The Investment Club Read online

  Yeah, I’ve seen a lot in my years flipping cards. Seen players win fifteen hands in a row and lose just as many; be down to their last ten dollars and walk away up a thousand; win five grand and slink away with their pockets turned inside out. Won’t say I’ve seen it all, though. Just when I think I have, a night like that Tuesday happens, and a story like I’m about to tell you unfolds.

  Now I’ll admit I wasn’t present for all the stuff I’m about to share. Some of it I was and some of it was told to me, and, well, some of it I just filled in the blanks, and you’re going to have to trust me because in this job I’ve learned how to read people and recognize problems before they happen: the colleagues headed for an affair, the social drinker on the road to alcoholism, and the newlyweds who won’t make it to their fifth anniversary. Amazing what people will reveal across three feet of felt. They think they’re in control, but putting a stack of their hard-earned money on the table loosens up more than their wallets. It triggers their vulnerability, and that opens up the vault to all their secrets. I just have to watch and listen, like reading an open ledger. Most tell more than I ever care to know, as much by what they don’t say as what they do.

  Dow Jones Close: 16,458.56

  Chapter Two

  Date: Saturday, January 18, 2014

  Dow Jones Open: Closed

  Lean and Mean, or Faith as she was known on stage and Crystal Moore on her driver’s license, triple-locked the door to her four-hundred-square-foot studio apartment at the Siegel Suites on Charleston in the Arts District and flopped back against the door, relieved to be home. It really wasn’t much of a home though. Her neighbors were Divorcées, drug dealers, and any other budget-conscious wanderers who didn’t want to commit to more than a week at a time or answer a lot of questions. She had never really planned to stay more than a few weeks either, just enough time to get back on her feet after the bank foreclosed on her condo and the sheriff showed up to physically remove her.

  Staring at the mess before her, Crystal released a steadying breath. Morning sunlight screamed through the window, reflecting off the specks of glitter still on her skin from work. The untidiness of the room seemed even worse in the light of day. Clothes covered the bed and most of the floor. A pizza box, a Carl’s Jr. bag, and multiple Styrofoam takeout containers hid the coffee table; dishes filled the sink; and a growing pile of mail spread across the kitchen table. She vowed to clean later—tomorrow—after she had slept. All she could think about at the moment was that she had made it through another shift—one shift closer to the last one, when she would never have to let men grope her for twenty dollars a song. Unfortunately that day was a long way off. After the $1,000 she lost playing blackjack before her shift, she ended up hustling all night just trying to get back to even, and still fell $200 short.

  Removing her green cap and vintage bug-eyed sunglasses, she tossed them and her purse on top of the cluttered table and pulled the blinds closed. The hat and the glasses along with the baggy pink velour hoodie and sweatpants she was wearing were all part of her standard pre- and postwork garb. She unzipped the hoodie and released the drawstring on her pants and walked out of them on her way to the bathroom to start the shower. It was all part of her routine. The shower took about eight minutes to warm up. Just enough time to crush up and snort a Roxy. The pill wiped away the mental traces of the night; the shower, the physical ones.

  With the water running, she sat down at the kitchen table still in just her bra and panties. She fished out the pill bottle and tools from her purse and pushed the mail aside to clear a spot on the table. In a few quick motions, she crushed the pill and carved up two lines, and even faster, she inhaled them both. Closing her eyes, she waited for the Roxicodone to absorb and release her. Each breath helped erase all the touching and fondling that came with her job. It was all drifting slowly away, which meant she was almost free. She opened her eyes. Steam clouded the mirror in the bathroom and floated through the doorway. She unhooked her bra and tossed it on the floor next to the bed on her way to the bathroom.

  A few minutes later, she emerged wearing a frayed, pink cotton robe. Her hair was hidden under a towel wrapped around her head. She grabbed a takeout container from the minifridge and dropped down onto the sheet-covered couch. When she moved in, if it wasn’t a hard surface that could be disinfected, she had covered it. The thought of what had been deposited and absorbed into the soft fabrics in the room over the years skeeved her out.

