Vegas Moon

20.

“It’s not going to work, you know,” I say to Lucky.

“What’s not?”

“Your Vegas Moon scam.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This isn’t a real deal. And if it was, it wouldn’t make sense.”

“Why not?”

“You’re the draw. The rest is just another sports book.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you set the line at Vegas Moon, the casinos would simply adjust theirs. You’d be betting against yourself.”

“You know anything about Vegas?”

“I know there’s plenty of bank financing for legitimate deals.”

We’re in Phyllis’s actual office. Gwen’s walking through the other rooms with a penlight, keeping it below the windows the way I instructed her.

“You know much about sports betting?” Lucky says.

“Nope. But I understand people.”

Gwen’s light appears before she does.

“Where you been?” Lucky says.

“I wanted to see the lipstick message Phyllis left under the toilet seat.”

“And?”

“It’s not there.”

“Cops must’ve took it as evidence.”

She watches us work. Lucky’s going through drawers. I’m pulling up part of the rubber baseboard.

“What were you boys talking about? I could hear you halfway across the office.”

“Creed was telling me why he thinks Vegas Moon isn’t going to work.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Says he understands people. Doesn’t know anything about Vegas or gambling, but he knows people.”

“You probably get to know a lot about people when you watch them die,” she says.

“You think I don’t know people?” Lucky says. “I’m a professional gambler, for Chrissakes! Did you happen to hear the way I talked to Eddie a few minutes ago? How I changed my style and pattern of speech? I sell people what they want to buy, the way they want to buy it. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” she says. “You’re a bullshit artist.”

I’m smiling. Lucky can’t see it, because the lights are aimed at our feet, but it’s all over my face.

“I’m a pro, is what I am,” Lucky says.

“You’re a con artist,” I say. “And desperation is coming off you like stink off a floater.”

A half hour passes as we continue looking for the device. Gwen’s getting antsy, and I wonder if it’s because she knows the device isn’t here. I’ve studied her face since the moment we met, and I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion Phyllis lied about giving her the device. What would be her motive? Lucky’s wife was her rival. Maybe she wanted me to torture, maim, or kill Gwen.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” she says.

Lucky says, “Creed. You think the police found it?”

“No.”

“Me either. Let’s see if we can break into her house.”

“You got an address?”

“I can show you how to get there.”

“You’ve been to her house?” Gwen says.

“I had to take papers there once,” Lucky says.

“Lucky’s quite the ladies’ man,” Gwen says.

“Used to be,” he says. “Now I got you.”

We sneak out the back of the office. As we make our way around the building, Lucky takes the lead. Gwen reaches behind her without looking and grabs my crotch. I reach around and grab her boob. Neither of us acknowledges the other, but she can tell I’m awake. As absurd as it is, we walk this way, hand-to-boob, hand-to-crotch, for a good twenty feet. Finally, I let go of her. She’s still holding me tight, so I reach under her dress and slip my hand between her legs as she walks. She’s surprised, and her voice catches in her throat. Comes out as a little squeal. We both remove our hands as Lucky says, “You okay?”

“Just caught my heel for a second,” she says.

“Are you okay Mr. Creed?” she says, without turning around.

“Wait here,” I say. “I’ll get the car.”

I’m in high school again. But having more fun this time around.