Night Out After Poker (NOIR) III and IV

"You most certainly can."

He turns to Kathy, "Kathy, right?"

"Yeah?" She gives him a look of total derision. Cockblock.

He gets up and whispers to her something you can't hear. She smiles. She says something back.

Erica's back with the receipt. You tip her five hundred. Too much. Awkward. She refuses to accept it twice, then takes it. Sorry.

As you turn back around to Kathy and your boy, they're both standing, him with a big dumb grin. She hands you a keycard.

"Concierge level, 812."

"Really? We're 1014. It's kind of --"

"So, I'll see you in like an hour or so?" She forces the key on you, not that you were fighting her, and wanders off.

Your friend gestures to lead the way out of the club. You start walking. You take extra special care to smile at Men's Warehouse on the way out the door.

"Two things. Got us a small game of $20 Knock for this afternoon. And -- we're going for a limo ride."

What he said probably needs some explaining. Knock is a poker game. When he says that he got a game, it means that a bunch of people are going to be holding a game in a hotel room. Usually, mini tournament type things of moderate stakes. Typically rotating games or shit that just isn't dealt on the casino floor. Illegal in the eyes of the casinos as they'd rather see you pay rake to the house playing on the floor. Not exactly something easy to spot. Well, until they put fucking cameras inside the actual rooms.

Knock is a weird game as far as poker goes. Each players antes, in this case, twenty bucks, and they get initially two cards face down. Action is left of the dealer. A player may knock or pass. Knocking is like declaring you have the strongest hand so far. So a pair down, ace high, king high, whatever are all strong hands, the type of shit you might knock with.

If you decide to knock, from the left of you, players can elect to challenge. Multiple players can challenge. Each challenger confidentially exchanges their hands with the player who knocked, and checks to see who had the stronger hand thus far. The loser pays the winner an amount equal to what's in the pot. A player who knocks can lose to multiple players. If you knock and receive no challenges, you take all the money from the pot. This repeats until each player is dealt a hand of five cards, and each player is required to ante before the next round every time a round passes in which there are no challenges.

After all five cards are dealt, the game can only end if and only if, on fifth, a player knocks and receives no challenges -- if not, the deck is shuffled, the game resets to two cards, and players ante into the ever escalating pot. It's basically a progressive pot game -- it's not that rare for pots to be many many times the size of the initial starting size. Hands like straights and flushes only count once you've got a hand of five cards, shit like that are normally called 'sleeper' hands, and can be monsters once the pot gets to be size.

It's a cowboy's game for sure. Tons of bluffing. People bluff who wins on knocks and challenges even. The winner paying the loser instead, etc. It's a real bastard fucking game and is typically a bloodbath where at least one player gets burnt for a few grand very fast. You're bloody terrible at the game, but usually can at least keep yourself out of serious trouble. Regardless, it's a fucking riot. Not to be missed for anything. Except maybe a girl...

And then there's the limo ride. Limo drivers do two things in Vegas. Well they probably do lots of other things, but two things that they most certainly do is a) drive people places and b) sell mediocre quality drugs of all sorts. You buy off the same driver every time you're out here, but he's not the only guy selling; limo drivers selling coke is a fucking industry out here.

Your friend makes the call and it's going to be a fifteen minute wait before Teddy, your "limo driver" shows up to meet you out front of Caesar's. It's a fifteen minute walk anyways.

You remember your first time buying in Vegas before you had a clue about full limousine service. Four years ago getting a backroom dance at Rhino asking shyly, "You know where one can buy out here?" That's a whole 'nother story though.

Teddy is a fucking character himself. Extremely young, mid twenties, former UC Berkley Birkenstock's type hippie. West Coast Birkenstock's. That is pretty goddamn hardcore hippie. Obsessed with talking about investments every time you see him. Constantly has a bunch of reasonably intelligent, but not terribly well thought out, "killer" trades. Not sure if he studied finance or not, but has a pretty solid grasp of option theory and generally understands market fundamentals and basic economics shockingly well. Needs to invest his ill-gotten gains somehow.

Skip ahead and you're climbing into the back of his Towncar. Goddamn, he really needs to upgrade to the Bentley over this piece of shit.

"Boys, price is two hundred, sorry, no --"

"Cool." Your friend exchanges four bills for two bags handing one to you. Jacket pocket. "Ride's free?" He turns to you, "For your girl."

