A plastic shopping bag tumbled across the gravel parking lot. Dad pulled the truck up to a rusted-out, sheet metal warehouse. Stenciled across its corrugated wall, in faded red paint, said, Dorman Box & Box Accessories Unlimited, Established 1923.
I squinted at it. "What'a you think a 'box accessory' is?"
"Tape," Dad said, spitting out a sunflower seed. "Smaller boxes."
"Like boxes that go inside boxes?"
"Yep."
"You think we can see some?"
"No."
"You take the fun out of everything."
We got out of the truck. Even though it was high noon, a chill wind whipped across the parking lot, cutting through my thin denim jacket. Tonight would be Halloween. It was the perfect time to go waltzing into some sketchy warehouse. This place needed to be condemned, especially the way the whole thing leaned to one side. It had that enter-here-only-if-you're-willing-to-lose-an-arm kinda feel. You'd never know this was one of Dallas's hottest underground casinos. It was the only place where you could make a million-dollar bet on a single roll of craps, and they'd guarantee it. And, if you won, they wouldn't take you outside and work you over with a baseball bat. Or set your car on fire. It was run by classy people. So, even though the outside looked like a recipe for a USDA Prime horror movie, the parking lot was packed out with luxury, high-end, pickup trucks.
Dad checked his watch, almost time for his meeting. He popped a few more sunflower seeds. "Don't make me regret bringing you along."
"I swear," I said, putting my hand up to my brow, making the Scout's salute.
"You swore before."
"I double swear this time." I made the salute with both hands, so I looked like a military chicken. "Besides, it's my birthday."
"Happy birthday, " he said. "So what do I get?"
"What'a you mean?" I said.
"If you gamble, if you break your swears, what do I get?"
"I don't know. Everything was in the other truck. I don't own anything anymore."
"That buckle," he said.
I looked down at my Jr. Roping Champion belt buckle. "But I won this."
"And maybe you'll lose it."
"You can't have it."
"Then you can't go inside."
I ran my thumb across the silver engraving. "Fine. I swear, if I play poker, you get my stinking belt buckle."
"I didn't say poker," Dad said. "I said gamble… that's any kinda gambling."
I rolled my eyes. "Ok, I swear… I cross my heart… not to do any kind of gambling."
He looked at me, and spat out a shell.
We walked up to the door. Dad's fist clanged against the metal. A slot slid open. And a very mean set of eyes stared back at us. "Business hours are 7:00 to 5:00," said the eyes.
Dad stared at the eyes. "The little dog laughed… to see such fun."
The eyes darted left and right, then said, "And the spoon? Who that run away with?"
"The fork."
The door opened with a rusty screech. Behind it was a very mean-lookin' dude attached to the very mean-lookin' eyes.
We walked in. It was a dusty front office, with old metal desks and cracked, faux-leather office chairs. A plastic jack-o-lantern sat on a stool. It read: Trick R Treat. I eyed it, looking at the fun-sized candy bars inside. The mean dude pushed it my way, giving me a nod. I pulled out a Mars Bar and nodded back.
The big man walked across the room, opening another door. But he might as well have opened a portal to another world. Lights… smoke… and the sounds of plink, plonk, "Winner!" spilled out of the room. It was the sound of exhilaration and high-grade giddiness, punched by cackles and groans. If this place was dying on the outside, then it was living it up on the inside. "Enjoy," said the very mean dude.
We walked in. An elderly man sat inside the cage. He had big stacks of hundred-dollar bills organized neatly in front of him. He was bundling them in Saran Wrap. Behind him was an entire wall of multicolored chips. Next to him, a loud CAW came from another cage. The old man actually had a pet crow. It must have been part of their Halloween theme. Black and orange streamers, along with little cutouts of cats and jack-o'-lanterns, were hung throughout the casino. "Chips?" said the old man, as he took a drag off a cigarette and adjusted a translucent blue visor.
"No," Dad said, "Just meetin' someone."
"You're not gonna play?" I said.
"No. And since you swore… gimme all your money."
"You took it all last night," I said.
But he stuck out his hand, making the international gimme sign.
"I'm not gonna–"
"You get it back when we leave."
I huffed and dug into my pockets, pulling out a wad of bills. I slapped it into his hand.
"The rest," he said.
"Mother and Mary and Jesus," I said, and took off my boot, pulling out my reserve twenty.
He took it, then whopped me on the back of the head.
"Ow."
