The catch is that a casino has no windows. Daylight won’t protect you from a vampire’s fangs if you’re roaming a quiet corridor away from the crowds in a casino. As long as a vampire stays away from the entry doors, it doesn’t matter what time it is. They don’t have to hide away in a dark cellar in a confining coffin in Vegas. They can walk among the general public at 7:00 a.m. on the gaudy carpet of any casino.
Mr. Dashing won the hand with a pair of aces. Too bad I folded--it would have been fun to kick his smug ass. His name was Mark Anthony he told Grandma, who wanted to know the names of all the players. “What’s your name honey? Where are you from?” she asked me.
“I like to keep my poker games reserved,” I told her. “I really prefer not to know the players--it’s easier for me to play poker that way.” A look of hurt appeared in her eyes, something that was probably common with her. Now she’s sure I’m a bitch. Oh well, she’s correct in that assumption, I’m a killer bitch now, when I need to be. Everything that mattered to me was lost when my precious feelings of being human vanished. I was no longer a teacher, a loving mother, or a good wife after losing my husband, my daughter, my home, and career--my sense of who I was, that terrible night so long ago.
There was a sudden chill at the table. Everyone was quiet--except for Cabbie. “Up’ta you,” he said, looking at me with suddenly aloof eyes. I quickly cupped the cards dealt to me and took a peek. A pair of aces. “I’m in,” I said with a poker face.
“David, why do you always say that? Up’ta you?” Grandma asked Cabbie, breaking the tension.
“Well, I was stopped by a cop on Flamingo and that son of a bitch gave me a ticket for speeding. When he was leaving, I told him “Fuck You.” He turned around and demanded to know what I said. And I told him, “Up’ta you.”
Everyone at the table laughed. I did too while looking at Dashing. It was apparent to both of us that cabbie was telling everyone “fuck you” every time he said the phrase. However, he was an equal opportunity offender. When it was his turn to hold them or fold them, he’d still say, “Up’ta you.”
Gamblers are a superstitious lot. Most players have their rituals and good luck charms. Cabbie had his favorite phrase and a four-leaf clover he used as a card cover. Grandma protected her cards with a small photo of her grandchildren. Mr. Sunglasses at night had Chinese money coins, three of them, because luck runs in threes. Or is that deaths of famous people?
Poker players never seem as blatant with their talismans as bingo players who display teddy bears, trolls, photos of their family or portraits of Jesus, even rosary beads. But the mojo was definitely cooking in a poker room. The lucky charms can be seen by the observant. I’ve heard some players say they used Feng Shui to win at poker, using colors, numbers, and symbols.
Dashing keeps looking at the table next to us at a “poker babe” as the male players like to call the women who frequent poker rooms. She keeps looking back. Her tussled hair is dyed red at the ends with the bangs spiked up. Her one shoulder draped t-shirt actually looks quite stylish but I don’t admire her black nail polish. What kind of a color is that for a manicure?
She seems a little upset, actually a lot upset. One of the older players at the table has covered her cards with a silver cross. “Do you really think God is going to get you a winning poker hand?” She practically shouts at the woman. Most eyes in the room are now on her. She nervously slips her tongue out and caresses her lip rings. She quickly leaves the room with only a backward glimpse at Dashing.
The religious player touches her cross. “I wonder why it feels warm? He’s always with me,” she states, “poker or not.” I’ve seen this woman before; she knows a lot of the players and she loves to gossip. She walks around the room on breaks, limping and hunched over, and likes to whisper in ears, telling secrets and jokes about other players.
Ah, the things you see in the great escape known as poker. You might have more money problems after playing, or be better off, but you don’t have to think about anything but poker while you’re in the game. Unlike me. Unfortunately, my veil of illusion about reality has been ripped away and I know the sad, horrific truth.
Vampires rule the world. I believe that people know deep down in the collective consciousness that something is out to get them. Earth and humanity are being destroyed more every day. They know that corrupt governments seek more and more power, create wars, impose more restrictions on freedom, pollute the air, water, and food and steal more of their hard-earned money every day. People try to shake off the feeling of impending doom but they are aware, on some level, that evil controls civilization.
