Breaking Beauty: Devils Aces MC Part 14

"Did you hear that?" she croaked, voice hoa.r.s.e from screaming. Bryson reached a lazy hand down, fondling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s loosely.

"Hear what, Bonnie?"

"I'm serious, Bryson. I heard a noise."

"What kind of noise?"

"A microphone kind."

Instantly, her lover sprang to attention. Bryson scanned the walls of the hotel room with his familiar spy-catching span. And then, as if in response, the sound arrived again. The m.u.f.fled sounds of voices, perhaps. The conferring of a small congress.

"Where is that coming from?" Romy demanded to no one. For fear of being watched, she moved to cover herself in the hotel sheets. She pushed sweaty hair from the center of her face, suppressing a panic. In their pa.s.sion, she and Bryson had forgotten to scan the hotel room for fresh bugs, as was their usual habit.

In the far corner, Bryson stopped short. He held in his fingers a frayed cord, which burrowed straight into a small hole in the wall, just below the TV. He looked stricken. His face had gone pale.

"You had to know you were being monitored, Mister...Weller, was it?" boomed a voice. Romy nearly screamed. The sounds seemed to be coming from all around. It was as if the whole hotel room were an amplifier for sound, transmitting the voice of, she knew it immediately, Lefty DiMartino. The G.o.dd.a.m.ned pervert, smuggled away in his hidden fortress. He'd been listening to everything; likely watching them, too.

"What do you want, sir?" Bryson managed, with as much dignity as he could muster having just been caught with his pants down. "As you've probably gathered, me and my lady were just having a little..."

"Yes, yes I see that. And good job! I like it when you give it to em rough." A horrible, lingering cackle rang throughout the room. Romy gathered herself in the blanket. "Very, very nice. And I didn't mean to interrupt."

"So why have you?"

"Tsk, tsk. You've really got to work on your bedside manner, son." A vein jumped in Bryson's furious cheek. He looked as if he might punch through a wall.

"Now listen up," drawled her boss' disembodied voice, "I'm not especially intrigued with the way things have been going up on the Needle. This whole, he-takes-my-money, he-takes-the-girl business...it's frankly a bit dull for Vegas, don't ya think?"

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"I think you do, Mr. Weller." A cold shock rang down Romy's spine. The skepticism in his voice said it all-had they finally, terribly, been caught? So close to the end?

"I don't know who you are," DiMartino continued. "and I could give a rat's a.s.s, frankly. But I do know that if you want to screw a nubile blonde, the Strip is lousy with candidates. Ms. Adelaide just so happens to be taken."

"So I can't date, Lefty?" Romy ventured, her voice lurching with fear. "You never said I wasn't allowed to date. That wasn't part of our agreement."

"Oh, date all you want, sweetheart! Date away! Date all the schmoes you can find, with that sweet, firm a.s.s of yours." There was the sound of a cigar being sucked on. Romy recoiled. "I just don't like you dating a mysterious high-roller who comes in every weekend to sweep you off to paradise and take my good money. That's just plain no fun, as games go. Who wants to play in a game like that, huh? Game you can't win?" He was winding up for a cackle again, she could feel it.

"Now, because we all hate being bored, and we all want to make sure everything's fair and square, I'm officially inviting you two to a surprise tournament. Tomorrow. On the Needle Point."

"Tomorrow?" Bryson cried. "That's Sunday! Who's going to come to your tournament tomorrow?"

Lefty didn't even bother to answer this, so evident it was that he had friends in high places willing to bend to his whims. "I'll need you both there. We'll call it a big rematch, for fair and square's sake. A little double downing. A little all or nothing. A little winner takes all. Either way, it should be the social event of the season." And then it burst forth: that mad cackle, like a donkey's bray mixed with something utterly diabolical. "Now night, night, lovebirds. And remember-Lefty's watching you." Then, the machine tapered off with a click.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

Downstairs on the main floor, Kellan Vaughn was making a splash on the slot machines. Paulette was working, and after a convincing loss in the high roller's room, he'd decided to idle away the rest of his hostess' shift. She kept coming around and slipping him free drinks from the bar, pa.s.sing festooned gla.s.ses his way with a wink, but to Kellan's surprise, and Paulette's mirth, these were all mocktails.

