I turn my car on, shift into gear, and take off heading north.
I leave my car in a parking garage a couple of blocks away, and I walk up the street to the casino—the Crystal Palms, located in the northwest of Boston. I double-tap the side of my glasses, and they zoom in as they scan my surroundings, pulling up information about the building from the internet. The front of the casino is crawling with security personnel, and people are streaming through the revolving doors. My glasses run a diagnostic, locating all the exits of the building for me, and I work on my story as I approach the doors. The outside is flashy, with sparkling lights, probably to draw attention like the ones in Vegas, but in the middle of Boston.
I touch the frame of my glasses, sliding itacross to turn them into shades. My attire is all black as usual, so I didn’t stick out like a sore thumb, but the security guard definitely gave me a second look as I passed by.
At least my tattoos are hidden for the most part.
I enter the Crystal Palms, the sound of slot machines ringing out, and cheers from happy people winning their bets greet me as I scan the boisterous room for the blackjack table. My eyes soon meet their mark when a large man in a tan suit stands from a table in the back, collecting money from it. He has a cigar hanging out of his mouth, and he laughs loudly in the other players' faces.
I’m guessing that’s Johnny. He has salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard, and he looks to be in his late 40s. He blows smoke on the other players and slaps his hand on a meek-looking man next to him. The man has dark circles around his eyes, and he looks like he’s been losing sleep.
I approach the table cautiously, sitting down at the end of the table quietly, not drawing attention to myself. I place my money on the table, the dealer shuffles chips over to me, and a new round of blackjack starts.
“Place your bets!” The dealer shouts, and everyone at the table slides their chips up. The dealer begins shuffling the cards, but I’m keeping my eyes on Johnny. He puffs on his cigar and has a smug look on his face. He looks in my direction, but I play it cool, cocking my head slightly to make it look like I’m looking at the dealer.
“Hey, asshole!” Johnny shouts. Everyone looks at him, including me, when we make eye contact. “No shades at the table,” he says, and then takes a long drag off his cigar.
I touch the frame of my glasses and unshade them, while simultaneously making my eye color appear brown. The less they know about me, the better. I adjust the volume on my listening device in the glasses; it picks up all the voices around me and filters out the background noise. The temple tips of my glasses act as a bone-conductive headphone, making it so only I can hear what’s happening.
“Eager to lose more money, Johnny?” The man behind him asks, sucking his teeth.
Johnny turns, gripping the man by his shirt, getting face-to-face with him, and speaking low so as not to disturb the rest of the table. “I wouldn’t be losing money right now if it wasn’t for the fuck-face over here taking down our company in Vegas with his shit deals,” he gestures to the man with the dark circles under his eyes as he flinches away. He turns to face him, gritting his teeth, “I don’t know what our grandfather ever saw in you to give you that money or let you be in charge ofanything. You were his whore’s son. You deserved nothing.”
“I told you, Johnny, once I won big out west, I was gonna come back here and invest it back into you all.” The man says, still cowering away.
Johnny sits back down at the table, fixing the quaff in his hair. “And how well did that work out for you? Two years, and all you did was piss it away, and fuck some stripper? She better be worth the headache, Greg, or I swear I’ll fucking kill you.”
The dealer finishes, and everyone looks at their cards. “Fuck,” I say under my breath. I have an Ace of Spades and a King of Hearts.
So much for not drawing attention to myself.
This is the best possible hand you could want sitting at a blackjack table. It’s a guaranteed win.
“She is. As I said, she was a stripper, and she was trafficked when she was young after her parents died. It’ll be easy to get her to do what you want; with a bit of persuasion, she can be made to do anything. A few good hits, and she’ll straighten up.”
I know now that he’s talking about Luna, and my heart stops.
Trafficked? Was Luna sold into sex work after her parents died? The darkness within me stirs, and I welcome it this time.
The dealer sets his cards down: an eight of Clubs and the other faced down.
The dealer calls for us to push our cards up, then quickly checks his face-down card. “Blackjack. Player wins,” he says as he points to me, and starts shoving the pile of chips at me.
The other players groan, but Johnny turns bright red. “What! No! I had an ace of diamonds and a jackof clubs! There’s no way he won that!”
“Sorry, sir, he has an ace of spades and a king of hearts. That beats your diamond and jack,” The dealer says.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me! You’re giving the kid my money!”
“I’m not a kid, and I’ll certainly be taking your money, fuck-face,” I say smugly, shoving as many chips as I can into my hoodie pocket.
Johnny turns even redder, and his gaze is deadly. “Of course, but sit for another game. You’ve only just sat down.”
I smirk, “I know when to quit.” I toss him a chip, “for your next round.” I shift my glasses back to shades and turn to find the desk where I can trade in the chips.
Across the room, I see the help desk, and bee-line for it. There’s no line, so I walk straight up to the counter, and an older woman smoking a cigarette is behind it, reading the paper. “Do I trade my chips in here?” I ask.
The woman takes a red basket out from under the desk and slaps it down on the counter. “Put them in here, and I’ll toss ‘em in the machine, sweetheart,” she says with a thick Bostonian accent, never looking up from the paper. I quickly unload my hoodie pocket into the basket and slide it back to her. “Thank you, just a minute.” The woman gets up, takes a drag of her cigarette, and dumps the chips into the machine.
