Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Lyndy Life Observation: In my day “axe throwing” wasn’t a light-hearted first date activity enjoyed whilst clutching a mug of hipster craft beer. Rather it was something lethal you had to watch out for while working a sanction for CBB. In fact, Mr. Chan one time had to defend against a guy wielding an axe.

Rita Lovelace claimed to be named for the famous actress Rita Hayworth, and unlike much of her colorful boasting, Lyndy could believe this legend was true. Suited her.

Arriving in style, their Mercury coupe had been whisked off to a subterranean parking area by two sharp-dressed valets. It’s what she assumed. But even if it were currently being joy-ridden around town by imposters—well, who would’ve cared?

Now seated at a glamorous top floor lounge, both ladies having changed to eveningwear and done up their hair, Lyndy Martinez was feeling a bit like a celebrity herself. Already a stranger had approached them, requesting Miss Lovelace pose in a snap for the local paper, and she obliged. They even asked Lyndy to squeeze in beside.

“Here’s a question. Do you know if we should be eating raw fish this far from a wharf?” inquired The Spitfire, scrunching her nose. She had her sexy new platform boots dangling from a stool, arms propped on the wide marble countertop. Her question was meant to be rhetorical, as behind the counter, professional chefs sporting red and black coats prepared the food. Their hands moved faster than Lucy in the chocolate factory, yet they made no discernable mistakes.

Rita grinned back, deftly reaching for another caterpillar roll. Loaded with avocado, it seemed impossibly heavy and lopsided—liable to splatter on the floor—yet she plucked it with absolute grace. Her technique was something of a marvel, as she planted one chopstick end between her index and middle fingers and the other between her pinky and ring finger; a fisted style. Lovelace weirdness.

“Beats one of those two-dollar buffets at the Gold Nugget,” muttered Rita with a mouthful of sticky rice.

Meantime Lyndy struggled. “Yeah. Except I doubt I’ll get enough to eat unless I grow a third arm.”

Rita chuckled. “I dunno. I’m managing fine,” she replied. She patted her full stomach, then gulped down a glass of iced tea; presumably quenching a wasabi burn. Despite lack of rest, the fashion model showed no outward sign of slowing down.

A hired musician was playing Burt Bacharach tunes on a baby grand piano.

Beyond the piano, floor to ceiling architectural windows exhibiting a dazzling cityscape of casinos, millions of blinking incandescents, rapid motions enough to make you dizzy and endless jets touching down at McCarran airport. Across the street, a flashing yellow marquee indicated Captain-&-Tennille were performing nightly at the MGM Grand. Two tables away, a sizzling hibachi, aromas of charring steak tempting and delighting her other senses. Faintly, one could even perceive slot machines dinging on the casino floor below, and sometimes paying out. So entranced, she almost forgot why she was here.

Lyndy paused to wipe away soy sauce which smothered her lips. “So uh, can you explain what the auction is like?” She was referring to the illicit antiquities sale.

Rita dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the counter like a bad-ass, then inserted a long Newport in her mouth, igniting it with her gold lighter. She puffed as she began to speak. “Right. Changes location virtually every year. No way to tell unless you start asking around.” Rita flexed the fingers on her right hand in a shuffling motion. “Sometimes they use poker chips, you know, to avoid any money changing hands.”

“Then in theory you can say nothing was bought or sold, just trading among friends?”

“Exactly,” replied Rita, checking her watch. “One time it was staged at a large personal residence, another year in the basement of a hotel.”

“Alrighty,” said Lyndy, dabbing her eyes with a cocktail napkin. The spicy tuna was getting to her, causing them to water. “Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

Rita dipped a hand down her shirt front, retrieving from hiding places unknown a brass-colored room key. “Take this one in case you need it.” She passed it to Lyndy. “It’s ten-o-clock now. I’ll see you back here at 2:30.”

Lyndy frowned. “You’re ditching me? Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m meeting a friend who’s giving me a private tour of the King Tut exhibit. After we’re going to a night club or two.”

“Serious? Guy or girl?”

“Guy.”

“Fine. I get it.” Pushing away her square plate, Lyndy sniffed and rested her chin on her hands. “You don’t want a third wheel.”

“Awe, Hon. You’re off duty. Just have fun or something.” Rita gestured with the cigarette to the world outside the windows. “Later when I get back, we’ll go to a show together.”

“Why? Are you sleeping at all tonight?”

“Nope,” confirmed Rita, fishing the lemon wedge out of her empty glass, then biting into it. We’re there five minutes and Rita has a date.

---

Sometime after midnight …

Lyndy Life Observation: A guy I knew in Hollywood once told me if he was cruising out to Vegas for a long weekend, he never bothered packing a formal suitcase—waste of time. He would literally shove a toothbrush, floss and tube of toothpaste in a coat pocket, grab his car keys, wallet and take off. Didn’t need anything else.

