No one will be cheating at high-stakes cards on my watch or knocking off the participants. Running the weekly high-roller game is one of my more pleasurable duties. I enjoy the exchange of big money, the tension brought by high stakes. I like the character study my customers offer.
I have regulars. Ordinary guys with extraordinary gambling problems. Lawyers, investment bankers, real estate agents. I have criminals who come in a rare meeting of the underworld. A guy from the Russian mafiya, a Cuban gangster, a mean-looking white guy who’s somehow involved with the Russian. Sometimes a few of our own drop in.
The special knock set up for today’s game sounds—two long, three short. I open the door to peer out. The Russian mobster, Alexei Kaloshov, stands there, looking lethal and high on uppers of some kind.
I step back to allow him entry. Alexei isn’t the handshaking sort. He’s more the type who would pull a knife and stab you if you accidentally jostled him. He wears a designer button-down shirt, open two buttons at the collar to reveal a tattoo of a dagger going through his neck.
From what I understand, the Russian mafiya are decorated with prison tattoos, and every one of them have a symbolic meaning. The dagger through the throat means the wearer committed murder, or would kill for hire, and the drips of blood are for each victim. Alexei’s drips extend beyond where they are visible, but I suspect there are a lot. Too many, even for a mobster. The guy has a murderous vibe, and he uses drugs, so I always keep a close eye on him.
Sonny stands behind the table, ready to take his money and give him chips.
I let in several more guests, all clients I expect or at least know. Nine men show up and take seats around the large wooden table in the warehouse chosen for this week’s game. In a matter of five hours, we transformed one section of the industrial space. A fine Persian rug lies on the floor, and the solid carved oak table sits in the middle. A stained-glass chandelier dangles mid-air over the table, suspended from the rafters by two twenty-foot chains. The chairs are cushioned red leather. Drinks are provided in crystal glasses with ice, served by a cocktail waitress in a hot outfit. Small speakers are strategically set around the room, and they play Sinatra on low volume.
The knock sounds again. I open the door and blink. Gio, one of the younger soldiers, stands there with a white guy. Make that—stands there with a cop. I have nothing to go on other than the guy’s short hair and steady gaze, but my instincts say it loud and clear.
I don’t open the door any wider. “What’s up?” I ask, ignoring the stranger and focusing on Gio. The only question in my mind now is whether Gio knows he brought a cop.
“Hey Carlo, how’s it going?”
I don’t answer, just stare the guy down.
Gio shifts. “I brought a friend.” He jerks a thumb at the cop. “Is there a game?”
“Nope. No game tonight. Maybe next week.” My eyes slide to the cop, whose gaze remains steady.
Gio looks confused. “Oh, I guess I had it wrong?”
“Yeah. You had it wrong.”
Gio rubs his face as he turns and scans the parking lot, taking in all the signs that the game is, indeed, happening. He isn’t the brightest guy on the street, but fortunately he isn’t completely stupid. “Okay, cool. I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. I need to see you tomorrow, actually. Meet me at Angelo’s at ten.” The Italian deli serves as one of our meeting places for business.
A trace of fear shows in Gio’s face, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s guilty. He just understands something went wrong. “Sure thing, Carlo. See you in the morning.”
I ignore the other guy until he turns around, then I watch him until they both get into Gio’s car and drive off.
After the game, I’ll get the feed from the camera and run the guy’s photo. I need to know what I’m dealing with.
Summer
I weave through the crowd of drunken college students at the nightclub in the city. There’s a large group of business students here–at least a dozen. Coming out sounded good at the time, but it feels hollow now.
I got dolled up, dressing skimpy for attention. I suppose I have an exhibitionist streak. Or maybe it just makes up for all the times John lifted a critical eyebrow and told me what was unflattering about my outfit or which body part looked fat.
I might’ve seen the light and left him sooner if I hadn’t also had my dance career destroyed by the broken foot. I jumped down from the stage into the orchestra pit after a student performance one night. The pit was lower than I expected and the impact broke five bones in my foot. Now I have a little metal plate holding together the pivotal cuboid bone, and even after months of physical therapy, I haven’t recovered the flexibility or strength.