Gorilla Beach (16 page)

The Boom Boom Room in the basement was notorious. Cheaters walked in and crawled out. Or rode out on stretchers. Or in garbage cans. As hard as the casino's thugs were on card counters, dirty employees got off worse. If they lived through the interrogation and beatdown, they never worked in this town—or any other casino in the world—again.

Given the risks, Erin could still see how respectable employees snapped. It was the constant contact with what you couldn't have. Like in that famous poem about the ancient mariner with the albatross around his neck:
Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink
. Desire was desire. Thirst was thirst. Water or money, same thing. No one was above suspicion. She had to keep her eyes peeled for employees and gamblers who might be cheating in ways she already knew about, and ways she couldn't possibly imagine.

Erin had been working at Nero's for five years. She was a blackjack dealer for two, transferred to roulette operator, and was then promoted to pit boss. Her next spot up the ladder was area manager, or overseeing four pit bosses. Which would be a nice salary bump. But it wasn't her dream job. In her fantasies, she was the manager of Midnight, the Nero's Palace nightclub. She dreamed of that job nightly. It would be a joy and a relief to work hard for people's fun, instead of their financial loss. The job was within her reach. Another year or two as pit boss, proving her loyalty. The only thing that could ruin her chances? An unforeseen disaster. A major fuckup. Some crazy downturn of fate.

If she were to spend a hundred years imaging the size and shape of the disaster that would crush her ambition, Erin couldn't have pictured a cute girl with thick lashes, a leopard-print dress, and a pouf. That kid killed Erin's revenue for the night. It was her worst take since she took the pit boss job.

Giovanna Spumanti was officially on Erin's watch list. At the table last night, Erin checked Gia's ID twice and ran her driver's license number through the New York State DMV to confirm her
age. The girl was legal. Twenty-two. Never gambled before in her life, she said. This kid did. Not. Miss. It was freaky. If Erin had been on the other side of the table, she'd've backed Gia, too.

This morning, Erin used the casino computers to do a thorough background check. Gia was a law-abiding, tax-paying Brooklyn resident. She didn't own property or a car. No outstanding liens or bench warrants. One arrest last summer in Seaside Heights for creating a public nuisance, charges dropped. Erin sized her up as a party-girl borderline drunk with gobsmacking beginner's luck.

Gia's financial backer, however, wasn't as squeaky-clean (from a criminal perspective). Frederico Lupo, son of Luigi Lupo and nephew of Mario Lupo, the notorious “coin collectors” of Seaside Heights. If the only son of Luigi Lupo was in Atlantic City, the management at Nero's was obliged to show him every respect. But if Fredo (who, frankly, didn't look notorious in the least) was up to something, Erin's boss, Vito Violenti, would have to intervene with the Lupos. The situation could get ugly.

Hopefully, Gia and Fredo had had enough fun and planned to leave Nero's today and never come back.

A pipe dream. After a triumph like last night's, the gambler's mentality would kick in. Believing themselves “lucky” or “talented,” they'd return to the table. Maybe they'd win again. But eventually, they would lose. Attempting to replicate the intense emotion of that first victory, they'd bet more, risk more. Unless they mustered the strength to walk away, they'd steam through all their winnings and more. Erin had seen many tragic defeats. For an addictive personality, winning was the first kiss of death.

Greed was a hungry monster. Without it, Atlantic City would be a deserted ghost town. Fredo Lupo had managed his greed carefully last night. He never went “all in” or “let it ride.” He had brains in that egghead of his.

Did Gia have brains, too? Well, she had spunk. Hall of Fame
beginner's luck. But smarts? Erin wasn't sure if she should file the girl under “idiot savant” or “idiot.”

At ten o'clock on the dot, they returned. Gia, Bella, and Fredo. The girls were in supertight, supersexy dresses and rhinestone-covered six-inch heels. Bella was over six feet tall tonight. Gia's chest arrived at the table five mintues before she did. What a trio! One and a half bombshells, and a geek.

“We're back, bitches!” sang Gia.

“Welcome,” said Erin as they took seats around the roulette table. She couldn't help noticing that Fredo looked a lot sharper tonight. New clothes, and his hair wasn't standing straight up. It was brushed back neatly, less of a weird distraction. He looked good. Not such a geek after all.