On nights like these, she wanted to be noticed. Which is why Lyndy’s backless dress had an outrageous sunburst pattern across her torso, screen printed and glittering in a bronze metallic sheen. Her hair was twisted by the skilled hand of Rita into a neat, 12-inch conical bun. An accessory belt squeezed her middle, decorated with about a hundred sequins. She even wore 3-inch gold hoop earrings. Of course, the plunging neckline in front and lack of a back made any kind of bra impractical; running or fast walking was out of the question. Hopefully there would be none of that.

She might not have been the only girl around with enormous hair. But you better wear sunglasses if you wanna look at me!

And ever notice how there’s never a wall clock in a casino? They don’t allow windows either. Those blood suckers don’t want you to know whether it’s day or night. They count on you losing track of time, a gambling zombie pumped full of mojitos.

Softly she dragged the tip of a purple lipstick tube across her upper lip. Then she smacked them together while raising the corners to peek at her cards. Her other elbow rested against the edge guard of the blackjack table. Back home, Lyndy had a habit of pinning her cards down with three fingers, but this dealer wouldn’t allow her to do so, chastising her in public. He hit on all soft seventeens too. They could take the joy out of anything. At her side, a dwindling stack of casino chips and likewise pathetically dry wineglass.

The dealer called for bets and The Spitfire pushed a single blue chip across the table. She looked him in the eye and he stared back like, “are you serious lady? I have a queen.”

Lyndy wondered how Miss Lovelace’s night was going.

Two tables away, a young floorman or pit boss hovered. She noticed he’d been keeping track of her. Tall and slimmer than most of his colleagues, he wore a tailored plaid suit, dark glasses and a fancy indoor cowboy hat. She watched as he passed a stack of quarters to the cigarette girl, and she returned to him a pack of camels. He’d been on shift quite some time, as his five-o-clock shadow was becoming the trappings of a close-cut beard.

“Nineteen! Sorry miss, house wins again.” The dealer clawed her chip away.

As he shoved the pack in his suit pocket, the fellow glanced her way again. He began to pace, moving with authority between her table and the next, this time lowering his glasses all the way. At last, their eyes met, and though awkward, having come nearer she could tell he was quite handsome—a bit roguish—no older than 35. Lyndy attempted a recovery and coy smile.

A slot machine dinged repeatedly; the earsplitting tones of a payout filled the floor. She returned her attention to the game. Next she knew, Lyndy sensed movement and a rush of air in her periphery, realizing the man had taken up an open seat aside her. He removed the hat and glasses, now eyeing her purse plus the empty drink. Her one fear, that he might ask to search her purse and find the Beretta.

She flashed him her finest smile, then gazed down at the table forlornly. “Ahem. This is definitely not my night,” she said with an exhale.

“I’ve been watching you for the last hour, and I know why you keep losing,” he stated confidently.

“Oh really, why is that?” she challenged.

The dealer was frustrated by this interruption; however, he had little choice other than defer to the presence of a senior employee. It was further evidence this young man was more than a fellow gambler.

“Miss, you are at table number thirteen,” he answered, pointing an index finger on the center edge, underneath the padding. Therein featured a small engraved plaque, with the roman numerals XIII. “This is quite possibly the worst table in the house.”

“Ewww. You’re right!” Lyndy exclaimed, rotating 90 degrees in her stool to face the stranger. “Well, this explains a lot. Story of my life.”

The dealer had a frown on his face and folded his arms.

“You can call me Graham,” said the young man, extending a hand. She sensed a relief in his voice, as though he’d been nervous to meet and introduce himself.

Delicately she shook his hand, wanting to appear sophisticated. “Lyndy,” she replied.

Tilting toward the north wall, where a windowed room and ornate double doors could be seen, he offered, “how bout coming with me and trying something a little more exciting for a change?”

Hopefully it was a simple pickup line. She peered across the casino, through a floating fog of smoke—just setting foot in here was probably carcinogenic—to see if she could tell what was going on in the darkened area. Then she spread her middle finger and thumb, gesturing between them. “Oh …uh, but we’re still talking about gambling, correct?”

Graham laughed. “Yes. Of course.”

Lyndy raised an eyebrow, glaring at Graham. “If it’s roulette or craps I have to stop you. Cause dude I’m telling you I’m bad luck. It’ll be like shoving money in a furnace.”

Graham shook his head. “No, no. Trust me. You won’t regret it.”

“Well, I’ve got nothing else to lose.” She tipped back the last remainder of her drink. “To tell the truth, I’ve had better wine at a communion.”

“And you don’t look like bad luck to me.”

She stood up, collecting her purse. “Is that so?” Now she needed to focus on not tripping in her tall shoes, looking like a klutz. Lyndy proceeded to follow Graham, snaking between busy tables and stools.

