Eleven o'clock in the evening, Day Five.
At table four, Jack knew he had to get the hell out of there. Sally had her quota, she was gone already. He had nine thousand, six hundred in front of him. Lane was restlessly prowling the pit, pausing again and again at his table, his cold eyes eternally watching.
Okay, Jack promised himself fervently, okay, I split the minute Lane goes away. The very minute the sonofabitch leaves the table I leave forever.
But Lane didn't leave.
He was obsessed now. He'd gone over the films of tables one and four again and again, searching for anything that would clue him in. It couldn't be a hot streak, not a consistent losing streak on two tables to the same two people. Not almost exactly the same amounts, close to ten thousand a day. No fucking way in this world, Lane thought viciously.
That morning he'd gone down to the stock room and personally checked the seals on the cartons from Apex, measuring them in precise detail against others. They were genuine, no doubt about that. If the seals were genuine, then the cards had to be too because Apex was as solid as Gibraltar. He'd called Apex and the owner assured him after a thorough check everything was accounted for. He checked the shipping schedules, and they matched the deliveries, correct serial numbers and all.
Then how? Lane seethed. How in the fuck did they do it?
And why was this sleek bastard's face haunting him, keeping him awake at night, nagging endlessly at his mind?
Jack dared not look at Lane, feeling his icy gaze. He was no longer sleek and self-assured. He was haggard, he'd aged twenty years from sheer tension. And the nightmare of constant sucking and fucking, keeping two lust-crazed women in line while his nerves threatened to explode momentarily. It was the booze that held him together, that and the counting of the cash in the black valise in his motel closet, counting the bundles over and over and over, dreaming of Easy Street, so close now, so fucking close, only a pussy-hair away.
Ah shit, go away, you death-eyed bastard, Jack seethed silently at Lane. Shit you cold-hearted mother. GO!
As if he knew every Goddamn card coming off the deck, Lane thought furiously. He'd checked the cards too but they were all right, Apex quality grade A.
If he didn't trust Apex so much… Lane suddenly held up his right hand and snapped his fingers twice, sharply.
The pit boss came running.
The moment the dealer finished the round, Lane inched over and took the cards from her fingers, pushing her a fresh deck. He handed them to the pit boss with low-voiced instructions.
The pit boss disappeared with the deck.
Jack felt a wave of dread rising in his blood like a flood of doom, and images of the vast desert, bleached with bones of other careless thieves, flashed cruelly in his mind. Lane would not go away. There was no other option. He would have to split with Lane standing there.
He gulped down the rest of his drink, looked pointedly at his watch and scooped up his chips, avoiding Lane's steely eyes. He stood up, pushing a few chips forward for the dealer.
"Going somewhere?" Lane asked in a grating voice.
Jack stared back at him flatly. Fuck this honcho. "Yeah," he said. "I'm going to take my action to another casino because I don't like to be bugged."
Again, his balls had saved him in a showdown. There was no reply to that. Anytime the pit boss or casino manager hugged a table too closely for too long, professional gamblers left, feeling their luck was being constricted. And Lane knew that. He shrugged, watching Jack saunter toward the cashier's cage with narrowed eyes. That voice! Goddamnit, that voice rang a bell in his mind!
Where, WHERE?
There was a simple test Lane had completely forgotten to run on the cards, simply because he trusted Apex all the way. But suppose, the uneasy thought came to him a few minutes ago, suppose someone switched decks without Apex knowing? Sure, their security was tight but anything was possible in this business. Anything.
He'd sent the pit boss downstairs to run the cards under an infrared machine, a test usually reserved for suspected cases of dice-switching. A really hot switcher could switch in loaded dice in two seconds right under the nose of the dealer. Of course it was almost impossible to switch decks of cards because they never left the dealer's hands, so they never used the infra-red for cards.
Until now. If those fuckers were marked they'd show up like neon signs, no matter how subtle.
