Betting Blind (Betting Blind #1) Read online

  The biggest White Center poker game was in Fausto Gonzales’s shed. I’d learned about the game from his son, Miguel, one of my buddies from middle school. Miguel and I used to play Hold’em for quarters in study hall, and one time he invited me to help out when his dad was hosting a tournament. Our job was to run beer back and forth from the big fridge in the house. At the end of the tourney, Mr. Gonzales let me play a round, and I won fifty bucks. I’d been playing on and off ever since.

  On Wednesday night, I drove to the Gonzaleses’ old brown ranch on Roxbury. They had a fierce Dobie, but he knew my smell, and when he saw me, he barked only once, just saying hello. I went around back, past their chicken coop, to the little beat-up poker shed. There was a crack of light around the door; open for business. I was looking to turn the fifty in my pocket into at least a hundred.

  I knocked and said into the crack, “It’s Gabe, Miguel’s friend.”

  There was a scraping sound, and Mr. Gonzales opened the door, his round face beaming. He was a real dapper dude, with one of those pencil mustaches, and he always wore nice threads. “Gabe! Where you been? Miguel told me you moved.”

  “Yeah, we live in Redmond now.”

  Mr. Gonzales whistled. “Your ma hit the lottery or what?”

  I smiled. “Not exactly. Is Miguel around?”

  “He’s off with his girlfriend somewhere.” Mr. Gonzales rolled his eyes. “He thinks he’s in love. Come in. We got Tony and Marquis here already, and a couple guys are coming from Seattle. They’re bringing a whale.”

  “Yeah? Too bad I don’t have a bigger bankroll.” I walked in, feeling good to be back in familiar digs. It was real basic in there: just a mini-fridge, table, space heater, and a lightbulb hanging on a frayed cord. There were marks on the walls where tools had hung until a few months ago, when some dude from Tacoma lost big and decided to grab a shovel and get even.

  I raised a hand to Marquis and Tony, who were at the table with beers. Tony was shuffling, flicking the cards in perfect arches. He was half-Italian, half-Irish, and he lived up to the stereotypes: he could outtalk and outdrink anybody.

  “What’s up?” Marquis greeted me. He was a young brotha with a shaved head, and he kept a low profile. All the newbies underestimated him because they thought poker wasn’t a black man’s game.

  I knew better. Those two were a slick team and had a bucket of tricks to use on whales and other targets: mirror rings, marked decks, and even some contraption that Marquis kept up his sleeve for grabbing aces. They’d been kicked out of Tulalip and all the other Native casinos, and they claimed to be blackballed in Vegas, too.

  “How much you want in chips, Gabe?” asked Mr. Gonzales.

  “Just fifty. I was looking for a low-stakes game,” I said. “That’s why I came early.”

  Mr. Gonzales looked at the guys. “We’re putting the minimum bet at a hundred when the whale gets here, but if you want to squeeze in a game with Tony and Marquis, it’s up to them.”

  “Sure,” said Marquis. “I could use an extra fifty bucks.” He winked at me.

  I pulled out a folding chair and sat down. “No offense, but …” I looked at Marquis’s sleeves.

  “You’re paranoid. We always play straight with you, kid.” He shook out his sleeves and rolled them up.

  “Yeah, well, it never hurts to check,” I said. “Tony, let me see that deck.”

  Tony looked annoyed, but he handed over the cards.

  “All right. Let’s play,” I said after thumbing through the deck. I couldn’t really tell if it was marked, but we had a code of honor: friends of Mr. G.’s couldn’t cheat other friends of Mr. G.’s. Everybody else was fair game.

  Tony was the button, and he dealt the hole cards quickly. I had a solid read on him—he was a chip clicker—but not on Marquis. Marquis wouldn’t have blinked during a game if you stabbed his foot. I started with a nine of hearts and a three of diamonds. We posted the blinds and got rolling. When an eight of hearts came up, I got interested, but I still checked. Then a seven of hearts turned, and I went ahead and threw some more money in the pot.

  “So, what’s your mother doing in Redmond?” Tony asked.

  I frowned at my cards. “She has a new boyfriend. A real bastard.”