Arriving at the heavy inner doors, he unlatched it for her using one of those turned handles spanning top to bottom. She let her eyes adjust. At the other side, in uneven lighting like one of those classy steakhouses, more people. Yet the carpets here were ruby red. Your average stiff wasn’t getting in here.

An employee in a tux stood before her, offering a container roughly the size of a See’s candy box. She accepted, peeking under the lid. “Holy mackerel! This is like $2500 in tokens,” she thought, but didn’t dare repeat.

“Complements of the house,” the man said, touching the brim of his hat.

The room featured four games: baccarat, roulette, craps and Texas Hold’Em poker. There was really only a single choice, because it was the one game she knew she was good at. She peered over at Graham, who was about to leave. He nodded and shoved on his glasses, as if indicating he had to keep working.

After shuffling over, The Spitfire stood at the poker table meekly, her tray appearing like an open pack of Oreo cookies in her hands. Men were staring. Big middle age seventies guys. Grumpy faces. Couple of sophisticated older chicks, Ritas in twenty or so years.

She needed to think of something really clever to say, because she didn’t belong here. She inhaled deeply. “My boss gave me the night off, so ….” Everyone continued staring. Lyndy sighed. “Uh…after seeing me would you all believe my mother was a redhead?” She glanced at everyone, nodding her head. It broke the ice. A few people laughed. Everyone smiled.

---

The next morning …

She could hear television static.

Lyndy opened an eye, becoming aware her surroundings were flooding with sunlight. But they were nice surroundings. You know when you slept too hard, you wake up and you’re so disoriented you don’t even know your name? Through a gap in the curtains, she could see dry ridges. She focused on an intense glow, a dip in the mountains where the sun had emerged. The line spread side to side, expanding along the horizon. Beside the nightstand, her flashy dress and other clothing lay scattered on the shag carpet. Other than static and a faintly ticking flip-clock, the space was quiet.

Their room was situated on the second highest floor, and at this altitude all was peaceful. “Rita must have left the TV on,” she thought. Lyndy planned on covering her head with a pillow to block the light, then drifting back to sleep. She rubbed a palm against her cheek and it seemed gritty with desert sand.

Shifting her view, she spied the other queen bed. Miss Lovelace was there, flat on her back, chest rising and falling rhythmically. No covers on her upper body—all having been pushed to her feet. She had a thin bra and one diamond, the size of a baby’s tooth glinting in the recess of her sternum. It was secured on a platinum chain.

Lyndy chuckled to herself. Doesn’t matter who you think you are or what you try, sleep catches up with you. Were she awake, Rita would hate having her body uncovered, even to a close friend. And oddly her skin was all beet red, looking sunburned.

“Sheesh. How does anybody sleep on their back?” wondered Lyndy. “It’s so unnatural.”

Lyndy threw aside her own covers. She had to give the girl some credit. This hotel bed was plush, and the sheets—though certainly a cotton blend—well, they felt almost like silk. She ran her fingertips across the pillowcase, smooth and soft as a baby duck.

Then she felt her stomach tighten. It wasn’t hunger. She inhaled, staring urgently at Miss Lovelace. Twisting at the hips, The Spitfire planted both feet on the carpet and rushed to the other bed.

“Rita, you should wake up,” pleaded Lyndy, tugging on Rita’s ankle.

“What?” replied Rita, as she yanked the sheets over herself. “What’s happening? What time is it?”

“It’s morning. You fell asleep.”

“Oof. My head really hurts.” said Rita groggily.

“You have a rash on your torso!” cried Lyndy.

“A rash?” Rita pushed herself up onto her elbows, poking her head under the sheets. Her head popped out immediately and the expression on her face was pure terror. “You’re right. I have blisters too. It’s all over my ribs!” Kicking with both feet, she worked her way back to the padded headboard, propping herself higher. “It’s painful too. Feels like burning.”

Click! The flip alarm clock turned over, displaying 08:00.

“Let me have a closer look,” implored Lyndy. 

“No way.” Rita twisted herself further into the sheets. “What am I gonna do?”

“I dunno. I need to see. Maybe it’s chicken pox?”

Lyndy tried to touch her but Rita squirmed away, crawling for the other side of the bed. “I already had chicken pox. I have to get to the tub.” She hopped down to the floor and scurried to the bathroom, wanting to check herself in the mirror. She slammed the bathroom door as she entered.

“Want me to find you some calamine lotion? I could go to a drug store,” offered Lyndy.

“No, Lyn,” replied Rita from behind the closed door.

“You know it could just be an allergic reaction to something we ate. We each ate a pound of raw fish last night—which now that I think about it is pretty suspicious. Bad seafood can cause a rash. Or … or maybe it’s the hotel’s laundry detergent?”

The door opened partway, enough for Lyndy to see the angry face and reddish upper-chest of Miss Lovelace. “Lyn, it’s the curse. Dr. Tarner played the flute.”

“Okay. Okay. Let’s assume you’re right. Then what do I do?”

“GET THE FLUTE BACK!”