At the cashier's window, sweat poured down Jack's body as he shoved his chips forward, feeling Lane's eyes on him like beams of death. "Cash, hundreds," he said tersely. Don't glance around now, just cool it, another minute or so. Someone's presence loomed behind him big and heavy and Jack gritted his teeth. Don't turn, DON'T TURN ASSHOLE. The cashier deftly counting crisp bills into neat piles, a tap on his shoulder, his knees buckling, his heart bursting; again that heavy tap of fate, and his head turning, his face turning into a gritty white mask as he saw the huge security guard.
"Yeah?" he said in a croak.
"May I escort you outside, sir?" the guard asked.
Jack almost fainted with relief. "No. Bug off."
"It's for your own protection," the guard said in a tough voice. "We wouldn't want you to get mugged or hurt."
"I can take care pf myself, buddy. Just split."
The guard moved off and Jack began stuffing his pockets with bills, cramming them, heading for the nearest exit now, playing a little game called Beat The Pit Boss or Get The Fuck Gone Before They Bury You, stepping outside, eyes searching frantically for a taxi, no Goddamn taxi when you need one, never, okay move into the crowds now, keep moving at all times, because you know they're gonna follow you until they get the word on the cards, don't look back, shove these assholes out of the way, fuck you too turkeys, side street, stay in the heavy crowds, don't run, DON'T RUN ah shit, they're behind me because I can feel them, two of them, plainclothes goons, taxi, TAXI!
One screeched to a halt beside him. Jack saw them as he was getting in the cab, cold-faced mother-fuckers, big, expressions like zombies, real muscle-goons like the kind that had put him in the hospital. They were only a few yards away, still moving toward his taxi, SHIT!
"Move out!" he screamed at the driver. "MOVE OUT NOW, YOU ASSHOLE, GO, GO, GO!"
The driver gaped at him, then got the idea. The cab screeched out and Jack peered back at the two goons now jumping up and down to hail another taxi. Shit! One pulled up to the curb!
"Turn right here," Jack snapped. He waited until the cab turned then leaned forward and spoke fast. "Listen… there's a hundred bucks in it for you if you lose that cab behind us…"
"There's no cab behind us."
"Shut up! Move this fucker, run lights, I don't care what you do, go through fifty side streets, but KEEP MOVING! I'll tell you when to stop. Go!"
He tossed a hundred-dollar bill at the driver to reinforce his instructions, and the driver hauled ass then, careening around side streets, avoiding the heavy traffic expertly. Jack could have sworn no one was following, but still…
"Stop here, thanks, bye," he was out of the taxi before it stopped. Moving very swiftly, Jack went in the front door of a casino, didn't look back once, went out the rear door, walked quickly down the street, searching desperately up and down for another cab, saw a yellow coming down the street, waved at it frantically, thought holy shit suppose they're in it. He was on the verge of running for his life when he saw it was empty. He got in and told the driver to take him to Sally's motel. He leaned back in the seat, sweat gushing from his pores in a shroud, his heart pounding like a sledgehammer.
He'd made it.
By now, Lane would be in a fury, he'd have spotted the marks for sure if they used the infra-red. "Fuck you, you ice-blooded prick," he muttered aloud. He was home free. HOME FREE. Oh, Easy Street, here Jack comes.
As quickly as he could, he explained the situation to Sally. "Best thing we can do is get the fuck out of town like our asses are on fire. Now listen, hon…" He stuffed his pockets with her take as he talked, until he bulged.
"I'm going back to give Carol a cock-and-bull – cock-and-pussy? – Story to stall her, then I'm coming back here with the bread. I won't be more than thirty minutes."
"Then leave my part of the take here," she said sharply.
He waved his hand. "Piss on that, just trust me, will you? I want it all with me, it was my plan, my caper, my sweat. Just wait for me."
The words sounded funny to him, dreamy with echoes. Wait for me? That's what he'd told Carol in Omaha. Sally flung her arms around him and kissed him passionately.
"Listen, bastard," she hissed, "I trust you. You and I stick together no matter what. Always, through shit and paradise. Never forget that, Jack."
"You're making my heart bleed," he said but he kissed her fervently. He couldn't cross her and they both knew it.
