Out of Aces (18 page)

Luckily, the lady in the rental office didn’t ask any questions. She just fished another key out of a scratched metal cabinet and scribbled something on a Post-it. “It’ll be ten dollars extra on your rent next month,” she said as she dropped the key in my
palm.

“No problem,” I told her, and limped out the door. I took it slow down the sidewalk leading to my quad. The cement was cracked and missing chunks in places, and I passed a couple kids sitting on a stoop, smoking. One of them looked familiar. A little girl with cornrows and a pink scarf. She smiled at me, showing crooked, white teeth, and all of a sudden, I remembered her crouched down, laying pieces of broken glass on the gr
ound.

The girl I’d seen when my mom first signed me up for the
GED.

“Don’t smoke, it’ll rot your lungs,” I told her, more upset than I should have been, and she and her friend fell apart giggling. They looked about ten, but they probably thought they were grown. I thought of the worried expression on Father Giorgios’s face when he dropped me off, and realized he probably felt the same way about
me.

Berto’s quad was dark, and his ride was missing from its usual spot, but Pelon and Oso were sitting on the stoop, playing some kind of handheld
game.

They looked up briefly as I passed, and Pelon made a soft clicking sound with his mouth. “You got b
eat!”

“Something like that,” I
said.

Oso’s hands were frozen on the controls. “Damn, ese. You look rough.” I heard the shrill whine of his avatar getting killed. He frowned and his thumbs went back to
work.

“Still breathing, though,” I said. I sped up on the home stretch, the gravel recording my limp: crunch
crunch
crunch
crunch
. My leg felt like one giant bruise. I never thought I’d be happy to get “home” to this place, but I was almost high with relief as I forced the key in the lock and stumbled through the door. I’d left the space heater pumping, and it was actually warm for once, although it smelled like a locker
room.

I clicked the dead bolt behind me, hooked the chain, and set the Greek food on the floor. I went straight to the closet and yanked the pull string of rusty beads. The lightbulb flicked on, lighting up familiar graffiti by somebody who’d lived there before and loved A
nita.

I brushed all my clothes to one side and pulled out the first hanger, a gray hoodie. I ran my hands down the seams and felt in the collar; there it was. A rolled-up fifty. I snatched it out and moved to the next one. I’d stashed bills in all kinds of spots: pockets, collars, sneakers, under the rug, under the window ledge. There were even a couple shoved in the light fixture. A month of tips. I knew I was acting like one of those paranoid old men who refused to use a bank, but it made me feel safe to have cash ar
ound.

When I’d cleaned out all my stash spots, I had $2,200 and a handful of chips from Boulder Station. I took my nut to my bed and eased myself down. My ribs were starting to really burn, even through the pain medicine Dr. P. had given me. I sorted the cash, organized it, and counted it again. I made all the bills face the same way. My bankroll. I’d lost the last round pretty big, and I didn’t want to take any more chances. But there were no sure things in life; I’d known that for a long
time.

I tucked the money under the mattress and lowered myself, folding my pillow in half to make it thicker. Then I lay, staring at the dirty electrical outlet, trying to work out a plan. At about my point in life—eighteen—people did stuff and made choices that fixed their direction for
ever.

I was alive, which was still feeling like a nice surprise. I didn’t want to screw up the rest of my time, however long it was. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly through my nose like Coach taught me a hundred years ago in junior high basketball.
What do I want, an
yway?

You have to know what you want before you can get it. The more I thought on it, the more I realized my wants all started with
not
.
Not
to go back to Washington.
Not
to move from crappy apartment to crappy apartment for the rest of my life.
Not
to waste time with girls I didn’t like.
Not
to scrape by every month with nothing left over.
Not
to work a job I h
ated.

Okay. Try ha
rder.

I want to stay in Vegas. I like it
here.

I want to stay in bartending.
I liked it, too. I was good at it. Although Nick had convinced me not to try it again until I was l
egal.