"Super funny, P," he joke-yelled to her across the floor, to her retreating back. "Don't think I won't report this kind of c.r.a.p to a supervisor. Service Industry!" At this point, a starry eyed young woman toting a gentleman easily twice her age mosied up to his seat: "Excuse me, will you sign an autograph for me? Aren't you the guy in The Prattle?"

Across the floor, Paulette Nagle-formerly-Brownstein watched this interaction with interest. Kellan had been tight-lipped about whatever it was that had brought him to Vegas. In fact, he'd been tight-lipped about everything personal. She didn't goad; something about his manner was too sad to demand inquiry. But she'd pegged him rightly for a musician of marginal fame, and a heartsick one at that. Then there was the strange incident from the evening she'd peeled him off the lobby floors and foisted him into the front seat of her Coupe de Ville: "Where do you live, baby? Where can I take you?"

"Roooooooomy."

"Yes, it's a big car. So a motel? A friend's house?"

"Rooooomy. Roooomy." He'd released a few fat tears onto her pa.s.senger window. "Adelaide. Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide."

The rest of this nonsense-reverie had descended into rhyming words, things she couldn't quite remember. Song fragments.

But the important bit, that had stuck.

Whatever his connection to Romy, Paulette figured the boy's infatuation proved two things: for one, contrary to what she'd said in the restaurant parking lot, she was still working somewhere on the Sunset Strip, perhaps even inside The Windsor. And for two, which she gathered from the boy's mounting tears and later his distressed, overly focused expression; as she'd allowed herself to fear in the past week, Romy was in trouble. Wherever she was.

Yet it hadn't seemed prudent to bring her friend up the next day, as Kellan sat up straight in bed for the first time in who knew how long. She'd known enough alcoholics in her life to recognize the earmarks of the disease, and understand it's triggers. He'd talk when he was good and ready. In the meantime, Paulette trusted that in keeping Kellan close, she was that much closer to her missing co-worker. And of course it didn't hurt that her new boarder was kind, intelligent, and a dead ringer for Mick Jagger in 1975.

As she watched him reluctantly sign an autograph, a new piece of the puzzle shifted into place. He'd just come from upstairs, hadn't he? Maybe...

Suddenly, there was a commotion on the floor. Barely-Important-Lou sprung to attention like he'd been pinched. A man wearing nothing but a terry cloth robe was hurtling straight for Kellan, propelled by a visible panic. When he reached his target, Kellan's face betrayed shock, then recomposed into a kind of anger.

"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about," he said loudly to the room. "Please move away from me." Yet strangely, the man looked appeased, even a little relieved. He looked down at himself in the robe, as if for the first time, and then made a big show of apologizing to the casino floor at large: "I'm sorry for the disturbance, everyone. I'll just be back in my room now." This last remark was clearly meant to preempt security, who had already started picking their way around blackjack tables to sedate what they'd taken for fresh crazy.

But Paulette kept watching Kellan. Though he'd feigned an innocence, he looked highly disturbed after the encounter. And was there something about those two standing next to each other, under the scrupulous light of the main floor? Perhaps it was her imagination, but there'd been something familiar about both men, side by side. Or particularly the man in the terry-cloth robe...she knew him, she was certain of it. She moved towards his fleeing figure, hoping for a good angle.

"Paul-ETTE," carped Lou. "Nothing to see here. Get back to your tasks, please." But she craned her neck regardless, hoping for...and there it was. The thick outline of a neck tattoo! This man was Romy's gentleman friend, the one from the tables, the one from the restaurant...and staying here, at The Windsor.

She made for Kellan, whose mounting distress was affecting his game. A row of tomatoes sprouted across his slot machine. Placing a firm, warm hand on his shoulder, she bent low: "I need you to tell me everything," Paulette said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

That night in the Needle was to be the most terrifying of Romy's tenure at the Windsor.

After a sleepless night plagued with an imagined soundtrack of Lefty's grating voice, piped in from some anonymous place and an even more anxious morning spent away from Bryson; Romy dressed for work as if she were headed for the gallow's pole. Everything she saw, she saw as if it might be for the last time. Her apartment. Her piles of statistics books. These were things that belonged to an innocent person, a stranger, some young midwestern girl who'd managed to remain abreast of corruption in a city like this.

