Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (19 page)

“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
passion, 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
goddamned 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 ass, 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 ass 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.

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,
passing festooned glasses 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 crap 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 passenger 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.

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 scum 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) – 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 glass 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
Bitch 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 cucumber 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 fucking 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 assembly 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, crass 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. Fucking. Plaaa-aaaay,” whined The Dap, who had
already let a sizable hunk of his gut flap free of his button-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?