Original © 2006

Revised © 2007

BY:  Gerry Young

[My heartfelt THANKS to JERRY in Oxnard for his editorial suggestions, his guidance, and his encouragement to write this, the continuation of the saga of Gerald Arthur Young. 

I love ya, Jer.]

[To DREW in Yorkshire, England, my LOVE for his continued inspiration, encouragement, ceaseless instructions over my hardheadedness, and his determination to help me make this the best that I think it can be, even though I may not have followed all his suggestions to the letter.]

CHAPTER SEVEN

¯ (Soft, mysterious, chilling pipe-organ music playing in the background) ¯

It was a dark and dreary night.  The wind howled.  The shutters banged against the peeling, rotted siding.  Lightning flashed and eerie shadows of naked, broken tree branches danced through the fractured windowpanes.  He stood, nervously sipping from his brandy snifter while warming his rear parts near the crackling fire in the ancient, huge, stone fireplace.  He raised his glass to toast his invited guest.

That’s the way that a good murder mystery begins, is it not?  Of course it is.

Yet, this is not a murder mystery, though it might have been if the visitor had screwed up and even hinted to someone, anyone, that this night had ever happened.

¯Dum di DUM dum ¯

The wind howled, yes, but not exactly as inferred in the opening narrative.  The wind was filled with sand.  Millions of cubic feet of Nevada desert grit, flying near-horizontal arcs, pricking, piercing, pitting everything in its path.  At sixty-three miles per hour!  A true desert sandstorm, right out of Lawrence of Arabia!

There were no broken tree branches – only jagged, treacherous palm fronds ripped from their dangerously strained trunks, bent and twisted by the mighty gale.

There were no fractured windowpanes – only sliding glass patio doors that might become fractured by the fronds being hurled in anger at them by the unseen devils of wind.

There was no crackling fire in the ancient, huge stone fireplace – only the growing, gnawing inferno in the groins of the two men sitting opposite each other in the oversized black marble Jacuzzi spa, only steps away from the king-sized waterbed in the ebony-paneled master suite.

Champagne flutes, half-filled with Ghirardelli Vineyard's Clos du Lak Champagne of the Milliaire Winery in California replaced the brandy snifters.

The only part of the opening that was true to reality was the raising of a glass to toast his invited guest

"To your new job, Gerry.  May it lead to greater adventures than you've ever dreamed."

With glasses in extended hands, they stood from their opposing submerged seats in order for the flutes to clink together.  Each stepped with care toward the other in the hot, bubbling, swirling water, oblivious to the roaring storm beyond.  Cloven tongues from flaming wicks danced above a dozen musk-and-myrrh-scented candles evenly spaced near the spa as the gentle movement of the two naked masculine bodies stirred the surrounding air.

"Thanks, Tony; and may those ‘greater adventures than I've ever dreamed’ begin here, this evening?"  Gerry returned the toast, not as a stated wish, but as a question to his host.

Tony drew his head back from the relaxed forward position, squinted his eyes and studied Gerry for a moment.  "How am I to understand that?  What do you mean?"

"I've always dreamed of sipping expensive champagne with a girlfriend, with our arms interlocked.  Well, there ain't no girlfriends here … just us two guys … so would it be all right for a couple of guy friends to do it?  This is the first time I've ever had Ghirardelli's.  And if it works out for me once I get to Paradise, we may never see each other again; we may never have the opportunity to do this again; please, Tony, please," he begged.  "It would mean so much to me."

Tony rarely smiled, even when not at work, but hearing his guest's heightened state of joy and enthusiasm and his pleading, he smiled as he locked elbows with Gerry.

Unexpectedly, but not undesired (from Gerry's viewpoint), that's not all that touched.

¯Dum di DUM dum DUMMMMM¯

"Babyface" Tony was one of the Pit Bosses at the Lost Horizons’ Shangri-Lah Casino, a couple miles off The Strip in Las Vegas.  He was also an instructor at their dealer's school.