  Flipping on the TV, she shook her head and sighed when she saw the infomercial filling the screen. That night at the El Cortez, she might’ve claimed she didn’t know Junior at third base, but the truth was, she couldn’t escape him. No matter what channel she chose, between the hours of four and seven a.m., which was usually when she went to bed, his infomercial was always on.

  Junior’s actual name was Max Doler, and for the past year his infomercial for the Lapkin—the napkin designed for your lap—had flooded the late night programming. Complete with exaggerated portrayals of food and beverage spills, napkin failures, conspicuous groin stains and turgid testimonials, the infomercial was an instant classic. Everybody groaned when they saw it, but they still couldn’t stop themselves from watching at least part of it, regardless of how many times they had seen it.

  That night Crystal was no different. She plucked a pair of used chopsticks from the remnants of a previous meal in a container on the coffee table and sunk back into the couch. When Max appeared on the screen, she grumbled, “Ugh. Fucking asshole.” But she wasn’t put off enough to sit up and exchange the chopsticks for the remote and find another program, or maybe it was the Roxy finally taking over. She just filled her mouth with a gob of noodles and zoned out on the TV.

  “Always eating on the go? In your car? At your desk? Tired of getting food in your lap and having to explain that awkward stain? Then do yourself a favor and upgrade to the Lapkin—the napkin designed for your lap.

  “The Lapkin is stronger than the cheap paper napkins they give you with your to-go orders. Made of state-of-the-art water-resistant material, dribbles and drops always slide easily into the spill catcher between your legs and never soak through like they do with cloth napkins.

  “Always having to readjust your napkin or lean down and pick it up off the floor? Since the Lapkin is designed specifically for your lap, you never have to worry about it falling off as you shift during your meal.”

  A professional woman sits behind a desk. “I was making some last-minute changes for a presentation to the board over breakfast when a glob of cream cheese and jelly slid off my bagel into my lap. I didn’t have time to change and had to give my presentation with a big, ugly spot on the front of my skirt. I was mortified. But I don’t worry about that anymore, now that I have my Lapkin.” She reaches down and removes the Lapkin from the holster affixed to her desk chair.

  A delivery man speaks through the window of a panel truck. “Everything I do is on the go. Spilling hot coffee is a huge risk, not only for me, but also for the other drivers on the road. But now that my kids bought me a Lapkin for Father’s Day, I don’t worry about it, and they don’t worry about me. Thanks, Lapkin.”

  “Prevent those frustrating mishaps and expensive dry cleaning bills. For nine ninety-nine, you get not one but two Lapkins for your car or home. But wait. Act now and you’ll get an extra set of Lapkins for the kids in the backseat or to give as a gift, and the second set is free. All you have to do is pay the shipping and handling charge. But wait, there’s more. Order before midnight tonight, and get a protective holster for each Lapkin that will easily affix to the side of any car seat or furniture. After each use, all you have to do is simply shake out the contents, roll up the Lapkin, slide it into the holster, and you’ll be ready for your next meal. That’s four Lapkins, plus holsters, for the price of one. Over a forty dollar value for just nine ninety-nine plus shipping and handling.”

  Watching the TV, Crystal let her h
ead drift sleepily back and forth before slumping forward. The chopsticks fell to the floor, the container still resting in her lap.

  Dow Jones Close: Closed

  Chapter Three

  Date: Thursday, January 30, 2014

  Dow Jones Open: 15,743.03

  Bill Price, or Gramps as Max called him the night I first met him, had been at the El Cortez a lot the past few weeks. Every day, actually. I was on days, so I started my shift at ten in the morning, and each day he came in about two and was there until I left at six. The day shifts are the best. Still have my mornings free and am able to get home at a decent hour after work. Seniority does have some privileges. And the customers during the day are fairly normal, or at least as normal as they’re going to get in this business. You catch people as they’re recovering from the day before or just starting their evenings, and you’re gone before they spin off too much.

