Cold Deck: A Novel

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||| 55 ||| 8 The New Laredo was a barnlike building with a four-acre wooden floor and open beams. Above the main floor was a loft with a coffee shop and a two-foot sign that read “Gambler’s Special, Eight-Ounce New York Steak and Eggs and Toast for $4.98.” The gaming tables, six blackjack games and one crap table, sat in the center of four concentric circles of slot machines. I limped over to the pit and caught the attention of the pit boss, a craggyfaced man of indeterminate age, somewhere between sixty-five and eighty. “Excuse me, sir.” He turned his head slowly, as if storing up energy for something more important, and lumbered over to me. “Can I help you?” I extended my hand. “Name’s Jude. I’m here to see Danny Forrester.” “I’m him.” A buzzer went off in the slots. He looked in that direction. “Mel sent me about a job.” “Oh, guy got canned from the Monaco.” He shook my hand and looked me over. “That manager there is an asshole. Worked with him back at the Stardust. Didn’t know shit, but was a master ass kisser. Him firin’ you’s the same as a testimonial from Christ his self.” “I broke in with him at the Mint.” “There. See? That’s how the business has changed. No loyalty. My ol’ man ran joints in Butte that were flat as a boxer’s nose. Flat dice, deuce dealers , rigged slots. Took chumps for whatever he could, but never fired a loyal employee. Ain’t been like that for decades.” “Do you want me to audition?” “You been at it twenty years. You don’t know how to deal yet, I’ll fire you. Question is—are you going to steal from me?” I’d never stolen a penny from a casino, never even considered it. I’d been approached by a boss at the Maxim to join a scam involving phony payoffs of markers, but had turned him down. I’d wondered, after that fateful day, if that had been the reason I was fired. Were others dumped out on the street because they too had turned down a proposition to cheat the joint? “Any chance of getting away with it?” Danny offered a half-amused smile. “No.” “Then I won’t.” The dealer on the empty blackjack game, a woman with a look that said she’d been on the merry-go-round long enough to know there was no brass ring and no getting off, said, “He asked his mother the same question.” ||| 56 ||| Danny winked. “She was honest enough, but couldn’t count past twentyone . Didn’t put her to work. When can you start?” The informal atmosphere reminded me of the way it had once been at the Monaco. “Anytime.” “Go on upstairs. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop at the executives’ table.” the hostess seated me in the bosses’ booth and asked if I wanted coffee . I thanked her and took a seat. Four or five minutes passed before Danny ambled over and slipped into the booth, facing me across the table. He handed me an application and a pen. “We ain’t got a fancy human resources office. I do the interview and tell ’em to put you to work.” I began filling in the blanks. “You’ll start day after tomorrow. Graveyard shift. You used to graveyard?” “I’m up to it, though I haven’t worked those hours since the mgm.” My nose seemed to fill with the odor of plastic fumes. “When were you there?” “Eighty.” “The fire?” I shook my head. That day was nothing I ever discussed. “I was off that day.” “Lucky you. We’ll get the other paperwork goin’ when the pit boss gets back from his break. We run short on help here and do little things those big joints don’t to keep employees happy. Still, it won’t make up for the shitty buck you’ll make. Tokes are split shift for shift.” I paused long enough to nod, then returned to filling in blanks. 9 The morning of my fifth shift, I was on break with Celia, a transplant from Atlantic City. On the way to the pit she forecast tips would be a record. I’d asked how much the record was. Smiling, she said, “I mean the low end. We’re down to bus tours, grandmas from Oswego, and...