The "Babyface" nickname came from his turned-up little nubbin of a nose, his rosy cheeks and his fiery red hair hanging in little curls across his forehead reminiscent of some omnipotent Roman emperor cast out of his own time and place.  His coloring and physical characteristics came from his Irish mother;  his name and heritage came from his Sicilian father.

But nobody ever crossed "Babyface" Tony.  He had grown up in the alleys and back streets of New York City.  He had been forced to become street-wise at an early age after his father’s brutal gangland-style murder.  He knew when to hold his hand and when to play it, so to speak, not only in cards, but also in every life situation.  He was considered an expert at both.  And he was only twenty-eight years old, though he had already lived more than a century!

In school, he was a demanding instructor – he never hesitated to chew your ass out over the slightest little blunder, and he would never compliment anyone on anything!  He expected perfection.  No – not perfection – NEAR perfection.  HE, Tony, was the only PERFECT being to walk the face of God's little green and sandy Earth – or so he wanted everyone to believe!

None of the students at the school liked him, and none of the dealers in The Lost Horizons’ Shangri-Lah liked him at all … except, that is, for thirty-year-old Gerry Young.  True, Gerry was scared shitless of him the first week of school, but his fear quickly changed to love for Tony; for his neatness, his orderliness, his precision, his … PERFECTION … in everything he did.  Tony was perfect … in Gerry's eyes.

All too often, Tony would bring the female students and many of the macho male dealers to tears.  He would lambaste their developing techniques, their lackadaisical attitudes toward practicing their new art, their posture, their smiles (they were supposed to be straight-faced and serious … NOT there to have fun!), even their unkempt nails.

"Your hands," he would say, "are probably the only part of you that the players ever notice.  If they're clean, neat, well manicured … they'll stay at your table, even if they're losing, and they'll stay until they lose every damn, fuckin' penny they've got!  That's why we're in business." 

And he was all business!  No need to spend time teaching how to cheat at the tables, because the “odds” are always in favor of the house.

But Gerry quickly learned how to handle him.  He learned to kowtow to his every whim, never to place an argument, never to cower or show fear, never try to defend yourself.  In essence, he learned to be a "yes" man, and to let Tony know that he was right and that you appreciated everything that he was teaching you.  For that's what he was doing … teaching! 

And Gerry loved his masterful dominance!  More and more so … every day.

"And on top of everything else," Tony had repeated, "improve; improve; improve."

Gerry had improved – from a greenhorn-walk-in-the-door-hopeful-wannabe Black Jack dealer at the Horizons’ Dealers’ School, to the best Baccarat croupier in the casino.

After eight weeks at Dealers’ School, and nine short months after being hired by Lost Horizons, Gerry auditioned for a little pip-squeak of a guy named Dominic Patrizzi, and had been chosen to go with him to Paradise Island in the Bahamas, to help open a new casino there.

Gerry was to be in complete charge of training hunky, blacker-than-the-Ace-of-Spades, young Bahamian men to deal Baccarat.  He was to set up the entire department in the new casino.  He would eventually design and custom order seven new uniforms for each of his twelve boys, who would be the newest, best-dressed croupiers in the Caribbean, a different colored "pirate's" blouse and coordinated sash for each day of the week.  And he would see that his boys got paid more than any other dealers on the island – they would be the envy of all the dealers in the tropics!  He would make sure of that.

<><><> 

Though everyone in the casino knew that Gerry had won the audition, and the date of his grand departure, he formally turned in his notice of termination two weeks ahead of time, as was … "proper."

Just in case things don't work out in Paradise, maybe I can get my job back, he thought.

His last shift came.  He approached it with excitement and with eagerness for it to be over.  He was anxious to begin his exotic Caribbean island adventure.

But it was a bittersweet eight-hour combination of sadness and joy.  His breaks were filled with hugging and kissing fellow dealers, cocktail girls, restaurant waitresses, change girls and guys from the slots area, even some of the macho cleanup guys.

Everything's OK in Vegas, so the saying goes.  A couple of the guys, he wanted to hug twice or more!

