Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (20 page)

The closer we were to one another, the more I wanted to pinch myself. A moment I thought I'd never reach; this was quite possibly the pinnacle of my pimping.

After a long night, I woke up on the couch, the same one we shared together just hours ago, and couldn't believe it
she was gone
.

Justin and I boarded a flight back to Arizona the next day. I was certain of one thing – I wanted to see her again.

We weren't in Arizona for more than a day when the itch to gamble resurfaced. Although it's typically against the Vegas code, Justin decided to invite his female friend along, and asked me to do the same.

I knew better than to bring a girl to Vegas, so I called Kyle and asked if he wanted to meet us there instead. Not surprisingly, he agreed.

Droves of potential Spanish suitors flocked across the casino floor. They were in town for the Latin music festival that was being held at Mandalay Bay; our trip was off to a promising start.

I ventured out alone to scout the blackjack tables and stumbled across the holy mecca. A dance floor, poles included, with models dancing in the center and ten blackjack tables surrounding it. One of which was being huddled by the masses and I figured out why ... Charles Barkley was there. I didn't have the balls to approach him – at least not yet.

"My mom's in town," Justin announced upon entering our suite, which didn't come as a shock.

Mrs. Upton was an avid gambler and moreover, a comedic genius. Whether she's intentionally funny or not is still open for discussion, but either way, her interactions are greatly entertaining. A fact she'd soon prove when we met her for dinner.

"When my mom orders her food, I bet you $20 she will send it back. She does it every time," Justin predicted as the three of us awaited her arrival (Kyle's plane having not yet landed).

"I'll take that bet," I told him, marking the first wager of our trip.

Mrs. Upton walks in, draped in white gold, and says hello to everyone while simultaneously canvassing the area. She was quite intimidating to those she was unfamiliar with; the very category Justin's new lady friend Ashley fell into. I knew I was in for a treat.

After hardly recognizing the existence of the girl sitting beside her son (a form of comedy in itself), she meticulously surveyed the menu while I sat tightly in my chair, reading her every expression.

The waiter brought our meal to the table. I didn't even look at my food, I was too caught up waiting to gauge Mrs. Upton's reaction.

She looked at the plate, smirked and began prodding her food with a fork, as if it were a dead animal on the side of the road.

"Is everything OK?" the waiter asked.

"Unh-uh! I don't like this, you need to bring me something else," Mrs. Upton replied, looking away from the waiter in disgust.

"SEE! I TOLD YOU!" Justin yelped, reaching his hand in front of me to collect his winnings.

Kyle arrived soon after dinner and then came the moment I was waiting for; it was time to hit the blackjack table.

Only now I was more prepared. I read a book on counting cards during our flight and adopted my strategy from it...with a few additives. I would only sit in the first chair, closest to the deck. By doing this, I heavily increased my odds of predicting the first card to be dealt, and I also predicted the first card by reading the other cards from the previous hand. If they were low, it elevated my chances of getting a high card; thus raising my bet.

I placed $500 on the table and went to work as Kyle sat nervously beside me with the same amount. Within minutes, Kyle was down a few hundred dollars, so he retreated to the room; this is when my game took off.

The low cards were flowing like Niagara Falls, so I tripled my bets and after a few hands, my stack was looking like the Eiffel Tower. My $500 investment was now a mountain of $4,000 in chips. However, an aspect more essential than counting cards is having the discipline to walk away when you're up...so I did.

This same discipline could have saved me if it applied to more facets of my life than blackjack, but we'll get to that.

I paid off my outstanding Tampa debts to Justin, which he was more than pleased with, and put $2,000 in my suitcase; leaving me armed with $1,000 for a second run on the tables.

Once again, I placed $500 down and Kyle stood behind me. His money was now frightened, and we all know scared money doesn't make money.

When the conditions were primed, I struck again. My stack was growing exponentially and I was becoming bolder with my bets by the second. What was once a lone $100 bet was now $400 being played concurrently on two hands. This type of action will catch the casinos attention, so they sent over a man in a suit to oversee me swindling their money.

I waited for him to swoop in and accuse me of counting cards; I thought he must have known, but he had other plans in mind.

"Your style of play qualifies you as a VIP member with our hotel. I'm Travis, your new host so let me know if you ever need anything," he said.

"OK, sounds good," I told him, an offer I would undoubtedly accept.

He gave me his card and walked away. It's too bad he missed the next deck of cards – my stack flourished to $13,000 before deciding it was time to give up and celebrate.

I was curious to find out what Travis really meant about asking him if I ever needed anything, so I went to ask.

"What benefits do I get as a VIP member?" I asked my new host, who was about the same age as myself.

"We can get you a free suite, free drinks, free food, free limo rides and free concert tickets anytime you come in town," Travis said, standing in front of a golden painted wall inside a room identified only by Chinese symbols on the door.

This was a puzzling contradiction; I was basically broke with almost no money in my bank account, yet I was technically a VIP member at one of the largest casinos in Las Vegas.

I laughed about it on my way up to the room, before inviting my cohorts out for a night on the town. Justin wanted to stay in bed, so Kyle and I set out on our own.

Standing in front of the casino, resting against a shiny new Lexus was a character with slick backed hair, whom I would soon know to be "Russian Mike" – our personal driver.

"You tell me where you go ... I take you!" Russian Mike said with a strong accent and a devious smile.

Our first stop was the Bellagio, where I lost over $1,000 in the blink of an eye.

"Brad, you must stop!" Russian Mike insisted.

