“And ask about Wendy’s brothers,” I add, so only he can hear. “You are, anyway. Right?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Pan says, looking around the room. “That?—”
“You guys have ants in your kitchen.” A female voice and the clomp of heels comes from the back of the shop as Ruby, Emerald, and Pearl emerge from the back.
“Whoa,” she says, slowing a bit and taking in the shop. “Am I in the same place?”
“I know, right?” Pan grins. “You’d never know this was a two-bit tattoo parlor.”
“Hey,” Kit says, but shuffles off to the spiral stairs.
It’s true. Pushing things out of the way, turning the cabinets, setting up a table and a few artful screens makes it look… I mean, nowhere near like a legitimate casino, but not bad either. Welcoming. The lights are low. Blue put some music on the surround sound. And even Pan’s dressed up a little. Well, asdressed up as he gets, in clean jeans and a matching vest with frayed seams at the arms and what seems like every earring he owns stabbed into his earlobes. There is a fresh coat of black polish on his nails, and the gleam in his eyes is hungry—not predatory exactly, but ready to pounce all the same.
“Just try to keep the ants out of the drinks, okay?” I say to Emerald, who nods even as she wrinkles her nose.
“I mean, I’ll do what I can, but…”
“The last thing we need is people getting angry over petty shit,” I say. “For your sake, least of all.”
She swallows but tips her chin and stares at me, almost equal to my height in her high heels. She’s dressed a little bit classier than her lagoon wear, a bandage dress in a teal-turquoise ombre. Hoop earrings but tastefully small, not big enough to wear as bangles. And her hair in soft, heatless curls. She looks nice, like a real cocktail waitress at a real upscale club.
“Yo, yo.” Pan sidles up and slings an elbow around my neck. “If it isn’t my two favorite blondes.”
Emerald rolls her eyes, sighs, and stalks away to the kitchen, gesturing the other girls to follow. As she does, Pan sucks his teeth near my ear, loud enough that I can tell I’m supposed to notice.
“Trouble in paradise?” I say in a low voice.
“Eh, you know.” He shrugs, not letting go of me. “Women.”
It’s all I can do not to snort. “Yeah.” I inhale sharply. “So what’s the plan?”
Pan lets me go, stuffs his hands in his vest pockets, and shrugs. “You know, the usual. You’ve got the cash box?”
“Yeah.” It’s back on the desk of the shop, near the cash register, but not mingled with the shop money, per se. I’ve got the buy-in and cash-out sheet and a record for house credit, just like Kit had done before. And Kit’s smart, but he’s not a numbers guy, or someone with especially good handwriting. Kind ofsurprising, if I’m being honest, given that he’s an artist. But I understand the concept enough and I retooled the balance sheet a little. Not that I’ve ever been that great at math, but I kind of had to learn when I was literally counting pennies.
“Yeah, so same old, same old,” Pan says. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Don’t give markers to anyone doesn’t look like they’ll pay ‘em back. And uh…”
“No, I mean,” I mutter, or shake my head, “you’re going to try and figure out what people know about Mike and JD, right?” I feel like I have to put it plainly because the closer we’ve gotten to this game, the less I’ve felt like he’s taking that part seriously.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, totally,” Pan says, nodding. He cocks his head. “You think I can’t multitask? I’ve got ulterior motives out the ass here.” He sticks his tongue through his teeth, smiling. “Lots of scores to settle,” he says idly.
I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like the sound of it at all. I think of Wendy upstairs with Kit, eating popcorn, hopefully entirely blissfully unaware of what’s going on down here. In a twisted way, it is in her best interest. It’s the best of all bad options. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in my months of being Tink, in my whole life, it’s that sometimes the best of all bad options is all you get.
I’m about to say as much to Pan, but there’s a rap at the front door. He snaps his neck around and stares. “All right, boys,” he says to Fox and Blue. “Send in the clowns.”
It’s busy, busier than I’ve seen one of these games before. It was a trickle at first of players, guys I’ve seen before. No one overly threatening. Middle-aged, overweight, balding. Polo shirts and expensive watches. Reading glasses, salt and pepper hair. Guys with kids and families coming in from out of town, maxed out on credit lines elsewhere but needing a fix, hoping to turn around their fortunes. I learned a long time ago that the real whales—the guys who bet big, spend big, and mostly lose big—are not as flashy as you’d think. They’re not movie mobsters in pinstripe suits or Hell’s Angel types in leather chaps. They’re kind of boring, honestly. But boring can be good. Means they’re not likely to throw a punch.
At least, not on any of us, not on someone who might be able to fight back.
From behind the desk, I swallow.
But now it’s picked up. It’s—I glance at my phone—nine forty-five, the night getting in full swing. And the table’s packed, so much so that we broke open a satellite game. The mermaids have barely stood still, picking up and setting down glasses in double time, yet still somehow finding a second or two to tilt their head and smile, even let the occasional hand graze their ass if it comes with folding money on the back end.
More guys show up that I don’t recognize. Fewer of the suburban commuters, but nothing too creepy looking yet. Blue and Fox mostly hover by the door at the lounge area, greeting people. Not like they’re checking IDs or anything. Sending them my way for a nominal seat fee and then buying in with their chips. I haven’t moved much from where I’m sitting, mostly just watching but trying not to seem like I am watching, like I am observing too closely.
And even then, for the most part, I just look at Pan. He’s in full showman mode, grinning, slapping backs, shaking hands, making jokes. Sipping whatever the girls bring him and even tossing back an occasional shot. Right now he’s hovering at the edge of the table as a guy in a T-shirt with Take it Easy and a parrot in sunglasses on it slams a hand of cards down on the table. Pan gives him a bracing pat on the shoulder, tips his head, and then gestures at me with what looks like a question. But the guy waves him off. Ashen-faced, Pan pouts a little, jabs him again, says what’s clearly “Come on, man,” but the guy brushes him off, gets to his feet, drains the rest of his beer, and stalks off.
I catch my cheek between my teeth. And Pan meets my eyes. He grimaces a little and walks my way.