  When Bill gambled, he never varied his play. He always started with a hundred dollars, bet five bucks per hand, never took the side bets or insurance, and played by the book. He always hit his twelves against twos and threes, hit sixteens against a seven and above, and never doubled when he had eight. I always knew exactly the type of day he was having by how much his stack was over or under a hundred. He wasn’t playing to make money or for the rush. To be honest, I just don’t think he had anything better to do, so he came here and played blackjack.

  On this particular day, Bill was having a pretty decent run. He was the only one at the table, and he was up thirty-five. Pretty much stayed that way for about two hours. He just rode the waves. His stack got as high as one fifty and never dipped below one ten.

  Casinos are notorious for not having any clocks around. That doesn’t mean it’s not easy for me to keep track of the time though. All I have to do is count my breaks. I deal for forty minutes until someone relieves me, then go on break for twenty. After eight times, I’m done.

  Right after my second break on this particular day, the Accountant from that first night sat down and bought in for $200, requesting both green and red chips. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, just like on the first night. He had been a fairly regular player, but I didn’t know too much about him because he didn’t talk all that much. Really kept to himself. He was more interested in the game, but for the money, not the action. He was definitely there to make money.

  I remember this night distinctly because it was the first night these two had played together since the splitting tens incident. I like getting players speaking to each other. That way I don’t have to talk so much. I can just sit back and observe. Makes the time go by more quickly and makes it easy on me because all I have to do is deal.

  I called out over my shoulder. “Two hundred going out.” I pushed a stack of four green and two stacks of ten red. “Here you go, sir. A hundred green and a hundred red.” Trying to make the connection between the two of them, I said, “Hopefully no one will split tens again.”

  The two players glanced at each other and nodded in recognition. Bill said, “Boy that guy killed the party that night. For such a little guy, he sure was a big asshole. Never understand people like that. He come in here a lot?”

  I said, “A few times a week, usually later. He lives in the penthouse at the Ogden, that art deco high-rise building across the street.”

  The Accountant extended his hand to Bill. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lester Banks.”

  Bill reciprocated with his hulking paw. “Bill Price. Retired and moved here from New Jersey about six months ago. Do you prefer Lester or Les?”

  “Les is fine.” He pushed ten dollars into the circle. “I suspect that guy from the other night is just lonely. He obviously doesn’t need the money. At those stakes he could play by himself at a high-limit table. For him to be at a five-dollar table, he just doesn’t want to be alone.”

  I dealt a new round of cards.

  Bill said, “If he wants friends, he sure does go about it in a peculiar way.” He waved his hand over his eighteen to stand.

  Les tapped next to his thirteen to get another card. An eight.

  “Woo-wee. That should work,” Bill said. “What brought you?”

  Turning over a ten to go with my seven for a seventeen, I said, “Not enough.” I paid out the winnings and flipped fresh cards.

  Les said, “I retired as well. Moved here from Georgia. Now just donating my time at the Oasis Mission. It’s a homeless shelter over in the Arts District.”

  Bill lifted his cup of decaf. “To enjoying the fruits of our labor.”

  Les didn’t have a beverage. He just nodded.

  Bill didn’t wait for Les to ask more about him. He willingly volunteered his life story. “After thirty-seven years on the force, me and the missus had enough of those East Coast winters and packed it up. What did you do? Wait, let me guess. I’m pretty good at this. I’m going to say, an insurance salesman.”

  “In a matter of speaking,” Les said. “I was a priest. Insurance for the soul.”

  “Catholic?” Bill asked.

  Les nodded, wincing as I turned over a queen of hearts to pair with my jack of spades. I cleared his bet. He pushed another two red into the circle.

  “No offense, but I don’t know too many black Catholics and never met a black priest before,” Bill said.

  “There are more black Catholics than people realize in the US, about three million actually. Roughly a thousand of the eighteen thousand congregations are predominantly black,” Les said. “But only about two hundred fifty black priests.”

  “So do you prefer Father Banks?” Bill asked.

  “Only if you make me call you Officer Price,” Les said. “That life’s behind me.”

