Double Blind

by Heidi Cullinan

  “Oh?” Ethan hadn’t been expecting that.

  “If you weren’t already on a theme, I’d say go bacchanalian, but this actually might be better. ‘Butterfly’ is pretty innocuous. The associations are with beauty and light and love, but what it is at heart is transformation. So when the guests come in, I think we should offer them some additional transformations. Feather boas. Glitter paint for their faces. Masks. Little things they can accept or refuse, and lots of choices.”

  Ethan could see it. “Yes. That’s perfect.”

  “If they’re straight or gay or still trying to figure it out, they can be whatever they want on this night. I can teach my people how to respond to that, how to flirt without making people uncomfortable. But however it happens, this place can be a safe zone. Well, and I’ll get a lot of security too. Some will be obvious, some not so much. If anyone gets too fresh with anyone else, we can put an end to it discreetly. It will keep people in line but also free others. This can be the safe place.”

  Ethan carefully pulled himself down from the glitter-dusted vision she’d painted in his mind. “I think it’s brilliant.”

  Caryle beamed. “Great.” She tapped his stack of papers. “Get me a headliner, and I’ll give you the most amazing Butterfly Nights you could ever dream of.”

  Ethan watched her go. Then he tilted slowly forward, bending at the waist so he could rest his forehead on the pile of papers in front of himself in quiet, terror-filled horror.

  He could not get a headliner. He couldn’t get a sideliner. Caryle wanted a star. A major act. Someone people would line up to see because they knew the name. Also, someone whose schedule was open enough they could drop into Vegas on absolutely no notice whatsoever, go to a washed-up casino, and get paid almost nothing at all.

  Ethan banged his forehead a few times against the paper.

  The phone rang, startling him. Sarah’s extension flashed on the readout. “Ms. Reynolds.” As he answered, he reached up to remove a Post-it which had stuck to his forehead. “How may I help you?”

  “Mr. Ellison. I have Mr. Crabtree on the line.”

  Ethan sat up so fast he pulled the phone forward half a foot by the cord. “Put him through. Please. And thank you, Ms. Reynolds.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Ellison.”

  The line clicked. Ethan shut his eyes and held his breath until Crabtree’s Santa chuckle rumbled in his ear. “Well, well, well. Ethan Ellison. How have you been?”

  Ethan had spent many hours dreaming of what he would say to Crabtree—the dressing-down he would give him, the list of complaints, the contents of his spleen. More recently, he’d wanted to at least have him explain what his plan was, because he was sure there was one. Then he simply hoped there was one. All he knew was if Crabtree called, he could ask him questions, demand his help—something.

  Which was why it was so bizarre all he could find to say was, “Fine. You?”

  “I’m enjoying the fresh air of the mountains. Back up in your old stomping grounds, in fact.”

  “You’re in Provo?”

  “In American Fork. Near it, anyway. We have a lovely cabin here on Utah Lake. Absolutely beautiful. I have no idea how you ever left.”

  “We?” Ethan repeated.

  “Some friends came with me.”

  There was an X-rated edge to the words. Very not American Fork.

  “I hear there’s to be a party at the casino? Something about butterflies?”

  Ethan relaxed in his chair somewhat. “Butterfly Nights. Billy thinks if he makes a good show, he’ll tempt your buyer himself. I tried to tell him I wasn’t even sure you have one.”

  “Oh, I do, but I’m fairly sure he’s safe from Billy. Still, the boy is free to try. Fair is fair.”

  Ethan doubted Crabtree played fair unless he fixed the outcome.

  Crabtree continued. “I’m pleased about the statue. When Ms. Reynolds told me what you were up to, I saw to it personally you had all the help you needed.”

  “I did it in part to goad Randy. Though I think it could add a lot to the casino again.”

  “Yes, I heard about your rub the demon’s penis idea. Clever. It will probably work too—at least to make the casino rich. Additionally, I’m charmed by your idea to take the casino back into the Golden Age of Vegas. I think my Billy would have loved it. This said, Mr. Ellison, you’re missing several key elements to make the night a success. To start, you’re going to need an entertainment act someone has actually heard of. Madonna impersonators will not bring in the kind of traffic you need.”