It’s my extreme misfortune to be neither human nor vampire on a planet ruled by bloodsuckers with a population that doesn’t question the status quo. At least the sun can still warm my body. The bloodsuckers don’t dare venture out in the daytime, especially in Vegas in July. They would wither and burn under our planet’s pure sun. And the sun burns brightly in Vegas. So, of course, the air-conditioned, windowless casinos are crawling with them, like roaches in a kitchen filled with rotten food.
I force myself to pay attention to the game and remember my mission. An ace is flopped with two kings. Killer hand.
Mr. Toothpick almost chokes as his tongue slides the toothpick towards his throat. He must be holding a king. Mr. Dashing raises; perhaps he is holding another king. Grandma surmises the same and folds. Cabbie only snorts to himself “up’ta you” and throws in his hand. Hawaiian shirt and Sunglasses fold too.
Toothpick removes the chewed up splinter of wood from his mouth and places it on top of his two cards to signal the dealer not to touch his hand. Who would touch those cards now? Gross.
I simply place my fingertips on top of my cards. Dashing does the same, revealing that his nails are clean and manicured. We wait for the turn and the dealer throws another king. Damn. Three kings and an ace as the community cards. That most likely gives Toothpick four of a kind.
But what does that give Dashing? King of hearts, clubs, and spades and ace of hearts. He can’t have a flush. He might have my other ace. Then we’d both be waiting for an ace to show up as the last card turned--the river.
Toothpick could hardly contain himself--he was betting like he had the other king. He wasn’t that good at bluffing. He had it. Ready to fold, I noticed Dashing looking straight at the veins in Toothpick’s neck.
It’s a great vampire trick. They can sense if someone’s bluffing by checking their pulse. A racing pulse means you’re not so self-assured that you have the winning hand. If Dashing was indeed a vampire he would know that Toothpick had the king. Then he surprised me and raised the hand.
Cabbie looked at me and opened his mouth to speak. “I know, I know, it’s up’ta me,” I quickly said.
Needing to see how this played out, I called. Dashing looked at my throat but quickly averted his eyes when he realized I was locked onto those James Bond baby browns. Was he really holding out for a flush? Even three aces wouldn’t beat Toothpick’s hand. Why in the hell was this guy still playing?
The river produced an ace of diamonds. Ha. Toothpick looked confused now but shook it off. He was sure he had it. By his figuring the most anyone else had was three aces or a full house. He bet it all. Dashing looked at me and said, “It’s been a pleasure being beat by you.” Then he folded.
Now Toothpick looked really perplexed. I was too. Even if Dashing was a vampire, how could he know that mine was the winning hand? I called Toothpick’s bet and turned over my aces.
Toothpick picked up his grizzly splinter and put it back in his mouth, uttering “Shit.” The chips were mine to cash in. My poker time had come to an end. I had identified Dashing as a probable rogue and would be keeping tabs on him.
“So long,” I said, walking past Grandma’s chair. “It was nice meeting you Alice. My name is Nola.”
Dashing was cashing in his chips and following me out of the poker room. There would be no need to keep tabs on him. He took the bait.
&nbs
p; Mark, Mr. Dashing, was right behind me. “Nola, wait,” he called. I turned around and gave him a steely stare. He stepped close, well within my comfort zone. He looked at me intently, pupils wide with interest.
“Yes,” I said quietly, getting a whiff of the Florentine Iris, French Verbena, and violet leaves that comprised his cologne and made me think of a cool mountain breeze. His fragrance also contained ambergris. I was aware of this fact because my boss, Lance, used to wear Green Irish Tweed until he found out what it was made from.
“Whale vomit,” I said to Mark.
“Pardon me?” Mark questioned, as he stepped back from my personal space. His pupils were now the size of tiny gnats.
