Raoul Caraldi
We’ve played another four hands of poker before my little pickpocket makes her way back into the VIP room. Aside from a tinge of pink on her cheeks and some slight creasing of the satin around her waist, you’d never know I just had her screaming out her pleasure in the ladies’ restrooms.
“What the fuck took you so long?” McErlane snaps. Emma’s hand is white-knuckled on the back of his seat.
“Sorry, Daddy,” I hear her murmur. “I needed some air.” The voice is barely recognizable as hers. I would feel guilty about the fact that I left her so shaken…if I didn’t know what a treacherous little bitch she is.
A little bitch who has left me with a cock that could cut glass.
Jesus, these pants are tight.
The girl behind me trails her fingers down my neck, and I want to slap her hand away like an annoying insect.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She could be emptying my balls and relieving me of this throbbing urgency if I took her outside right now. That’s if I wanted her. And God help me, I don’t. What I want is across a field of green felt, looking in every direction but at me.
You’re here to play, Caraldi!
I yank myself back to reality. Besides, what I want will come in good time if I stay patient and stick to my game plan.
Murmurs around me draw my attention back to the table as the players reveal their cards. I set down three Queens, a 5 and an 8. Beside me, Ali makes a slight hissing sound as he drops his two pairs…and loses a Learjet. For the first time all evening, McErlane is almost out of his chair as he splays a straight flush onto the felt.
“Me!” he cries out jubilantly. “I win!” Beside me, Ali makes an annoyed tutting sound.
“Such rudeness,” he says under his breath.
Oblivious, McErlane continues crowing. Shoving past the dealer, he’s raking chips across the table, almost knocking drinks over in the process.
“Ooph!” Robbins looks over at me. “That had to hurt.” His over-white teeth shine in the muted lighting. I’d wagered a loft apartment I picked up on the Upper East Side a couple of years back.
“Forget about it.” I flick my wrist, leaning back in my seat and lighting a fresh Cohiba. The apartment is worth ten times what I paid for it back then, but McErlane’s obvious delight is payment enough. If I’ve played my cards right – literally – it’s going to push him over the edge. And as if on cue, he’s looking for the manager with the special black box.
“Oy!” he says sharply. “You! Bring me that box.” Within moments, he’s running his fingertips around a small pile of platinum chips. Until now, he’s matching the insane wagers offered by the others with cash value of his own. But that’s not what I’m interested in.
Now shit’s about to get real.
“Daddy,” I hear Emma murmuring. “Are you sure—?”
“Mind your business, girl!” he snaps, reaching for the bottle of Talisker. When he raises it to his mouth and takes a deep pull, he’s looking me straight in the eye. I tip a hand to my forehead in a mock salute, then reach for my top pocket. The wisp of lace there is still damp with her juices, and the scent of it is enough to make my balls pull tight again.
When I glance past McErlane’s shoulder, the girl’s eyes are like saucers as she watches me brush the fabric against my lips.
“Shall we continue, gentlemen?” the dealer asks. The players resume their seats, and betting gets heated.
The Arab at my side bets an ocean-going yacht. The winner of the round is a grinning Chinese gangster whose smirk fades when he loses his prized thoroughbred stallion, whose jizz sells for $250k a pop. The way my nuts feel right now, I’m pretty certain I could step in for the animal, but Mr. Ying, as he likes to call himself, is not amused.
When he starts threatening the Turk who hauled in his chips, I’m half-tempted to let him make good on his promise to rip out his heart. I happen to know the Turk made his fortune peddling kiddy porn. I’m certainly no angel, but there are some things that will earn you a special place in hell. I watch the slimeball licking wet fleshy lips, and I make a mental note to put him on my shitlist.
Time begins to blend into itself as cards flash by and alcohol continues to flow. I’ve lost track of how many hours have passed by the time I see that both Robbins and McErlane are starting to grow weary. And yet, we haven’t reached the point I’ve been waiting for.
By now, my lady companions have realized that there’ll be no partying tonight. It’s a relief when I feel soft lips on my cheek and a murmur in my ear saying they’ll be “seeing me around.”
My little Buttercup, on the other hand, isn’t getting off as lightly. The only concession to the passage of time was when her father let her pick out a seat and sink into it. Robbins, meanwhile, has taken every opportunity to treat her like shit. The more I see of him, the less I like him, which is saying something because I thought he was a cunt to start out with.
“Know what the problem with women is these days?” he slurs to the Turk at his side. “No stayin’ power!” His low laughter is oily. “Back in my day, we’d fuck for 48 hours straight. Now, it’s all whinin’ and gripin’ about foreplay and bullshit.”
The swarthy man at his side scoffs at his words.
