Cash Read online

  My hands grip the arms of the chair so hard I could probably tear them clean off. I’m about to get up, when I realize I’m so fucking tired of taking this shit lying down. My father’s legacy as a card shark has followed me everywhere. And it’s because of him that I wasn’t able to attend college, because I was too fucking busy working to pay the bills when he was up to his ears in bad debts.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head as I look Mick in the eye. “I am not my father. Yes, he taught me everything he knows, which is exactly what makes me the best person for this job. Better than any fucking college graduate with a fresh gaming license. I can cut circles around any of them. I know how to deal with whales. I can spot a counter and a mechanic from a mile away. And if you need me to, I can break a streak better than anyone. And, let’s face it…you want to hire me.”

  He chuckles. “Jesus, kid, you come in here with a spiel like that, I’m gonna think you’re desperate.”

  “I am desperate,” I reply, and his smile drops. “My dad’s dying and I’ve got hospital bills that would make some of your clients flinch.”

  He chuckles again, but he appears uncomfortable. Good. This is my one and only shot to get this job. If I can’t convince Mick to hire me, I can kiss my dad, our house, my car, and anything else of value good-bye. Benny will take everything. And if we don’t hand it all over to him nicely, he’ll do as he usually does and create a fake last will and testament naming one of his girls as the beneficiary of my and my father’s estates. Then he’ll get rid of us and, for a cut of the proceeds, his girl will pretend to be my dad’s bereaved ex-girlfriend in probate court.

  He sighs heavily. “All right, kid. I’ll give you one month to prove you’re everything you claim to be.”

  “Yes!” I cry, smacking my knee. “Thank you so much, Mick. I swear you won’t regret this. I’ll be the best fucking dealer on that floor.”

  “You’d better be because I’m putting my ass on the line for you, kid.”

  “I won’t let you down,” I reply as I stand from the desk and hold out my hand.

  He doesn’t stand up, he just reaches out his hand and gives mine a firm shake. “Go see Sheri on the third floor. She’ll get all your paperwork started. If everything checks out, you can start Tuesday.”

  I nod, but he calls out to me as I turn away.

  “And, kid, do something with that hair. This ain’t a strip club,” he says, looking at the left side of my head, where I have a sweeping streak of purple hair dangling over my shoulder. “And don’t get too friendly with the customers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After filling out an exhaustive pre-employment interview, Sheri makes me an appointment with the medical clinic they have on contract for employee physicals. Then, she makes me an appointment with an independent investigator for a polygraph. She doesn’t say it, but I’m pretty sure the polygraph is to make sure I’m not working with a blackjack team or, more specifically, my father’s old blackjack team.

  I make it home around two in the afternoon. As I pull into the driveway of the house I grew up in, the gravity of what just happened finally hits me. I clutch the steering wheel and try not to cry as I realize I’m finally going to make enough money to pay off Benny. It won’t happen right away. I can’t make $140,000 in tips in one night. But I’ll make that in six months, tops. I heard the top poker dealer at the Billionaire Club rakes in almost a million a year in tips. I might even be able to get my dad into that cancer treatment center in Texas. Of course, the best case scenario would be if Union Oil would stop disputing my father’s health insurance claim.

  My father was diagnosed with lung cancer a week before Union Oil in Las Vegas laid off twelve percent of their workforce. My dad had only been with the company for eight months. Trying to get his shit together, as he said, so he could pay Benny off. That was more than eighteen months ago.

  Since then, Union Oil has repeatedly contested my father’s request for continued health benefits. By law, Union Oil was required to offer my father COBRA benefits at a group premium. But when they found out he had just been diagnosed with lung cancer, they changed his employee record so it showed that he was terminated for misconduct.

  I wipe the moisture from my cheeks and snatch my purse off the passenger seat. Taking a deep breath as I walk past the bark chips covering the dirt field in the front yard, I slide my phone out of my purse and dial Suzy’s phone number. She answers when I reach the front door.