He had been on his last break of the shift, and when he returned to the Pit, he noticed his favorite player was standing at the Mini-Baccarat table; Amanda Stevenson, wife of the owner of the newest hotel and casino in Vegas.  Night after night, whenever Gerry was on duty, she would come in and play, standing behind one of the seven players at the small table – that was one of her private idiosyncrasies; the table must have a full complement of seven players!  She never sat down.

Occasionally, she would leave after dropping a couple thousand dollars, but more often than not, she'd walk away with a fortune. And she was never there for more than two hours!  And she was always by herself.

As polite as she was beautiful – extremely so! – she would always ask one of the players if she might occasionally place a bet on his or hers.  No one ever refused her politeness and her charm.  She exuded the very same elegant qualities as the future First Lady, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy.

One of the place bets in Baccarat is for a tie hand, which pays, eight-to-one.  A $25 bet, if it wins, receives $200 back.  The table had a $200 limit per hand in ordinary play, but with a maximum bet of $25 on the tie.  That is … until Mrs. Amanda Stevenson came to the table.  When she was there, she, and she alone, was permitted to bet whatever she wanted!  But she always placed her $200 bet, never more, never less … when she placed a bet, which wasn't at every hand.

On seeing her enter the casino, Tony, or whoever was Pit Boss in his absence, would immediately have the Baccarat croupier relinquish one of the three stacks of black $100 checques in his till, to be replaced with a stack of twenty orange $500 checques and ten gold $1000 checques.

She would just stand there doing nothing, but watching, for several minutes, letting two, three, four hands go by.  Then, taking two of her black $100 checques, she would carefully stack them on that player's spot marked for a tie bet, and stand back.  God!  Her $200 bet would pull in $1600 in winnings, and she would give that player $100 in gratitude.

Soon, the other six players at the table would be asking her to place her wagers on their tie bets.  Seven players times a $200 bet equals $1400 wagered.  Perhaps $1400 was lost, but frequently, $11,200 was won, less the $700 in gratuities that she would happily award her fellow gamblers!  Again and again she would do it!  No one could ever figure out how she won so often, but she did!  It was as if her sixth sense knew just when a tie hand was going to be dealt – to be revealed.

During the final forty-five minutes of Gerry's last shift, she won over $100,000!  And that's from only ten winning tie bets, playing seven spots per hand!  Nothing illegal about it – not with eight decks in the shoe (for you non-gamblers, a "shoe" is a sloped rectangular box that can hold six or eight decks of cards, and from which the dealer can slide one card at a time to be exposed in play)!

Seeing his replacement come toward him, Mrs. Stevenson wiggled her right index finger, motioning for Gerry to come closer, as she leaned across the table and dropped five black $100 checques into his shirt pocket; "… for the boys," she said. She knew that tips or "tokes" were pooled in the Horizons Casino over a twenty-four hour period, and that each dealer got the same amount as every other dealer, each day – it's only fair in the long run.

She then kissed him on the lips – it was the first and only time she had ever done that.  Then … then …she wished him well on his Caribbean adventure, and did something that shocked him … she handed him two orange $500 checques saying, "This is for you, Gerry.  Put them in your pants pocket and DON'T POOL IT WITH THE OTHERS!"

Gerry didn't know it, but Tony had been standing behind him, watching, just off to his right side.

Nervously holding the two checques with just his thumb- and index-finger-tips, Gerry started to object to what Mrs. Stevenson had said.  But Tony stepped closer, placed his left hand and arm across Gerry's shoulders, took the thousand dollars from his slightly shaking finger-tips, and slid his own hand and the two checques deep into Gerry's pants pocket, and said softly, "It's OK this time, Gerry."

Gerry could smell the Wintergreen mint on Tony's breath, and wanted to kiss him – in front of God, in front of Amanda, in front of everyone.  But he refrained, not wanting to embarrass his boss.

On feeling Tony's hand slide into his right front pocket, he thought, Oh, God, Tony … leave your hand there.  Oh, shit, I'm starting to get a hardon!  FUCK!  He just touched it – I know he did!

