Authors: Kay Keppler
From her own experience she knew that every card player, even the very best, lost a lot—a lot of hands, and a lot of money. Maybe they lost even most of the time. But if you brought your skill to the table, if you were good, you’d win. If you were good enough, you’d win.
She knew that. But when she’d looked up and seen that she’d lost two thousand dollars in a half-hour, she’d panicked. Run.
Two thousand dollars! All that money, just gone. At that rate, not only would she not raise her stake to play Big Julie for the ranch, but she’d drive her family into the poorhouse before the night was over. She’d lose the ranch and the shirt off their backs, too. They’d wind up worse off than before, if that were possible.
She went into a stall and sat on the toilet seat, looking at the blank metal door. Tanner Wingate had a patronizing, know-it-all attitude, but maybe he was right. Maybe she shouldn’t play cards. Maybe she should just let the ranch go. Maybe that would be better. Two thousand dollars could have bought a lot, if she hadn’t just thrown it away.
On the other side of the stall door, she heard the restroom door open, water run, footsteps recede. To her relief, no line had formed for her stall.
Should she keep playing? Maybe she’d lost her skill, as well as her money. If she couldn’t win, she shouldn’t play. They’d lose the ranch—but at least they wouldn’t be bankrupt as well as homeless.
She heard the door open, an exclamation, the door closed. The restroom was very quiet.
Well, she was done for now. She’d played, she’d lost, and now she was tired and discouraged. This wasn’t the time to push her luck. Tanner Wingate was probably right about one thing: she should go home, at least for tonight.
Opening the stall door, she nearly barreled into Weary Blastell, who was leaning against the restroom wall, his arms crossed over his barrel chest. His shaved black head gleamed in the fluorescent lights of the restroom, his six-foot-five frame seemed to fill the small space.
“So, Little Hope,” he said, uncoiling himself from the wall, “how you doin’?”
Sympathy made her crumble the way anger never would. Tears sprang to her eyes and she felt her chin tremble.
“Oh, Weary,” she said, wiping her eyes, hearing her voice break. “I lost two thousand dollars. And Tanner said—Tanner said—”
Weary Blastell was the happy father of four and grandfather of ten, and a woman’s tears didn’t bother him. He grabbed a handful of tissues and handed them to her.
“Don’t you fret none about what flea that no-good, loudmouth De-troit carpetbagger’s got in his ear,” he said. “You listen to us. That’s why you payin’ us the big bucks.”
Hope laughed, a thin, watery chuckle. She swiped at her eyes with the tissues.
“Okay. But—”
“No buts. You want to do this thing, Hope, you got to go for it. No negative thinking. You get some ups. You get some downs. That’s the business.”
Hope nodded, tossing the tissues in the trash. The uncles had good sense. And guts. Weary seemed to have no discomfort at all waiting for her inside the women’s restroom. That kind of adaptation to circumstances was probably what made them such good card players.
“I keep thinking of it as grocery money,” she said. “Not venture capital.”
“Makes sense,” Weary said, “since you’re underfunded. But you gotta get past that. You need a big stake, so you gotta play big. Playing cards has risks. Like life. You gotta be prepared to lose some. It’s part of winning.”
Hope stared into the mirror for a minute before she answered. “I’ve managed the family finances for so long—I don’t know if I can lose our money this way.”
“Sure you can,” Weary said. “What you talkin’ about? I seen you do it a million times. You just momentarily forgot how is all. That’s what we’re here for. Make you remember the groove. Well, that and the big bucks.”
Hope did remember what it felt like to play cards. She remembered the glow, the rush, the moments of triumph, the times when it seemed like she could do nothing wrong even when she lost a few pots, because she knew before the night was over, she’d be back up again.
She remembered the groove, all right. That was the second thing she was scared of.
Her biggest fear was that she’d lose, and then they’d lose their home. That would change all their lives in ways none of them wanted. And it would be all her fault.
