Page 65 of Underground Prince

Miraculously, I made it through my day shift. I was a stellar waitress, falling into routine and penning orders out of habit.

By three-forty I was finished being a regular server and entered an empty stall in the women’s bathroom and whirled into my nighttime outfit: black bra, black suit, black sunglasses tucked into my blazer pocket by their earpiece, no shirt. Verily texted me the final outfit choice for tonight’s game—CIA agent—after I texted her my final opinion on her Noah antics.

She didn’t play dumb. It was what I loved about her, though sometimes it ended up biting me in the ass. She wrote:

Vare: You guys used to love each other.

Verily meant well, but she also had no idea what it meant to be wounded from something so tragic it was like walking around with an empty chest cavity where organs, bones and skin should be.

After fastening my trench coat, I checked the time before leaving the women's bathroom. Just after four. Plenty of time to accomplish the first thing on tonight’s mental checklist.

I caught the F train into the Lower East Side, hopping over strollers shoved into the subway cars and hunched-over men and women gripping the skin-warmed poles as the train lurched between each stop. I made it to tonight’s building by four-thirty. I buzzed, banking on the fact that certain individuals would already be here setting up.

“Yeah?” came a static-filled voice through the rusted metal box.

“It’s Scarlet. I know I’m early but I was won—”

Zzzzzzzz.

New York. Once the gist was received, interruption prevailed.

The door squealed with my entry, whomping shut with its weight and the wind ruffling my coattails. I walked a few feet to 1C, which was unlocked in expectation of my arrival.

“Hey, girl.”

Kai, the person I was hoping would be here, was unwrapping fresh card decks on the green table in the center of the bare, white-walled room. Outfitted in black slacks and a royal blue button-down, there was no doubt that once the clientele arrived, he’d be the best-dressed man in the crowd.

I shed my coat and threw it over a sole armchair.

“What can I do for you?” Kai asked, framing the decks with his hands and evening them out into piles.

“Is anyone else here?” I sat at the table, picking through the chips nestled in a rectangular wooden box Kai had open.

“Just Craig, stacking bottles in the kitchen over there.”

Craig was one of the bouncers and also, I now figured, a set-up guy who assisted Kai before games. He must’ve been the voice I heard over the speaker, too.

“Be helpful,” Kai said. “Sort those by color. The last guy who had them just shoved all the chips in, snapped the lid shut and thought job complete.”

The box was much heavier than I imagined, considering all it housed was blue velvet and chips. I picked one up and inspected it.

“Wondering how plastic could be so heavy?” Kai asked. “Because they're clay. No self-respecting game room would use anything else.”

I placed the chip on the table, filing that information away in my new brain folder titled How Not to Look Like a Poker Moron 101.

Kai picked up a clipboard beside him and scribbled something. “No House credits tonight…”

“So,” I said, sorting the chips. “I know you’re busy…”

He glanced up from his clipboard, pen poised. “If I ain’t busy, it’s because the world has gone through the apocalypse and I’m a half-eaten zombie. What’s up?”

“You know this game well.” I said it as a statement and not a question. His answering expression told me the obvious. He wasn’t one of Sax’s trusted dealers for nothing.

I released a cluster of chips, sending a waterfall of clicks against the table. “Can you teach me?”

The pen dropped against the clipboard. “I’m sorry, did you just speak French?”

“This.” I gestured to the multi-colored heap in front of me. “Can you teach me poker?”

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