He was out the door and walking the two blocks to his own motel, jerking his head nervously up and down the street at the passing cars but he knew he was home free now, that it was just lingering nerve-screams.
He went into his room and Carol was holding a drink, wearing a sexy new negligee, her eyes shining with excitement and love.
"We made it," he panted. "With about two seconds to spare. Now listen, Carol, I've some important business to take care of, private, see, and I'll be back for you in about, oh say, an hour. Okay? Wait for me."
"Wait for you," she echoed, smiling. She handed him the drink. "For God's sake, darling, slow down for one second and let's have a toast to your genius."
He nodded, gulping the scotch rapidly, shaking his head and whistling. Straight stuff. Carol put her arm around him, her blue eyes gleaming like immense brilliant orbs, flickering in that funny way. Jesus, did he have time for a quickie? A farewell fuck for this poor farmer's daughter, something to remember him by?
"Wait for me," she whispered, rubbing her warm pussy to his cock. "Let's make love, fast, very fast, Jack, please."
"Yeah, hell, why not, a celebration huh?" Ten more minutes wouldn't matter and he was actually hot and stiff, tremendously excited by the getaway, by being clean and home free with a hundred thousand in cash.
He stripped quickly, only he didn't realize how fired, how bone-weary he was now that it was over. His fingers seemed to move like lead, and when he mounted her his prick stayed hard on her silky wet softness but the rest of his body was melting, oh Jesus he was so tired, so beat, just… a… little… nap…
When he was completely out, Carol pushed him off with a look of contempt. She moved leisurely now, taking the cash from his pockets, stuffing the black valise with it. Now the bag was almost crammed full. One hundred thousand dollars. She went through his wallet and took the bills there too and emptied his pockets of change. Let them walk.
She dressed casually. No hurry. He'd be out for at least six hours, maybe as long as ten. There were eight sleeping pills emptied into that scotch, a little trick he'd taught her in Omaha. When Carol was ready, she set the valise by the door and went back to the bed, where Jack lay gently snoring, naked, his mouth open.
She wrote on his chest in bold letters in bright red lipstick. Then she leaned down and kissed him savagely, not a kiss but a lust-curse, biting, leaving blood on his lips.
"So long, darling," she whispered. "Wait for me."
An hour later Sally found him like that. At first she screamed, thinking it was blood splashed on his chest, that they'd caught up with him. But the blood was on his lips and the crimson on his chest was lipstick. She rushed to the closet and knew, before she even looked, that the bag was gone.
Feeling faint she sat on the bed, staring at her husband's chest with gazed eyes. The bold strokes said: WAIT FOR ME.
It was the same motel room they'd had before in Omaha, cheap, seedy, oppressive in the humid fall heat. They lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Sally got up and showered, then applied harsh makeup and dressed in a sexy clinging dress. She looked at her husband on the bed with disgust.
"You're crazy, you know that?" she snapped. "She's gone forever. She'll never show, never. She hates you, with all her twisted heart."
Jack tilted the bottle to his lips. "She'll show," he said in a slurred voice. "She loves me. She's just… fucking with my head, thus all. A lesson. She'll bring the money."
"Jesus," Sally snorted. "All your life you've hustled women and now you finally got the short end of the stick. Listen, Jack." Her voice grew deadly. "I'll give you three days to shape up. You look like hell. Cut out the juice, clean up your act. We're splitting this jerk-town for California. Think up another caper, get off your ass. I'm leaving in three days with or without you."
"Hey!" He sat up, his face white. "You wouldn't leave me, Sal. We'll get the money back, she'll show."
"Bullshit!" Sally roared. "Are you blind? You could sit here forever, asshole! Just because you took her cherry you think she'll came back here? I've gotta go now, get some money for us." Her face hardened. "You know how. When I get back, I want you shaved and showered and sober."
