Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear.
And it shows 'em, pearly white.
Just a jackknife has old Macheath, babe,
And he keeps it, keeps it outta sight.
May 1, 1959.
She listened to Old Blue Eyes sing.
Her fingers worked the deck like an instrument.
Shuffling. The faces hidden, flat on the felt.
They talked around her -
"Fuckin' Kafauver. Ruined everythin'."
"Eh... they can't get in here. Too thick for the Feds. They'll drown."
"You hear about Accardo, though?"
"Yeah. Somethin' else."
She listened. The mumblings of the Mob.
There was an Ace at the top; she'd seen it, they hadn't.
The Outfit talked and talked. Nonsense. Gibberish.
She began to deal, taking from under the favored card.
It ended on him. She played into his hand - gave him the Ace.
None of them noticed.
Idiots.
"So what the fuck is this, Al?"
She stood still, her heart pounding in her ears.
Perhaps they'd seen her.
Her boss raised an eyebrow.
"A woman dealer? What the fuck kinda gimmick are you runnin' here?" One of them asked.
They laughed.
She was a joke to them.
But it was good... she needed to be a joke.
"I thought I'd shake the cage a little." Wesker said. "You'd prefer a man, would you Benny?"
They all laughed.
Wesker won the hand.
Ya know when that shark bites, with his teeth, babe,
Scarlet billows start to spread.
Fancy gloves, though, wears old MacHeath,
So there's never, never a trace of red.
The mobster set his cards down to talk with his hands.
Drunk. Drunker. Drunkest.
Wesker was stone-cold sober.
And so was she.
She picked up the hand; into the deck it went.
"Hey! Tony! She just mucked you!"
They all looked up then. Tony, eyes unfocused, glared.
"You mucked me, baby?"
"I... you laid them down, sir."
"I don't care. Those were my fuckin' cards!"
Wesker stared at her.
She couldn't get a read, but there was something behind it.
"It's legal, Tone. You know that. You snooze, ya lose." His buddy was smiling.
"Yeah! Stop runnin' your big trap and play. Maybe hold onto your cards, Pisan."
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know." She made herself entirely apologetic. She even bit her lip for effect.
"She's new. Brand new." Wesker added, his eyes still on her.
"Yeah... my ass. You're lucky you're a good-lookin' broad." Tony was surly, but sat back.
They all stared at her cleavage and the little untied bow at her throat.
The game went on.
And Wesker won again.
Now, on the sidewalk, sunny mornin',
Lies a body just oozin' life.
And someone's sneakin' 'round the corner.
Could that someone be Mack the Knife?
She played with the deck, shuffling, unshuffling.
The mobsters were gone.
She was alone on the floor of the private room.
The pianist downstairs ran over chords and pop tunes.
He came back after a while.
Sort of wandered over to her, sideways.
She kept shuffling, pretending not to notice him.
He watched her.
He unnerved her.
She ignored him.
"You know that if you pull that shit with me, I will end you." So low it was almost a whisper.
The cards thrummed to a stop in her hands. "Sir?" She did not look at him.
"What you did tonight. The wool over their eyes: the second deal, the mucking on purpose. Clever, but foolish."
"I don't know what you're talking about, sir."
He laughed a little. "No. No, of course not. Just like I didn't know that they would be staring at your breasts all evening instead of playing poker."
She looked him in the eyes then, and an understanding was found.
"I like you, Ms. Valentine. Truly. But I trust you about as far as I can throw you." He rapped on the green-topped table twice, sharp knuckle. "Whenever I get a handle on you, you just... slip away. A little fish."
She didn't reply.
"Keep your tits out and you can keep cheating. You'll ruin them every time."
She nodded.
"If you screw the house though... be prepared to take your punishment like a man."
He walked away, his hands in the pockets of his expensive pants.
There's a tugboat, down by the river, don'tcha know,
Where a cement bag's just a'droopin' on down.
Oh, that cement is just there for the weight, dear...
Five'll get ya ten old Macky's back in town.
April 28, 1959.
The morning was unseasonably cold for April.
A nasty chill that went to the bone in only the way the desert frost could.