  “I know that, sir, but the problem—”

  “I will get you an act, young man, so put the worry out of your head. But your real problem is you don’t have the right game. A classy, high-stakes game to bring in real players with real money. You need to use one of those high-tech feeds to display the hole cards and get an audience. You’ll want a feed out to pay-per-view too, and a good, high-quality leak so people can watch for free and spread the word about our casino. I’ll take care of those things too. But advertise the game, son. And make damn sure you understand it is the center of everything you’re doing. Every sequin, every feather, every toke that happens on the floor is all to support this game. Do you understand? Do you understand me, Ellison?”

  Ethan had no fucking idea what he was talking about. “Are we talking about poker?”

  “Of course we’re talking about poker. A game in Billy’s Room. Invite-only, but we put a glut of tickets on the black market, somebody reselling them off eBay. We make a big fuss over how they’re illegal, and eBay takes them off, and then they get sold on the streets. That part I will also see to. But as far as you’re concerned, the game tickets need to be legit, and you’ll be checking them carefully at the door. You don’t like that the tickets have gone out, and you suspect some sort of underground activity is organizing it. You won’t say the word mob because people will think you’re silly. But it’s clear you’re thinking this when the press talks to you.”

  “The press will talk to me?”

  “Of course they will—you’re new, you’re exciting. You’re also possibly crazy, and this whole thing looks as if it might come down around your ears any second. That’s good theater. If you don’t have CNN and E! camped out around you soon, I’ll be disappointed.”

  “I take it you think I’m doing well, if you’re finally showing up and getting yourself involved.”

  Crabtree laughed, and Ethan realized if Crabtree hadn’t liked what he was doing, he’d have known by now. He wouldn’t have had anybody follow him. He’d have had Ethan removed.

  Ethan sat back in his chair, shaking a little. “Crabtree, do you know what happened to Evelyn Carter?”

  There was a heavy pause. “That’s a funny question for you to ask, young man.”

  “I’ve been reading about the past. About the mob gangs that used to rule Vegas. Or allegedly did. I know about the fifties mob, and the seventies-eighties mob. I know about Lansky’s mob and then the Chicago Outfit. I know the Lansky mob was supposed to be the kinder, gentler one, and I know the Chicago Outfit had a reputation for being brutal. I know about Rosenthal and Billy, and I know about all the ones listed in the books and on websites. But—not Carter. He’s this shadow, and then he just ends. They say in a hit, but—” He stopped, feeling foolish because of what he’d been thinking. “I don’t know. Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m just getting caught up in the story.”

  “What story is that?” Crabtree sounded mildly intrigued.

  “I know Rosenthal went down because he was too addicted to fame. I assume Spilotro went down in the cornfield because he didn’t get a job done. But I don’t know about Evelyn Carter at all. I don’t know if they killed him because he screwed up. I don’t buy this stuff I read about him being caught up in the violence. I swear he was better than that.” He paused, embarrassed. “I don’t know. Just forget it. Probably I’m trying to make a romantic story where there isn’t one.”

  There was a leng
thy pause on Crabtree’s end.

  Ethan held his breath.

  “I knew Carter.” Crabtree chuckled, but it was a gentler laugh than Ethan had ever heard him give. “He’d have been touched to hear you read through the mess and thought that. Pleased. But I’m sorry to tell you, Ethan, most of what you’ve read is true. He was brutal, more than he needed to be. It cost him, one piece at a time, everything he held dear. Including me.”

  Why did this make Ethan so sad? “So they did kill him.”

  “No, son. He killed himself. He had nothing left. He couldn’t even step foot in a casino anymore—they put his name in the Black Book. If he so much as walked in the front door of Herod’s or anywhere, he committed a crime. He had a chip on his shoulder, that one. He had it all figured out how the world was supposed to work, and he kept waiting patiently for it to show up, and then, finally, he got impatient and took his revenge. Blew up everything around him, just because it wasn’t doing what he wanted. He went crazy, really. Slowly. But people were starting to notice. If he hadn’t killed himself, he’d have been taken care of.”