  “What happened?” she asks, her voice tense with anticipation.

  “I got it.” I hold the phone a few inches away from my ear as she lets out a loud scream. I can just imagine her brown curls bouncing all over the place as she jumps out of her desk chair at the dental office where she works.

  “I knew it!” she shrieks. “Oh, I’m sorry. My friend just got a really sweet job. I’m just a little excited,” she says to someone at the office, probably a patient in the waiting room.

  “I can’t thank you enough for setting this up,” I continue. “I almost didn’t get it, but something came over me and I laid it all out.”

  “Because you fucking deserve it, and you don’t take no for an answer.”

  I chuckle at her attempt to buoy my spirits. “I don’t know what I deserve, but I know you really came through for me, and I won’t forget it.”

  “Oh, please. You don’t owe me anything, except maybe a few drinks. Want to go get a big fat steak to celebrate. On me?”

  I glance over my shoulder at the security screen door with the steel bars, which matches the security bars on the front windows in the living room and dining nook. “Actually, I think a few beers at home would be better.”

  Suzy pauses for a moment, probably considering whether she should fight me on this, insist that I celebrate this achievement properly, but she decides against it. “I’ll grab some Michelob Ultra on the way there.”

  I smile. “You know how to navigate the watery, low carb path to my heart.”

  “You’ve got that right, baby. I’ll be there in a few.”

  I heave a deep sigh, mentally preparing myself to enter the house, then I pull the steel security screen open and push through the wooden front door. Jacie is on the sofa, changing the channel on the TV, while my dad sits with his hospital bed reclined, so he can see the screen.

  My dad threw a fit when we had to get rid of his beloved beige recliner to make room for the hospital bed. He didn’t speak to me for more than a week. Part of me was relieved to be rid of that repulsive chair, another part of me felt like it was symbolic. It was the first piece of my father I would lose.

  My dad slowly turns his head toward me, but he doesn’t smile. And I don’t begrudge him for it. I get the feeling even a smile would take far too much energy in his condition.

  “Hey, Dad. How are you feeling?” I ask, setting my purse down on the little metal and glass table that used to function as a phone table until we got rid of our home phone. Landlines are a luxury when you owe $140,000.

  My dad opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t seem to muster the energy. He looks to Jacie and she answers for him, her face etched with regret.

  “He had a pretty bad coughing fit today,” she says.

  She doesn’t have to say it for me to know there was blood. I can smell it in the air. It’s strange how you don’t realize how strong the smell of blood can be until you walk into a room and the fragrance overwhelms your senses.

  The thing most caregivers will never say aloud, but they almost all think at some point, is that sometimes you just wish the person you’re caring for would die. I hate seeing my dad suffer. My dad was my hero after my mother died when I was six. I had all the newest toys and gadgets, and I knew eventually I would also have my dad, as soon as he didn’t have to work so much.

  I was about twelve years old when I realized my dad didn’t work. He hustled. And he was addicted to it.

  Overnight, I suddenly hated the game. By then, he’d already taught me how to count cards and d
eal single-deck blackjack. I refused to touch a deck of cards for years after that realization.

  Then, high school graduation was approaching, and I wasn’t stupid. I saw the late payment notices coming in the mail. I knew I had to get a job as soon as I graduated, and there was nothing I was better at than blackjack. No job that would pay better straight out of high school. I took a one-month blackjack class—as if I needed it—and got my license to make it official, then I went to work. That was five years ago, and my father’s debts have only multiplied since then.

  Living with an addict is hell. Loving an addict is a slow, painful death.

  After I get the rest of the daily updates from Jacie, we say our goodbyes and I begin fixing my dad’s dinner and late afternoon cocktail of supplements, which are supposed to boost his immune system but haven’t seemed to do a damn thing. I fix him the only thing he seems to keep down lately: bologna and cheese sandwich and a glass of seltzer water. I think it’s more psychological than physiological.