She hugged the peacoat tightly around herself and looked down the sidewalk.
The Umbrella was about a half mile off, but it looked so near.
The Strip could make everything feel close.
She cursed Chris for making her hoof it.
She cursed Chris for asking her to do this.
She cursed Chris in general.
Jill put her head down and walked against cold Las Vegas wind.
Sin City was a strange place.
It seemed to Jill that it had an incurable split personality disorder.
By night, it was a carnival of lights - a buzz reaching for the fever pitch, but never summiting. It was bright and wild and fierce, like some circus beast. It breathed and it roared and it had a thumping heart, a blood, a pulse.
It was a place where everyone felt alive.
By day though, it was haggard and dirty and tired.
This morning was no different.
The show tickets and pamphlets floated around her feet - like funerary programs of attractions past.
Cigarette butts and overflowing trash cans. Litter as far as the eye could see.
Tramps and transients on corners, waiting for breaks that would never come.
Nearby, metal piping banged and clanged against the skeletons of new casinos, new hotels, as they were assembled - bone by steel bone.
It was an ugly city by day, crushed between pristine and snowy mountains, built up and out on such barren, red earth.
But she could still feel it - the pulse.
She could always feel it.
She might not hail from this mirage, but Las Vegas was as much a home as any to her.
At the turnstile doors Jill paused, looking up.
The bulbs of the sign weren't lit, weren't buzzing with current. But it didn't matter.
The Umbrella was imposing enough without the dazzling lights.
The Umbrella.
As she stared - employees hurrying in, a few straggling gamblers stumbling past - she inhaled deeply.
Dry, cold air rushing into her lungs.
The Umbrella.
She and Chris were going to tear this godforsaken casino down.
They were going to crush their competition from the inside out.
And today was the day she would start.
Now, d'ja hear 'bout Louie Miller? He disappeared, babe
After drawin' out all his hard-earned cash
And now MacHeath spends just like a sailor
Could it be our boy's done somethin' rash?
"James. James Marcus." He shook her hand, forceful and nervous. "You're the Valentine girl, right?"
"Yeah." She was jostled by him.
"Well, let's hurry. He's waiting. You're late. And he hates waiting."
"Who? I mean... you're the manager, right?"
"Yes."
He started across the floor of the casino. She had to run to keep up with him.
"Aren't you going to interview me?"
"No. Mr. Wesker handles all of it. He's a bit of a micro-manager. And you're late." He repeated.
Jill glanced at her watch - a diamond-encrusted gift from Chris, all pomp and flash. She quickly ripped it off her wrist and shoved it in her little handbag. "I'm not late though... I'm 15 minutes early."
"Oh, you don't know Mr. Wesker. Half an hour early is on time for him."
He was shockingly handsome.
She hadn't expected that.
He didn't acknowledge her when she was led into his office.
He didn't acknowledge her after she was seated.
He didn't acknowledge her for a good five minutes.
Facing away in a tall-backed chair.
Looking out the windows of the penthouse office.
It was raining now and the droplets clung to the glass, making everything outside look mottled.
She could make out his face, his body, in the reflection.
Sharp lines - a long narrow nose, a frown on thin lips, square jaw. The face of a fox-man.
He had a poker chip in his left hand.
It flipped over his pale knuckles.
Index, middle, ring (naked), pinkie. And back.
Hypnotizing.
For a man who made everyone else rush, he certainly took his time.
He wheeled around to her - all stormy-eyed and stately.
Starting at her feet, he let his gaze trace the length of her legs, her hands folded in her lap, her chest, her shoulders, her posture, and finally her face.
He said nothing to her. He just stared.
Jill was hardly a wilting flower. She didn't blink.
(Her stomach flipped).
"You've worked in a casino before." He stated, rather than asked.
"Yes, sir. I was a maid at The Sahara. And then assistant head of housekeeping staff at The Flamingo."
"I don't want you cleaning rooms."
She shifted in the chair. "I can do other things, sir. Maybe serve?"
"No."
They were quiet.
"I need a job, sir," she said at last.
"Don't beg. It doesn't suit you."