  “No.” Ethan couldn’t stop the pain from his voice.

  “The seventies were a different time. Different outfit. Much as I loved him, he lost sight of the code. He forgot this was about making money, not settling scores. He got too caught up in the game, and forgot the real pot he played for. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. So he gave himself one last victory and took himself out before someone else could. And that, young man, is the story of Evelyn Carter.”

  Ethan stared down at his desk, remembering the faded pictures of the man from the internet. He also saw himself. Like Carter, he kept waiting for the big payout. Waiting for the moment things would go right. For the time when the wheel would come around to his number and give him what he deserved.

  Except sometimes the wheel didn’t come around. Because the wheel wasn’t about you. The wheel wasn’t about anyone. It was just a damn wheel. It was as Randy said—you had to get the best of it.

  You had to go and be your own wheel.

  “You still there, son?”

  “Yes. Sorry.” Ethan cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me. I appreciate knowing the truth about him.”

  Crabtree cleared his throat. “The tournament will be handled through Ms. Reynolds. Four rounds, five hundred players, with first, second, and third prizes worth playing for, but the grand prize will be for ten million dollars.”

  Ethan nearly fell off his chair. “Ten million dollars?”

  “Yes. It will have to come out of the assets, though buy-in will be twenty grand, so that will help a great deal. You’ll be going up against the World Series of Poker, by the way, so expect some pushback. But you’ll also be drawing some of the losers away. It should work out quite well.”

  “Sure.” Ten million dollars. Which he’d have to get from Billy. Fantastic.

  “Before the tournament gets started we’ll host a private game. Just one round for show, and this one truly will be invitation-only. Mine. Small table, big pot. You’ll be at the table, Mr. Ellison, so keep practicing, and on more than your little computer game. Get yourself to Bellagio at least once a day. You’ve been neglecting your practice.”

  Had Crabtree been spying on him? Ethan snorted, quietly. Of course he had. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “If there is, I’ll be sure to tell you. Give my love to the boys,” he said, and hung up.

  “THIS IS THE kill switch.” Randy pointed to the red button beside the right handlebar of the motorcycle. “If you get into trouble, if you aren’t sure the engine is totally off, and especially if you feel like you’re falling over and are going to crash, use the kill switch.”

  Sam flexed his fingers on the handlebars and nodded through the helmet. “Kill switch. Got it.”

  Randy hoped to hell he did. He’d shown Sam every YouTube video he could find about bike safety and what happened when you didn’t follow it, though he tried to keep the danger vids to a minimum because he didn’t want to freak him out. But now he was wondering if that had been a mistake. Maybe Peaches wasn’t going to take this seriously.

  Sam caught the look on Randy’s face and touched his hand. “I’ll be fine. I’m taking the course next week and getting my permit. I even made sure to sign up with Kari, the instructor who you said is also a dealer at Herod’s, like we agreed. This is a trial run. Across an empty parking lot. Relax already.”

  “Fuck, Sam, there are so many ways to kill yourself on a bike.” It wasn’t that hot out, but Randy was sweating to death.

  “You and Mitch do think you’re my parents, don’t you? Which if you consider what I do to the two of you in the bedroom is seriously fucked up, you know.”

  “I do not think of you as my son. Maybe as a brother-like figure in my more overprotective moments. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the occasional paddle. You’re getting so good at it—it’d be a shame to waste such talent.” He paused. “Wait—do to the two of us? What kinky stuff are you doing with the Old Man that you’re not telling me about? Spill, Peaches.”

  Sam took off his helmet and leaned forward onto the gas tank. “We’ve gotten into fisting.”

  Randy let out a wicked growl. “Oh, baby. Baby. You have been holding out. And what, no equal opportunity? Because, honey, you need to know I am very good at that. And I’d be careful with you.”

  The look on Sam’s face was almost evil. “It’s not me getting fisted.”

  Randy stared. His jaw hung open. “No fucking way.”

  “You can’t tell him I told. He’d be embarrassed. But he really likes it. I do too.”