  Tony shook his head. “A gorgeous woman like her, that’s a shame.” I gave him a grossed-out glance. I knew guys thought my mom looked good, but I didn’t like hearing about it. Especially not from Tony.

  “You like it out there?” asked Marquis.

  “It’s cool.” I pushed some money into the pot. “I met a girl.”

  He looked up. “Oh, listen to him. He met a girl. You like her, kid. I can hear it.”

  I couldn’t help it; I smiled. Then there was the sound of a car on gravel outside, and Mr. Gonzales froze for a second, then hopped to the door and started gesturing with his arms. The real money had arrived.

  “Hang on, man. Let us finish the hand,” Marquis said, and threw down a sweet flush.

  I sighed and set down my three of a kind; so did Tony. Marquis looked smug as he swept the chips into his pile. At least it was only fifty. I’d lost more than that to Marquis, although he’d lost his share to me, too.

  As I stood up, Tony pulled another deck out of his bag and switched it with the one we’d been using. Marquis was on his knees, tinkering with something under the table. Mr. Gonzales whispered a password question through the door, stalling for time. Everybody was set to go whaling.

  “Peace, guys,” I said.

  “Don’t be a stranger, now.” Marquis stood up and put his hands in his pockets.

  Mr. Gonzales opened the door, and three guys trailed in: two regulars and the whale, who turned out to be a heavy Asian dude. He looked a little drunk already. I nodded at him, said thanks to Mr. G., and took off.

  I wasn’t thrilled about losing at poker, but I knew it was a long shot. And I wasn’t out of options for finding cash. I’d planned on hooking up Kyle’s friend, anyway.

  I did some quick math, texted Kyle to see how much his friend needed, and drove to meet Missy Peterson at the Red Robin in Burien on Thursday night. Missy was like a sister to me. She’d lived near us in White Center, and her dad had dated my mom for six months, which was a record for both of them. Her older brother, Tim, was a small-time dealer, and Missy did some of his deliveries.

  Missy was already at Red Robin when I got there, and she squeezed the breath out of me in a hug. Even though she was clean, she looked like an early-stage junkie, probably from being raised on Cap’n Crunch and Frito sandwiches. She had that glow-in-the-dark skin, scrawny ten-year-old-boy legs, and hair that had been through so many bottles of dye, it looked like orange fur. But at that moment, I was so happy to see her, I swear she looked beautiful.

  “Hey, woman!” I hugged her back.

  She ran her tongue over her front tooth, which had gotten chipped in a fight, and examined me. “It’s good to see you. You look good.” We sat down in a booth, and she put her elbows on the table. “So, how are you doing over there?” She said there like a dirty word. Missy had big scorn for yuppies. She felt they’d taken over Seattle.

  “It’s okay. They’re all crazy rich, but they’re not jerks or anything. Except this corporate tool my mom’s dating.”

  We shared a look. Missy knew my mom; I knew her dad. It wasn’t clear which one was the bigger flake. Her dad was definitely meaner, though.

  “It’s so weird that she’s going for a suit. That’s not her style,” Missy said.

  I shook my head. “I know. I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe she decided the guys she’s always attracted to turn out bad, so she’s trying to break the mold?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but this mold is worse.” I couldn’t believe I was actually saying that about a dude with a job and no drug habit, but it was true.

  Missy wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. That sucks.”

  “How’s your man?” I asked. She’d been dating Jake Reese for so long, they were pract
ically married. He was already out of high school, a complete stoner, but a very nice guy with good taste in music. He did lawns for a living.

  She got a funny smile. “He’s good. Same old, same old. You know Jake.”

  “Tell him what’s up for me.” I hoped someday I could smile like that about somebody after being together a couple years. I always got bored after a few months, though. Just bad luck, I hoped, and not a sign that I was crap for relationships.

  Missy changed the subject. “I brought your stuff. Tim’s giving you a fat discount, by the way.”

  “Tell him thanks.”

  “He wants to know, is this going to be a regular thing?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see how much I get for this batch.”

  Missy gave me a stern look. “Don’t get caught, and don’t dip, okay?”