"'Course. Where to?"

"Bellagio real quick, then over to Venetian. Won't take more than twenty minutes."

"Yeah, no problem bros."

Teddy looks like he's doing well for himself. Can't exactly identify the make of the suit. Charcoal, well cut, looks expensive. He's wearing a gorgeous IWC Portofino with Breguet hands. Not a cheap watch. Classic, simple white face with roman numerals. Smaller inset circle for seconds on the left and an opposing circle on the right for phase of the moon. The moon phase is gorgeously illustrated. Limited run watch. Only a few hundred ever made. Clearly, you're not one of his bigger customers. But, you have a history. And you humor him. Sometimes.

You pull away from the front of Caesar's. In the summer, the casino entrance is glamor -- very red carpet. Extremely crowded. Tons of high rollers, beautiful women in extravagant evening gowns, and all breeds of exotic cars. This cold dawn, the entrance is desolate with the exception of a few Asian couples in pullover fleeces.

It's empty because it's Christmas Eve and Vegas is really not a place for locals. Sure, the poker rooms have their share, but Vegas, by and large, despite its critics, doesn't seem to feed much on the local inhabitants.

In other parts of the world, locals aren't allowed to play in casinos -- many places allow foreigners only. The logic is that the casinos should exist to bring wealth to the region, not feed off the area's citizens. In Seoul, you can't sit in a poker room or play a hand of blackjack without a fucking passport. Same is true in lots of places in Europe and Southeast Asia. Local restrictions on gambling are why Macao is now a bigger gambling capital than Vegas.

Your daydreaming about what defines Vegas is interrupted as you start paying attention to the stupid conversation in the car and Teddy's typical nonsense.

"Right. So, we're talking high probability of further rate cuts. That's obvious. But see --" Yeah, Teddy is one to use expressions like "But see" ad nauseam.

"But see, my thinking goes like this. Commodities obviously get hot because the rate cuts leave the dollar even more impotent than it is. But the play is on the Vega of commodities, don't need outright deltas."

"Why the fuck do you want commodity vol?" Your friend plays along. Well, maybe not.

They go on for a while. Teddy basically thinks that the growing uncertainty in the US stock market is going to lead to bigger volatility in the moves of commodities such as gold, oil, and ags (agricultures) such as corn, wheat, and sugar. His logic makes some sense. As stocks break, equity volatility increases. When they rally, vol goes down. Naively, a one dollar move on a ten dollar stock is bigger than a one dollar move on a twenty dollar stock -- that's a big oversimplification but it doesn't really fucking matter, the point is that a lot of people don't bet on whether shit like gold or oil is going to go up or down, they just bet on whether it's going to move around a lot. If you're long volatility and things move around a lot, you profit -- and vice versa. Vega is a measure of volatility exposure, if you're long Vega, you're long volatility and thus hope for big moves in prices. Delta is your typical long or short price exposure. If you own typical equities or mutual funds, you're long US equity Delta. Fuck it, moving on.

Because US equities are generally tanking, the Fed is pressured to cut rates to alleviate pressure. This weakens the dollar and thus the price of any commodity increases as it takes more of the, now less valuable, dollars to buy them. It's not rocket surgery.

You chime in. "Uncertainty is just uncertainty. It's not necessarily volatility. Plus it's the wrong vol."

"Well, what do you think's a good trade?"

You think for a sec. "Long gold."

He laughs. "Yeah?"

"Short credit spreads as always. Sell the fuck out of other commodity Vega and Gamma and keep the Deltas. Don't sell the gold options. Pick up financials on the cheap and if they tank further, play it like commodities with buy-rights on shit like XLF or whatever."

Alpha cuts you off, "Basically, buy Shittygroup (C) when it hits twenty bucks and sell some forty dollar calls. Here we are."

Alpha hops out before the car come to a stop, "It's just him going back to Venetian. Thanks, Teddy."

"Actually, I'll get out here too. I gotta --" You can't think of anything, but you'd rather walk twenty minutes in the cold than listen to shit that just reminds you of work for ten.

Alpha covers. "Yeah, you better come too actually. Next time, Teddy."

"Alright kid, see you boys."

Once your inside, "You know he's really not that much older than us. Why the fuck must he call us boy or kid nonfuckingstop."