"Don't talk about mothers that way." He turned around, scanning the casino, "I'll be back in an hour."
"What am I supposed to do till then?" I called after him.
"Do some birthdayin'," he said without looking back.
I strolled around the casino, looking at games. It's no fun watching other people win. Maybe I could work on spotting tells by watching the poker games. But as I approached the poker room, the floor man stuck his hand out. "No kids. Scram." No luck there.
That's when I saw it, way at the back, a big crowd huddled around a table. It was buzzing like a hornet's nest in a hurricane. Most everyone looked Vietnamese. I edged my way in, trying to see what was going on, bumping into some girl.
"Excuse you," she said.
"Sorry," I said, holding up my hands.
The game was new to me. It had a cloth board, rolled out on a table. Six different squares showed pictures of different animals. There was a stag, rooster, a fish, crab, shrimp, and a… a gourd. Ok, that's not an animal. People were placing their chips on the squares. And by placing I mean: throwing, slapping, pushing, shoving, just about fighting to make a bet. The dealer yelled something I didn't understand, waving his long arms over the board, probably something like, "No more bets."
Then he took three dice and clapped 'em between two wooden bowls, and shook 'em like James Bond making a martini. As the dice clattered, everyone's teeth gritted, shoulders raised, and fists clenched. He clopped the bowls on the table, and whipped off the top like it was duck à l'orange. With an "Oooo," everyone leaned forward to see the dice. The table erupted. Some cheered, raising fists; others stamped their feet in dismay. Two of the dice had pictures of a stag, and the other one had a shrimp. The dealer scooped up the chips from the squares that didn't win and started paying out to the people who bet on stag and shrimp. Stag seemed to pay out double. It was a simple enough game. Put your money on an animal, and if it comes up, you win.
The dealer said something at me in Vietnamese.
"Uh, I don't know," I put my hands up. "I don't speak–"
He said it louder, aggravated.
"He said, 'Place your bet.'" Next to me was the girl I'd bumped into. "He says, 'No loitering.'"
"I don't have any money," I said.
"How sad," she said, but tossed me a $1 chip anyway.
She had straight black hair and was about my age. She wore a vintage Pearl Jam shirt and jeans with rips at the knees. I smiled at her. "Thanks." The thing about gamblers, we stick together. It's almost a rule to spot a fellow gambler when they're broke. I looked at the board, looked at the dealer, looked at the dice. It was hard to get a feel for where to bet. Feeling for the lucky spots is not something I do. Dad would say, "When you're dating Lady Luck, she always sticks you with the bill." That's why we play poker. It's about skill. I reached out anyway and put it on crab. "This'll be quick," I said to the girl.
The dealer clapped the two bowls back together and shook them. He pulled off the lid and yelled, "Cua, Cua, Cua!" All three dice had come up crabs. I won!
"You got a triple," she said, smiling.
The dealer dropped three more $1 chips on top of mine. I had four bucks! The dealer called for new bets. I bet crab again. It came up two crabs and a rooster. Eight more dollars! Score!
"You're pretty good at this," the girl said.
"That chip you gave me," I said, smiling. "It's lucky. You should'a never given it away." This time, I spread them out a bit more, trying to play the odds instead of just relying on luck. After a few rounds, I had $50. Soon, people were patting me on the shoulder and betting the same way I was betting. But lucky streaks end, and they usually end hard. "I'm going to play a different game," I said to the girl. "Wanna come?"
"Sure, you still owe me a dollar," she said with a smile.
I held out my handful of chips. "I mean really, all this is yours. My dad'll kill me if he catches me with these."
"Sounds like it's his fault for taking you to a casino. Keep going, you can give 'em all to me at the end of the night," she said with a smile.
I laughed, "What's your name?"
"Tibia."
"Tibia?" I said. "I don't know a lot of Vietnamese names, but I never heard–"
"Vietnamese?" she said, shaking her head like a fly had just landed on her nose. "I'm not Vietnamese."
"I thought… you know."
She put both hands on her hips. "For your info, my last name is Calderón. You can't even hear my accent, can you?"
"I mean, it was loud, and you've got the hair, and you were playing with all those other–"
"That's racist."
"No, no, that's not what I meant!"
She punched me in the arm. "I'm just messing with you, white boy. Let's go play."
I smiled. "Oh.. I knew that." I rubbed my shoulder, following after her.
