The Big Blind (Nadia Wolf) (2 page)

“Nadia.”

I gazed up. My hand shot up in time to catch the chip tossed at me before it breezed by my ear.

Caleb smirked. “See you tomorrow.”

“I hope not,” I said, and I meant it.

With him at my table, I was sure to lose. Winning against Caleb is like winning an art contest when all you know how to draw is a stick figure. The odds were grim at best.

I gathered my bag and made my way out of the tournament room. I trekked through the casino dodging slot enthusiasts along the way. As I turned past the Let It Ride tables, I caught sight of a familiar figure playing at a Blackjack table. I veered over to make my way closer to him.

“Hey, Roy,” I said.

Roy turned to me with a wink and a half-cocked smile. “You done already?”

“I made it through the day, but I’m seriously short stacked. I don’t know how far I’ll make it tomorrow.”

“You’ll do fine, kid.” Roy smiled. Tossing his cards on the table, he dropped a chip on the table for the dealer and pocketed the rest. “Let’s go. I’ll buy dinner, but if you win the tournament you owe me ten dinners.”

I chuckled. “Deal.”

I met Roy Scofield when I first moved to Las Vegas and lost miserably to a card shark. He detected what happened and stepped in before I made a mess of things. He’s at least thirty years older than I am and has the attitude of a 1970’s pit boss. He’s rough around the edges, but there’s a soft squishy center in him that he denies. My attempts to retire his gold-plated pinky ring and hubcap-sized belt buckle have failed. He’s old-school Vegas through and through.

Roy’s been my mentor and friend. He taught me the ropes and gave me the lay of the land. Without him, I think I would have packed up long ago and moved back home; sometimes after a day like today, I still think I should.

“I saw Caleb at your table,” Roy said as he knifed and sawed at his leathery steak.

“He nearly knocked me out on the last hand, but he gave me a tell so I folded.”

Roy eyed me as he chewed on a bite. “Caleb doesn’t give tells.”

“I know.”

The thing about professional poker players is they’re tricky. They like to make moves that will throw you off guard, or make you think you understand their playing style when actually it’s all for show. You can’t make a living off poker if you’re skating by on luck. Sure, there’s a lot of luck involved, but a player with experience in the game and an intuition about people will always have an advantage over pure luck. If you’re an expert bullshitter and enjoy messing with people’s heads, you’ll go even further.

Sitting at the poker tables long enough you begin to pick out the professionals and recognize them. A few are followed by fans and the games are televised. Caleb is one of them. He moves in different circles than I do, but we’ve been snarled in enough hands together to make the singe of each time I’ve been burnt by his unbeatable playing style that much more painful.

I poked at my wilted salad.
Why did I order a salad?
After a day of bad beats and horrible cards, I was ravenous. “Cindy,” I called the waitress. “Can I get a burger and onion rings?”

“You need to be careful,” Roy said. “Caleb can mess with a person’s head. Next time he gives you a tell, it might not be a tell but a bluff.”

I parked my clunker car in the parking lot of All Celebrities Chapel where I live in a small apartment on the third floor. Frankie Garza is the owner and celebrity impersonator who presides over the weddings. He lives on the second floor.

The chapel is in an old brick building that Frankie converted. He painted the outside bricks white and stenciled on gold bells which frame a mural of famous celebrities’ caricatures. Softball size marquee lights surround the mural and flash a rhythm through the night.

Most of the caricatures are unrecognizable. They’re mainly blob shapes with a few key features, and they all have large breasts … even the men. Frankie said the deformed caricatures were so that famous celebrities wouldn’t sue him by painting their likeness; but I think it’s because he gave the job to his no talent cousin who has a fondness for painting large breasts. In reality, I don’t think Elvis will be suing All Celebrities Chapel any time soon … even if he is painted with uneven pork chops and floppy breasts.

