Page 16 of A Scandal in Homeroom
The spare lightbulbs hanging from the ceilings I’d left alone, but I’d wound tiny white lights around the pipes that ran the length of the room. They provided enough light for players to see to play and created a low glow throughout the space.
Then tables with their plush green felt tops across which the cards could slide easily as they were dealt. Comfortable chairs meant to hold someone for an all-night marathon of poker. The best booze money could buy and…
Pretty girls.
Not students. Of course not.
The three girls I hired were professionals who worked atCheerleaders. A fairly seedy strip club several towns removed from the rarified air of Haddonfield. These girls worked the weekday shifts and were looking for extra cash.
So not top tier stripper talent.Cheerleaderssaved those ladies for Friday and Saturday nights. Still, these girls filled out their uniforms well. The uniform being a short, tight dress.
We’d set up a rough bar in one corner of the room. Nothing fancy, no mixed drinks. There was beer, vodka or whiskey. The girls made sure the glasses were always filled, the patrons were satisfied, and they didn’t have to shake their tits or sit in anyone’s lap to do it.
It also prevented anyone from trying to grab my attention to see if I would fetch them a drink. I wasn’t the servant here.
This was my game.
Or it had been my game until Moriarty.
Not for the first time, I asked myself who he was, how he found out about what I was doing, and should I have called his bluff about ratting me out to the cops?
Poker wasn’t exactly illegal. Anyone could play a friendly game in their home. It only became a legal issue once I took a rake from the pot. My vig. How else was I supposed to pay for the booze and the furniture and the girls?
And my time? Which was very valuable.
Ten percent of that pot for all that wasn’t too much to ask.
“Nice crowd tonight,” Coyle said, as he approached me.
I was standing on the landing of the staircase that led to the basement. My job: open the door when there was a knock, confirm the invitation was legit and count the money.
This was a cash-only game. You could only bet what you walked in with, which prevented things like gold Rolex watches from hitting the pot.
I couldn’t rake ten percent of a watch.
I also had a decent view of the room. Games like this required a certain amount of trust, and my job was also to keep out the cheaters and ringers.
Tonight’s game was the same size as it had been the last Saturday. A few new adds, a few drops. I liked the quiet hum of the room. Some chatter but not much. Inevitably someone would beg the poker gods forone timeon an all-in, looking for that inside straight draw.Except no one appeared to be desperate yet.
“Talked to the boss. He thinks we need professional dealers.”
I bristled at the wordboss.
“Dealers would cut into our profit.” Right now, the deal moved around the table with the blinds.
“He doesn’t think so. He thinks it would increase the number of hands played. More hands, more rake, more money.”
“Thank you for explaining math to me,” I said facetiously. “It’s soooo hard.”
“Seriously,” Coyle said, clearly annoyed with my lack of deference to him. “Boss wants dealers, we get dealers.”
“You get them,” I said. “I got the girls.”
“Yeah,” he sneered. “They’re hot, too. Also, he wants us to expand the invite list.”
“What? We agreed to keep it tight. No more than ten tables.”
“He wants to open another night. Saturday and Sunday. Saturday for students. Sunday for…not students.”