We moved through an arcade of slot machines. Then we checked out the blackjack action, the roulette wheel, and the craps table.
"It's Latin," she said.
"What is?"
"My name, Tibia, it's a Latin name."
"Oh. Yeah. That's cool."
"What's yours?"
"My what?"
"Your name, dummy."
"It's Coffee," I said. The dealer at the wheel tossed the ball. It bounced helter skelter until it found the groove.
"Coffee?" She had a wry smile. "Now, I don't know a lot of white names, but I've never heard that one before."
"It's a drink name," I said. She laughed. "Mom used to say, 'It's not just for breakfast anymore.'"
She giggled. "Oh yeah? Is she here?" She looked around the casino.
"Um, no," I started. "She's… um… she died."
"Oh no. I'm so sorry."
"It… it was a long time ago," I lied, rubbing the back of my neck. "Hey, let's go find another game."
"Yeah, what's your poison?"
"I don't know. Poker's really my game. Most of these games are too random."
"They don't let kids in the poker room," she said. "My dad's probably in there or somewhere around here."
"Oh yeah, my dad's a poker player too."
"I wind up here a lot," Tibia said. "I think he feels like we're spending quality time together. But really, I hardly see him, which is honestly just fine with me. Mostly I just play Bau Cua with spare bills," she nodded back towards the Vietnamese table.
"Dad drags me around a lot too."
"Is he in the poker room?"
I shook my head. "He's not even playing tonight. And, he took all my money."
"Sounds like a douche."
"No, he's cool. We're like a team. We travel around a lot, playing big games."
"Sounds great," she said, a bit unsure.
"He's meeting some guy about this huge game."
"Oh yeah? I don't know of anything. Dad usually has the scoop on all the big games."
"He won't say. It's some kind of secret. But it's supposed to be so big that he'll retire afterward."
"Poker players don't retire," she smirked. "So, where's this secret meeting?" saying it with air quotes.
I shrugged. "He went off that way." I pointed past the slot machines toward a door in the back.
"That's the VIP room! You know how much it costs to rent that out?" I shook my head. She thought for a moment. "You want to spy on them? I know how."
"Oh yeah?"
She grabbed my hand. "This way."
A janitor was sweeping up. We headed past him, ducking towards the ladies' room. "I can't go in there."
"So, you're chicken now?" Tibia stuck her head through the door.
"I ain't chicken."
"The coast is clear," she whispered, and pulled me inside. She put a finger to her lips, pointing to one of the stalls. I could see a pair of red heels below the door.
"It's clear?" I mouthed, giving her a look.
The red heels shuffled, probably getting some toilet paper. She made the shush sign, her eyes serious. There was a door on the far side of the bathroom. We tiptoed to it. Tibia pulled out a ring of keys—it must have had at least 30 keys jangling from the large metal ring.
"Where'd you get that?" I whispered.
"I swiped it from the janitor."
"You stole it?"
"Shhh!"
She started working through the keys, trying each in the lock. The red heels started to get up. I twirled my finger, saying, Get on with it. Being a boy caught in the girls' bathroom is pretty bad. But being a boy caught trying to break into the utility closet of the girls' bathroom? It takes a special kind of sicko for that.
She was moving through the keys, but they slipped from her fingers. The clanky ring dropped. In a flash, she snatched it up, an inch before it hit the floor. Impressive.
The toilet flushed.
"Hurry Up!" I mouthed. I heard the latch on the stall door click, and it swung open. Just then, click, Tibia twisted the winning key, pushing the bolt back. Jackpot! The red heels stepped out of the stall as we slipped through the door. Tibia quietly closed the door behind us. "Jeez, that was close," I whispered.
"You really need to work on those trust issues," she said.
Inside the closet, wire shelves ran along the walls, holding cleaning supplies, toilet paper, and a box of rat traps. A few mops were stuck in a bucket, propped up in the corner. Tibia started climbing one of the shelves. "Careful, they tip over easy," she said. At the top, she popped up one of the ceiling tiles and climbed through.
"Ohh," I said, "I've always wanted to do this."
A system of beams and metal braces ran the width of the building, floating a foot above the ceiling tiles. Above that was a massive empty space left over from the old warehouse. A party of pigeons roosted high above. "Your dad is probably over that way," she pointed. All I could see were long rows of identical ceiling tiles. "There's a kitchen attached to the VIP room. We can drop down in there. Then we should be able to listen in."