As soon as I opened the chapel door, I stopped in my tracks. A smile grew on my face. When Frankie named the chapel, All Celebrities Chapel, he meant it. He will occasionally rotate through his usual Vegas stars like Elvis, Dolly Parton, and Frank Sinatra, but he loves to add new stars to his lineup. Tonight he was dressed as Kermit the Frog. Lily pads paved the way down the aisle to the altar where a rainbow designed of tissue paper was propped behind him.

“You’re very green,” I said as I surveyed his bulging froggy eyes.

“I’m a frog. I’m supposed to be green.” He turned and posed for me. His flipper feet smacked at the ground. “Do you think every one will recognize that I’m Kermit?”

“Since I have to introduce you as Kermit, I’m sure they will. You could rent a pig. We could squeeze her into a dress and a blonde wig and name her Miss Piggy. She can keep you company at the altar. Maybe even oink her two cents worth.”

He narrowed his froggy eyes at me. “I could dress you up as Miss Piggy.”

I gulped. I wouldn’t put it past Frankie to dress me up one step beyond humiliation.

“Uh, I think Kermit is a solo kind of frog. We wouldn’t want Miss Piggy wallowing in the same swamp, would we?”

He smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

I rarely see Frankie out of costume. When he does finally shed his fictitious layers, he’s a handsome man. There’s a thin trail of Hispanic blood which gives him his dark eyes and hair. He’s a couple inches taller than I am and looks better in a dress than I do.

“Do you have a full night?” I asked.

“No, but you know how it gets later.”

I knew all too well. After too many drinks, vacationers who found love merely minutes before flock to the chapel to tie the knot. It’s on the following day when the hangover and sobriety clears the drunken fog to reveal a souvenir marriage certificate, plastic vending machine rings, and souvenir photo. Tonight their photo would include Kermit. A smile escaped to my lips.

In exchange for my low rent, I help out a couple of nights a week to assist the happy couples with the paperwork and to snap their souvenir photo. Even though I know the couple wakes the next morning to regret their actions, I get a little jealous. For one night they are the happiest, albeit drunkest, couple in the world. But I had to make an exception for tonight. I don’t think I would want my souvenir photo with Kermit. That’s like kicking a man when he’s down.

I won’t be stepping down Kermit’s matrimonial aisle any time soon. My love life is nonexistent. Perhaps that’s not quite true. I did go on a blind date a couple of weeks ago. A fellow poker friend set me up on a blind date and told me he was funny. He’s not funny unless you like an offbeat comedian who thinks slapstick during dinner is the way to win a girl’s heart. By the end of the meal, I was wearing my food and the restaurant manager issued a lifetime ban on us from ever returning to the restaurant. It’s too bad . . . I loved their chocolate cake. Never trust a poker friend that you previously wipe out at the table.

“Frankie, call me when you need me. I’m going upstairs.”

“But you haven’t told me about the tournament yet.”

“I made it through the first day even though I was stuck at a table with Caleb Usher.”

Frankie tisked. “You made it through?”

“Yes, but I have a feeling I’ll have to play him again,” I said.

I had the uneasy feeling that even though it’s against regulations for Caleb to request a certain table, he’s known for getting what he wants. Right now it seems he wants to toy with me.

Who am I kidding?!

Why would he care about one insignificant poker player? Caleb toying with me was most likely wishful thinking from my lack of earth shattering sex . . . not that I can say I ever had earth shattering sex.
Have I?

Frankie knew my battles with Caleb . . . I lost every one. In the poker world, he’s my enemy. He has phenomenal talent and luck which complements his ego. The televised poker tours and high stakes shows love him because he captures attention and draws people in. Some of the other televised professionals try to use cheap gimmicks and over emotional rants to gain spotlight time. Caleb is just himself. He is what every aspiring amateur and pro wants to be . . . cool, confident, and rich. Even I like to watch him play, but I wouldn’t admit it to any one.