She didn't know everything Lefty knew-how could she? It wasn't impossible that this whole evening was just a prolonged death sentence, a cat dangling a mouse before finally chomping down. She didn't dare to hope that it was merely her public relationship that now stood on trial. She knew that Lefty would do everything in his power to pair her with some sc.u.m of the Earth scuzzbag this evening-and many evenings thereafter. The knowledge of this fell hard on her shoulders, like a fate worse than death.

After multiple, shaky attempts at make-up, Romy re-donned the miserable leotard she'd been so thrilled to leave behind. It clung to her shoulders, a tidy little cage.

She'd left Goofy with the neighbor boy, perfectly prepared to never see her beloved pet again. And finally, she entered her car. It was truly amazing; she felt she'd experienced the peak of all emotions in the past two weeks. Joy, pain, pleasure, terror. Love? Finally, here at what felt like the end of everything, did she dare admit to herself what she truly felt for Bryson? It felt almost beside the point. Moreover, to call anything Love in this miserable wasteland seemed unfair.

She started the engine. And with rising dread, Romy drove to The Windsor on a Sunday afternoon.

The casino was Sunday-crowded; which was to say, largely empty. Businesspeople were headed home from their travels. Locals were gearing up for another week. It was a tad too early for industry types, so in total the whole floor gave off a whiff of loneliness. Only two dealers were circulating through a wide area. Romy recognized neither of them.

Get out while you still can, she found herself thinking. You don't want anything to do with a guy who runs a business like this. But the words would have meant nothing. If she'd learned anything these past few weeks, it was that money held an unparalleled allure. People would forget all manner of important things in order to get some more.

Romy dragged herself up the first elevator, down the now-familiar hall, and to the door of Zaida's lair. She rapped once. She rapped twice. No one responded, so she muscled her way inside. The place was vacant, but the elevator door was opened ominously. Romy checked her prize watch, which she'd worn in a last-ditch attempt at defiance (or perhaps good luck) a 6:02. Just a few minutes late.

She pressed herself into the elevator, willing it to break down. But no, alas, the car released her into the awful stronghold of the Needle, where a team of ten people-arrayed in a row-all seemed to clap in unison when the doors opened. Their heroine had arrived.

Bryson was no better off. His un-pressed suit bunched strangely in parts, riding too high along his shoulders. He had dark circles under his eyes. Arriving early, he'd been forced to keep company with a gloating Lefty as he fought off a grab-bag of fear and fury. It would have been easy-too easy-to take this predator by the throat where he stood, hurl him through the gla.s.s window of his own filthy empire...

But Lefty'd remained in higher spirits. "I'm glad you're a good sport, Weller," he'd creaked, as if the whole melodrama set to take place were a game of golf in the rain. "We appreciate your patronage. But you understand, a good show wins out, every time!" he cackled.

And the "show" turned out to be a motley, miserable crew of other high-rollers. It was clear that Lefty had gone out of his way to dredge up some of most disgusting candidates he could find. Chiefly among these was The Dap, who wore a double breasted, purple sports coat and a paper crown, the kind children received in Happy Meals. His mouth was full of tobacco-stained teeth, and it was clear from his goading that despite the early hour, he was already drunk.

Behind him at the table, there was a certain disgraced newspaper reporter with despicable allegations rising against him. Then, behind him, sat an ancient geezer who needed to be wheeled around by an aid. Even this old man seemed capable of cackling at a young girl's discomfort, though. He seemed to have made special friends with The Dap during the wait.

In another stressful twist, Bryson learned that Zaida the b.i.t.c.h Queen Herself would also be afforded a place at the table. Many of the men drooled ostentatiously at the image of two blondes sharing a bed together, but Bryson knew better: Zaida's pouty red mouth spelled cruelty, and pain. He couldn't let her-any of these trolls, really-win the prize of his lady love. He couldn't bear the thought.

Among the last two to arrive were a skeletal mystery man, the color of cuc.u.mber water and, at longer last, Kellan. His only hope. His brother looked characteristically somber, but was also giving off the unmistakable whiff of Johnnie Walker Red. He's f.u.c.king drunk, Bryson thought. So they were screwed all ways around.