  Mitch Tedsoe lets Sam fist him. Randy shook his head. “Jesus. He completely fucking trusts you, Sam. He swore to me he would never, ever let anybody do that to him. Ever.”

  Sam wiggled his fingers. “Little hands. That’s the key. I can’t take Mitch yet. I’m not sure I want to. But it’s okay. That can be his thing.”

  Randy leaned on the handlebar and put his hand on Sam’s thigh. “Peaches, as the owner of hands half the size of your husband’s meat hooks, I would be happy to fist you in his stead.”

  Sam pressed two fingers against Randy’s mouth. “You shouldn’t be thinking about seducing me, Randy. From what I saw the other night with you and Ethan, I think you have your hands plenty full.”

  Randy tried to make his shrug casual. “Yeah, but who knows how long that’s going to last? You and Mitch, now, I’m counting on you visiting me in the retirement home. Well, Mitch will be next door. You, sweet young thing, had better bring us contraband.”

  “I thought you and Ethan were serious. What happened? What did you do?”

  “Why the hell are you assuming it’s me? Anyway, nothing’s happened. But you know it will. I’m being practical.”

  He fucking hated how much it hurt to admit that.

  “You’re being stupid. Randy—my God, the man is head over heels for you. You both are head over heels.”

  “Not everybody gets what you and Mitch have. I never get lucky. It’s a ride, Peaches. It’s a good ride, but it’s going to end. I’m not going to pretend differently and get all chewed up.”

  “There’s no kill switch on a heart.”

  Don’t I fucking know it. “That’s sweet, Peaches. We’ll have them put it on the next Harley catalog cover.”

  Sam folded his arms and regarded Randy coolly. “If that’s what you’re telling yourself, even if you don’t let him know this is how you view him, you’re going to screw it up. Ethan loves you. I swear he does.”

  For now. “Sam, he’s a fucking investment broker. Look at him at that casino. Crabtree knew what he was doing, plucking him up to run it. And when this game is done, he’ll move on to something bigger. Better. Brighter. He’s not going to stick around Vegas. He’s sure as hell not going to shack up permanently with a prop player slash rig mechanic, I’ll tell you that.”

  “He adopted two cats and brough
t them to your house. He clicker trained them so they wouldn’t scratch your furniture and mess up your place. He goes to the grocery store. He’s figured out what food you like just by studying the cupboards, and he knows to save one jar of peanut butter for you because you eat out of it with a spoon.”

  “He’s considerate.” Randy kicked at the dirt and watched the dust fly. “That’s Slick for you. He’s a nice, considerate guy.”

  “He knows you, sometimes better than I do. He loves you. I swear he does. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Are you about done? Because if we’re going to cry about our feelings, I want to go home and get my blankie.”

  “Thank God Mitch wasn’t such a dipshit about the two of us. He isn’t scared I’m going to leave him.”

  Randy snorted. “Shit, he’s fucking petrified of it. You’re a lot younger than he is. I’ve seen his face when you guys are out, when you check out other guys even for playing around, and yes, he’s scared. Like you’re scared he’s going to die on you. Everybody’s fucking scared, Peaches. Everybody’s scared of something.”

  “I face my fears. I go to therapy on my own now. I learned to drive a stick shift, and now I’m learning to ride a motorcycle. I go up to the Stratosphere tower with you whenever you ask. That night the two of you got high, I didn’t even check my phone for a text. It was waiting for me when I woke up. I’m facing my fears. So is Mitch. And I think Ethan is too. What are you doing, Randy?”

  “I’m giving you a goddamn motorcycle lesson, that’s what I’m doing.” Randy glared at the left handlebar. “That’s the choke slider. Turn it, then kick the pedal back for first, two forward for second, and on up one at a time all the way to fifth gear.”

  Sam blinked at the downshift from deep conversation, fumbling around for the controls. “Wait—this? This here? The foot thing? Two what?”

  “It’s the same as the stick shift and clutch in a car, except you use your hand and your foot both.”

  But half an hour later when Sam came back around from his first successful lap, the question kept echoing in his head.

  What are you doing, Randy?