Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (14 page)

Bryson slept late, having tossed and turned through much of
the previous night. He'd reluctantly left Romy's embrace around 9 p.m., after
carefully re-applying his disguise as Gunther Willoughby. He'd driven the
rented car back to his shitty motel, watched one and a half shitty Pay Per View
movies, and fended off nightmares by chain-smoking. He took a long shower in
the afternoon light, before doing a quick check of his high-roller demeanor. He
put on the uncomfortable suit and practiced moving around in it. He styled his
hair. He clipped and cleaned his fingernails, he shaved. Just as the sun began
to set, he was rubbing down his beloved bike with all the tenderness he could
muster.

Kellan had rolled uncharacteristically hard the evening
before, even following some of his newfound band friends to a few underground
parties. While he'd been a little rough and tumble in his younger days, he'd
all but put his partying days behind him. Regardless, the younger Vaughn awoke
in a headache-y cloud of cocaine, his mouth sooty and dry, draped around a
woman who had seemed a little more beautiful in darker light. She was young and
blonde, his unknown companion. They hadn't slept together. A brief flicker of
memory surged up like a dolphin on water: Kellan had at some point in the
previous night made out with the girl, but passed out as soon as his head hit
the pillow.

He tiptoed out of the apartment he didn't remember coming
to, and made for his own shitty motel on the opposite side of town from his
brother. He took a brief nap, and then set out into the Vegas streets in the
same clothes as the night and day before. He wore his father's sunglasses and
carried only a wallet fat with crisp hundreds.

Romy, unable to sleep, rose early Saturday morning. She
cleaned every surface of her house. She blew out her hair, and fixed it into an
elaborate up-do so it might be curly later on in the night. She played with
Goofy for a few tense moments on the carpet, not allowing herself to think what
would become of her pet were something to happen to her. But, ever practical,
she called on the little boy who lived across the street and gave him a key and
explicit dog feeding and walking instructions, informing him she'd be back late
on Sunday afternoon.

As the hour approached, Romy slid into her leotard; it was
as constraining and awful as memory served. She took a last glance at the many
charts around her apartment, the game plans, the foils...then she turned.

They were as ready as they were ever going to be.

Making a beeline for the hotel elevators, Romy avoided the
gaze of her friends while scanning quickly to see they were all in place.
Paulette was haggling with Lou over something by the union break table. The
other ladies were in various states of play at their own tables, wearing that
familiar look of boredom mixed with dutiful and feigned enthusiasm. She wished
with a pang that she could be with the old gang now—gossiping, bitching, and fighting
off the half-hearted advances of schlubs and dweebs. But she thought of Bryson,
and pressed on. Her teetering heels clicked against the lobby floor.

At the door of the secret hotel room, Zaida smiled. “You
look ready, today,” she simpered. “And early! And NO WATCH!” She seemed
uncharacteristically delighted. Was there anything to find suspicious in this
friendly attitude? Romy decided it was too early to be second-guessing every
step of the plan. At this point, they could only proceed.

“Well I had a lot of fun this week. With all my
cash
money
.” Romy offered. Surprisingly, Zaida cackled at the joke, then ushered
her charge into the room like a solicitous neighbor.

Though she'd made a point to arrive ten minutes earlier than
last week, Romy was surprised at the difference a few minutes made. The room
was filled to bursting with girls; all the other blackjack dealers from the Needle.
Romy recognized the woman from last week, the one who'd been led back into the
hotel just before she had. She tried not to think about what terrible things
this dealer was forced to endure that night with her “winner.”

The other women had an element of cold beauty, much like
Zaida herself. Some of them, Romy discerned through eavesdropping, did not even
speak English. In fact, they were all mostly quiet with one another, there was
no gossiping, no chit-chat going on here. The ladies were each adjusting their
uniforms or make-up with severe, efficient gestures. As if they knew what they
had to do, and needed to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“OKAY!” Zaida screeched. “Now is time! Take shifts in the
elevator!” She began to move among the crowds like a shepherd, pushing clumps
of dealer-hookers together like sheep. After much pointing and puffing, an
order was secured. Romy would be among the last to enter the Needle that night.
She closed her eyes. Though she wasn't an especially religious person, she sent
up a small, urgent prayer:
Please. Please let this go alright.

At seven twenty-two, Kellan Vaughn lurched through the
entrance of The Windsor. He had to rack his brain for a moment for the secret
code Lefty had told him the night prior, but soon enough, he'd gained admission
to the first of apparently two secret elevators. He was nervous, for the first
time this week.

“You're not really dressed for the occasion, sir,” said the
stone-faced elevator operator responsible for the second leg of his journey. To
this, Kellan removed a cigarette from a pocket in his jeans, and lit it in the
elevator. He blew a rude gust of smoke into the man's face.

“That's what I think of your
occasion
,” he replied.

Sour, he leaned against a wall of the carriage. His head was
beginning to spin unpleasantly from the two or three cocktails he’d already
downed at a bar across the street—liquid courage.

After being discharged on the sixth floor, and much to the
relief of the elevator operator, Kellan was led to a second set of elevators.
These were narrow, able to comfortably contain maybe two thin men. It was here
that Kellan began to notice other patrons of the secret bar upstairs—men in
sunglasses were milling around the hall, checking their Rolex and Cartier watches,
attempting at furtiveness. He saw now what the elevator man had meant: Kellan
stood out in this crowd like a sore thumb. He felt in his pockets for the
swiped pair of Hughie’s Ray Bans, hoping at least that anonymity would help
ease the contrast. No dice: it appeared he’d forgotten his only disguise
somewhere in his motel room.

Just then, Kellan felt the fat
whump
of a hand on his
back—turning, he took in Lefty DiMartino himself.

“My friend! The ROCK STAR!” the large man stage-whispered,
though his crackling voice drew sufficient attention from the silent crowd.
Kellan hadn’t managed to tell his brother about the new friend he’d acquired on
his sojourns around Vegas—he couldn’t yet gauge if having an ally in Lefty
would be better or worse for their scheme in the long run. But suddenly, the
omission seemed like a terrible idea. Walking into a secret club all bosomed up
with the owner could easily throw his partner for a loop…

“Glad to see you, Mr. Vaughn. And how are you finding my
little hotel?”

There was nothing for it but to play along. He couldn’t
exactly blow a cover
now.

“It’s very nice, Righty. Perfect situation.” Lefty’s smile
tightened, though he didn’t correct the misnomer. Kellan contained his inner
triumph.

Playing cards was all about what you got other men to think
of you; what personality, what life, you were capable of selling to the world
at large. Poker, especially, was simultaneously the subtlest game and the most
direct microcosm of all human interaction: for everywhere everyone went,
weren’t they simply trying to make something of nothing? Weren’t they trying to
earn something, sell something?

Kellan was a naturally gifted card player because he could
read people’s needs and fears—he’d spent his whole high school life watching
them from shadowy corners, then reinterpreting what he discovered on his trusty
guitar. He’d gotten a valuable piece of information on Lefty DiMartino just
now, seeing him flinch at his mispronounced name: this man’s ego—like his
empire—was precarious. Lefty assumed everyone was afraid of him, and was
immediately adrift when this assumption was challenged.

Good to know.

It was a tight, unpleasant ride to the top with Lefty
sandwiched into the elevator beside him, and the close quarters caused Kellan
to unwillingly divulge a little bit of his own “useful information”—he was
certain the house boss could smell all the whiskey and smokes on his clothes.
Then again, this wasn’t necessarily a failing. The more Lefty assumed Kellan
was a troubadour schmuck, the less likely he’d be to connect him with Bryson’s
anonymous, high-roller character. Win some, lose some...