Out of Aces (2 page)

If I don’t get this job
. . .

I grabbed my keys and pulled on my hoodie, because I needed to outrun my thoughts if I could. I slipped out the door and walked along the cracked sidewalk through the complex. The place looked different in the dark, more respectable. You couldn’t see the trash or the peeling paint, just low rectangular buildings like army barr
acks.

A thin figure turned the corner ahead and walked down the sidewalk toward me, a big jug of detergent bumping his leg as he pinned a pile of clothes to his chest with his arm. His hoodie was pulled far over his face. I stepped aside to let him
pass.

“What’s up?” he said in a low voice—and I realized it was B
erto.

“Hey,” I said. We’d made friends (sort of) a few weeks back, when he lost his phone and I let him use mine. He was a smooth, skinny dude, lean but tough, covered in tats. He reminded me of a cat, stealthy, always in the sha
dows.

“You doing laundry?” I asked. It was a dumb question. I guess I just wanted to talk to some
body.

He glanced down. “I’m always doing laundry. Car gre
ase.”

“You’re a mecha
nic?”

“I do custom c
ars.”

“I wish I was good with c
ars.”

Berto looked me over, his eyes peering from under his hoodie. “What do you
do?”

“I’m trying to get a bartending
job.”

“Everybody wants to be a bartender,” he comme
nted.

“I have an interview at H
ush.”

“Serio?” His expression got a little more respectful. “Hope you get it. I’ll bring my boys to see you.” He nodded and stepped around me, heading for the laundry
room.

CHAPTER TWO

T
he guy was wearing aviator shades indoors, and his skin was the dead white of a person who lives at night. He had long, straggly, blond hair, rocker style. “Close the door,” he said, leaning back in his leather armchair and kicking his blue cowboy boots onto the coffee t
able.

I pulled the door shut behind me, looking around. It was a nice, big office with dark wood furniture and a wall of windows. There was another guy, Italian or Middle Eastern or something, sitting in the corner behind a desk stacked high with papers. He looked in his forties, and very slick, with expensive clo
thes.

The cowboy boots guy said, “You’re G
abe?”

I no
dded.

“I’m L
ars.”

“Nick,” said the one behind the desk. He leaned forward on his elbows, a coffee cup in one hand, and looked me over. He spun his finger. “Turn aro
und.”

I stared at him for a second. This was Paul’s connection? He looked like a pirate, even in that nice suit. He had heavy black brows, a dark tan, and hard eyes. A Rolex sparkled on his wrist. I turned around. I had spent a long time getting ready for the interview: fitted Abercrombie T-shirt, distressed jeans, hair gelled enough but not too much. But suddenly I was thinking I had it all wrong; I should have dressed up
more.

“Good-looking kid,” Lars
said.

Nick twirled his finger again. “One more time.” This was starting to feel sketchy. But I needed the job bad, so I did
it.

“Take off your shirt,” Lars told
me.

“What? No! Forget it.” I turned around and reached for the door, and they both started laug
hing.

“Calm down,” said Nick. “He was kidding. We always do that, just a t
est.”

“Although it’s more fun with girls,” Lars
said.

Nick leaned back, smiling faintly. “Paul said good things about you. He said we should give you a try. Go ahead and sit d
own.”

I sat in an empty armchair, feeling spooked. But I rallied and said, “Paul’s good people. He taught me a
lot.”

“You don’t have any experience, though?” asked
Lars.

I shook my head. “But if you let me behind the bar, I can demo for
you.”

“Nah, anybody can make drinks. Just answer a couple questions for us.” Lars lifted his shades on top of his hair and squinted at me. His eyes were pale, watery blue. “How are you in a fi
ght?”

“Um . . . good, I guess. Why? You see me getting in a lot of fights behind the
bar?”

“Not behind the bar, necessarily. Could you double as bouncer if you need
to?”

I glanced at Nick. He was watching me, chin propped on his hands. “Yeah, s
ure.”

“You catch a couple of guys in the bathroom doing lines. What do you do?” asked
Nick.

“Who are they?” I said carefully. Because I was thinking it could easily be Nick and Lars back there at some p
oint.