If I was thinking really big, I wouldn’t mind owning a bar someday. Not a nightclub, like Hush, but a chill place, a locals spot like the Crown and Anchor. Or even a bar/restaurant. I smiled to myself. That was what I’d told Irina’s dad I was going to do. Maybe some corner of my brain had already been drea
ming.

And Irina.
But if I was being honest, my future probably wouldn’t be with her. Still, I wanted a girl I’d love as much as I loved her, if that was poss
ible.

I decided that would be enough. If I got those things, I wouldn’t be one of those jerks who always wants something more. I’d be satisfied. Maybe when that AB dude kicked my face, he jolted my brain around. I was definitely thinking differe
ntly.

There was a light tapping on my door, and all my thoughts instantly disappeared into a whirlpool of adrenaline. I eased silently off the mattress and tiptoed to the door. I knew it wasn’t logical, but I had this feeling AB was out there with a
gun.

It was April. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and hugging herself against the cold. She had no wig or makeup on, and her short brown hair was ruffled. Silver hoops sparkled in her ears. She reached out to knock again, and I opened the
door.

“Gabe!” Her face went blank with shock, which quickly turned into horror. I knew I looked like the one guy who got away from the chainsaw massacre, but her grossed-out expression didn’t exactly make me feel
good.

“Oh, no,” she breathed. “He really messed you up. Are you
o
kay
?”

I nodded. “I’m f
ine.”

“Can I come
in?”

I felt a stab of embarrassment at my cardboard furniture and thrashed mattress, and then I thought,
Whatever. Who cares?
I pulled open the
door.

It was only after April had stepped in and shut the door behind her that I registered what she’d said. “Wait, you said
he
. You k
now?”

“Yes,” she said fiercely. “That jerk! I can’t believe he did this to
you.”

Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I still didn’t understand. “But . . . how did you find out? And how do you know where I l
ive?”

April cut her eyes away, pink rising in her cheeks. “Remember, I told you I was dating someone at work?” Her usual smart-ass tone was totally gone. She sounded shy and embarra
ssed.

“You’re dating
Nick
?” I felt sucker punched. Then I had a flash of a white coat on Nick’s couch, a white coat with blue lining. That was her coat.
“Nick?”
I repeated. “He’s, like, twenty years older than
you!”

“So?” she said, staring at my face. “I don’t care how old he is. But I do care that
he hurt
you!”

“It wasn’t him. It was his freaking minions or whatever you want to call them,” I said bitterly. “You should break up with him. He’s an evil guy. And he’s old enough to be your dad. That’s just wr
ong.”

April didn’t respond to that. “I brought you something.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of bills and my TAM serving card and license, the real one. “Your wallet and phone were on his desk. I took these out, because I thought you’d really need them. I got your address on the TAM. I would have taken your phone, too, but . . .” She looked down, shrugging. She was scared of him. That’s why she didn’t take the
rest.

I took the money and cards and tucked them away, feeling grateful but sad. It’s too bad so many women date scary guys. Although Nick was in a league of his own. “It’s fine. I already canceled the cell. Did he tell you what happe
ned?”

“Not really. He said you tried to ‘play’ him and he ‘taught you a lesson.’ I got worried when I saw your stuff on his desk. I decided I’d better come make sure you were o
kay.”

I sighed. “I’ll tell you what happened. I’m eight
een.”

“I noticed.” April glanced at my pocket, where I’d put the c
ards.

“So if he got caught with an underage bartender, he could have been fined or shut down. He had a couple guys take me out into the desert, kick my ass, and steal my
car.”

“Wait.” April’s eyes widened. “Is it an Alt
ima?”

I no
dded.

“I heard him talking about it on the phone. He told someone to take it to
LA.”

“He’ll probably sell it. They deal a lot of stolen cars out there,” I said. I was amazed to realize I didn’t even
care.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so
rry.”

“It’s not your fault. But be careful, okay? I don’t think he’s the safest guy to d
ate.”