  My Grandma Candy used to put a bologna and cheese sandwich in his lunchbox every day. My mom continued the tradition. He stopped eating them after my mom died. Then, my grandma died about eight years later. Now, all the sudden, he wants nothing but bologna and cheese sandwiches. It’s sad and unhealthy, and it may be the last bit of comfort he’s going to squeeze out of this life.

  Suzy arrives while I’m still sitting with him. “Hey, Papa Smurf,” she says as she sits next to me on the sofa.

  My dad and I dressed up as Papa Smurf and Smurfette for Halloween when I was nine years old. Suzy and I didn’t become friends until my sophomore year in high school, but ever since she saw the picture of us with our painted blue skin, she’s always called my dad Papa Smurf. He loves it. Even now, the sound of it turns up the corners of his mouth, making his normally sullen, emaciated face look almost freakishly happy.

  Suzy and I chat about work as I hand my dad pieces of the bologna sandwich, as if this is normal. And he forces himself to take each piece and stuff it in his mouth. Forces himself to chew it and winces when he swallows. Once he’s fed, I give him a Dilaudid tablet and he begins to drift off within twenty minutes. Getting him to fall asleep after he eats helps the food stay down more often.

  Suzy and I grab a couple of the beers she brought and go out in the backyard to sit on the patio chairs and watch the sun go down over the Las Vegas Strip.

  Suzy kicks off the comfort heels she wears to work at the dental office and puts her feet up on the iron patio table. “Pretty soon, you’ll be watching the sunset from a penthouse on the Strip.”

  I chuckle and take a long draw from my bottle of beer. “It’s gonna take a lot of tips to make that happen.”

  “You never know,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “Maybe you’ll meet a hot billionaire who’ll pay off all your debts, if you know what I mean.”

  “Is that supposed to be an innuendo? Because if it is, you’re doing a bad job.”

  “Okay, maybe you’ll meet a billionaire who’ll bet everything on you.”

  I laugh. “So, basically, he’ll treat me like a prostitute?”

  “Shit. I’m really bad at this. What I’m trying to say is, maybe you’ll fuck a billionaire and purposely on mistake get pregnant.”

  I spit my beer out and she cackles with laughter. “You bitch,” I say, wiping the beer off the front of my shirt. “Anyway, I can’t date the customers. I’ll get fired.”

  She shrugs and pulls her brown curls into a ponytail as she leans back in her chair. “Can you still give them blowjobs?”

  “Okay, that’s enough of this conversation.”

  She laughs and picks up her bottle of beer again. “How long has it been since you and Craig broke up? Seven months? You need to get laid. And who better to do it than a billionaire with a tiny dick.”

  “How do you know all billionaires have tiny dicks?”

  “Because they had to become billionaires to compensate for it. It’s Dick Size 101, honey. Big tires, big ego, big bank account, they all usually equal a small dick.”

  I raise my bottle. “I’ll remember that.”

  She smiles as she toasts me. “You’ve officially graduated from Dick School. Now, go out there and be somebody.”

  I laugh as I sit back and admire the pink and gold sky above the skyline of high-rise casinos. “I plan to.”

  3

  Cash

  The amount of time it will take me to walk from the front door to my father’s home office is not long enough to come up with a good excuse for what happened three nights ago. It’s Saturday. My father should be out golfing or having dinner with some of his sleazy—I mean, respectable business partners. He shouldn’t be lecturing his lowlife son yet again on going clean and presenting a good image for the company. But that’s exactly what he’s going to do. I know this because this is no less than the tenth time we’ve had this discussion in the last two years.

  As I walk down the first floor corridor, I pass the door to the music room, the room I used to spend most of my time in until Vanessa overdosed. I consider peeking inside, to see if the baby grand piano is still facing away from the window. I used to love sitting there with the sunlight pouring in, warming my back as I wrote a song. My mom always threatened to move the piano away from the window. She claimed the sunlight was dulling the glossy finish. I wonder if she’s moved it. Probably not. I think she’s waiting for the day she’ll walk in there and find me playing again.

