Private Vegas (Private 9)

Olsen had been banned from the card tables, but that didn’t matter. He was still in the game. From where he sat in the plush armchair, he could see Tule.

Tule was twenty-two, petite, with skin as smooth as Baileys Irish Cream. He’d met her when she was serving drinks in the VIP lounge at the Black Diamond Hotel and Casino. Right now, this adorable woman wore a Reem Acra gold-sequined dress that cost around three thousand dollars, Cartier’s wrapped citrine earrings, and strappy Manolo Blahnik sandals, all of which he’d paid for.

Les heard Tule say to the dealer, “Hit me,” then saw her peek at her cards. The guy sitting next to her was an industrialist with a heart of stone. He looked very good for seventy-eight, wore an Armani tux and a big diamond-studded Rolex that matched his silver hair. He whispered to the young Filipino woman.

Tule nodded, then said with confidence, “I’ll see you and raise you—this much.”

She pushed towers of chips toward the pot with both hands.

A waiter walked into Olsen’s view, replaced his empty glass with a new tumbler of Woodford Reserve. When Olsen could see the card table again, Tule was dancing around her date, kissing his face, crying out, “Wowee. Honeyyyy. We did it.”

Nice sound of chips stacking on their side of the table. Looked like they were having a good time.

Tule moved away from the table, and his phone buzzed.

He picked up, saw Tule’s face on his screen.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. Les had paid to have her teeth straightened and veneered. The guy had done a very good job. Perfect, actually.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“I just made ten grand in two minutes.”

He laughed. “I know. Good for you.”

She said, “Could you meet me near the little girls’ room?”

“Absolutely.”

He left his drink on the table, walked past the bar, caught up with her when she stopped in the alcove. She stretched up her arms, put them around his neck, and, getting up on tiptoes, kissed him on the mouth.

“I adore you,” she said.

He squeezed her, swayed with her a little bit, kissed her neck like she was a baby, making her giggle. Then he straightened them both up and looked into her eyes.

“Tell me, Tule. I really want to know.”

“We’re getting married,” she said. She was keyed up, trying to keep her excitement in check.

“Seriously? That is awesome,” said the brown-eyed man. “When?”

“Tonight,” said Tule. “In a chapel up the street.”

“No way.” Then: “You’re phenomenal.”

“I owe it all to you,” she said.

“Not all of it.”

She grabbed his hand and laughed. They both did.

“I’ll call you from Cannes. France. That’s where we’re going on our honeymoon.”

“Wow. Give me another hug. Stay in touch. I mean it.”

They hugged and he patted her bouncy little behind “for luck.”

Then Olsen went to the elevator, stabbed the button with one twisted finger. He whistled as the car took him down silently, smoothly to the main floor, and from there, he walked out into the timeless neon life of the Strip.