Tommy's Day Terrors

She tries her very best to be cool, not to get worried or make waves, she really does. But having Nick gone, knowing he's somewhere doing something dangerous, it just won't go away. And the biggest issue is that she has nothing to keep her busy while he's away, no job, no hobby, nobody to turn to. She considers calling Bailey and Sarah, but she's not willing to upset Bailey, too; she thinks about calling Kate and asking her if there's anything Tommy can do to help out with the renovations. But she doesn't want to be underfoot, and so, in a moment of panic, she turns to the only other place she feels familiar.

The last time Tommy was on the streets, she was doing whatever she had to to survive, and to stay under Artem Vashlikop's radar. Now, in a different city, with a different life, with an actual future to look forward to, Tommy heads out from the suite and goes exploring. The undertow of the slums and crashpads pulls her back in as if she's been local all her life. Within a few hours, she's already heard rumors of a local high-stakes game, ten thousand to buy in, half a million table stakes. The hotel bartender clues her in, gives her a name and a number to call. And so, by the afternoon, she's dressed up nice, put on her best make-up, and caught a cab downtown to another hotel suite, where some very rich players are meeting. She comes with fifty thousand in cash for the buy-in and her table stakes; the idea that she and her boyfriend keep a quarter-million in ready cash in a couple of plastic bags in their closet no longer seems odd to her.

It's a nice suite, ritzy without being crazy. The other players are either pros, or very wealthy amateurs. When she knocks on the door, there's a brief pause before someone pops it open for her; she's greeted by a pretty Hispanic girl about her own age. The girl is wearing her dark black hair pulled back in a braid; she's got a white tee-shirt over an athletic bra, a pair of loose gym pants, tattoos on her arms, a small black tear under her left eye. Her mascara's dark, her lipstick a conventional light brown, and Tommy sees old scars on the woman's elbows, tough callouses on her palms and knuckles. The woman's tennis shoes are expensive, and well broken in, scuffed and marked up, but carefully maintained. Without making any comments, Tommy also notes the grip of the pistol sticking out of the girl's belt, handle taped, hammer down.

As Tommy is inspecting the girl, the girl is inspecting her as well. After an appraising once-over, the girl nods and smiles. "You must be Nestor's friend," she says, referring to the hotel bartender. Tommy nods, and the girl steps out of the way of the door, motioning her in. "Name's Izzy, I'm the security for the game," she says, and points into the living room, where people are already mingling and selecting seats at the table. There's six players, counting her, and three pretty girls and a pretty boy to keep all the players entertained, lubricated with drinks and food, and keep them playing as long as possible. This is an Outfit game, the mobsters taking ten per-cent of the total winnings, so the longer the players play, and the more they lose, the better the profit for the Outfit.

She can tell it's an outfit game by the way it's being run. Along with Izzy, there are two rather large gentlemen with Italian accents who don't say or do much of anything, there just to add some punch to Izzy as the security. The showrunner is a small Jewish man with nervous hands, a windbreaker on even though the weather's not bad. He fiddles with his glasses, a nervous habit, and keeps brushing his curly brown hair back from the sides of his face. He seems harmless, so Tommy makes sure to keep an eye on him; if there's a scam running, he'll be part of it. The dealer's equally unusual, a tiny Oriental girl who is riding the whole Japanese schoolgirl bit about as far as it can go. Two pig-tails, hair dyed blue, pink, and black, overly tight top, sucking on a lolly-pop, bouncy and bubbly. It would be really annoying if she didn't seem totally unaware she was playing to a stereotype. Instead, she actually manages to come off as cute, in a manic pixie sort of way.

The other players are a mixed bag, two businessman types, a famous basketball player who is very careful to mention he's not here if anyone asks, a female actress who's famous for her clear-cut wholesome image, and one other pro, a serious-looking young black man with tortiseshell frames and a no-nonsense demeanor. Everyone uses first names only, and once everyone has been able to get a seat, and a drink, the game starts with little to no preamble. It's immediately clear that these are serious gamblers; there's almost no chat, just cards and poker faces. In her element, Tommy finally gets distracted enough to be able to turn off her fears and just play cards.