  Like that piano in that room, music is something you either turn toward or away from in dark times. I’ve turned away from it, choosing instead to immerse myself in the world of high stakes gambling. It’s a world where the thrill is as high as the risk and the girls come easy. Well, they come easy when I’ve got my cock inside them.

  A squat woman in a maid’s outfit comes out of the parlor on my left, her face lighting up with delight when she sees me. “Cash! How come you don’t come here no more?” Her Spanish accent is one of my favorite things about Meli, my parents’ housekeeper.

  “Hey, what’s up, Meli?” I say, bending down to hug her squishy body. I take a step back and smile at her. “Ah, you know I’ve been busy with work. But I’ve missed you the most.”

  She waves off my comment and the rag in her hand gives off a strong whiff of lemon-scented wood oil. “Oh, you don’t have to be so nice to me.”

  “Okay, it’s your tacos I miss the most.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Maleducado.”

  I laugh at her insult, which basically means I’m ill-bred or ill-mannered. “Hey, it’s only been, like, six months since the last time I was here. That’s not long enough to forget all the Spanish you taught me.”

  She smiles. “Forgive me. I made some of your favorite breakfast burritos this morning. They’re in the réfri.”

  “I’ll grab one on the way out. Is my dad in his office?”

  “Yes, he’s waiting for you,” she says, turning to walk away. “Good luck, pendejo.” Good luck, asshole.

  Nice to see Meli hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. I chuckle to myself, shaking my head as I continue down the corridor, where I find the tall double doors to my dad’s office wide open.

  My dad is sitting at his desk with his laptop open in front of him. His silver hair is combed neatly to the side and he’s wearing his usual Saturday attire: a polo and khakis. His face is serious, one of his salt-and-pepper eyebrows cocked, as he reads something on the screen, probably watching the stock ticker on CNBC. Westbrook Oil has been trending downward ever since my latest indiscretion; not plummeting, but slowly and steadily declining. I consider waiting for him to look up, but then I might be standing here all day.

  I clear my throat and he looks up. “Morning, Dad.”

  He sighs and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a good morning. Have you read any of the articles?”

  “You know I don’t read tabloids,” I mutter, my gaze focused on the back of his computer screen.
/>   “Yeah, well, you made the Review-Journal today. The business section.”

  My eyes snap up to meet his. I’ve been in the celebrity section multiple times, but I’ve never been in the business section of the Las Vegas Review-Journal. This can’t be good.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I reply, my voice cracking. “They don’t print gossip in the business section.”

  He shakes his head again. “This isn’t gossip, Cash. This is business. Someone leaked to the press that the board is considering pushing you out.”

  “What?” I shout, taking a few steps closer to the desk. “They can’t push me out. This is our company.”

  “You know damn well we’re a publicly held company. The board has the final say on this and they are tired of the bad press.”

  “They’re tired or you’re tired?”

  His mouth is pinched in a hard line across his sunburnt face. He spends all fucking day golfing and drinking with his buddies and somehow that’s more acceptable than me having sex and gambling my own money.

  I know the situation with the girl who overdosed looks bad, but I didn’t give her any drugs or alcohol. She latched onto me as I was on my way out of the party. I can’t be held responsible for her inability to know when to cut herself off.

  “This isn’t about this one isolated incident. This is about everything. Your gambling, your drinking, your reluctance on the Union Oil downsizing. Your judgment is being called into question.”

  I laugh at this. “My judgment? That’s rich coming from a board that seats a former cocaine dealer and an acquitted human trafficker. And Union Oil… Are you telling me I’m not supposed to feel conflicted about laying off 122 people?”

  He heaves a deep sigh as he sits back in his desk chair and folds his hands over his flat belly. “We can’t afford to hesitate. The industry is changing quickly. There—”

  “Save me the speech on the energy industry dad. I’ve heard it enough at the board meetings.”