We climbed across the parallel braces. Tibia straddled them, her body suspended over the tiles. She was doing a kind of spider crawl. Either she was a professional gymnast, or spent way too much time sneaking around this place. I crept along slowly, keeping a death grip on the braces. A horrid thought rolled through my mind, one of me crashing through the ceiling and impaling myself on the spindle of a roulette wheel. And my winnings weren't helping either. I'd crammed the chips into my shirt pocket, and they threatened to spill out every time I moved. Dear Mary, Mother of Jesus, sorry about the blasphemy earlier. I didn't dare let go to cross myself.
She stopped and pointed down. "I think this is it," she whispered. She leaned down, hanging off the brace like an orangutan. She reached for the edge of a tile and checked for signs of light creeping up along the edges. Then, seeing it was dark, pulled the tile up. Below the opening was a rack holding pots and pans. We climbed down, careful not to make a sound.
I carefully put the ceiling tile back in place. "Where'd you learn to do all that stuff?"
"Ballet class." She smiled and spun around on her tippy-toe.
The kitchen was small, but it had all the essentials—a metal table for prepping food, an oven, fridge, industrial sink, and a pair of swinging doors. Through the crack between the doors, we could see into the VIP room. It was high-class, with a high-end poker table, leather couches, and a wet bar.
"There's Dad," I whispered. He was sitting on the opposite side of the table, facing us. Some dude was sitting across from him. We couldn't see his face. He was wearing a trench coat and a fedora, like some kind of detective. The only thing I could make out was that he was one of the skinniest guys I'd ever seen. There were some other dudes in the room too. Pretty scary-looking, they were dressed all over in black fatigues. They had black hoods with wraparound goggles, and were wearing some kind of padding or body armor. But even with the padding, they were all pretty skinny. Like Lance Armstrong and his French buddies decided to play ninjas for the night. I didn't see machine guns or any other kind of heat, but they looked ready for serious action. What kind of game was Dad getting into?
The guy in the trenchcoat was talking. "At the end, you hand over the winnings." He had a weird accent, like a smoothed out version of Geronimo from an old western movie. "You'll get the bank account, with everything." He handed Dad a piece of paper.
Dad looked down and back up again, "And the ranch."
"It's written in there," said the man.
"With horses," said Dad.
"Of course." He waved a thin, gloved hand. "As many as you want."
"What're they talking about?" Tibia said. Her voice shook. She was more nervous than she was letting on.
The man handed Dad another sheet of paper. "Here is the schedule. The game at Top O' Hill will be in four days. You must make it through all qualifying games. We stake you the ten thousand, for starters, but you must win one million to get to Top O' Hill. If you don't, the contract is broken."
Dad took the sheet. "Understood."
"$10,000?" I said. "That's nothing for a big game. Dad could scrape up a million just from friends around town."
"Shhh," she said.
The man got out of his seat. "Be ready tomorrow. We'll send you the location."
"And what if things go south?" said Dad.
"The boy will be compensated," said the man.
Dad nodded.
I lurched forward, trying to hear more. Before I realized it, I was off balance, falling towards the swinging door. I reached for Tibia's arm. She grabbed my shirt, yanking me back. The chips spilled from my pocket. I fumbled, trying to catch them, but they slipped through my hands, making little clacking sounds as they hit the floor. Tibia covered her mouth, as if it would help. Through the crack, I saw everyone look towards the kitchen, including the man in the trench coat. It was the first I saw of his face, and there was something seriously wrong with it, like he didn't have one. It was just bone, a skull, a red skull.
Tibia inhaled sharply, gripping my shirt. She was frantically scooping up the chips. My brain was reeling, but I shook it off, grabbing as many as I could.
"What was that?" said the red skull in the trench coat.
"I do not know," said another raspy voice.
"Find out."
One of the padded dudes headed our way. Tibia pulled me back from the door, but I couldn't stop looking. What kinda guy has no face? We were walking backward. She opened the cabinet under the industrial-sized sink. We squeezed in, crammed up against the Drāno and some packages of scouring pads. I pulled my knees in tight as Tibia closed the doors. The lights clicked on. A space between the doors let in a bar of light streaking across her face. I tried not to breathe.
The dude in black slowly walked around the kitchen. His heavy combat boots knocked against the linoleum. He looked under the prep table, in the mop closet, finally turning his attention toward the sink. He bent down, examining the cabinet. We froze, like squirrels in traffic.
