Chapter Four: Odds Always Favor the House
Steve pursed his lips and alternately studied his cards and his opponent's expression. Doctor 'call me Wil' Erickson had come back after his shift, and accepted his invitation to join the poker game. While his doctor had dropped a few dollars early in the game, he was now winning far too much and far too often for Steve's liking. Ron, Cheryl, and Kathryn had folded this hand already, but Steve was trying desperately to identify Wil's tells so he could cut his own losses to the man and maximize his winnings, but Wil was damnably hard to figure out.
With a loud, gusty sigh, Steve tossed a dollar and a half into the pot. "I'm calling your bluff," he said.
"What makes you think it's a bluff?" Wil asked.
"There are only two reasons anyone would bet that big," Steve said. "You're either bluffing or you think you have an unbeatable hand, and I don't think you have an unbeatable hand."
"So, show me what you got," Wil said with a smirk.
Steve lay down an ace-high flush. Only three possible hands could beat him, a full house, four of a kind, and a straight flush.
"Well, what are you holding?" he asked.
"Two measly pair," Wil told him with a frown. "Deuces," he laid them down and Steve reached for the pot, "and deuces."
"That's cold, Doc," Steve complained. "I can't remember the last time I was beaten that badly."
Wil shrugged. "Sometimes it pays off to toss a few hands early in the game. It gives your opponents a false sense of security. Then you can bet on a big hand the same way you did on your bluffs and sucker them in."
"You know, your bedside manner stinks," Steve grumbled.
Cheryl chuckled. "You are a sore loser," she admonished her partner.
"Will you quit defending this guy?" Steve said. "He took your money, too, you know."
"And mine," Ron added, "but it was more than worth the price to see him knock you down a couple of notches."
"Besides," Kathryn laughed, "he beat you worse than any of us!"
As Wil pulled his winnings toward him, his pager went off. "I'm on call tonight," he said, checking the number on the device, "but I guess they think I have already left the hospital. My regular shift was over an hour ago."
He pocketed his money and excused himself.
"Hey, you have to give me a chance to win that back sometime," Steve called after him.
"I'll see what I can do," Wil answered as he walked out.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
Steve sat back and sighed contentedly as the afternoon sun tumbled in through the window and fell across his bed in a golden sheet of light. He had been dismayed to find out that breakfast was a congealed mass of tepid oatmeal and two slices of dry toast. After giving it a disgusted look, he had gone back to sleep only to be rudely awakened an hour later by a nurse who tsked and fussed at him saying that he would never recover if he didn't eat. He had tried to down some of the gloppy mess just to shut her up, but when he gagged on the first bite and refused to have another go at it, she had made a notation on his chart that he still seemed to be struggling with nausea. She had dismissed his complaint that there wouldn't have been a problem had the food been edible, and after contacting Doctor Erickson, she had received permission to give him another dose of compazine. The medicine had left him groggy, and to his surprise, he slept soundly until eleven o'clock, waking only briefly when the same nurse came in repeatedly to check his condition.
With his dad's help, he had been able to maneuver himself into the shower and felt very much refreshed after washing himself, dressing in his own pajamas, and shaving for the first time in two days. Lunch had been tasty and satisfying, and hadn't caused him any distress, although the meatloaf had been a bit dry and lacked the seasoning of Community General's recipe. Now, he was just sitting quietly, reading some of the handouts Cheryl had brought him from the meetings he had missed, and waiting for his doctor to examine him one more time before releasing him. His dad was sitting by his bed, reading The Gambler's Guide to Vegas as if he were contemplating hitting the casinos later.
"So, Mr. Sloan, how are we feeling today?" Wil asked from the doorway.
"I don't know about you, Doc, but I feel pretty good," Steve responded cheerfully. "I've had a shower and shave and I ate a full lunch, and I haven't regretted it yet."
"Back to your old self, then?"
"Well, I still feel pretty tired, but that could be the medication, right?"
"It probably is," Wil agreed with a nod, then, looking at Mark, "Doctor Sloan, would you excuse us a moment? I need to check his incisions."
Mark looked at Steve, and when Steve nodded, he said, "Ok, I'll just be down the hall stretching my legs."
Wil smiled gleefully as his patient lay back and closed his eyes, trying to relax for the exam that would determine whether he would leave the hospital or not. He poked and prodded gently, and hid his pleasure at evoking a few painful grunts. It was a shame that Steve had already taken a shower, because he had come prepared to introduce the staph infection as he had been planning since the man showed up on his surgical table, but it would be hard to blame the illness on the hotel if Steve wasn't going to make use of the facilities today. It would be better to wait a couple of days, until he came to have the drainage tube removed. That way, Wil would have the chance to contaminate the hotel linens beforehand and not have to sneak in later, when his patient was sick and Mark Sloan was looking for the cause.