There was a short silence. April gazed at the cut over my eye, the big one Dr. P. had stitched up. “Nick and I are finished,” she said shortly. “I don’t date violent jerks.” There was a sound in her voice, raw and serious, that made me wonder if her husband had beat up on her in addition to cheating. I wasn’t going to
ask.

“Do you need any more money or anything? Are you okay until you get another job?” she a
sked.

“I’m fine.” I wished she would leave. It had been one thing hanging out when I was Gabe the twenty-three-year-old bartender, but now that I was an eighteen-year-old living in a slum, I felt too far below her. A charity case. And obviously she thought the same, offering me money like
that.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, looking ar
ound.

“I’m
fine
,” I said fi
rmly.

“Okay. I can see you’re trying to get rid of me. But let’s hang out soon, o
kay?”

I gave a short laugh. “No offense, but I don’t want to get killed. If Nick knew .
 . .”

April sighed. “I’ll give you my number. Text me after a couple of weeks if you want. I won’t be with him anym
ore.”

I looked at her, trying to figure out if she was for
real.

“Just watch.” There was a confidence in her voice that convinced me she meant it. I wished my mom could borrow some of that strength—although I had a feeling that April had earned it the hard
way.

“All right,” I said, and decided it couldn’t hurt just taking her nu
mber.

“Do you have a
pen?”

I didn’t. My sad digs didn’t even have a
pen
.

She pulled a lipstick out of her purse, shaking her head. “This is so tacky. But it’s all I have.” She wrote her number in Marilyn-red on a receipt and handed it over. As she slipped out the door, she said, with a gleam in her eyes, “You should have seen Nick’s temper tantrum. I’ll tell you about it later. I can’t
believe
you’re eighteen. I’m going to call you ‘little bro’ now. Is that o
kay?”

“Shut up, Ap
ril!”

Cackling, she disappeared out the
door.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I
got more visitors in twenty-four hours than I’d had the whole time I’d been living in Vegas. The next one was Berto. He knocked softly and stealthily. I was half-asleep, and it took me a second to come out of my daze. Meanwhile, the knocking got a little faster, and he called, “You okay in th
ere?”

I hobbled over (the meds were wearing off, and my leg was killing me) and pulled open the
door.

He frowned at my cut, and quickly looked me over. “You ain’t that bad.” He sounded half-disappointed, half-reli
eved.

“Rea
lly?”

“Oso and Pelon said you were beat half-dead. They said maybe you’d crawled up in here and died.” Berto shook his head in disgust. “Oso’s always exaggerating. I should have kn
own.”

I chuckled. “You thought I was dead in h
ere?”

He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “So, what happened? Who cut you
up?”

“A couple thugs.” I left it at
that.

“You need anything? Band-Aids or something? A mask?” He gri
nned.

“All I need’s a car and my phone back.” I couldn’t resist telling him a little more. “They stole my
car.”

“I’ve had two cars stolen before, but I got them both back.” There was a glint in his eyes that made me feel sorry for whoever stole them. “Who took yours? You know his n
ame?”

I shook my head quickly. No way did I want Berto getting involved. But the mention of stolen cars gave me a crazy idea. “Hey, Berto . . .” I trailed off, feeling awk
ward.

“W
hat?”

“You asked if I need anything. It’s fine if you say no, but .
 . .”

He frowned. “What is
it?”

“Could I borrow your ride tomorrow? My girlfriend’s coming in town, and I’ve got no way to pick her up at the airport.” I didn’t really expect him to agree to it, but I had to
try.

To my surprise, he said, “Just tomor
row?”

I nodded. “Well, maybe for like an hour on Sunday, too, to drop her back
off.”

“What are you leaving for collate
ral?”

“Um . . . c
ash?”

“Five hundred bu
cks.”

“You’ll give it back?” I
said.

“As long as she comes back to me without a scra
tch.”