"He's straight. Now go have some fun." Alpha grabs your phone out your hand.

"I'm fucking tired."

"We're playing at two. I'll text you the room number, but it'll be in here."

"Uh, okay."

"Good night." Filthy mischievous smile. He returns your phone with What These Bitches Want blasting out the pitiful phone speakers.

You start the long walk back to the Venetian opting for the outdoor route. Maybe the cold will wake you up. What the fuck is your friend up to anyways? So goddamn mysterious all the time.

I fuck with these hoes from a distance
The instant they start to catch feelings
I start to stealin' they shit
then I'm out just like a thief in the night
I sink my teeth in to bite
You thinkin' life, I'm thinkin' more like - whassup tonight?

Vegas is undeniably gorgeous at night. But, it's about thirty degrees out and you're now feeling plenty awake. Awake enough to walk faster. You quickly make your way up past Caesar's and the Mirage and finally cross Las Vegas Boulevard to make your way back into the Venetian's lobby. You check your watch. 6:35. You ride the elevator up to the Concierge level suites.

***

Despite the late hour, the hallway is deserted. Newspapers, room service trays, and little Do Not Disturb notices are nonetheless proof that you aren't exactly alone. It's juvenile, yet somehow affirming to count the number of doors tagged with Do Not Disturb -- at least a few people are getting it right. You're looking for suite number 812. 816, 814, 812. You slide in the key card. The door gently chirps. The little LEDs blink green as the lock unlatches.

You pause for a second and take a breath and then relax it into a smile.

Knocking softly as you push open the door elicits no response. "Kathy." Nothing. "Hey, Kathy." Still nothing.

The door closes startlingly loudly behind you. Smooth.

The lamps are all lit and the little black and gold heels she wore to the club lie awkwardly on their side a few feet ahead of you. Flared jeans with heels? "Kathy, " you repeat somewhat louder.

The oversize double French door bathroom is ajar and unlit. From the light peeling around the silhouetted doors, a fucking explosion of women's beauty products are visible scattered across the sinks, floor, and little make-up station mirror area. And to think you only had the concierge send you up a razor and toothbrush. Long end of the stick indeed.

Kathy lies awkwardly face down on her side in one of the room's two queen beds. The canopy lights are off but the bright lights of the room make it immediately fucking clear that something is terribly not right. The little black side-tie panties and matching bra are not making it easier to recognize what's out of place. And holy fuck is this one hotter than you had first imagined.

And yet.

Vomit on the sheets and pillowcase. And her lips, and her cheek.

Fuck. Alcohol poisoning? Worse? Fuck.

She needs to wake the fuck up. Arousal turns to panic instantly. "Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, wake up. Hey, wake up. Kathy, come on. Kathy, wake up" as you gently shake her. Nothing. The skin on the back of her shoulder is clammy to the touch. And cool. And soft. Fuck.

Her tan is fake. She has little freckles on her shoulder and their color is definitely more washed out than they'd be from a natural tan. She doesn't have the normal smell or speckled-ness that typically come from spray-ons though. A lot of guys have a weird bias against artificially enhanced beauty -- not you, the ends justify the means or some such thing. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you thinking this shit right now? Breathing, check her breathing. How?

You rest your hand where her chest and neck intersect to try to count her breaths. Trying very hard to avoid copping a feel. This girl probably got dressed up just now to fuck you, but you're afraid of crossing some sort of boundary trying to save her life? Still, whatever, you can feel her breaths from up here. Her breaths are steady. Every few seconds. Normal. The transparency of her lace bra is so suddenly obvious. Almost causing you to recoil your hand. Almost.

You shake her gently and call her name a few times. Still nothing. You slide your fingers up her neck a bit to feel her pulse -- it seems normal not that you have any fucking clue what that has to do with anything.

If she's breathing fine, there's no reason to call 9-1-1 or hotel security. Might not be alcohol anyways and no need to get her in some fucked up trouble over nothing. You look around the room for anything else she might have been using. You did bring this girl an eight ball so it's not like she's too proper to fucking party, who knows what's around the room.

The suite is a mirror image to the room you share with two of your friends. Large, but not ridiculous. The nicest suite money can buy short of the penthouse, but it's honestly disappointing. It's a small upgrade over what you'd see at some bumblefuck Embassy Suites. The vacant bed you take to be one of her friends and the folded out sofa in the lower lounge of the suite must belong to the other. Despite the fact that it's quickly becoming middle morning, both are probably not likely to return anytime soon from their away games.