“Your spicy little scent,” I replied. “I’ll bet a lot of people tell you it smells good. Is it Green Irish Tweed?”
“Why yes, yes it is. And yes, people tell me it smells good.”
“Did you know that it’s made from whale vomit collected off beaches?”
“Why no, no I didn’t,” he said, obviously surprised. This guy was accustomed to being the one delivering shock and awe. He didn’t seem comfortable with women throwing him off guard.
I blew it. He was looking to escape now. One of my missions while in Las Vegas was to find the rouge vampire who was responsible for missing women who frequented poker rooms. He was never going to be within five feet of me after my whale vomit comment.
“I’m sorry,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes. “My boss stopped using it on principle--he loves whales. But you do smell fantastic.”
His pupils started to enlarge again. “Thank you, Nola. I hope you don’t mind me calling you by name but I heard you introduce yourself to Alice. Nola is a pretty name.”
“Well, thank you Mark,” I said, politely.
There was a sudden commotion behind us. Well, what can you expect in a casino--there’s always some commotion going on.
“Hey! I didn’t do anything! Leave me alone!” some thirty-something year old guy was screaming at two beefy security guards who had him surrounded. He was badly sunburned and casually dressed in a t-shirt that announced WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS, blue shorts, and flip-flops.
It’s one of those train wreck situations you don’t want to watch but just can’t stop yourself. It was probably someone who had one too many free drinks while playing the slots and was being escorted off the property.
However, the guards instead escorted him through some doors marked, EMPLOYEES ONLY. “Let me go…let me go…” I heard faintly.
I shrugged my shoulders at Mark. “Casinos,” I said, rolling my eyes.
He smiled, sure now that he was the one in control. “Nola, would you like to have dinner with me tonight? We can talk poker strategy and I know a great place…”
“Sorry,” I interrupted. “I have a meeting…but I’m free tomorrow. What if we meet by the pool in the afternoon for drinks?”
“Oh, I can’t, I have a business meeting tomorrow afternoon. How about tomorrow night?”
“It’s a date,” I said, pretty sure now that he’s a vampire who can’t sit by a pool in the sun. “Can we meet here tomorrow at seven? Would that be alright?”
“I’ll see you then,” he said, as he turned around and left me standing there to admire his retreating backside. It was a nice backside. I would have to be careful tomorrow night. I haven’t had sex in eighteen years and this one would be hard to resist.
The daydream of sex with Dashing faded as quickly as a politician’s promises when Poker Babe called out to me, “He’s out of your league, you know, he’s just slumming.” She was sitting by the slots where the drunk had been led away, smoking a cigarette and smirking at me.
I walked up to her and smirked right back. “Don’t you know those things can kill you?”
“No,” she said sharply. “They won’t kill me.” She butted out the down to the filter cigarette she was smoking and lit up another one, blowing the smoke in my face through her two lip piercings known as “viper bites.”
We wouldn’t have a showdown now. I controlled myself and walked away. Another time. She’d be in my face again; it simply felt like it was fated, as if she would never be too far away from Mr. Dashing.
Chapter 3: Fun In The Sun
The blast of hot air hit me like a blow dryer set on high as soon as I exited the casino. It would be a hot and heavy three block walk down the strip to my appointment. The temperature is 112 degrees and an excessive heat warning has been issued by the National Weather Service. People will die today from the extreme temperature but you won’t read about it in any tourist brochure. Only hurricanes kill more people in weather-related catastrophes than heat so intense. Vegas in the summer is a catastrophe every day.
Still, the strip is crowded with tourists walking and taking in the sights, seemingly unaware that they are strolling in the largest city in the Mojave desert. I looked ahead at my destination and viewed the waves of hot air rising from the sidewalks, making all images appear to be a mirage. When you’re walking the strip, your destination is always a mirage. Casinos are never as close as they appear to be.