“Thanks, man, seriously.” I smiled in re
lief.

“You better fill her
up.”

“I w
ill!”

Berto peered past me into my digs. “No offense, but you could use a woman’s touch in h
ere.”

“Whatever,” I
said.

“That’s a nice table.” He nodded at my box, and sounded so sincere that it took me a second to realize he was being sarca
stic.

“Shut up, Be
rto.”

“I bet your girlfriend likes that bed,” he went on, deadpan. “That’s a fine sheet you got th
ere.”

I shook my head and chuc
kled.

“Hey, you want to come kick it? We’re watching the Lakers. Oso made a bunch of f
ood.”

“Right
now?”

He was already slipping out the
door.

“Wait, I’m coming!” I said, and followed him out, smiling to my
self.

I leaned against Berto’s car, hands in pockets, head doing a slow swivel for cops. McCarran International had a ton of traffic, and they would nail you for idling—especially if you were driving a mural-painted lowr
ider.

People poured through the automatic doors and spread out down the sidewalks, mostly locals by the looks of them. Tourists used others kinds of transport. I must have seemed like I was checking out every blonde, but really I was searching for Irina. My nerves had twisted into a mess of wires ready to torch at the slightest spark. I was still on meds, but I could feel faint pain through my whole left
side.

The automatic doors spit out a lean blonde, and I looked closer. She tugged her bag over her shoulder, peering up and down the side
walk.

“Irina! Over here!” I raised a
hand.

She lit up and pushed through the roller bags and moving bodies. She was wearing a blue dress, my favorite color on her. As she broke out of the crowd, her excited smile wavered and disappeared. She stopped a foot away from me, her face blank with shock. “What
happened
to
you?”

“I’ll tell you later.” I opened the door for her. Cars pulled in around us, headlights shining on the slick ground. “Here, let me put that in the trunk.” I reached for her
bag.

“Gabe! No.” She stepped away. “What
happe
ned
?”

“I got beat
up.”

“I can see that! What . . . what
is
this?” She gestured helplessly at my face, and at Berto’s lowrider. The airline signs above made her skin glow or
ange.

“My car got stolen. This is a friend’s. Please, let me take that. I’ll explain later.” I slid her bag off her arm—this time she didn’t stop me—and set it on the backseat. The leather felt so smooth and heavy that I looked closer. It was designer
.
“Nice pu
rse.”

“It was a Christmas present,” she said, still staring. “Gabe, your f
ace.”

I opened her door and gest
ured.

She put a hand on my arm. “What happe
ned?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” I said, “but not h
ere.”

She threw her arms around me and squeezed hard, hurting my ribs, but I didn’t care. I hugged her back, even though I shouldn’t have. The pain that hit me was a killer wave, a wall that could crush and
drown me. My eyes pricked. I’d missed her so
much.

“I love you,” Irina whispered into my c
hest.

“I love you, too.” I squeezed her gently and pulled away, going around to my side. By the time we were both belted, I was in control again. “Where are you stay
ing?”

“The Mirage.” Irina was staring at me, her eyes r
ound.

“You want to go check in?” I a
sked.

“Not yet. Let’s go somewhere.” She reached for my
hand.

It felt so good to hold her hand again. “How about dinner? You didn’t eat already, did
you?”

“No, I was hoping we could go out for dinner.” She’d cut her hair, and there were pieces falling around her jaw. I wanted to reach over and brush them
back.

Instead I said, “Okay, I know a good place. Are you okay with Greek f
ood?”

“I love Greek food. Gabe,
what happened to your f
ace
?”

“I’ll tell you soon. I prom
ise.”

Helios was tucked into a strip mall on Decatur Blvd. At first I thought we had the wrong address. It was pink. And it was built from big square cement blocks, prison style, except for the color. There were two long windows with grayish slats pulled down, a paper menu hanging crooked on the door, and pointy blue letters on the window: “HELIOS! DINE AND DANCE GREEK ST
YLE!”

