Good Girl, Bad Girl(69)

Chloe Pringle once told me that lipstick was supposed to emphasize a woman’s sexuality by echoing the color of her labia. I thought this was disgusting and stopped wearing lipstick for a month.

Reaching into my coat pocket, my fingers close around my roll of banknotes—my stash, my stake. Soon I won’t need charity or Cyrus or anyone else.

The old brick warehouse is squeezed between a minicab office and used-car yard, close enough to the railway line for the whole building to shake when the freight trains roar past. Opposite is a vacant lot where a handful of cars are parked amid mounds of rubble and patches of weeds.

The bouncer on the door is wearing a neck brace that makes him bend from the waist when he looks down at me.

“What do you want?”

“I’m looking for a cash game?”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“You got proof?”

I shrug off my coat, revealing my dress and boots. I’ve bundled my hair on top of my head, trying to look older.

“Nice try,” he says. “Piss off!”

I peel off two twenties and slide the notes into his trouser pocket, letting my hand brush over his groin.

“How old do I look now?” I whisper.

When he flinches, I duck under his arm, through the doorway, and up a set of stairs before he can stop me. The cashier is a large woman with peroxide-blond hair that seems to glow in the dark. She’s sitting in a wooden booth behind a glass window. I hand her the roll of banknotes and watch her count out stacks of colored chips that she takes from a drawer. Cupping my hand over each stack, I pick up the chips and let them drop through my fingertips, counting by touch.

“You’ve shorted me.”

“The house takes five percent,” says the cashier. “You’re in the Aces High Room. Third door on your right. Toilets are out back. Drinks are extra. You want to nap during games, find a couch. They can’t be reserved.”

I take my chips and move along the corridor, not bothering to knock before entering. Nobody looks up. Four men are sitting at a green baize table in a circle of bright light and a haze of cigarette smoke. Each has a pile of chips in front of him and tumblers of various spirits. The dealer is a young woman, perched on a stool.

I clear my throat.

The dealer eyes me curiously. “Hello, Sunshine, you’re new. Are you waiting for someone?”

“No, I’m here to play.”

One of the men laughs. “Go home and watch Sesame Street.”

The dealer kicks him under the table. “Where are your manners?”

The fat man rubs his shin and fetches a chair from against the wall, positioning it next to him.

“You sit right here, young lady,” he says, pretending to dust the seat. “You’re going to bring me luck.”

“You need more than luck—you need divine intervention,” says a large black man with tight curly hair and a small emerald stud in his left ear.

A third man is wearing sunglasses that seem to swallow half his face and a T-shirt that says: “I could give up gambling, but I’m no quitter.” He continues the conversation. “You’re so unlucky—if you fell in a sack full of tits, you’d come up sucking your thumb.”

A fourth man interrupts, his voice shaking the room. “Why don’t you all shut up and play the fucking game!”

His face is drooping on one side as though collapsing in on itself, while the other side is so animated that one eye sparks dangerously.

“What are you staring at?”

I look away, wishing I could unsee the image.

The dealer leans closer. “Don’t you worry about Barnum—he’s all bark and no bite.”

“All jacks and no aces,” says the fat man, who blows his nose on a tissue and shoves it into the pocket of a shapeless jacket.

The dealer is in her late twenties, dressed in black trousers and a white blouse. “I’m Katelyn,” she says. “You want something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Come on, have a drink,” says the black man, holding up a bottle of Scotch. “I’m Livingstone.”

“Don’t force her,” says the fat man, whose paunch is like a pregnancy.

“Deal the fucking cards,” says Barnum, drumming his manicured fingers on the baize.

“We’re playing Texas Hold’em,” says Katelyn. “No limit. The buy-in is two thousand. The blinds are ten and twenty.”

I arrange my chips on the table in order of value, so that I can see at a glance exactly how much money I’ve won or lost. The first hands are playing quickly as I feel my way into the game. Even when I draw strong hole cards, I fold quickly, letting others fight for the pot.

The fat man is easy to read. He talks too much and fidgets, constantly counting and recounting his chips. Shades is also an open book because he procrastinates before making each bet and always checks on the river. Livingstone reveals himself through his superstitions, betting from a different pile of chips depending on the strength of his hand. Barnum is the wild card because of his drooping face and his impatience, constantly trying to speed up the game. He’s the kind of player who waits until he has good hole cards before committing himself to a hand, but reacts carefully, often betting or raising before the flop, but folding quickly if it threatens him in any way.