I spotted the military jets over the Vegas sky. They seem to be getting ready to play a game of tic-tac-toe on the trail of patterns they were leaving in the sky. Some would call the patterns contrails but I know better. The phony clouds are actually chemtrails because they don’t dissipate like regular contrails--they hang in the air for hours.
I’ve seen grid-like patterns, criss-cross patterns, and some patterns that look as if they go to the moon. It’s certain that they’re military jets because they’re so high in the atmosphere. It’s as if they’re using White-Out to blot out the blue sky. Yet nobody seems to notice what’s going on over their heads. I’ve seen these trails of weird-looking clouds all over the country and rumor is that it’s a world-wide event. Las Vegas, however, seems to be Chemtrail City.
A swarm of teenagers is bopping down the street like locusts in dried out grassland. They are armed with super soakers, shooting each other with water as they hop on the pavement. “I’m bored,” said one, “what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know--what do you want to do?” replies one of the group.
They don’t realize how fortunate they are to be bored. Boredom is the best thing in the world. Boredom means you don’t have to worry about where your next meal is coming from, where you’re going to sleep, or how to avoid death that day. My fondest memories are of boring days--I long to have a lackluster day again.
“Hey, lady in red, want to cool off?” one of the bored little brats closes in on me, shooting me with a squirt gun. As long as it’s only water he’s squirting, I don’t mind. The hot wind feels cool on my wet skin now. They dart off, pleased that they’ve found a moment of excitement in an otherwise dull day.
I’m beginning to get a headache--one of the first signs of dehydration. Damn, the heat is vicious. Still, Vegas has two bad months of intense hot weather and ten months of climate that’s better than most states. I’m just here at the wrong time. Wrong time, wrong place, the story of my life.
I realized early on that the odds were stacked against the valiant. My father, Bill Cleary, a biologist, and my mother, Louise, a nurse, loved nature and spent weekends during my childhood exploring the glory of the flora and fauna in the countryside near our home. They instilled a reverence in me for the animals we share this planet with. They also loved the prophetically named “Lost Woods” within walking distance of our house, nestled in a fertile river valley. Their fight to save that forest is an indelible memory of growing up with parents who cared about the environment.
Even though the forest was a public preserve, the county we lived in decided it was the only route for a four-lane highway. My parents spent a decade trying to stop the woods from being paved over. My father attended numerous meetings detailing the endangered flowers and wildlife that made the fen there a haven. My mother organized people, spoke out at county board meetings, and even picketed to stop t
he highway. They raised money to file a lawsuit. Unfortunately, nothing and nobody is ever truly protected and the county received permission to put the highway through the rare forest, destroying it and shattering my parents.
They never seemed to find joy in nature after that. I believe they didn’t want to discover another place to love only to see it destroyed. I’ve carried anger against those who destroy the environment since then. Mom died from a heart attack, found in her garden near the blooming zinnias, by my Dad. It’s said that life goes on and the pain of losing a loved one diminishes but it’s not true. He never got over his loss and simply went through the motions of daily living until he joined her, passing away when I was in college. I thought my share of grief was over when I married and had my precious baby but there is no universal score card that saves anyone from additional sorrow.
My cell phone begins to play Beethoven’s Fur Elise. I fumble for it in my purse and answer quickly--it’s Lance.
“Hi Lance, how are things at Camelot Farm?” I asked, genuinely concerned about the extraordinary place I was fortunate enough to find and love.
“Fine, Nola. Betsy had her calf. We have some puppies we rescued from a puppy mill; you’ll adore them. Our farm production is up. Everything’s good here. How are you?”
“Alright but I wish I was there. I’d love to see Betsy’s baby and the puppies. It might be cooler in Hell than it is in Vegas today.”
He laughed. Lance is my employer but he’s also become my best friend in the eighteen years I’ve come to know him. He and the minority of vampires who still side with humanity are all that stands between the vampire Illuminati and the end of people’s illusions of a logical world. I’d lay down my life for any of them.
“Be careful at the meeting Nola. I really don’t know anything about this informant. It’s a dangerous assignment.”
Blood Crusade Page 3