The door slammed behind her. Outside, Sally choked back her tears. She never cried, but he was slipping fast, drunk all the time, dreaming about his hundred thousand. Somehow she had to pull him together and get him out of here, but if she couldn't… She sighed, knowing the answer. She couldn't leave him, even if he slipped all the way. They had to suck together, through shit or paradise, and this dump was hardly paradise. His destiny was her destiny, because he was the only man she'd ever loved in a vicious, brutal ass-kicking world. Somehow she'd pull him together, get back his guts for him, and he'd dream tip another brilliant caper.
Somehow.
In the stuffy room, Jack gulped down more scotch and put his hands over his eyes. She was here in Omaha, he could sense it, he knew it. Yesterday he'd been walking down the street and he saw her half a block ahead, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, her beautifully rounded ass bouncing, her long shapely legs moving with purpose and he'd screamed her name and began running, his heart pumping furiously, gasping for breath, knocking people aside and he'd caught up with her and spun her around, screaming, "Where's the money!"
But it wasn't Carol, just another luscious blonde.
She was out there, she had to be. She couldn't cross him because she was crazy about him, he'd taken her cherry and given her the sex of her life. Softly, Jack began sobbing. Then he reared back his head and his face contorted with agony. He screamed: "CAROLLLLL! WHERE IN THE FUCK ARE YOU!!!??"
The red orb of the sun shimmered on the Pacific, and Carol leaned back in her canvas chair and sipped her rum and Coke. She had a spectacular view of the ocean from her hotel balcony in Acapulco. She glanced at her watch, frowning. Only two hours left before Doug showed up.
She'd met the sleekly muscled, irresistibly handsome man on the beach a few days ago when she was sunbathing. He'd moved in quickly and smoothly like so many others, but after she'd his face she knew he was the one. The others she'd scorned before they could open their mouths, but this cool, self-assured and utterly charming stud had that look in his eyes, and she knew he was the one.
That look was unmistakable – greedy, cunning, totally selfish, ruthless, the look of a born hustler. Like Jack. They were a special breed unto themselves, the ones who preyed on lonely women. And they deserved special treatment.
She'd invited him up to her hotel suite and let him make love to her, plunging deep and hard for almost an hour to show her his prowess, giving her a terrific performance. And then she told him about the money, her hundred thousand dollars and her aching loneliness and his eyes flashed with savage greed and he'd fucked her all night, giving her the time of her life, one tremendously exciting orgasm after another.
And in the morning she'd confessed that she loved him, was absolutely crazy about him, couldn't live without him, but only marriage would do, no shack-ups at her age. And once they were married she'd let him handle all the money of course, because she was so dumb about things like that and he obviously knew his way around. Barely able to conceal his triumph, he assured her he was crazy about her too, and the sooner they got married the better, right away, now!
Not so fast, she'd laughed. A girl needed a day or two to pull herself together. They'd set the marriage for six o'clock this evening. And when he'd left, glowing with excitement and the now-familiar stench of greed, she'd slipped him a hundred dollar bill for expenses, just to watch his face, and oh it was lovely, like striking a sweet chord on a piano. He almost foamed at the mouth at the bill, a mere sample of what would come, a tantalizing morsel to whet his ravenous appetite.
Sighing now, Carol got up and began dressing and packing. It was five-thirty when she stopped at the front-desk. She explained to the clerk a man with a handsome grin would be looking for her in a little while and he was to give him this note.
The clerk nodded.
An hour later she was on the jet to Buenos Aires, staring with unseeing eyes at the vast expanse of blue over the soft white blanket of clouds. He would be staring at the note now, frantically reading the three words over and over, trying to understand.
Wait for me.
And his days would be desperate and his nights haunted, and he'd prowl the beaches waiting in desperation for the laughing, sexy blonde with the hundred thousand in cash, for the oh so easy pushover that he'd had shacked up, slipping out of his greedy fingers like a mocking shadow.
And all over the world there were charming, sleek hustlers like Jack, smooth-talking handsome studs who preyed on lonely women, and they'd be waiting for her, for wide-eyed Carol Shaw with the ripe tits and beautiful legs and hundred thousand dollars, because she'd found her destiny now and she felt like a breathless angel, an angel of vengeance soaring high above the clouds, and oh God her destiny was glorious, it was beautiful.