But she was afraid to win, too. Afraid that if she played too long, she’d like it too much. That if she remembered the groove too clearly, she’d never want to leave it. Afraid she’d turn out like her father, with no family, no friends, no roots.
Afraid she’d become addicted, just like her father.
Hope dried her hands on a towel and tossed it into the bin just as a woman entered the restroom. The woman stood there, looking at Weary, the space he took up. Looking uncertain.
“We’re havin’ a conversation here,” Weary said. “You gotta come back later.”
The woman fled the restroom.
“Tell me the truth, Weary,” Hope said. “Can I do this?”
Weary rolled his eyes. “What have I just been sayin’? Yes, you can. We know you can. But not if you don’t stop fussin’ and start playin’ cards,” he said. “How bad do you want the ranch? You want it bad enough, you got to set your thinking straight.”
“I don’t know how to do that, Weary.”
Weary paused, considering. “Okay. First thing. You can’t hold on to your losses. Forget the last hand. You got to approach each hand as fresh.”
“But that’s how Derek played! And he
sucked
. He played himself into a hole and then he pretended he wasn’t there, so he never came out. He just dug deeper and deeper. Until he’d lost everything.”
“Did I say play like Derek? No. I’m telling you, play each hand with a clear mind. You lost the last pot, you figure out why if you can, but you play your strategy. You try to make up for the last lost pot—yeah, you’re always gonna lose.”
Hope thought about it. Weary was right. She’d fallen into Derek’s bad habits—chasing bad hands when she was down. She’d never played that way before, and she wouldn’t start now.
“Thanks, Weary. I’ll remember that, to play my strategy. Because I’m not going to lose here. I’m going to win.” She
had
to win. Losing just wasn’t an option.
“That’s the girl.” Weary put his arm around her shoulders and walked her out of the restroom. As they headed for the exit, they passed Tanner at the bar. He was fooling around with a deck of cards, and Hope saw with shock that he was practicing card tricks—dealing off the bottom and palming cards—that were illegal to use in play. She never would have recognized the slight movements for what they were, except that Derek had used—and taught her—those same moves many years ago.
Not that she should jump to conclusions. Lots of people practiced card tricks that they never planned to use in real card games. Lots of people practiced card tricks to wow their friends at parties. Not everyone who
could
cheat at cards,
did
cheat.
But for other people, playing was an addition, and cheating was an option when winning didn’t come naturally. When Tanner had lectured her, he’d obviously known what he was talking about. Not that he was in a position to preach.
She was glad she’d never have to play him. She’d never be able to compete against a card cheat.
Chapter 7
Refreshed and relaxed from a vigorous hour with a personal trainer followed by a ninety-minute hot stone and aromatherapy massage and a soothing eucalyptus sea salt body wrap and exfoliation, Marilyn Saladino stepped into the elevator at ten-thirty on Sunday morning feeling in need of breakfast. Although the trainer had advised a wheatgrass smoothie enhanced with probiotics for her first meal, Marilyn was thinking more along the lines of bacon and eggs. There was nothing like protein for long-lasting energy.
The Desert Dunes casino was almost quiet, and the elevators that served the upper suites for special guests were empty, except for one young woman who got off as Marilyn got on. The blonde was wearing a pair of white Capri pants so tight they looked like they’d been sprayed on, with a bright turquoise and yellow print blouse tied at her navel. Her fingernails and toenails were painted tangerine, she wore big, colorful earrings, she had a hat, she had a bag, she wore little mules with clear plastic high heels.
Marilyn sighed as the young woman stepped off. What she wouldn’t do to have that kind of figure again. That hair. That complexion. The young woman was a tramp, of course. Only someone who was looking for a sugar daddy would dye her hair
that
color and wear her clothes
that
tight. But Marilyn knew from bitter experience that men loved such brazen flaunting. Just weeks ago she’d learned that her own husband had had a fling with just such a hussy. Of course Marilyn had put a stop to
that
. But Big Julie had been so—
Marilyn slammed her hand between the elevator doors just as they were about to close and forced them apart. Just how many high-roller suites did the casino have? And what were the odds that a blonde tramp was there with someone else? Marilyn felt the seeds of suspicion grow. Had she really succeeded in halting Big Julie’s little fling? If he’d brought his tart to Vegas instead of her, his lawful, loving wife, she was going to kill him.