Lefty led the way to the table; or, rather his belly did. He barked the rules behind him, for those who hadn't played the Needle's game before. The a.s.sembly revved with encouragement. Then, their eyes fell hungrily over Romy, their prize, who looked younger and more frightened than Bryson had ever seen her. The sight made his eyes ache.

Just as they were about to take their places, Lefty lifted a bejeweled hand. "Oh, Mr. Weller. I thought I'd made myself plain: you won't be competing in this tournament. For fairness' sake."

"But-"

"I called you here as a referee. You can occupy my former place, outside the table. And keep your eyes peeled for any sort of dealer favoritism," he laughed a bit at this. "Though with this crowd-skeeves, dirtbags, drunks, women-I bet you'll have an easy go of things."

Though Romy's eyes swam, the lovers managed to exchange an affirming nod. This was a cruel turn of events, but not altogether surprising. Of course Lefty had meant to make Bryson watch helplessly on as Romy's destiny unfolded. This way, even in the unthinkable best case scenario, there'd be no Vaughn brother on the table to take the cash. It was the meanest, shrewdest thing he could have done. They'd underestimated DiMartino, at their peril.

"LET'S BEGIN!" bellowed the owner, neatly compiling his own fat stack of chips. "And remember: I play here today as an independent citizen. This is all my personal cash, not the Windsor's." He winked then, driving his audience wild.

Bryson felt Romy's heart as his heart. He searched her face carefully, for warring patches of determination and fear. Her fingers shook as she dealt the first round, but her jaw was set. He prayed that she had what it took.

In a round or two of betting, the first player was eliminated: the foul-minded reporter, who'd fallen into the trap of doubling his losses. The rest of the table jeered at his failing, all but chasing him from the Needle. Darkness had begun to fall. A single, ghost-y bartender was circling laconically, doing a poor job refilling drinks. Both Lefty and The Dap had already racked up large tabs, and because he couldn't not, Bryson ordered a double vodka and tossed it back quick.

"He drinks, when he think about what I do to his pretty girlfriend," cooed Zaida, her voice stomach-churning, cra.s.s as nails on a chalkboard. "But he need no worry. I take good, good care of those big, beautiful..." Zaida then licked her lips with a look of crazed glee on her face. Bryson prayed she was kidding, as the rest of the table hollered in affirmation. His own lovely Romy was fighting to keep the tremble from her voice.

But Romy showed a 7 up-card with the next hand, and Zaida doubled down on her two 4 cards. Bryson allowed himself to hope that her amateur's move would bust her; doubling down an 8 against a dealer 7 was rarely a good idea, particularly when the player wasn't counting cards. And sure enough, the icy supervisor had gambled away her chances at a win. Lefty struck 21 this time, leaving Zaida to stand and mutter furiously, to no one, at her bad luck. Eventually, she returned to the bar area, where she began overly scrutinizing the other waifish employee.

This left at the table: Kellan, Lefty, The Dap, the geezer, and the mysterious sallow man, who no one quite seemed to recognize. Sallow-Man made small talk with the bartender, indicating that he'd visited the Needle before, but Bryson noticed how Lefty made no personal gesture of recognition towards this fellow, as he did with all the other guests.

"Let's. f.u.c.king. Plaaa-aaaay," whined The Dap, who had already let a sizable hunk of his gut flap free of his b.u.t.ton-down. He yelled to the waitress for more drinks at every possible interval. Miraculously, Kellan seemed able to withstand this temptation-Bryson thanked his lucky stars. His brother was playing his usual sloppy game, but without the props. Did they dare to hope?

CHAPTER THIRTY.

The room temperature seemed to drop suddenly, as if in accordance with the awful new mood spreading across the Needle's floor. Romy shivered in her paper-thin uniform and the players remained silent and still. The game was clicking along swiftly now, gathering speed and momentum like an avalanche.

Bryson paced anxiously, eyeing the players and their remaining chip stacks.