After a couple of hours, and a rather dicey flutter on a 7-2 spread, Tommy is ahead by enough to call it a good day. The other players are all over the place, with the basketballer down almost sixty grand, and the other pro up a little more than Tommy is. They call a dinner break, and everyone adjourns to various other rooms to catch a nap, down some hotel food, or, if she's identifying the sounds from the other room correctly, fit in a quick bang with a couple of the working girls. For Tommy, the down time is a bit of a curse; she settles down on the living room sofa, in sight of the car table, and checks her phone for messages. There's two; one from Nick telling her he's okay and loves her very much, and one recent one from her new best friend, Mal, also telling her Nick is okay and loves her very much.

"You okay, girl?" Izzy asks her, seeming concerned. The dark-skinned security guard stands over her, a pleasant smile on her face.

Tommy may not know much about crime, or ****, or Nicki's world of killers and threats, but she does know gamblers and illegal card games. "I'm not texting anybody to come pull a rip-off," Tommy assures the guardian.

"You didn't look the type," Izzy agrees, smiling even more. "What you look like, I got a girlfriend, she got a guy she always worryin' about. T-Boy, he a hound dog, you know the type. She always on her phone checkin' up, you know?" Izzy sits down next to Tommy, tone casual, relaxed. "Your man cheat on you, dump him. You better than that."

Tommy laughs. "We have an open relationship," she says, putting her phone away. "But he has a really dangerous job, and I worry."

"Oh, that it?" Izzy shrugs, then pats Tommy's thigh. "He good at it?"

Tommy restrains the urge to make a dirty joke out of the question. "The best."

"Then don't worry, chica," Izzy says. "He be home soon enough, then."

"Hey, Izzy," the basketball player calls, coming out of the back room with the actress and one of the prostitutes. He's got a trace of white powder under his nostril, and the actress' lipstick is smeared; a small red stain is on the basketballer's crotch by his zipper. "We runnin' low on party favors, girl!"

Izzy nods apologetically. "I'll get it taken care of, be about an hour. That okay?"

The players laugh, and one of the businessmen nods. "That'll be fine, hun," he jokes. "Gives us time to get another ten or twenty grand out of him."

"Fuck you, Ronnie," the player barks, but his tone is happy. For him, it isn't about winning, just about blowing his money. _Sort of like Nicki, _she thinks, and feels another pang of heartache. She joins the players as they sit back down, and lowers her head, letting herself float away in the cards.

Some time after midnight, the game finally breaks up amicably. No one lost so much they panic, no one fails to pay what they owe, and no one wins so much or so often anyone finds it suspicious. The players begin letting themselves out, saying their goodbyes after they square up their tabs. Like all pros, they tip well, Izzy and the dealer getting the lion's share of the largesse. After she's cashed out up just over thirty-five grand, Tommy picks up her purse and coat, and heads out to head home. Before she can get to the elevator, she hears a cough, someone trying to get her attention. When she turns, it's Izzy, the dealer, and the young black player, all approaching her. "Hold it, would you?" Izzy asks, her arm around the dealer, who pops some bubble gum and giggles childishly.

"Whatcha want her to hold, Izzy-wizzy?" the dealer laughs, her sing-song tickling at Tommy's ears. It's the same tone Tommy uses when she's feeling very playful.

"You be quiet, Baby," Izzy warns, pushing her past Tommy and into the elevator as it opens. Izzy blocks the doorway with her foot, and the black man slides in at the same time Tommy does. "Not everybody down to fuck the second they meet you, girl."

"Then they don't know what they're missing," the dealer pouts, stomps her foot. "I'm bored."

"You're always bored, Baby," the black man mutters, annoyed. "I'm going home. I have class tomorrow."

"Gotta be movin' up, huh, Jude?"

"Someone has to." He hits the button for the lobby and adjusts his glasses, looks to Tommy. "You played really well tonight."

"A lot of people underestimate me, because of my- look." Tommy blushes, not sure how anyone in the elevator will handle her sexuality and gender choice.

Izzy puts her mind at ease pretty quickly. "Fuck them. You be you, girl." She yawns, and leans over to kiss the Oriental girl. "What you think, Baby? You like her?"

The girl cocks her head sideways, then bounces up and down as she claps her hands. "I like her!"

Izzy chuckles indulgently. "How open is open?" she asks, running a hand along Tommy's hip.