Leaving Steve to button his pajama top as he made some notations on the chart, he said, "Everything looks good, Steve. Is there anything I should know?"
Steve opened his eyes and shrugged. "I feel fine, all things considered, but I was wondering, would it be all right for me to attend a couple of the meetings I am signed up for? Also, I was supposed to give a presentation on Friday. Will I be able to do that?"
Wil half sat, half leaned, on the bed near his patient's feet. Placing a reassuring hand on the blanket that covered Steve's ankle, he said, "Steve, you can do exactly what you feel like doing. Just rest when you feel tired and try to stick close to the restroom for the next few days to see how your body reacts to not having a gall bladder."
He didn't mention the possible rather disgusting results of eating fatty foods to his patient. If Mark Sloan had warned him, then he already knew, but Wil was secretly hoping for an embarrassing accident.
"I don't suppose you could remove the drainage tube today, could you?"
Wil looked at the contents of the bag and said, "I will consider it tomorrow if you want to come back around three in the afternoon. I have office hours in the building next door, and I have already made an appointment for you if that is convenient."
Steve nodded. "I'll be there. So does that mean I can leave now?"
"Well, there is some discharge paperwork to complete, but yes, you should be out of here within the hour," Wil promised him. "I'll send your dad back."
"Ok, and thanks, Doc."
"All part of the service. Take care of yourself, and I will see you tomorrow to see if we can take out that drainage tube."
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
By the time Mark pulled into the parking lot of the pharmacy where Doctor Erickson had called to have Steve's prescriptions filled, Steve, still feeling considerable fatigue from his recent illness and surgery, was sound asleep in the passenger seat. With a smile, Mark climbed out of the car, leaving the motor running and the air conditioning on so that his snoozing son wouldn't overheat.
Walking to the dispensary counter in the back, he called out, "Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Take a number!" a grouchy voice croaked from behind the wall that separated the shelves of drugs from the service counter.
"But there's no one here," he replied to the disembodied voice.
"Take a number and wait your turn!" the crow-like caw ordered.
"But it is my turn," he replied a bit bemused. "I'm the only customer out here."
A jowly, stoop-shouldered, beady-eyed, crab-like creature that could be identified as female only by the skirt and the too-bright red lipstick she wore shuffled out from the back and pointed at the stack of numbered plastic cards on the counter.
"The sign says take a number!" she squawked at him.
Surrendering to the old woman's stubbornness, he took card number sixty-seven off the hook and stood at the sign that said, 'Line forms here.' To his dismay, the crone shuffled back into the dispensary as if he wasn't there.
Mark waited for a minute or two, but when the decrepit old woman didn't return to call out his number, he began to wander about the shop, looking at the various supplies and equipment offered for sale. There were specially made, loose fitting cotton socks for diabetics, support hose, walkers and canes, toilet chairs, and bedpans and urinals for those confined to bed. Behind the glass counters, he saw all sorts of -ostomy, feeding-tube, and respiratory therapy supplies. One aisle was full of at least a hundred different kinds of bandages, and another was nothing but vitamins, herbs, and supplements. One wall was hung with nothing but trusses and girdles for treating hernias. Mark had to smile. This was truly an old-fashioned apothecary's shop, and he had no doubt that if he looked hard enough, he could still find a phial of laudanum somewhere in the place.
The store also had a small magazine and greeting card section toward the front. It was loaded with out-of-date magazines and newspapers, calendars that were several years old, and the sort of 'literature' that was usually sold in a plain, brown wrapper, and he busied himself there looking for something that might interest Steve. Nothing on the rack would entertain his son without humiliating him to purchase it, but he did find a charming, ancient, child's Viewmaster toy with several packets containing reels of images of the town from the late 1940's and early 1950's. Thinking that this was something he might like to preserve for posterity, he looked for a price tag, and was surprised to find the Viewmaster was only three dollars and the pictures were only $1.00 a pack.
Opening the box and one of the envelopes containing the reels of images, he slipped a cardboard and celluloid disc into the viewer, turned toward the window to get more light, and precariously balancing the other packets, card number sixty-seven and the viewer box in one hand, he marveled at the pictures as they presented themselves. There was something amazing and nostalgic about the images, and before he knew it, he was imagining himself in some romantic gangster film.
"Sixty-seven!" the crow cawed, startling Mark and causing him to throw his hands in the air, send the picture reels flying and nearly drop the Viewmaster. He collected himself as he collected the scattered pictures, and, with his arms full of an ungainly mess of objects, he walked carefully to the back of the pharmacy.
Depositing his collection of stuff on the counter, he said, "I'm number sixty-seven."
"Where's your card?"