The lounge area is littered in bags from the typical high end Vegas boutiques. What little carpet that manages to peek around the bags is smothered in loose articles of clothing or magazines. A pink and black Thomas Pink bag catches your eye. Nice.

The two oversize plush chairs that nuzzle up against the window overlooking the strip are similarly covered in loose articles of clothing or bags. A pair of what looks to be 45RPMs are messily crumpled up at the foot of one of the two chairs. A denim geek would probably freak out at the blasphemy. Or jizz himself. Whatever.

There's nothing obvious lying around that she might have been using. There's not even any alcohol lying about the room. The mini-bar is closed and honestly could not be opened without moving a half dozen bags out of the way. If she did more than drink, it's either well hidden or she didn't do it here.

Still no movement or response from Kathy as you return to the main room calling out her name. You contemplate calling one of your friends to ask for advice to realize your piece of shit iPhone's batteries have died. Thank god you spent that last 5% of your battery life on DMX. You realize you don't know a single one of your friend's telephones numbers by memory, so the land line in the room is also a bust. If need be, you could call your cousin out in L.A. and get him to dial one of your friend's cells, but that's a lifeline you really don't want to fucking use.

Maybe her phone? Use her cell to call one of her friends? Man, that sounds like a fucking awesome conversation. Hi, I'm some sketchy guy from the club that wanted to hook up with your friend, can you come see if she's okay? Still, it's better than nothing and there's something beautiful about tragically awkward phone calls.

Her phone's on her bed's sidetable along with, and this is fucking odd, a hardcover edition of the Phantom Toolbooth with the jacket removed and one of those little $1.99 grab-and-go Teddy Grahams cups you find at 7-11s or gas stations. Just Teddy Grahams inside the cup. The book rests open face down on the table. Chapter 12.

Her phone's dead. You look around the room for a charger. Nothing. That's convenient. Two dead cell phones. Technology -- it makes our lives easier.

Kathy stirs gently on the bed, startling you enormously as you were mid paragraph, and rolls back onto her stomach, pushing her face back into her, still vomit soaked, pillow. Charming.

"Kathy."

"Kathy." Still no response, but movement is good, right? You get up to turn her back onto her side and stop. Two, not quite symmetric, very small, outward-facing half moon scars creep above the rim of her panties on her backside, one per side. You notice two more higher up her back. Your stomach drops a bit knowing what they probably indicate. A charming ex-boyfriend to be sure.

A few minutes later you're still thinking of the little scars as you mop up the vomit from her pillowcase and sheets with a wet towel. The best you can anyways. Her face is at least clean and the bed is slightly less disgusting. You take a bath robe from the top of the closet and lay it over her as you once again rotate her off her stomach back onto her side.

Her skin is still too pale, clammy, and cool for you to relax much. Honestly, the best thing to do in these situations is to always get the person awake. You shake her gently. Still nothing. You remember hearing that pinching the skin below the triceps is a sure fire way to wake someone up. You think how awkward that would be if it worked. You try it anyways.

She lurches across the bed, wide awake, her eyes a mix of shock and anger.

You don't know what the fuck to say.

Apparently, neither does she.

She's sort of awkwardly half-sitting, half lying in the bed. One leg straight, the other bent at the knee, with her palm supporting most of her weight. Strangely hot.

"What did I do?" She pulls the robe up to cover herself.

"Nothing. You were, you were just sick."

She looks at the still damp sheets. The pillowcase you already replaced. "I'm sorry, could you, could you--" She stutters oddly shyly.

"Leave? I'm sorry yeah."

"Stay."

She reaches across the bed to grasp your hand. It's not how it was before. Your heart doesn't race. But who are you kidding really? You had planned on getting fucked up with this girl so you could fuck her brain outs. Not really sure who needs the coke more for that to happen, but whatever. Either way, you're no fucking saint. And honestly, you want the fuck out of here. You're not her friend. You don't know her last name or anything about her except she's willing to fuck a guy like you knowing just as little. Instead you've had a night of weird conflicting emotions and lots and lots of guilt. No thanks.

"We can fuck later on. Please stay. My friends don't usually come back till after noon."