She looked down.
"Have you dealt before, Ms. Valentine?"
"Well... No, I mean... there are no women dealing. That I know of. On the Strip." She stumbled on her words.
"I like being the first at things, Ms. Valentine. Will you deal or will you leave? Decide now."
"I can learn." She smiled, fake. She really should have said, "I can school you."
"I hope you're a quick study."
He continued to stare at her. The air was oppressive up there, in the penthouse.
She fidgeted. "When... when would you like me to start... sir?"
"Tomorrow, 9 am. And Ms. Valentine, maybe go blonde. High heels wouldn't hurt your case either. Try to wear something more revealing while you train. Very revealing, in fact. Breasts on display, a miniskirt, whatever it is you have to do before I put you in a uniform. This is a casino, not a nunnery."
She just nodded, shaken by his boldness.
She stood. "Alright. Well, thank you, Mr. Wesker. I'll be in tomorrow. At 8:30."
He seemed to smile at that, but stayed seated.
The poker chip resumed its dance over his knuckles.
He studied her, eyes narrowing, as if he was considering some museum exhibit, some experiment. A butterfly pinned to paper, perhaps - she couldn't be sure.
"I don't mean to offend, Ms. Valentine. But I have an image to uphold, and unfortunately I cater to the Playboy crowd. It's only business, you see..." He thought carefully. "You're a lovely girl."
"No offense taken, Mr. Wesker." She straightened the pencil skirt and picked up her pocket book, her coat. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He watched her leave.
She knew he watched her leaving.
She felt the rush of warm air as the doors closed, slammed behind her.
She fought the flush that crept over her entire being, her breath uneven and halting.
He was not at all what she had anticipated.
Now, Jenny Diver, yeah, Sookie Tawdry,
Oh Miss Lottie Lenya and old Lucy Brown.
Oh, the line forms on the right, babe.
Now that Macky's back in town.
Jill wandered.
She wandered around the indoor carousel. (A lonely and sad thing during the day).
She wandered past the bar. (The tender nodded at her).
She wandered about what seemed like thousands of slot machines in the mirrored walls. (Machines that jingled and jangled, promised a jackpot on at least every fifth try).
She wandered through the Poker tables, the Roulette tables, the Blackjack tables, the Gin tables. (Listened and learned the language of his dealers, looked at their bright red and white get-ups - not pin striped but a starburst from their chest, the infamous logo of his casino).
"Watch it." Someone warned her. A deep voice.
They'd brushed shoulders.
He was a tall man.
Caramel, stick-straight hair, parted in the center.
She recognized him immediately.
Not from a previous encounter, not from anything concrete. No.
She knew him from glossy photographs, piles and piles of magazines.
Leon Kennedy.
The Legendary Leon Kennedy.
Singer, entertainer, lady killer.
A Las Vegas icon.
He embodied it all - the indulgence, the obscenity, the spontaneity - a man made up of sex and drinking and gambling.
He had practically invented this town.
On his arm, a delicate-legged Asian seemed to perch - an exotic bird of paradise.
She too, a star of The Strip.
Miss Ada Wong, who dressed like a 1930's starlet no matter the occasion.
Madame Ada Wong, who needed no introduction.
She ran the largest legal brothel just out of town - ran the hell out of it with an iron fist.
Madame Wong herself had bedded more powerful men than Monroe, Hepburn and Kelly combined.
Jill watched them saunter away, Wong's trilling laughter and Kennedy's wolfish grin.
"Alright... alright. Gotta get serious for the boss." Wong ran her hand over her face, making herself frown. Kennedy wheezed and she erupted in another fit of squawking giggles.
He pressed the up button at the elevator doors, pulled her in for a movie star kiss.
And then they were gone.
Jill hailed a cab.
She slid into the backseat.
"Fremont, thanks."
It smelled of smoke and vomit and liquor.
She breathed through her mouth.
The ride would be short, after all.
Through the great doors of The STAR.
Straight to the stairs, ignoring staff.
She began to unbutton the top, untucking it from the skirt.
About halfway up, between the 5th and 6th floors, she stopped to pull the flats off. Rubbed her aching heels and kept going.