“Thanks again for the tip last night,” said Steve, the roulette operator. Gia gave him $1,000 in chips when she cashed out. She gave Erin the same amount. Most winners threw the dealers a hundred, or a fifty. Or a fiver. Gia tipped well.

Steve asked, “Feeling lucky again tonight?”

“You bet your ass. Ready for your mind to get blown?”

“His mind? What a waste,” said Fredo, which was almost funny. He was much more relaxed tonight. Maybe he'd already taken a couple of the pills she saw him swallow last night. “Let's start small,” he said. “A thousand in hundred-dollar chips, please.”

“Changing one thousand dollars,” said Steve.

“Noted,” said Erin. “Give them pink.”

Steve pushed a stack of pink chips across the felt. Erin smiled and thought,
In ten minutes, that'll all be gone.

Fredo said, “Okay, Gia. Do your thing.”

Like last night, Gia closed her eyes, showing off glitter-dusted, purple false eyelashes. Fredo, Bella, Erin, Steve, and a few of the other players waited for her to speak.

“Black,” she said, her eyes opening, frosted-pink lips smiling.
To Erin, she said, “I need vodka, ASAP. It opens the psychic door in my head.”

Erin pictured a spidery, dust-covered cellar trapdoor creaking open, and a swarm of mice scurrying out.

She flagged down a passing cocktail waitress.
Getting drunk couldn't possibly improve Gia's luck,
thought Erin.

A handful of players put chips on the black bar along with Fredo. Steve put the ball in the track and turned the wheel. Gia did her ritual, the sign of the cross, kissing her fingertips, then blowing a kiss. The wheel slowed. After a few hard bounces, the ball dropped into a slot.

“Twenty-four,” said the spinner. “Black.”

Gia screamed and banged her little-starfish, tan hands on the table bumper.

Bella said, “Incredible.”

Fredo whooped, “Here we go again.”

By the end of
her shift at 3:00 a.m., Erin was frazzled and exhausted. She clocked out and plodded to her bedroom on the hotel's staff-accommodations level. The guido crew hit hard. Every spin, every win, pushed Erin's night's numbers further down the toilet. Gia called about 70 percent of their bets. A huge win percentage. Erin had never seen anything like it.

Her cell vibrated. She answered it while standing by the service-only elevator bank. “Erin Gobraugh.”

“What the fuck is going on down there?”

Erin's throat tightened. She recognized the voice of Vito Violenti. The
capo di tutti capi
. The boss of bosses. Looking up to speak to the eye-in-the-sky glass bubble on the ceiling, she said, “Just an incredible run of luck. It'll change.”

“They're cheating. And you got dirt on the face.”

He was watching her, of course, on a monitor somewhere. Rubbing her cheek, she said, “I was eyeing them like a hawk. I can't see how they're doing it.”

“On the chin.”

She wiped off a crumb of the sandwich she'd scarfed down a short while ago.

He said, “Show me.” The guy was OCD about crumbs. Erin pointed her chin at the camera. “Good. I don't want my personnel walking around with shit on their faces.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Why would a pair of dimes hang out with that ostrich?”

“Fredo's actually pretty funny,” said Erin. “He's a smart bettor and he treats the girls with respect, too. He doesn't grab or even touch them.”

“He's a loser, you're saying,” barked the cell. “As of right now, you're on recon. Figure out how Lupo's doing it. You get answers, and I'll give you the Midnight manager job. Do what you have to do.”

What? Had he just offered up her dream on a plate?
“Yes, sir. Thank you!”

Then he hung up.

Fredo Lupo sat on
one side of a banquette at Providence, with a bottle of Dom on ice in front of him. After the night's work at Nero's, the crew piled into his Caddie and drove to the Tropicana to check out the city's premier dance club. Directly across the banquette, Bella sipped champagne and held hands with a punk named Will. Next to them, Gia performed an emergency tonsillectomy using her tongue on some kid she picked up at the pool.

Will said, “They're drooling on my boots.”

Bella added, “It's like the first reel of a porn movie.”

“You think they can breathe?”