Then we were off to the strip club, but not your average place. It was a dark and gloomy establishment on the outskirts of town; a Russian Mike strip club. After blowing several hundred on lap dances for Kyle and myself, I wanted to kick it up a notch.

"Mike, do you know where we can get some girls?" I asked.

"Of course! Come!" he said, leaving me no reason not to believe him.

After the strip club he took us to, I wasn't at all surprised at the sketchy apartment buildings–apparently filled with hookers–he parked in front of.

"Girls are inside! You follow me!" Russian Mike enthusiastically said.

I glanced at Kyle in the back seat; he had a terrifying look on his face.

"Dude, there is no way I am getting out of the car!" said Kyle.

He was wisely cautious but personally, I like to live on the edge.

After scaling a flight on stairs, Russian Mike knocked on the door and yelled something in Russian. An Asian girl answered the door and guided us in, but this wasn't a regular apartment. Other than two beds, there was no furniture at all. It was just four sex-slaves and two beds; I was inside the walls of a modern day brothel.

"Which one you like?" asked Russian Mike.

"Her," I said, pointing at the only one who was remotely attractive.

Suddenly, I was overcome with the same uneasy feeling as Kyle, so I signaled Russian Mike to speak with me alone.

"I can't sleep with this girl here, it's too weird. But I'm not against taking her back to the hotel," I told him.

"Lili, you get dressed! You come with us!" Russian Mike demanded.

I met Kyle at the car, and he was eager to find out what happened.

"How was it?" he asked.

"Sketchy as hell," I explained.

"I told you man! I'm uncomfortable just sitting here," Kyle claimed.

Russian Mike walked out shortly after, with the silk dressed hooker on his trail.

"Mike, I thought about it and I just can't do this man," I explained.

"Lili, you go back inside!" Russian Mike ordered.

"I know something I do need ... can you find me some weed?" I asked.

"Of course!" he said.

On our way back to the hotel, Russian Mike got on his phone and the conversation to follow was yet another instant classic.

"Yessss, I was wondering if I could put in an order for sushi," he said, while Kyle and I exploded in laughter.

"Mike! What the hell is sushi?" I amusingly questioned.

"Weed! You don't expect me to call and ask for it by name! We have code words you know," explained Mike.

Mandalay Bay immediately and graciously followed through on their offer for a free room. My night came to an end while looking over downtown Vegas through my window...enjoying a freshly rolled batch of sushi.

I woke up the following morning, packed my suitcase and was, for once, happy with the decisions I made the previous night. Having no girl was better than a hooker, but my trip wasn't officially over.

At the same EXACT time I stepped out of my room, a brunette with fair skin and an unbelievably fit body stepped out of her room on the other end of the hall. We met at the elevator and I had no choice; it was game time.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Caitlin," the dimpled goddess replied.

"Well Caitlin, I normally don't do this but I think you're extremely beautiful. Unfortunately I'm leaving town but I would love to have your number," I confidently requested.

She gave me her number and I temporarily felt a sense of accomplishment. Then I started to think about the odds (since we were in Vegas) of her walking out of her room at the same exact time as me. Was this a genuine and organic meeting, or did Mandalay Bay have a few tricks up their sleeves to get their clients (those who won) to come back?

Anyways, I got on my flight to Arizona..

Our return to Scottsdale put us back on the wagon so we went out to the PussyCat Lounge again to take advantage of the few remaining nights left until spring training began.

My first move, which I guess became a routine, was to look in the bedroom display over the club to see if the lingerie-clad blonde was still in action ... she was.

I casted my pimp hand into the crowd and wrangled up a group of girls to join us at our table; yet another action that became routine.

Then I looked to my left and saw him for the second time in the past week ... it was Sir Charles Barkley. Like any kid my age, I grew up watching him on TV and I wasn't about to let this opportunity slip; I just needed to figure out an inconspicuous way to get close.

There were two young, but really tall girls standing around him. No guy–especially a famous one–wants to be seen at a club without any women around, so I drafted my plan. I was going to lure them my way, banking on the hopes he would step in before he lost them.

After whispering a few sweet nothings, my plan worked precisely as I envisioned it would. Within minutes, he joined the three of us to get involved with the conversation. Now was my time to strike.

"Charles," I said, wavering him to come closer so he could actually hear what I was going to say over the pounding music, and he did.

"Justin is young and he doesn't really have anyone to talk to who has been through it all like you have. Do you mind giving him some advice?" I asked while on the tip of my toes, my only chance of being within his earshot.

Without saying a word, Charles took a step back, smiled and tipped his glass against mine, in a way to show he appreciated what I asked of him.

He walked over to Justin, put his lofty arm around his shoulder and they talked to one another for the next twenty minutes. My job was complete, but I couldn't stop thinking about that damn blonde in the bedroom.

I walked over to the bar to grab a drink, and also get a better view of her, but then my dreams were diminished; she wasn't there anymore.

It just so happened that she was five feet away from me in civilian clothes. Now was my time to strike.

"I liked your performance," I told her.

"Thanks! I'm Jessica," she replied, looking even better up close than from afar.

"Yeah, well I have to go hangout with my friend Charles Barkley but I just wanted to let you know I think you're special," I told her, and then bluffed walking away.

"What was your name?" Jessica asked.

"Brad, feel free to give me your number, I'd like to see you again," I suavely advised, and she obliged.

I didn't expect it to go so well, but it was a good night, and I left the club with Jessica on my 'to-do' list.