He did not find it as he shuffled through the items on the counter, and turning to look down the aisle, he saw the card lying on the floor in front of the magazine stand. "I seem to have dropped it. I'll be right back."
"Well, hurry up," the old woman called after him as he walked down the aisle. "Other customers might be waiting."
Mark looked around the store, but it appeared that he was the only shopper in the place. He hurried anyway, not wanting to hear the lady's raspy voice urging him on again. Returning to the counter, he slapped the plastic card down and said, "I'm here to pick up some medication for Steven Sloan. It was prescribed by Doctor Erickson."
"Well, why didn't you say so?" the old hag snapped. "I was just filling that order when you came in."
Mark shrugged helplessly and sighed as the pharmacist shuffled back into the dispensary once more. While she was gone, he busied himself with putting the Viewmaster reels back into their envelope and the viewer back in its box. When the curmudgeon returned, he paid for Steve's medications. To his delight, he was also able to purchase the old Viewmaster and the three packets of pictures that went with it.
As he walked out of the store, he checked the labels on Steve's pill bottles and, thinking of the pharmacist's quirks, silently reminded himself to check the tablets to be sure that they were the right drugs and the right dosages. There were five compazine tablets in case of further nausea and a week's supply of Tylenol with codeine for pain.
"Doctor Wilfred Erickson," Mark murmured to himself as he read the label, "I'm with Cheryl. I think I'd prefer Wil, too."
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS
"Blackjack," Steve said, showing his cards.
"The gentleman wins again," the dealer proclaimed, and she paid Steve his winnings.
"I guess your luck hasn't turned bad after all," Ron said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You know what that means, don't you?"
"What?" Steve asked as he placed a bet for another hand.
"Doctor Erickson is just a better poker player than you."
Steve shrugged. "I know I'm not that good," he said, gesturing to the dealer for another card, "but you guys really stink."
Ron looked as if he was about to argue, but then thought better of it as he saw Cheryl, Mark, and Kathryn coming out of the elevator.
"Dealer takes a card," the young woman on the other side of the table said.
"The show starts in ninety minutes," Ron said. "Are you gonna have some dinner before we go?" Since they had all missed the Penn and Teller show due to Steve's illness, Danny O'Shea, the casino host who had been so grateful to Steve and Ron for catching Carter and Caitlin Sweeney, had acquired five tickets to Cirque du Soleil for Steve, Cheryl, Ron, Kathryn, and Mark.
Steve nodded. "Yeah, I could eat. Just let me finish this hand."
"Dealer has nineteen," the girl said.
Steve turned over his cards and said, "Twenty."
"And the gentleman wins again," the girl said cheerfully. After all, it wasn't her money that the handsome man was taking.
Steve tipped the dealer then collected his chips and went to the cashier to cash out.
"Good game?" Cheryl asked as he and Ron joined the group heading into the casino restaurant for the buffet.
"Doubled my money," Steve told her.
"And how are you feeling?" Mark asked, more concerned about his son's well being than his gambling luck.
For a quiet moment, Steve took a personal inventory, then he said, "Not too bad, but I think I will take my pain meds with me just in case."
Mark nodded. "Nothing wrong with being prepared."
As they worked down the buffet line, Steve would occasionally ask his dad about certain foods. Some Mark approved and others he warned against, and once, when Steve was reluctant to heed his dad's advice, Mark replied, "Eat it if you want to, but don't complain to me when you spend half the show in . . . reserved seating." Getting the message, Steve reluctantly passed up the coconut-fried shrimp.
"So, what did you think of my presentation?" Ron asked as Steve and Mark sat down.
"I don't know," Steve answered. "I suppose there are some trends that can be identified among a certain group, like saying that most serial killers wet the bed longer than normal kids, started fires, or tortured small animals; but I find it hard to believe you can predict the color car a guy drives with any regularity. I still think profiling has a lot more to do with intuition and instinct than science and statistics. I'd really like to see some proof of consistency."
"Proof? What kind of proof?" Ron queried.
"I don't know," Steve shrugged, taking a bite of steak. "Maybe if you took a dozen cases, ones that weren't widely publicized, and presented them to twenty FBI profilers. If they consistently produced similar profiles, and if those profiles were consistently more right than wrong, maybe then I would be convinced."
Cheryl, Ron, and Kathryn shared a look and Mark barely stifled a laugh. Looking around in confusion, Steve asked, "What? What did I miss?"
"You've been caught," Mark told him.
"What do you mean, 'caught'?"
"You left halfway through my presentation, didn't you?" Ron asked him.
"No, I did not. I stayed through to the end," Steve lied.
"No, you didn't, because if you had, you would know I did just what you suggested and got some very interesting results," Ron told him.
Chagrinned, Steve looked down at his plate and kept quiet, not knowing what to say.