Gerry could have won the Academy Award for keeping a straight face, but he knew WHY Tony had done this – there was nothing sexual about it – not to the casual on-looker, at least. 

Dealers were never to have their hands below the edge of the table … not even unobtrusively to scratch their balls.  Oh, how many times he had wished that he could ask Tony to help him out that way!  Oh, fuckin'-a-ditty-bag!!!  No!  No!  Not now!  He screamed in his head – the cranial one!  Now I gotta get outta these wet jockeys! He drew a deep breath, held it, and for a few seconds, squinted his eyes closed.  Ummmph!

With some difficulty, he expressed his heart-felt gratitude to Mrs. Stevenson, and after saying his "good-bye's" to the players at the table, he clapped his hands once over the dealers' till of checques, and spread his hands AND his fingers, showing the eye-in-the-sky that his palms were empty.  As he turned to exit the pit, Tony walked out with him.

"Got a few minutes?  Care to join me in the coffee shop?"

"Sure thing, Tony."  He pulled at his sticky underwear through his pants pocket.

They found an isolated table in the far corner, away from everyone else.  The waitress came to take their orders.  Tony – only a glass of orange juice.  Gerry – a full breakfast of three eggs over easy, six strips of very crisp bacon, two spicy-hot sausage patties, three hot cakes, pineapple juice, milk, coffee, two toasted English muffins, and lots and lots of butter!  Oh, yes … and grits!

"God! You always eat like that?" chortled Tony.

"No, but now I can afford it," Gerry patted his right pants pocket with the two orange checques in it.  "You want anything else?  I'm buying!"

Tony shook his head as Gerry enjoyed the laughing, grinning face he had never seen before.  It was then that Gerry noticed he could see everyone in the restaurant, but no one could see Tony's "Babyface."  That face is adorable, once you get to know it, he thought, carefully patting the drool oozing from the corner of his mouth with the napkin from his slightly damp lap.

It was just after 5:00 AM, Sunday morning, and Gerry didn't have to be at McCarran International Airport until 11:00 PM, Monday evening, for his flight to Miami before connecting to Paradise Island.

"Are you free this evening, Gerry?"

A strange question, that, coming from his boss who had never once asked anything apart from necessary business information. 

"Nothing planned … for tonight … except … to finish … packing," Gerry answered, pensively searching for each individual word, while at the same time wondering what else Tony was about to ask.  Both sides of his brain were simultaneously working at full speed.

"I'd like … to invite you … out to the ranch … for dinner.  And … and uhhh …," Gerry had never known Tony to stammer his words as he was doing now; "… I'd uhhh … like for us to uhhh … talk over some things … before you leave."

Gerry had also noticed that Tony's left hand was slowly, unconsciously drawing little consecutive circles on the tablecloth with the bottom of his sweaty water glass – very unusual;  very unusual, indeed!

Talk over some things?  What are you trying to tell me, Tony?  What are you wanting to say, but can't?  Not here?  Could it be …?  No.  No way in hell! … Oh, my, God!  A light was beginning to dawn somewhere in the erotic tunnels of Gerry's mind.

"Sure, Tony, I'd like to spend some one-on-one with you.  I've wanted to, since we first met.  But you seemed so unapproachable, so business-like.  Besides, I don't know where you live.  What's your address?  May I have your address?  You wouldn't mind giving me your address, would you?  And your phone number, just in case. Would you give me your phone number?  Just in case something happens – an accident, or something – and I couldn't make it … or I might be late … or …"

He was babbling … faster and faster, his voice rising in pitch with each additional thought, each additional word.

"Whoa, there, good buddy.  Slow down.  Relax."

Now THAT was totally unlike the way he usually talks, Gerry thought.  "Sorry," he then replied, taking a deep breath, as well as lowering the tone of his words.  He again picked up the napkin from his lap, but this time, to wipe his sweaty hands.

"You're nervous, aren't you?  Nervous about coming out to my place."