  I could understand why she was worried; Tim had been dipping lately, which everyone knows is death for a dealer—not that anyone could talk to him about it without starting a fight.

  “You know I don’t roll like that,” I said. It was true. Weed was nice, and so was e, but not too much of either. Meth I had tried twice and loved, but I didn’t touch the stuff because of how much I’d loved it. Plus I’d seen what raving assholes it turned people into.

  We chilled awhile longer, talked, ate some fries, and then did the deal out by Missy’s car. I gave her a big hug good-bye and promised to call soon. When I left, I felt good. Hanging with Missy grounded me, reminded me that there were solid people I could count on, people I didn’t have to prove anything to.

  I texted Kyle on the drive home. I didn’t mention that I was making fifteen dollars’ profit on every pill—just gave him the price and set up the handoff for lunch at a restaurant the next day.

  I felt bad for a minute. Friends aren’t supposed to make money off friends. But really, I was doing them a favor.

  The night of the party, I drove to the Redmond car rental, paid the annoying under-twenty-five charge, picked up my ride (a boring but decent Taurus), and mapped Irina’s house on my phone.

  I knew it was a lot of trouble to go to for a girl. But somehow, in my head, getting with Irina had become a mission. We’d been talking on the phone and texting, and she was different than other girls. I could tell she didn’t put out easy. If she slept with me, she’d mean it, and it would be … something.

  Plus I’d be a hero to the guys.

  I figured it might take a while. It’s not that I don’t have confidence; most girls take three weeks, a month tops, to crack, and those are the ones playing hard to get. But I was ready for something real. I had this bad thought sometimes, that I might never know what it was like to love a girl.

  I headed down 180th Avenue through a nice neighborhood, and I started noticing that with each street, the houses were getting bigger and farther apart. Then, duh, it clicked—the girl was beyond loaded—and I pulled up outside her place.

  Back in White Center, rich was having a big house that looked exactly like all the other big houses on the Burien golf course. The rich-people houses in this hood looked more like government buildings. Irina’s place was a redbrick beast with white pillars and a football field for a lawn. The walkway looked like somebody scrubbed it with a toothbrush, and the bushes around the house were clipped in perfect circles.

  I rang the bell, thinking maybe a servant would open the door. But it was Irina who did. She was smiling.

  I went to hug her—I thought I could at least do that—and then I about jumped out of my skin. There was someone behind her, a thin blond lady staring at me with laser-beam eyes.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Irina said, “Mom, this is Gabe. Gabe, this is my mom.”

  “You can call me Mrs. Petrova,” the woman said in a smoker’s voice. I could see where Irina got her looks. Her mom was hot, even though she had to be like forty. And she looked high-class, with rocks in her ears and black everywhere else. “Irina, invite your friend in for some tea.”

  “Mom, we’ll be late.”

  Mrs. Petrova tossed her head and walked away, obviously expecting us to follow.

  Irina sighed. “You want some tea? It’ll only take a minute. Mom is just going to make sure you’re European, rich, and artistic.”

  My eyes must have popped, because she smiled and said, “Don’t worry—I’m kidding. Sort of.”

  Crap. Of course I wasn’t going to pass the parent test. The whole thing was a setup. But I put on my game face and followed Irina through the house, taking in the spindly polished-toothpick furniture; puffy, long, cut-in-half couches; black baby grand; and some angry-looking women staring out of gold frames on the walls.

  Irina led me through that room to a dining room that was a little more comfortable, with a long table and wood chairs and lots of windows. “This is the breakfast room,” she said.

  I was so out of my element, it was sick.

  A minute later, Mrs. Petrova came in, carrying a tray with a silver pot and three tiny cups. She waved at the table. “Sit down.” Irina and I sat with a seat between us, and Mrs. Petrova poured tea and passed around cups. No sugar, no milk, just little floating lemons. Nasty.

  She sat down across from us, took a sip of her tea, and stared at me. “Irina tells me you like ballet?”

  So Irina wasn’t above lying. Good to know. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You prefer—”

  “He likes the Kirov Ballet the best, Mom,” Irina cut in. “His favorite choreographer is Petipa. And his favorite dancer is Nureyev. Any more questions?”

