Canyon. Hoover Dam. Death Valley. We walked by the New York, New York casino, a horrible imitation of the city, the Empire State Building looking out of proportion, the point of the Chrysler too short, the Statue of Liberty painted the wrong shade of green.

  The lion head in front of the MGM casino was impressive. The symbol seen roaring live on the films they produced was painted gold and royal green, its eyes dead looking. It was where Gary usually played but was afraid to play now. A large poster by the entrance advertised an upcoming fight. Two boxers wearing championship belts with arms folded across muscular chests scowled at each other. Wrestlers never received the money or the publicity that boxers did, not real wrestlers. I had cut short an already short career. Gary said we had to get back to the tables soon. He said we needed to get on a real streak.

  “It’s hard work,” I said.

  “It’s felt that way.”

  “How did you get into this hole?”

  “I made some bad bets.”

  “When your dad used to bail you out, didn’t he tell you to stop gambling?”

  Gary’s swinging arm touched my side.

  “My dad was up at seven every morning for forty years. He ended up making a decent living, but if that was the American dream I wanted no part of it. One of my frat brothers introduced me to this and I was hooked. Look around you. It’s growing every day. Casinos are shooting up like cactus.”

  “They’re ugly in the daylight.”

  “I’d rather be here than working like a slave in some office.”

  “You’re working like a slave here. You’ve got nothing to show for your work.”

  “Right now I have nothing to show, but I’ve had plenty. More than plenty. You used to love my stories of gambling.”

  “I was a kid. We were kids.”

  “I was practically a kid when I started. I had no responsibilities except to go to class and I didn’t even do that. All I had to do was call up a bookie, place a bet and if I bet right the money came in. I was betting right most of the time then. I always loved sports anyway. I didn’t mind studying the sports pages, crunching those numbers, watching the games on TV.”

  “My parents used to hate all those phone calls you made when you came over.”

  “I know,” Gary said.

  Gary breathed heavy. He wiped his sleeve against his forehead and it came away wet.

  “It’s all I can do,” Gary said.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Sure it is. I’m not cut out for office work. I’m not going to sit in some cubicle talking small talk and kissing some boss’s ass. They don’t make suits big enough for me.”

  “Your boss won’t break your legs if you fuck up.”

  “No one’s breaking anybody’s legs. I’ll make the money back.”

  “What if you don’t?”

  “I will. I have to. That’s motivation. That’s my motivation. I have to win. It’s a real need. Method acting at its finest. I need to keep my knees intact.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m serious too. They rely on people like me to mess up and I messed up. I also know I can’t do anything else. I’m a gambler.”

  “You could do other things.”

  “We all could do other things. I like walking into a room and people knowing that I do something out of the ordinary. I like being treated nicely when I walk into a casino. Is your room okay, Mr. Rose? Can we get you something to drink, Mr. Rose? Would you like some cologne, Mr. Rose? That’s a beautiful looking car, Mr. Rose.”

  “It’s not your car.”

  “Look. It’s what I do. I’ve lived a long time making money this way. I never had to be some poor loser working my ass off for nothing. I’d rather lose it all than do that. You ever look closely at these people? The dealers. They’re bored out of their fucking skulls. The pit bosses. They might as well be in an office counting money. The cocktail waitresses. They hate being subservient. And for my money, they’re still better off than office workers. Why do you think I tip so well? It’s my way of saying keep on going if that’s all you can do. I know they hate their jobs and when they get a good tip it makes their burden a little easier.”

  “What about your burden?”

  “Usually I don’t have any burdens. I’m a free man.”

  “You pretend you’re free.”

  “You sound like your dad.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

  “I’m going to win.”

  “You might win.”

  “I’ll win. I always get the money somehow. All I need is a real streak.”

  “There are other jobs besides working in a cubicle. You don’t have to hate what you do.”

  “And what career are you going to pursue? Without a gold medal you’re not going to get your pretty face on a Wheaties box.”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “I hope you do.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it. You’re a good kid. A good man.”

  “Not that good.”

  “No one’s that good.”

  “Maybe we could do something together.”

  “Let’s do this together first.”

  We walked on. I was looking at the pavement. Gary bumped into my arm. I looked at him and he was looking straight ahead like he had looked in the car. He was under more pressure than any worker I knew and getting fired was nothing next to this. I didn’t know what I wanted but it wasn’t this. There was a giant pyramid on our right with a blue and gold sphinx in front and palm trees strung with tacky Christmas lights. Las Vegas in all its glory.

  “What’s that one?” I said.

  “The Luxor. Can you guess the motif?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  We turned and walked back past the MGM, past New York, New York.

  “What about this Denny’s?” Gary said.

  “As long as it’s not a buffet.”

  We went into Denny’s, stood in front of the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign, followed a hostess past the booths to a table where Gary would have more room. There were a lot of families in the restaurant. Gary looked over the menu and started to spin the ketchup bottle.

  She was beautif
ul, even in her awful uniform, pad at the ready, asking us what we’d like to order as if she cared. Her name tag read HI MY NAME IS and underneath in pen TIA. Gary ordered a cheeseburger deluxe, a grilled cheese with bacon deluxe, two Cokes. I ordered a tuna sandwich on whole wheat. I waited just so I could hear her voice ask what I’d like to drink. I said water would be fine.

  “Do the deluxes come with coffee or Tia?” Gary said.

  “Neither. They don’t even come with the two Cokes you ordered. Beverages are a separate charge.”

  “No offense. Just making small talk.”

  “You’re a very clever man.”

  “I like this girl. Service without a smile. Happy with her job.”

  “Tell me when you’re done so I can place your order.”

  “Do you know what happened to the last waitress who tried to crucify me? My cousin here had to take care of her. He just about ended her restaurant career.”

  “Is that right?”

  She looked at me. She had great eyes and I wasn’t even an eye man. Blue eyes with bursts of gray in them. Moody eyes but clear at the same time. I looked at her and she kept her eyes on mine and I narrowed my eyes the way I did when I was in a bar and saw the girl I wanted. She looked away and back at Gary.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said.

  I cleared my throat. I wanted it to come out just right.

  “Actually, I stoned her with after-dinner mints. Do you have mints here?”

  Tia smiled.

  “Only toothpicks.”

  She walked away. She had great posture. Great balance. A tall 110-pounder from behind, long legs, her brown hair cut short to show off her neck. She placed the check where the cook could see it and went over to another table.