Just then, the waitress brought their orders.  "Your orange juice, Mr. Tony;"  she set it in front of him. "And your order, Mr. Caribbean gad-about," she teased. "Youse not gonna be able to eat like this down thar in that God-forsaken land.  All that sultry humididity! You keep eatin' like this, baby, and youse gonna blow up like a bal-loon.  And you be a-sweatin' like you wuz on a chain-gang choppin' wood out on the fou'th of July!  From now on, youse gonna be eatin' fruit, fresh fruit and mo' fuckin' fruit!  'Scuse my language, sweetie."

Tony and Gerry burst into laughter, and Gerry thought, If only you knew, sister;  if you only knew!

After she had left, Tony quietly asked the solemn question, "Are you afraid to come out to my place, Gerry?"

"Oh, no, Tony.  No.  No.  Not at all.  Not at all.  I'd … uhhh … I'd love to come out to your place, have dinner with you, spend … time … with you … awww, shit, Nino …" (He had misspoken Tony's name without realizing it.) "… today was my last day, and since I no longer work here, I'm gonna come right out, be honest, and tell you …"

Tony held up a hand, stopping Gerry from saying another word.  "Not here.  Wait till tonight," he said, just above a whisper, as if he already knew, or at least suspected, what Gerry wanted to confess!

Drawing a business card from his wallet, he slid it across the table to Gerry as he continued in a normal voice, "Now … finish your breakfast, go home, do some more packing, and get some sleep;  I've got a feeling it's going to be a long night for both of us," he smirked, and winked. "My address and phone number are on the card, and I'll see you around … five-thirty this afternoon?  Is that too early?"

He winked.  HE winked at ME!  Not only shocked, Gerry was also growing more hopeful.  "No.  That's not too early, Tony.  Five-thirty is fine.  I'll be there.  What's the dress?"

"Casual.  Very casual."  There was just the hint of a smile on Tony's face.

"Just my birthday suit?  Is that too casual?"  Gerry joked, with a sly wink.

"If you'll be comfortable with that … Fine!"  Tony's demeanor had changed back to its usual coarseness.

"And you'll join me?"  Gerry was devilishly grinning from ear to ear with the game they were now playing.  Perhaps the stakes would be getting higher, bigger, fatter, longer, hotter, deeper … whatever!

"I'll make you a deal," Tony narrowed his eyes, leaned toward Gerry and almost whispered;  "you drive from your apartment out to my ranch … in nothing but your birthday suit, and I'll join you.  And to top it off, anything you want will be yours tonight.  BUT!  You renege, and your ass is mine;  I … shit … you … not!"  He was waving his index finger in Gerry's face, and he, Tony, had lost the faint smile that had crept across his lips only moments earlier.

He continued, "You're starting to play a dangerous game, kid, but I can play it better than you.  And I can play it to the hilt;  believe you, me.  I've done it before;  a hundred times before!" He was dead serious, but then continued, a bit more mellow, "We still on for tonight, hot-shot?"  He winked again.

I'm two years older than him, and he called me kid? Gerry hesitated a moment, pondering possible scenarios;  "I'll be there, Nino …" he shook his head in frustration, this time realizing his goof, then corrected himself, "… Tony."

Tony cocked his head at Gerry's faux pas, but again said nothing.  After a moment, he rose from his chair and said, "Ciao, Gerry.  Later."

Gerry returned the departure greeting, standing and extending his hand in friendship, then returned to his breakfast as Tony returned to the Pit.

Quickly he finished his meal, went to the cashiers' cage, and cashed-out the two orange checques.  Then, finally, after a few more "good-bye's," was on his way back to his apartment.

But not before he entered the "Gents" room, went into a stall, closed the door, and removed his black casino trousers and his still semen-dampened briefs.  Damn!  What a load that was!  He sniffed them and a wicked smile came to his face.  God!  He accidentally touches me and I get my rocks off …but was it really an accident, he wondered, he hoped, weighing the pros and cons of the idea, while pulling his trousers back on, commando-style, and making himself presentable.  He left the stall, tossed the balled-up material down the trash shoot, and walked out pondering …

Shit!  What have I gotten myself into?

<End of Chapter Seven>

To Be Continued.