Fredo watched and listened. The house music blasted, making his insides thump. The club's blue and purple neon lights made everyone look sexy—even him. When he caught his reflection in the mirror behind the banquette, he thought he looked borderline not-hideous. He had a pocket full of cash, two hot girls for friends, and a marathon run of luck. For the first time in his life, things were going
right
. Fredo had never been happier than he was at this moment.

It felt bittersweet. Fredo knew—with the certainty of gravity—that such crystalline joy could not last. He didn't know when, or how, his happiness would end. But it would.

At least when the fun came to a screeching halt, he'd have new
clothes. He'd done some shopping damage today. More of a do-over than a makeover. Tomorrow, he would get a haircut, a shave, and, if it wasn't too painful, a body wax. Contrary to what Cara, his slutteen cousin, said, Fredo did grow hair on his chest, even if no one saw it. But maybe that would change. Why shouldn't Fredo hook up with someone, too? Gia and Bella found dates after one friggin' afternoon. How hard could it be for him? He had cool clothes, cash, and a posse. If he gave a woman the slightest reason to, she'd touch his penis, for sure. Erin, the cute redhead pit boss with the sprinkle of sexy freckles, didn't rear back in horror at the sight of him. He caught her smiling when he made a joke or placed a smart bet.

“Fredo, I remember you from the Pugliani/Crumbi wedding,” said Will.

Fredo squinted. Why was he there? “You from Seaside?”

“I've done some work for your mom,” said Will. “The wedding portrait, and a painting of you a few years ago.”

Fredo froze. He knew the painting. It was his twenty-first-birthday gift. A replication of a grainy old photo. The painting was currently at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. He'd chartered a fishing boat to take him a mile offshore, and he threw it overboard after weighting it down with fifty pounds of sandbags. The painting was of ten-year-old Fredo, running naked down the beach, chased by a massive and enraged rottweiler, the remnants of Fredo's torn-off swim shorts in the dog's teeth. His mom thought one of the most terrifying and humiliating experiences of Fredo's life was “precious.”

“Small freakin' world,” Fredo coughed out.

“Sorry, man. I just did what I was hired to do.” Will understood Fredo's feelings, unlike his own mother.

Fredo waved away the kid's concern. “Objectively, I thought the artwork was very good.”

“Your mom has some strange ideas.”

“Could be worse.”

“You got that right,” Will replied. Fredo got the feeling the artist had harsh experience to back up his words.

Suddenly, above the music and banter, Fredo heard a giant sucking, slurping sound. Gia's and her boy's lips had detached.

“I love this song!” said Gia. “Come dance with me!”

Bella agreed, pulling Will along with them. They ran onto the dance floor. Fredo watched the girls shake their peaches like there was no tomorrow, and clumsy Will shuffled back and forth in his motorcycle boots. Which left him alone in the banquette with Gia's date, Ponzi.

“You from Jersey?” asked Fredo.

“No,” said the kid bluntly.

“In town for vacation?”

“Work.”

“What kind of work?”

Ponzi glanced around. “Poker game.”

“High stakes? Like in the movies?”

“Sure.”

“What game? Hold 'Em? Five-card stud?”

“It's five-card
draw,
stud.”

This kid sneered at him! Fredo's junior-high insecurity kicked in. The cool kid barely tolerating a conversation with the dork. But screw him! The new Fredo didn't take shit from anyone. Even if the kid was paying.

Before Fredo could say something, though, Ponzi quaffed his champagne, then finished the contents of every glass on the table, except Fredo's.

“Should we get another bottle?” asked Fredo.

“You get the next one,” grunted Ponzi. “Gia's not a cheap date.”

Fredo felt queasy. Gia was many things, but a gold digger? Not even close. If she were a greedy bitch, she wouldn't throw generous tips at every waiter, bartender, and dealer she came into contact
with. Fredo felt a wave of protectiveness for his little cash calf. Not only because she had powers, or whatever she called it, “the sight.” But, after a few days of hanging out with her, Fredo considered Gia a good friend, and she had a good heart.

“I'm gonna hit the can,” said Fredo, slipping out of the banquette. He had to get away from Ponzi. Bad vibes. As he skirted the dance floor, heading to the men's room, he thought he spotted a cloud of red hair behind a column. Erin?