  Over the course of the evening, the conversation flowed, and the mood was relaxed, in part because these two men understood each other, but probably more so because they were both winning. Interesting how the happiness and comfort level at a table is directly proportionate to how much the players are winning. A lot of people think the winning follows the positivity, and I’m not saying a positive outlook doesn’t help, but in my experience, the optimism spawns from being on the plus side of the rake.

  After a while, I think Bill was getting too close to some stuff Les wasn’t ready to share. His answers became more concise, and he always had another question ready for Bill. Les was like this a lot with other players at the table. I had thought it was just because he wanted to concentrate on the game and didn’t want to be rude, but that day it was pretty obvious. He just didn’t want to talk about himself, which made me think he had something to hide. He said, “Why Vegas? If you were looking to just escape the winters, there are plenty of other places to choose from.”

  “It was all Darlene,” Bill said, full of melancholy. “We’d been coming here every year as long as I can remember. Darlene said it was the only place she ever felt safe, where she didn’t have to worry about me. Poor thing used to send me off to work every day and worry herself into a tizzy until I got home that night. I told her I was too stupid to get into any trouble. She said I was just stupid enough.”

  “Law enforcement jobs are always toughest on the spouses.” Les winced at the six I gave him, for a total of fifteen.

  Bill said, “You got that right. I said the exact thing in my retirement speech. I figured I owed it to the old gal.”

  “Where is she now, playing the slots?” Les asked. “Can’t believe she’d let you run around here by yourself.”

  The longing and regret in Bill’s face transformed to sadness. He hesitated for several moments. “Unfortunately she passed last month.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. My deepest condolences.” Les reached over and put his hand on Bill’s, surprising him. I expected him to pull away, but he relaxed. It seemed to really comfort him, like he hadn’t been touched by anyone in a while.

  “Thank you,” Bill said, and put hi
s other hand on top of Les’s. “It was pancreatic cancer. She collapsed after breakfast one morning, and three months later she was gone.”

  Les reached in his pocket, removed a card, and set it in front of Bill. “Here’s my number and the address of the Oasis. It’s the mission I run over on California and Casino Center. If you ever want to talk, or maybe just get your hands dirty with some work, give me call. We can always use good people.”

  Bill picked up the card and dropped it in the breast pocket of his short-sleeved, checked button-down. “Think I might take you up on that. You’re not too far from me. I’m over at the Juhl off Fourth Street.”

  The game faded into the background, a mixture of hand signals and an undulating flow of chips. The two men seemed more interested in one another than the game. I just dealt the cards and tried to stay out of the way.

  Dow Jones Close: 15,848.61

  Chapter Four

  Date: Thursday, November 5, 2009

  Dow Jones Open: 9,807.80

  Nip-Tuck Barbie, more prominently known as Penny Market by everyone in the St. Louis sports community, had made all her major life choices by what was best for her career. She had started as a field reporter in Boise, covering the local sports teams, then moved to Tulsa for the same job in a bigger market. After two years there, she got the opportunity in St. Louis, which actually had a smaller city population than Tulsa, but the surrounding metropolitan area in St. Louis pushed its audience to almost three million.

  Penny had her dad to thank for her love of sports. He was a high school football, basketball, and baseball coach and the guiding force in her life. Penny’s parents had divorced when she was six, and her mom moved to Florida with a new husband not too long after. Penny had made a few trips to visit, but as she got older and had more say in the matter, she stopped going. She just didn’t see the point. Her mom had her own kids with the new guy, so she just felt in the way. But more than anything, she hated leaving her dad alone. He had never remarried or even dated, at least that she knew of, so all he had were his coaching buddies and the gang down at the Eagles. When Penny did leave, she knew he would spend too much time at the club because he hated to be home when she wasn’t there. With no female figure in her life, Penny knew there were things she missed out on without a lady in the house, but she and her dad always found a way to navigate the trouble spots, which usually centered around some aspect of her burgeoning womanhood. Other than that, he raised her like he would’ve a son, which was why she probably always felt more comfortable around boys and had so few female friends.