Finally, 9th floor - master suite.
"Baby?" He called from the bedroom.
She walked in, opened the floor-to-ceiling drapes.
The rainy morning light seeped into the boudoir, bleed all over the carpet, up onto the bed, over three sleepy forms.
"Good morning..." She purred.
Two nude women lounged on either side of Chris. Jill smiled at them and nodded to the door.
They were up and dressed without a word, leaving the lady of the house to her husband.
"You in?"
"You know it."
"Co'mere." He held his arms open.
She crawled across the bed, the expensive sheets, into his lap.
"He wants me to deal, Chris." She sighed, touching along the gold chain on his chest.
"Deal? Really? Well... that's new." He smiled.
"One of those forward-thinkers, I guess."
"Can't say I blame him..."
"I dunno. I'm worried."
"Don't think like that." He whispered. "You'll be fine. He's not stupid enough to throw you to the wolves. You'll be responsible for making or breaking his house."
She nodded. "It's almost suspicious, isn't it? I haven't earned it."
Chris scratched his head. "It's different, that's for sure. A woman dealer. Hmmm..."
"I thought he'd put me on cleaning. This is a lot."
"It's good he's letting you so close. You'll be right in the middle of all of it."
Nodded again.
"And he doesn't know a thing about who you are, right?"
"No. Not a clue."
Chris smiled. "Better than we planned."
"Yeah."
"So... I've never met the guy. What's he like? What's the feel?"
She was thoughtful. "He's uh, he's..."
Chris looked down at her. "He's what?"
"He's the brains, for sure. Looks like he does most of it himself. Bunch of lackeys, but no sidekicks really."
"Uh-huh... What else?"
"It's a tight ship. Seems to run silky-smooth. Everything is timed."
"Okay."
"And... he's handsome."
"Oh is he?" He laughed.
"Yes. And you failed to tell me that. It threw me for a loop in there, Chris. I expected my grandfather."
More laughter, fading out. "I'm sorry, baby."
"Yeah, yeah..."
"So how handsome are we talking?"
She smiled then. "Very."
"Handsome as me?" A sly question.
"Oh yes," she said against his lips, kissing him.
He helped her push the button-down blouse the rest of the way off.
Over beautiful shoulders, down her back, onto the floor.
He kissed her in return. "Yeah? Tell me more..."
She kissed his ear as he licked and bit the side of her neck. "He's beautiful. And young. Not as young as you, but not old. He's just... right."
Chris grinned, eyes closed. "A perfectly-aged steak?"
He kissed the valley between her breasts, his hands slipping up to unsnap her bra.
She shivered. "The choicest cut..."
He threw her down to the bed and laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist. He smiled down at her. "He's got a lady, you naughty girl..."
"So do you..." She kissed him again, slow.
"You're going to break him down, hmm?" More tongue.
"You... have... no... idea..." She nibbled his lips.
He sat up, making a show of unzipping the skirt, tugging it down painfully slow.
He left the garters, the stockings on.
"You should wear white for him, Jilly... No one can resist you in white..."
She lay on her back, bit her fingers. "I think he'll like the black ones better." Husky. "Just a feeling."
"Oh? Well, those are good too." Wicked grin. "Why don't you show me how you're going to ruin him?"
"Gladly."
And then she was on top.
An hour later, alone in bed - Chris down in the back room, running the show, while she slept and woke. Slept and woke.
She couldn't shake Albert Wesker.
Grey morning eyes.
Tight, unmovable mouth.
What she wouldn't give to see a man like him fall.
Fall as in fail... or fall as in love... she wasn't sure yet.
Maybe both?
She felt like maybe she was on a cliff, about to do something dumb.
Her hand reached out from under the blanket, felt the night stand for something.
Something secure. Something safe.
Found it.
Slipped it back on.
A sliver band.
Her wedding ring.
But this was Las Vegas.
Nothing was safe.
I said Jenny Diver, Sookie Tawdry,
Look out to Miss Lottie Lenya and old Lucy Brown.
Yes, that line forms on the right, babe.
Now that Macky's back in town…