I trudged up the back staircase and let myself into my apartment. Gus-the-cat was sprawled on the couch; he’s always on the couch. It’s one of the few places he can climb. When I adopted him from the shelter a year ago, he was the size of a potbellied pig; he still is. His stubby legs make him a low rider, and his watermelon belly barely clears the floor. I bought a doggie staircase for him to access the couch and another one for my bed.

“Did you miss me?”

Gus didn’t raise his head, but cracked open one of his blue eyes and then shut it. Nice to know I’m loved. I gave him a scratch behind his ear.

His fur was mainly gray with a few patches of darker fur. I’m sure he thinks he’s quite the distinguished cat because he tends to act as if he’s in charge.

“What? I don’t even get a purr out of you? The vet told me to put you on a diet at the last visit. . . and the visit before that. Don’t think I’ve forgotten you ate my sandwich yesterday.”

Gus gave half of a grunt.

“Can’t even grunt a full one, huh? I guess I should put you on a diet.”

I took a shower and dressed for my shift at the chapel. Frankie issued me a uniform when I first began working for him. I’ve learned to live with it. My pride doesn’t get in the way of cheap rent.

The form fitting white faux-leather miniskirt, bustier top, and go-go boots were not a normal part of my daily wardrobe. Frankie insists on the uniform. However, there isn’t a whole lot of breathing room left once I squeeze myself into it. The nice part is it appears as if I have giant boobs which is not an every day occurrence for me.

I swiped on some mascara and picked out cherry red for my lips. At least my lips could have a little color. My skin tends to bleach out when I wear white making me into something of a vampire. On second thought, maybe the cherry red would resemble blood. I blotted off the lipstick not wanting to scare the customers in their drunken state.

Frankie was poised and ready for the steady flow of couples. Bernie and Vivian were in the chapel too. They’re residents of the retirement home located a couple of blocks away. They come in every night to volunteer as witnesses and to watch some free entertainment. Sometimes they bring their retired neighbors to watch as well. Since it’s late at night, we never have a flood of seniors. Although, I always know when it’s chili night at the retirement home because a handful of seniors, armed with a pocketful of antacids, joins the party. Tonight Bernie and Vivian dressed in green.

“Welcome to All Celebrities Chapel,” I said to the first couple who stumbled in. “Kermit is presiding over the ceremonies tonight.”

“We want to get married,” a platinum blonde in her early twenties said. She balanced a man against her to support his inebriated weight. His head was slumped over; drool dripped from the side of his mouth.

I scrutinized the man who wasn’t focusing well, let alone breathing. “Sir, are you here to get married?” I asked.

“I told you we’re here to get married,” the blonde clipped.

“I know what you said, but I want to know what he says.”

Normally I wouldn’t argue with a bride, but the man was hanging on to consciousness by a thread. I didn’t think he was going to make it up the aisle. And Frankie hates it when they throw up on his decorations . . . or him.

“Baby-pooh, tell her we want to get married.”

The man stared at her with a vacant expression.

“Uh, perhaps you and baby-pooh should come back when he’s coherent,” I told the blonde.

“No! I bought him drink after drink so he’d agree to come here. I’m not leaving until we’re married.”

“Do you have a marriage license, or do you still need one?”

“I have one in my purse.”

“Can he at least say, ‘I do’?”

She told him to say it, but he didn’t. She scolded him to say it, but he wiped the drool on her shirt instead. She grabbed onto his jaw and moved his lips while she muttered “I do” under her breath.

“Nope, that won’t cut it,” I said. “You’re welcome to stay in the waiting room until he can say the magic words.”

The blonde huffed and strong armed the man to the waiting room.

I’m seriously thinking about writing a guide for
Dragging Your Drunk Man to Your Las Vegas Wedding
. Number one: Get your man happy drunk, and maybe a little stupid drunk, but not incoherent drunk. I’m sure there’s a mathematical equation to determine how much booze it would take.

As I contemplated my book, a couple stumbled in with Lenny trailing behind them. Their bodies swayed like they were on a boat in a bad storm. I grabbed the woman’s arm to keep her from falling.