Lars nodded. “Great answer. Perf
ect.”

I smiled in re
lief.

“Let’s say they’re the mayor and the police chief,” said
Nick.

I looked at him. He wasn’t kidding. “I just back out nice and e
asy?”

“Good,” said Lars. “This place is built on the reputation that all the bartenders are blind, you know what I mean? Okay, next question. Some little hottie gives you a fake card and her number. Do you serve
her?”

My mouth went dry. “No,” I
said.

“Right again. We’re blind where adults are concerned, but we never serve minors. That’s how Sirocco got shut down. You know Siro
cco?”

I nodded, keeping my face blank. Sirocco was a big after-hours place like this one, and it got shut down last month after too many raids. It was all over the media. My heart was banging in my chest and I had a bottomless feeling in my stomach, like these were exactly the wrong people to mess with. But I
needed
this
job.

Lars swung his feet off the table and reached for a stack of papers. I saw my name on top. Paul must have e-mailed them the résumé they helped me make at Crescent School. Lars turned it over, scanning. “You really haven’t done anything, have
you?”

I shrugged. There was no good answer for
that.

“You’re lucky Paul has your back.” Lars frowned like he was really seeing me for the first time. “You didn’t even graduate high sch
ool?”

My face got hot. I’d told the truth about that, because I’d figured the one big lie about my age was all I could risk. If they checked on the high school thing, they’d find out how old I really was and the whole house of cards would come down. But I could see Lars wasn’t happy about it. He might not give me the job. “I got my GED,” I said. Another lie—although I did plan on taking the
test.

“Then how come it’s not on th
ere?”

“I didn’t think of
it.”

Lars glanced at Nick, who looked disgusted. “If we give you the job,” said Lars, “we’ll need that paperwork on f
ile.”

“Why’d you drop out?” asked
Nick.

I thought fast. Best not to be too specific. “Something bad happened, and my family needed me.” I hoped he would picture my parents killed in a car crash and me taking care of little brothers and sisters. The truth was, my “family” was just my mom, who was kicking it in Seattle with a corporate tool and didn’t need me at
all.

Nick cleared his throat. “Sorry to hear t
hat.”

“Well, thanks for coming in,” said Lars, folding his hands over his sto
mach.

I looked down, feeling sick. A hundred bucks wouldn’t get me through another week, no matter how hard I stretched it. I’d have to wash dishes somewhere. Or hit the casinos again and try to make some money playing poker, but that was a rash move, considering the crap bankroll I had to start with. Or—and this was the worst option—go back to Washington with my tail between my legs and live with my mom and the
tool.

Lars barked out a laugh. “Don’t look so upset. I’m kidding. You can have the job. It was yours anyway, after what Paul said. We just had to give you the run-thro
ugh.”

“Don’t fuck it up,” Nick said, typing something into his p
hone.

I smiled, shocked. “I won’t. I definitely won’t. Thanks. When do you want me to st
art?”

“Come in Friday night for training. Ten o’clock. And dress fun and retro.” Lars grimaced. “Not like that. You look like a college
kid.”

My stomach tightened at the word
kid
. I nodded. “O
kay.”

Lars started ticking off on his fingers: “No Abercrombie, no Urban Outfitters, no Diesel. This isn’t a fraternity. Go shopping. Be creative.” He pulled his glasses down again and slid back into his chair. “Ciao.” He didn’t look up as I
left.

I closed the door behind me and walked fast down the shiny hall, a grin splitting my face. In about twelve hours, the room on the other side of that wall would be jumping with party-people, bartenders and dealers after their shifts, and tourists cool enough to find the p
lace.

As I was reaching for the glass door to the parking lot, it swung open and a girl walked in. I stepped aside to let her by. She looked exactly like Marilyn Monroe. She
had
to be an impersonator. Everything was the same: the puffed platinum hair, the curves, the pouty lips, the pale skin, even the mole on her cheek. She was wearing huge black shades and a long white
coat.

She smiled at me as if she was used to guys staring. Then she tapped past me down the hall. I shouldn’t have, but I watched her. I wanted to see if she was going to Nick’s office. She
was.