Meanwhile, Romy was beginning to embrace numbness. Her imagination had already spiraled across all possible outcomes of this tournament, and in no scenario could she contrive a bright future. It now seemed clear that Lefty had brought them here only to demonstrate his absolute power; with every swig from his gin and tonic, her cruel boss seemed to guarantee that there would be no riding-off-into-the-sunset, there would be no happy ending for his treacherous "employee."

She cast a surrept.i.tious glance in the direction of Lefty's two henchmen, t.i.tus and an unknown man, both clad in severe black, manning their posts by the elevator doors. She saw the thick leather straps binding their mid-sections: holsters, she thought. Guns.

The geezer bowed out fast at the end of the next round (sinking on a 17), and the man's sullen-looking aid wheeled him towards the bar. Lefty cracked a wicked grin in the direction of Bryson's turned back. The Dap, who was impressively still in play despite a buzz approaching catatonia, began to futz impatiently with his paper crown. She could see the heaving ma.s.s of his belly when he raised his arms.

"Oh, sweetcheeks?" Lefty slurred in the direction of the bar. "I'll have another of these DIVINE Tanquerays!" By now, the boss was raising an uncharacteristic h.e.l.l; his cheeks had turned a ruddy, alcoholic red. On the other hand, Kellan-who had entered the room smelling sharply of whiskey-seemed to have regained full composure. She contemplated the younger brother at the table, where he was gazing at the visible hands with a sharp concentration. Was it possible he was counting cards? That would be far too risky a move in their current position. Romy tried to catch his eye in caution.

Lefty was standing now; or rather, trying to stand. He teetered on his feet. She could smell the booze on his skin from feet away.

"I have...an announcement," the boss began, his voice a bellow. "Gentleman's intermission. Everyone, gather round. Gather, d.a.m.n it!"

Romy set the shoe aside and locked up her chips. Zaida, the outed geezer and the bartender ambled back towards the table. Bryson, still drumming patterns in the floor, merely turned his head.

"I just wanted to say...to my nearest and dearest, gathered here in my favorite room of my favorite casino: thank you. Truly. Thank you for coming." Humoring him, the audience clapped lightly. Bryson crept a few feet closer to the action.

"Thank you for coming," Lefty continued, seeming briefly to lose his train of thought. "...and thank you for spending your hard-earned cash in pursuit of the world's greatest ambition: getting MORE. HARD. EARNED. CASH!" The spectators led a sprinkle of confused applause. Rousing slightly, The Dap attempted an enthusiastic cheer, but with a single glare, Lefty motioned him quiet.

The room followed suit and everyone now craned to follow their host's speech. Bryson inched closer still. Romy could now feel the sweetness of his breath on the back of her neck.

"Now I know a lot of people have a lot of s.h.i.t to say about the morality of the casino business. How gambling is evil, how it breeds addiction, blah, blah, blah. But I take the opposite tack. Everything we do is a gamble. We gamble for career, for home, for love-" He threw a pointed gaze in Romy and Bryson's direction, "-and the best part is, as in life, gambling rewards the winners and punishes the losers. It re-a.s.signs. It takes away. And if I take something from you, it becomes mine." For emphasis, Lefty lunged across the table, seizing a neat handful of The Dap's chips. The Dap looked bewildered, but for the first time Romy spotted a twitch of fear moving in his jowly face. So even this monster was afraid of Lefty DiMartino.

"Now I've always been very, very good at gambling. You might have guessed. So good, in fact, that I never lose."

Then Lefty wheeled on Bryson, extending a shaky figure.

"And because I'm no loser, I know what you're up to. You sack of s.h.i.t."

The room was tomb-silent now. Romy didn't dare look to her lover. She steadied herself against the table instead, as if maintaining perfect balance might help her disappear.

"I don't tolerate cheaters," Lefty went on. He was gaining steam now. His voice was cracking with fury, spit was flying from his lips. "But I especially don't tolerate people trying to take my property away from me. I never tolerate thieves." Now suddenly, awfully, the mob boss was flanking Romy. She felt a thick, muscular hand encircle the soft skin of her throat like a noose. His fingers dug into her flesh. In a panic, she tried to cry out but his grip was so firm that her voice caught.

"So, Mr. Bryson Vaughn: if you want my filthy wh.o.r.e, you'll need to win her back fair and square."