Page 64 of Corrupted Pleasure
“This fucking motel sucks,” Juliette complained for the tenth time. “They don’t even have room service.”
“Even if they did,” Wynter spat back, “... it wouldn’t be open at fucking midnight.”
Needless to say, Wynter was tired and cranky. She missed her workout today and refused to let Ivy or Juliette drive. One couldn’t get used to driving on the right side of the road and the latter was a bad driver, period. In order to make it to Chicago safely, Wynter and I alternated driving.
We stopped at McDonald’s before checking into the motel and ordered plenty of food. Juliette complained about the calories going to her butt, Wynter was annoyed that she was using her once a week splurge on such a crappy choice, and Ivy just hated fucking fast food.
“Come on everyone,” I tried to pacify them, getting the food out of the McDonald’s greasy paper bags. “Let’s eat and recap what we all know.”
Juliette and Wynter threw themselves on the couch while Ivy fell back on the bed.
“I really don’t-” Juliette started and I glared at her.
“Fucking eat,” I ordered her, pacing around. “And listen.”
Okay, so I was a tad bit cranky too. It has been a long day for all of us. A long week. I have used every spare moment over the last several days researching the casino, the owners, the working hours, even the people that worked there. I searched LinkedIn for anyone and everyone that had listed their employer as Royally Lucky.
The owner of the casino was listed under a corporation called Heathen Royals. Not much to go off there. But then we asked one of the nerdy Yale boys to trace the corporation. Thank God for brilliant nerds. He traced the corporation to Franco DiLustro, who was a member of the Syndicate.
“Okay, we know the owner,” I started. “I was able to find the name and picture of the floor managers. This is the guy that manages the first floor. We want to stay clear of Mr. Grumpy manager.” I lifted my laptop and showed all three of them the picture of a forty or fifty-year-old, dark haired, skinny dude with round glasses. “However, my research shows that sometimes the second floor manager and first floor manager swap floors. So we need to make sure to stay clear of this dude too.” I showed them a picture of a fifty something, old bald man with a round belly and big grin on his face. “We’ll call him Mr. Happy,” I continued in a serious tone. “So we have to keep an eye out for Mr. Happy and Mr. Grumpy. Keep both of them away from the poker table where we’ll be playing.”
Juliette bit into her Big Mac and chewed it like she wanted to murder it. I had half a mind to tell her the damn burger was already dead.
“Robbing a safe is so much easier than all this shit,” she complained.
Of course she’d say that because it wasn’t her that got caught. And then bent over the desk to take some ass spanking. I still haven’t shared it with them. I mean, how do you break that kind of news to your friends?
“How much money are we bringing to the tables?” Wynter asked a reasonable question. “I was thinking five grand. We lose it, we just walk away.”
“Well, that’s just it,” I told them all. “Each casino has limits on how much you can win at the table without raising a flag. I searched and searched this casino’s site and all the gambling blog sites. None of them indicate what that limit is at this place.”
“So if we are winning, how do we know when to stop?” Ivy asked. “I mean, we don’t want to walk away too soon.”
“I’d say we play it safe,” I suggested. “Let’s go with fifty grand and walk away.”
“We’re doing all this for fifty grand?” Juliette snickered. “What’s the damn point? I’d never go through the anxiety of the card game, just for fifty Gs.”
Wynter’s eyes flicked my way, but she said nothing. I knew what she was thinking. Juliette was bad at numbers. She shouldn’t be the one playing. Except each time either Wynter or I even hinted about it, Juliette dismissed it and changed the subject.
“Anyhow, I found some pictures of the grand opening of the hotel,” I ignored Juliette’s comment. After all, it was her damn idea to rob another place. “This old man cutting the ribbon is Franco DiLustro.” I showed them all the pictures. “The papers say he’s a brother to Gio DiLustro, the kingpin to the Syndicate in New York.”
A few gasps traveled around the room. I hoped the man wouldn’t be in the casino today, because if he was anything like Gio DiLustro, it wouldn’t be a pleasant encounter. The one from the club still bothered me.
“Are you sure?” Wynter asked. In this whole ordeal she and Ivy focused on researching the layout of the casino, though Wyn’s time was limited.
I shrugged. “That’s what the papers say. Why?”
“I just didn’t realize there were DiLustros in Chicago too,” she muttered. “I thought they were just in New York.”
“Should we not do it?” I questioned.
Wynter’s hesitancy hit me all wrong. “I just heard that DiLustros are a force to be reckoned with.” So was her uncle, but I kept those words to myself.
“We’ve done our homework,” Juliette argued.
“That’s right. We have a good plan,” Ivy chimed in. “We know the layout of the parking lot and the casino. We stick to the poker table and stop at our agreed cap. Then we clear.”
“Don’t forget about the backup plan,” I reminded them all. “If we notice the managers or any suspicious person, we have to distract them. By any means necessary.”