I blinked, shook my head, and felt in my pocket for my phone. I dialed Irina as I pushed through the door to the
lot.

She answered after one
ring.

“I got the job,” I said before she could say another word. “At H
ush.”

Dead sil
ence.

“Irina, come on. Can’t you be happy for
me?”

“Congratulati
ons.”

“You sound really exci
ted.”

Irina sighed. “I’m just worried, okay? But I don’t want to be a wet blanket.” There was a pause, then she squealed, “Oh, wow, that’s so amazing! Congratulations! Like,
wow!”

I cracked up. “Thanks, you sarcastic freak. Remember, this is how I’m buying your ticket down here.” I climbed into my car and started the en
gine.

“Is that Seth?” a guy asked in the backgr
ound.

“Hold on a second.” Irina’s voice got quieter, like she’d moved the phone away from her mouth. “No, it’s Gabe. I’m going to talk to him for a minute. Be right back.” Then she got back on with me. “Sorry, what were we talking about? How awesome it is that you got a job that’ll put you in j
ail?”

“Who was
that
you were talking to?” I asked, pulling out of the
lot.

“Mi
cah.”

I frowned and eased past a Ford. “Why did he ask who you’re talking to? It’s none of his business. And who’s S
eth?”

“Relax.” Irina’s voice had an edge. “Seth is just one of our frie
nds.”

Our
friends? So now she and Micah were an
our
? “What are you guys doing right now?” I tried to keep my voice cool. The thing was, she really did mention this guy all the
time.

“Just study
ing.”

“For poli-
sci?”

“No, we’re auditing this other class, ‘The Novel and Marriage.’ It’s through the Romance Languages Departm
ent.”

I let out my breath. Micah was clearly the type who takes yoga just so he can be the only guy in a class of women. Or maybe the only guy in a class with Irina. “What’s he look like?” I a
sked.

“Gabe, shut
up.”

“Take a picture. I want to see this
guy.”

“No.”

“Seriously, what does he look l
ike?”

“I can’t exactly tell you right now, can
I?”

I wanted to reach across state lines to Washington and grab this Micah around the neck and shake him until his teeth cracked.
Step off my woman.
But I couldn’t be Mr. Psycho Overprotective Boyfriend. That would make Irina mad. I knew her well. “Call me when you’re done studying, okay?” I said in an easygoing v
oice.

“Okay. I’m happy you got the job. Sort
of.”

“Thanks. Me, too. Love
you.”

Irina took a second coming back with, “Love you, too.” And she sounded quieter than u
sual.

“Irina?” I said. But she’d already hung
up.

I dropped my phone on the seat and drove faster down Trop. On both sides of me, glass-walled casinos threw back the afternoon sun, like I was driving through a burst of light. The sky was the kind of blue it only gets in the desert. I had a job, an awesome job less than a mile from the Strip, after a month of wondering if I could make it on my own. I should have been flying. But I was stressed about this M
icah.

Was I an idiot for thinking I had a chance with Irina? She was the whole package. Funny, smart, hot, a ten. Blew the top off the scale—higher than ten. And classy, way classier than me. At some point she’d realize
that.

Maybe Micah was knocking over the first domino in a chain that would have to fall no matter
what.

I burned through twenty of my last remaining dollars getting Chinese takeout to celebrate my new job. Then I went home, set my cartons on my “table,” and pulled out my phone. I was burning to tell my news to someone who wouldn’t give me a hard time like Irina. This was the biggest heist I’d pulled off in my life. I sent a few experimental texts to see who was ar
ound.

My rich friend, Kyle, was the first to text back.
What’s
up?

Finally got a job,
I texted
him.

Cool! W
here?

Barte
nding

Wh
at???

For real. This club
Hush

Sweet. I’m definitely coming to Vegas
soon

You s
hould

Mueller’s on patr
ol—CU

And that was it. He was gone. Mueller was our high school English teacher at Claremont, a real sick, twisted lady. It’s not like I missed her. But knowing Kyle was sitting in her class gave me this crappy feeling. Before I dropped out, I’d been sitting in her class myself, not too long
ago.