Out front, an old man in an apron was sitting in a scrawny metal chair, smoking a cigarette that was mostly filter. He looked us up and down with suspicious eyes and flicked the butt over his shou
lder.

“I don’t know,” I
said.

Irina squeezed my hand. “You said it was good. Let’s try it.” She pushed through the door. Music and voices and delicious smells poured out. I changed my mind. Any food that smelled like that was worth tr
ying.

As we stepped in, it was like going from black-and-white to color. The floor was bright blue, and the walls were painted with murals of beaches, buildings, and trees. It was exploding with details, just like Kosta’s church, and it was as loud as a nightclub, everybody talking over one ano
ther.

“This is cool.” Irina’s head swiv
eled.

A waiter stepped out from the back, and I did a double take. It was Kosta, looking slick in a black suit, curly hair gleaming, a bow-tie at his neck. Even his shoes looked expensive. He walked over and bowed, which made me
grin.

“Hey,” I said, “this is Irina.
And—”

He cut me off in the middle of my sentence and said, “Yes, sir. This way, please.” I must have looked surprised, but he caught my eye and gave a warning look, so I kept my mouth
shut.

“Do you have dancing here?” Irina asked Kosta as we walked around a big polished wood plat
form.

“Of course. Starting at nine.” Kosta stopped at a round table covered in a white cloth. In the middle was a skinny glass vase with a red rose stuck in it, and an envelope propped against the
side.

Irina smiled. “G
abe!”

Kosta winked at me as he pulled out her chair. “May I hang your coat?” he asked, already sliding it off her shoulders. She wriggled free and sat down, bea
ming.

I watched as he disappeared with the coat folded over his arm, weaving between tables, and I tried not to grin. Irina was already tearing open the card. She slid out a stiff rectangle and opened it. I leaned over to read it with her, hoping Kosta hadn’t gone overboard. The card was cream colored with tiny birds in the corners. Inside, Kosta had written in cur
sive:

Where true Love burns Desire is Love’s pure f
lame;

It is the reflex of our earthly f
rame,

That takes its meaning from the nobler
part,

And but translates the language of the h
eart.

“Oh, Gabe,” Irina whispered, fingering the card and looking at me with big eyes. “I love Coleri
dge.”

Coleridge?
Then it clicked. That must be the poet. I took her hand, thinking to myself that I’d wash Kosta’s car, mow his lawn, do dishes in this place for a month
. . .

“It’s beautiful,” she said, squeezing my fingers
hard.

Behind her, I could see Kosta coming toward us with a bucket that had a skinny bottle neck poking out the side. He set two champagne glasses on the table, his eyes twinkling like an elf’s. He wrapped the bottle in a towel, tucked it under his arm, and popped the cork with a hollow boom. Irina was starry-eyed as he poured a stream of bubbles in her glass. As he poured mine, I sent him psychic messages.
You are the man. Thank you. I owe you for
ever.

Kosta handed us paper menus. “The special today is grilled
lavraki
in a bed of lemon rice. I’ll be back soon to take your order.” Even his voice
was different, like some after-hours
DJ.

Irina lifted her glass and said, “To the most romantic guy I k
now.”

I thought,
That would be Kosta.
Out loud, I said, “I can’t drink to myself. That’s bad l
uck.”

“All right. To life,” Irina said softly. Her eyes gleamed over the edge of her glass and her foot nudged my leg under the table. I drank. The champagne was tart and the bubbles exploded on the top of my mouth. I was feeling kind of messed up, with her foot on my leg. Was she playing with my head? Kosta’s cupid act was amazing, but we had some issues to work out, and this was kind of clouding th
ings.

Like she read my mind, Irina pulled her foot away and said, “This is all really romantic. But I’m kind of confused right
now.”

“Me, too,” I said, and took another sip of champ
agne.

“The thing you did on New Year’s .
 . .”

I sighed.
Here we
go.