cologne, and shiny shoes. So these are the high-rollers, Romy thought. Suddenly bad boy Bryson—for all his
bravado—looked down-to-earth .
There was a circular bar in the room's center; this served
as a central hub. Zaida gripped Romy's wrist and led her briskly around the
elaborate set-up, where there looked to be a hundred kinds of top-shelf liquor
rising across many shelves. Zaida was all-business. She didn't allow Romy so
much as a moment to ponder her new surroundings as it all shot past her gaze in
a blur. Whirling towards the side of the Needle farthest from the elevator
bank, finally Zaida paused at what appeared to be the room's only vacant
blackjack table. “Here,” she said. “This table yours, Adelaide.”
The blackjack table was pristine. The felt looked brand-new,
and the cards were slippery-sleek in her fingers. Zaida contemplated Romy with
the condescending gaze of an impatient teacher: “You know how to do from here,
I hope?” Grasping her new station for support, Romy managed a nod. This seemed
to satisfy Zaida, who vanished back into the darkness with a flick of her
ponytail.
A few heartbeats passed. Romy attempted to catch her breath,
though her uniform made it difficult. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the erratic
light.
As she finally began to shuffle the cards—from habit, if
nothing else—men began to move her way. A few of them lurched away from their
other tables, apparently mid-game. Romy heard a few cat-calls above the bass-y
thump of house music, which she determined was moving across the room in pulses
from a DJ booth mounted high in a corner. Several men made a show of peeling
their sunglasses down their faces and waggling their eyebrows her way. She was
the newcomer, clearly. They set on her like a wounded gazelle.
I can do this , she whispered to herself, gaining
confidence as she moved her fingers around the decks. These were, after all,
nothing but the KEM cards her memory knew well. This was nothing but a game she
already knew how to deal. And if the crowd up here was less Jersey, more
B-Listing actor, well...men were a game she knew how to play, too. There was a
safety, a comfort to be had in the sameness.
“Gentleman, please,” Romy said, feigning a blush just like
the one she'd given Lou Valentine earlier that week. “We have all night!” This
secured a few laughs. Several men sat down, setting high stacks of black
($100), purple ($500), and orange ($1,000) chips on the table. A small army of
cocktail waitresses glided across the room to Romy's corner and began to take
drink orders. It was happening so fast!
“The name of the game is Blackjack,” Romy said, a little
lamely. “Place your bets now gentlemen. And good luck.”
Appearing suddenly, and from the shadows (her m.o., it
seemed...) Zaida was once again at Romy's elbow: “Wait. You get attention. Is
very good,” she whispered. “I think now is good time for tournament.” The four
or five men seated at the table leaned towards their dealer at these words, as
if they'd been waiting for the word: tournament. Blackjack tournaments
weren't so frequent on the main floor. Romy furrowed her brow.
“I'm not sure I remember all the ins and outs. Of a
tournament, I mean.”
“Is like bicycle,” Zaida said. Then, for the first time, she
grinned. Her whole face seemed to strain with the effort. “You do once, you
never forget.” Before Romy could ask another question, her supervisor had
glided away. By now, the three or four men seated and the several circling were
chanting the word in drunk mirth: Tournament! Tournament! Tournament!
“You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Romy
Adelaide,” came a scratched baritone from her right hand. It took a moment to
pair voice with face. He was seated by the windows, for one, and therefore
rimmed with that hellish light. But she felt the recognition first from a heat
in her chest that spread across her arms, seeming to loosen
bravado—looked down-to-earth .
There was a circular bar in the room's center; this served
as a central hub. Zaida gripped Romy's wrist and led her briskly around the
elaborate set-up, where there looked to be a hundred kinds of top-shelf liquor
rising across many shelves. Zaida was all-business. She didn't allow Romy so
much as a moment to ponder her new surroundings as it all shot past her gaze in
a blur. Whirling towards the side of the Needle farthest from the elevator
bank, finally Zaida paused at what appeared to be the room's only vacant
blackjack table. “Here,” she said. “This table yours, Adelaide.”
The blackjack table was pristine. The felt looked brand-new,
and the cards were slippery-sleek in her fingers. Zaida contemplated Romy with
the condescending gaze of an impatient teacher: “You know how to do from here,
I hope?” Grasping her new station for support, Romy managed a nod. This seemed
to satisfy Zaida, who vanished back into the darkness with a flick of her
ponytail.
A few heartbeats passed. Romy attempted to catch her breath,
though her uniform made it difficult. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the erratic
light.
As she finally began to shuffle the cards—from habit, if
nothing else—men began to move her way. A few of them lurched away from their
other tables, apparently mid-game. Romy heard a few cat-calls above the bass-y
thump of house music, which she determined was moving across the room in pulses
from a DJ booth mounted high in a corner. Several men made a show of peeling
their sunglasses down their faces and waggling their eyebrows her way. She was
the newcomer, clearly. They set on her like a wounded gazelle.
I can do this , she whispered to herself, gaining
confidence as she moved her fingers around the decks. These were, after all,
nothing but the KEM cards her memory knew well. This was nothing but a game she
already knew how to deal. And if the crowd up here was less Jersey, more
B-Listing actor, well...men were a game she knew how to play, too. There was a
safety, a comfort to be had in the sameness.
“Gentleman, please,” Romy said, feigning a blush just like
the one she'd given Lou Valentine earlier that week. “We have all night!” This
secured a few laughs. Several men sat down, setting high stacks of black
($100), purple ($500), and orange ($1,000) chips on the table. A small army of
cocktail waitresses glided across the room to Romy's corner and began to take
drink orders. It was happening so fast!
“The name of the game is Blackjack,” Romy said, a little
lamely. “Place your bets now gentlemen. And good luck.”
Appearing suddenly, and from the shadows (her m.o., it
seemed...) Zaida was once again at Romy's elbow: “Wait. You get attention. Is
very good,” she whispered. “I think now is good time for tournament.” The four
or five men seated at the table leaned towards their dealer at these words, as
if they'd been waiting for the word: tournament. Blackjack tournaments
weren't so frequent on the main floor. Romy furrowed her brow.
“I'm not sure I remember all the ins and outs. Of a
tournament, I mean.”
“Is like bicycle,” Zaida said. Then, for the first time, she
grinned. Her whole face seemed to strain with the effort. “You do once, you
never forget.” Before Romy could ask another question, her supervisor had
glided away. By now, the three or four men seated and the several circling were
chanting the word in drunk mirth: Tournament! Tournament! Tournament!
“You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Romy
Adelaide,” came a scratched baritone from her right hand. It took a moment to
pair voice with face. He was seated by the windows, for one, and therefore
rimmed with that hellish light. But she felt the recognition first from a heat
in her chest that spread across her arms, seeming to loosen
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