I tried using Jedi powers, on the off chance I had 'em. We're not the kids you're looking for… We're not the kids you're– Just then a pan fell from the rack. He spun around. I do have powers! He examined the pan, and put it back on the shelf.
"What is it?" said the skull man, from the other room.
The man in black turned. "Nothing here… Rats."
I breathed out just a smidge. Then he stopped. Did he hear me? He turned around. Crap. He bent down. A $1 chip was lying on the floor. He picked it up, looking around. For sure, we were done for.
"Time to go," said the skull man.
"Yes, Chief," he said, sticking the chip in his pocket and walking out.
Tibia let out a big sigh. "Let's get out of here."
***
"Did you see that guy's face?" I said, straddling the metal beams as we made our way back to the safety of the ladies' room.
"Yeah, it was super gross."
"Gross ain't the half of it. What's up with that guy?"
"I don't know. Maybe he was just getting into the spirit. It is Halloween after all," she said, crossing the beams like a Slinky.
"You think it was some kind of rubber mask?"
"Obviously. What else?"
"Then it was a really good one."
"So what? You think he has a real skull head?"
"Or like a disease. One where all your skin falls off." I reached for another beam.
"And your eyeballs too? I'm thinking you need eyeballs to make back-room deals."
"Yeah, people who crush it in backroom deals probably have eyeballs. But, who's like, 'Hey, to spice up our super-secret contract meeting, how about a little cosplay?'"
She laughed.
"And, what'd he mean when he said, 'The boy will be compensated'? Compensated for what?" I frowned.
"And what did your dad say… 'If anything goes south?'"
"Like something bad's gonna happen."
"That's gotta be real bad." She stopped, spotting the ladies' room.
"You think he's in trouble?"
"I don't see how he's not," she said. "And all those security guys in black. I mean, what would've happened if they'd caught us?"
"Whatever's going on, I'm not letting him out of my sight."
"You're not going to leave me hanging, are you?" She said it as she reached down, her long hair falling around her face. She grabbed the tile, pulling it up.
"What? You wanna get almost kidnapped again?"
"No, dummy, but at least you can send me a text."
I smiled, and we climbed back down into the closet. "But what the heck is this Top 'O Hill thing?"
Tibia already had her phone and was scrolling. "It says here, it's an old casino near Dallas."
"That's cool."
"But it hasn't been a casino since the 1940s, and now it's a… uh, Baptist university?"
"Ooo, those big bad Baptists. I knew they weren't as squeaky clean as they claimed."
"But even if they were holding a poker tournament at a Bible college, it won't be for another four days."
"And the skull guy said there would be qualifying games."
"Right," she said, "That's where you really need to be." Tibia cracked open the door into the ladies' room.
"How the heck am I gonna find that?"
"Luckily you have some brains on your side," she said, tapping her head. She looked out. "It looks clear. Let's go." We ran across the ladies' room for the door. Tibia reached for the handle just as it opened. A woman in blue jeans and a topaz-studded jacket was coming in. She stopped dead. Tibia gave me a shove, "I told you this wasn't one of those uni-sex bathrooms."
"Oh, ha-ha." I fake-laughed. "You know, there's so many of 'em nowadays." I could feel my face turning the color of chili sauce.
We headed out into the casino. I spotted Dad looking around. He looked our way, "Coffee!"
"Dang it! He's seen me. Okay, what's the plan."
"Quick, take my number," she said.
I pulled out my phone, "Crap! It's dead."
"Jeez, that thing is ancient."
"It still works."
She rolled her eyes, and pulled out a red pen. She scrawled the number across my palm. "The skull man also said he'd give your dad the location."
"You think I should tail him?"
"I would if it was my dad… well, maybe I woundn't. But if he got abducted by gangsters, that'd be just fine by me," she said with a cheeky smile.
I laughed.
"Coffee! Let's go," Dad yelled, from across the room.
"Just a sec," I shot back. Then I remembered, "The chips!"
"He's looking right at us," she said.
Just then a line of tipsy women walked between us. They had martini glasses hoisted into the air and were all yelling, "WOOOO!!!" The one at the front had a banner across her chest that read, 'Buy This Bride Another Draaaaank.'"
"Quick," I started pulling the chips out of my pockets, pushing them into her hands.
"You know you owe me big for this."
"I just gave you a bunch of money."
"Money won't buy me off," she smiled.
I smiled back. "I'll text you," and ran off towards Dad.