"Hey, Partner," Cheryl said kindly, "we realize you're not superman, and really, being up and around two days after serious surgery is pretty amazing."
Kathryn laughed, "We know you're not ten feet tall and bullet proof, Sloan. If you need a rest, there's no shame in taking one, just don't lie to us about it." As she spoke, she flagged down a passing waiter and indicated to him that she wanted a refill of her strawberry margarita.
Steve sighed and said, "Ok, you've got me." Looking up at Ron he added, "I'd really like to see the results of your research sometime, but right now, can we just eat and go to the show?"
"Works for me," Ron said agreeably. "I'll make sure you get a copy of my presentation before we leave Vegas. I think if you read it all, it will make a believer out of you."
The five friends enjoyed dinner together, their conversation covering everything from sports and politics to shop talk and current events to the comparative virtues of tequila, rum, and vodka. Once they had finished, they went out to the lobby, and the doorman called up one of the hotel's limos, arranged, like the suites, by the grateful casino host, Danny O'Shea.
"You know, all this special treatment is starting to make me really uncomfortable," Ron complained as they settled into the gray, butter soft, leather upholstery of the limousine. Steve and Ron took the seat with their back to the driver and Mark sat between the two women facing them.
"I know what you mean," Steve agreed, grunting softly as he positioned himself in the seat. He still had the drainage tube and bag attached under his clothes and had to be careful not to sit on them or get them caught up on anything. "I keep expecting the rat squad to show up."
"Oh, come on, you two," Kathryn cajoled them as she took out the complimentary bottle of champagne from the on-board refrigerator and began to work the foil off the cork, "if the guy wants to express his appreciation for what you did, who are you to object?"
"Let's save that for the trip back," Ron said, taking the bottle from her hands and passing her a sparkling water instead. "It will go down better after dinner has settled for a while."
"Kathryn, we were just doing our jobs," Steve told her. "I don't know about the FBI, but a good cop doesn't take favors as payment for doing his job. There's a word for that."
"It's called racketeering," Ron interjected.
"But you didn't ask for anything," Kathryn continued, opening her water. "He offered it. So what's the problem?"
"The problem is, it's a fine line between a citizen offering something of his own free will and a citizen offering something to secure and ensure police services," Cheryl explained as she found a diet soda in the refrigerator and, taking two of the chilled glasses poured some for Steve and some for herself. "I can't believe you don't see that."
Handing Steve his drink, Cheryl tapped the pocket where she had seen him put his pain medication and gave him a commanding look. Steve made a face but nodded. He had hoped no one had noticed his discomfort as he climbed into the car, but now that he knew his partner had caught him, the best way to avoid becoming the center of attention was to simply comply with her wishes. Setting his glass in one of the drink holders on his side of the passenger compartment, he fished out his pills and took one, washing it down with the soda Cheryl had poured for him.
"I see the problem when a cop walks into a convenience store on his beat, twirling his night stick and helping himself to a little five-finger discount," Kathryn said, "but come on, Vegas isn't even in your jurisdiction or ours, so what does it hurt?"
"I have had cases with out of state ties before," Steve reminded her, "and the Feds by definition have national jurisdiction. There's no telling when one of us might have a case where all these special perks start to look like Danny O'Shea was taking out insurance instead of expressing his gratitude."
Mark, who had been idly flipping through a hotel discount booklet as the discussion went on around him finally broke in. "If you are concerned about that, Son," he said, handing the brochure to Steve, "then I suggest that you hold on to one of these."
Frowning, Steve asked, "What in the world for?"
"So you can prove that Mr. O'Shea hasn't offered you anything that isn't available to the general public," Mark said as if it should be obvious to everyone. "There's a coupon in there to upgrade two rooms to a suite if you rent them for a week when a suite is available. There's another for a night's free limo service when you rent a suite for a week, and a third for complimentary show tickets when you rent a block of four or more rooms. All Danny O'Shea did was find the best deals available for you. Anyone could get the same offers if they would look for them."
"You have got to be kidding me," Steve said in disbelief.
"Nope," Mark replied shaking his head. "It's all here in black and white."
"It's a wonder they make any money," Ron muttered.
"Oh, yeah? How much did you drop at the blackjack table?"Mark challenged him.
Ron thought a minute then nodded his understanding.
"The odds always favor the house," Mark explained. "Gambling is their bread and butter. Lodging and entertainment are just what they use to lure people in."
"So, Straight and Narrow's ethical dilemma is solved, right?" Kathryn asked, indicating Steve and Ron.
"I would say so," Mark agreed as the limo came to a stop.
"Good! Then can we please just enjoy the show!" As the driver opened the door, she extended her hand and allowed him to help her out of the vehicle.