Page 47 of Betting Blind
“Can I get a vodka soda, please?” I ask the man working behind the most magnificent bar I’ve ever laid eyes on. Its massive size makes it the star of the casino Jules and I have wandered into.
He places my drink down on a square cocktail napkin, and I tip him with part of the last Benjamin I have left. My anxiety is out of control, and I take desperate gulps of alcohol in an attempt to drown it. Jules is at one of the tables in the room across from this one, glued to an intense game of blackjack, and since I’ve had next to no luck, I decided drinking was the next best thing.
“Down on your luck, sweetness?” the bartender asks while cleaning a brandy glass. There’s a touch of familiarity sitting here with him. He reminds me of Jack, but the similarities stop with their occupation. This man can’t quite amount to Jack’s powerful presence, not to mention his arms are as naked as a jaybird’s.
I nod to the man. “Yeah, I’m not doing too hot.”
“Well, that’s the way it goes around here. You win some, you lose a lot.”
A small burst of air leaves my lungs. “So it would seem.”
There’s a poster hanging behind his head that’s illuminated with marquee lights, and in the center of it stands a man on top of a stage as he points toward the sky. Large show lettering forms around him, advertising a fifty-thousand-dollar cash prize. I slap at the pocket of my skinny jeans, rushing to check my phone for today’s date, and gasp. Maybe Lady Luck hasn’t abandoned us just yet.
“What’s that?” I nod to the poster, and he flicks a glance over his shoulder.
“Oh, that’s a competition they have going on downtown. Double-Down is one of the hotel-casinos in Old Las Vegas that puts on a big competition every few months.” Wiggling his brows, he continues. “They have a bar outside where they serve margaritas from twelve different rotating dispensers, slushie style.”
Leaning forward slightly, I ask, “What kind of competition?”
He shrugs. “It’s different every time. What I do know is these poor souls around here think they have a chance of winning when honestly”—he lowers his voice, shifting his eyes around—“they don’t have a chance in hell.”
My attention switches back to the bright bold lettering.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Surely between the four of us we can bag and tag this contest—whatever it may be. I take several big gulps of my beverage, finish it off, and thank him.
Liquid courage courses through my veins, carrying my feet across the casino floor as quick as they can step. I spot Juliana at the cashier’s counter where she’s trading her chips for cash.
She looks every bit the devil’s mistress as she grins slyly. “I took those boys for everything they had!” She fans hundreds at my face, and I grab her wrist, pulling her to me slightly.
“Come back to me, crazy.”
After a moment, she shakes her head to clear the haze. “Wow. This shitisaddictive.”
“You can say that again. Listen, I saw something that is going to save our asses.” I proceed to explain the details of the poster, and she mulls it over for a moment.
“Call Jack and tell him to meet us downtown.”
I do as she says, and when I get his voicemail, I leave him a detailed message telling him where we’re going to be and how I may have found a way to get us the money we need.
Jules follows me through the bright, busy casino floor as we leave, and everywhere I look, large rows of flashing lights and colors assault my vision. We exit the building, stopping a bit away from the entrance in front of the replicated Trevi Fountain outside of Caesars Palace. The summer heat has sweat breaking out across my forehead as we wait for the bus that will take us downtown to Old Las Vegas.
“Is everything okay?” Jules asks with a tilt of her head. Her sunglasses glint with the late afternoon sun, and the invisible timer on our stay here ticks in the back of my mind, reverberating around my skull.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I assure her with a smile, though I’m anything but fine. We only have the rest of the day to acquire the money we need to help Ben, and if we don’t win this competition, the next solution may as well be robbing a bank.
The scratchy seat of the bus taking us away from the main strip itches the back of my legs, and the collective stench of hot bodies makes my stomach churn. What could be happening to Jack’s brother right now? Is he safe or being tortured? I’m terrified that we may never hear from him again, and what’s worse, whoever is holding him will likely come after Jack next.
My jaw drops when we exit the long, train-like bus and step out into an entirely new world. The main Las Vegas strip is huge, expanding over four miles, but this strip, known as Fremont, is smaller and a bit more intimate.
“Wow!” Jules says, pointing up toward a giant video screen that arches over us, extending well beyond where we stand. Colors and symbols dance across the length of the screen in time to music, stretching the span of at least five hotels on each side of the unfunctional road people are loitering on.
“That’s incredible,” I mumble to no one in particular. We pass by various street performers, and my eyes bug out of my skull when I see three larger women with nothing but brightly colored pasties covering their nipples, shimmy their chest toward us as we walk by.
Tons of different performers gather in the center of the strip. No taxis or cars are allowed through, so it’s a free-for-all for freaks and geeks, alike. I’m spellbound as a man dressed in all black, with chains hanging from multiple piercings, contorts himself and bends his joints in a way I’ve never seen.
Across from where we stand, blinding white lights cascade down one of the largest buildings on the strip, covering almost every square inch of its exterior. They dance and flicker, drawing me to them like a moth to a flame. I drag Juliana behind me toward the beacon, pausing when I see a wide, long bartop on the side of the building. Behind it, as promised, is a wall of slushie machines.