  Her mom looked back and forth between us, eyes narrowed. “Are you joking with me?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nureyev is really your favorite?”

  “Yes, she’s amazing!” I said.

  Mrs. Petrova’s forehead crunched into a glare. “Bah,” she said, disgusted, and got up and stalked out. A second later, she poked her head back in and pointed threateningly at Irina. “You.” Then she disappeared again.

  Irina was giggling. “Rudolph Nureyev is a man, you idiot.”

  “I don’t even think of ballet dancers as male,” is what popped out of my stupid mouth. Irina looked at me like I just said I didn’t know how to read. But it was true: I seriously didn’t know a guy in his right mind who would try ballet.

  She stood. “Come on. We should leave before my mom changes her mind about letting me go. She danced for the Kirov Ballet. Not knowing Nureyev is like not knowing George Washington or something.”

  “Your mom’s a ballerina?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  I was thrilled to get out of there, although I was starting to wish I’d sold some more pills and rented a Ferrari. We got in the Taurus and pulled away, and with every block we got farther away from Irina’s house, I felt a little bit of my cool coming back. I turned up the stereo and merged onto the I-5, following the directions Kyle gave me.

  After we’d been driving a few minutes, I asked, “So, how come you ran away so fast when you saw your dad coming the other night?”

  “If you knew my dad, you wouldn’t ask that,” Irina said.

  I gave her a sideways look. I didn’t like the sound of that. “What, he doesn’t like you talking to guys?”

  “He would have given you a hard time.”

  “Why?”

  “You weren’t wearing a dress shirt to a concert, your hair is kind of long, all that stuff.” She waved a hand.

  I ran a hand over my hair. “What are you talking about? It’s like two inches!”

  “Yeah, but it’s messy.”

  I frowned. I worked hard to get my hair looking like that.

  “Don’t worry about my dad,” Irina said. “He’s not here now, is he?”

  No, he wasn’t. But the dude gave me a spooky feeling, like if I got any closer with his daughter, I’d be dealing with him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When we got to Morton’s house, Irina and I went up the front steps, where some guys were sitting, smoking menth
ols. Kyle was one of them, and he gave me a fist bump as we walked in, and checked out Irina way too obviously.

  Inside, it was more like a bad rave than a high school party. Everybody was rolling with their candy rings, the ’tronic was pumping, and you could smell the weed and liquor. A bunch of people were dancing, and one girl in a shiny pink go-go outfit was trancing against the speaker—except it was only about four feet tall, so she looked silly. On the floor, a bunch of kids with a jar of Vicks had a back rub train going on.

  As me and Irina walked by, somebody said, “Gabe!” and suddenly everyone was saying hi or reaching up for fist bumps or whatever. It was pretty nice, actually, to have that happen in front of Irina. Kyle must have spread the word that I’d connected the e. Well, I’d take it. Irina didn’t need to know why.

  “You want a drink?” I offered, and Irina shrugged, so we headed to the bar in the kitchen. A dude playing bartender made us some top-shelf jungle juice, and we found a spot to lean against the wall.

  Irina’s expression was hard to read. “Are these your friends?” she asked, looking at the back rub train.

  “No,” I said honestly. “I haven’t lived here that long, and I’m still kind of getting to know people.”

  She gave me a curious look. “Where did you come from before?”

  “Over by West Seattle.”

  “What, like Burien?”

  “White Center,” I muttered.

  She said thoughtfully, “White Center? That makes sense. There’s something about the way you talk …” I looked at her, and she paused. “I mean, it’s just a little different than I’m used to.”

  “Oh, sorry, is this better?” I said in an English accent, and she laughed. I told her, “I’m actually from New York. We moved to White Center when I was in fourth grade. So you’re probably hearing leftover East Coast.”

  “Yeah, you say a’s different.”

  I didn’t answer, because I saw some girls coming toward us from across the room. One of them was Kyle’s girlfriend, Erin, and she had three other girls with her: a redhead and two brunettes lined up in a hottie brigade.