She hesitated for just a second. And then she took off after the blonde. She’d never seen the floozy Big Julie had been keeping out at the golf course, but the private detective she’d hired had taken some pictures. The image of the tart was grainy, but Marilyn had recognized her loving spouse when he was in flagrante delicto. Or even when his delicto was not so flagrante, as had been the situation last night. Last night, his delicto had practically gone into hiding, and after Marilyn had put all that effort into coaxing it out, too.
But Big Julie’s delicto had been flagrante enough for the blonde in the photos, and here was a blonde again. Even as Marilyn trailed after the woman in the white Capri pants, she realized that she might have overreacted. America was full of bottle blondes, and they probably weren’t all sleeping with Big Julie. Some of them probably just happened to be staying at the Desert Dunes when Big Julie was and happened to come down the same elevator he used and it didn’t mean a thing, even if she looked more or less exactly like the grainy photo of the blonde at the golf course.
The blonde turned into a dress shop and, with no hesitation whatsoever, Marilyn followed her in. The blonde tart at the golf course had never seen Marilyn, would have no idea what she looked like. Marilyn wasn’t worried.
Marilyn browsed jewelry while the blonde browsed clothes in sizes Marilyn hadn’t seen in twenty years, finally taking a few outfits into a fitting room and trying them on. Just as Marilyn thought she couldn’t pretend for one more second to be deciding between pairs of rhinestone bangles, the blonde decided on an outfit and took it to the register.
“Charge it to room sixteen-oh-one,” she said.
Sixteen-oh-one, Marilyn realized, was the penthouse directly above hers. Hers and Big Julie’s.
The blonde signed, the clerk smiled, stapled the receipt, closed the bag, and handed it to the woman, who sashayed past Marilyn and went back the way she’d come. Smiling at the clerk, Marilyn followed her out of the store and watched her head back to the elevator banks.
But instead of following her, Marilyn turned to the right and went to the line of house phones across from the concierge desk. She picked up a phone and an operator came on.
“Can you tell me which room Julie Saladino is in?” she asked the operator.
“I yam sorree,” said the operator. “I yam not allowed to give out that infor
may
shun.”
“Please connect me to sixteen-oh-one,” Marilyn said, expecting the worst.
The phone rang.
“Yeah,” Drake answered.
Marilyn thought that at ten-thirty in the morning, Big Julie would still be lying snoring on the big king bed in fifteen-oh-one where she’d left him. But she could still find out if he was registered with the blonde in sixteen-oh-one
and
with herself one floor below.
Marilyn clenched her teeth and spoke through them, hoping to disguise her voice. “Can I pleazhe zhpeak to Big Chulie?”
“He’s not here,” Drake said. “Who’s this?”
“I’ll call back.” Marilyn hung up.
So. Her lousy, two-timing creep of a husband had not only lied to her about dumping that tramp, she was here in Vegas! Staying with
her husband!
In the suite directly above hers!
All thoughts of bacon and eggs, not to mention wheatgrass and probiotics, fled her mind as Marilyn stormed back to the elevators and viciously stabbed the call button. When the elevator doors opened, Marilyn leaped in, jabbing the button for the fifteenth floor. As Marilyn gnashed her teeth, the doors closed majestically, in their own time, and the car rose. By the time the doors finally opened on the fifteenth floor, Marilyn was in a frenzy. She slashed her access card through the key slot and flung herself into the suite, barreling through the rooms until she got to the bedroom, where Big Julie lay in semi-naked sonambulance.
“You big—big—
jerk!
” Marilyn yelled, not finding a word bad enough to call her life’s mate.