This time, writing the text to the group was easier. I knew who they were and what to expect. I hit send, and just like last time, the guys responded immediately with “I’m in” and “Who’s playing?”
I waited anxiously for Tuesday, and it couldn’t come soon enough.
Over the weekend I drove my beat-up Jeep Grand Cherokee to Barneys. I self-consciously handed the valet my keys, super aware that my car didn’t exactly fit in with the sleek and shiny Mercedes, BMWs, Ferraris, and Bentleys.
Once inside, I forgot about my insecurities and I beelined for the shoe department. I looked around at the immaculate displays. For the first time in my life I could afford to buy whatever I chose. I was like a kid in a candy store.
“What can I help you with?” an immaculately dressed salesman asked, looking disapprovingly at the worn-out flip-flops I was wearing.
“I’m just looking,” I said, ignoring his snobbery.
“May I pull some styles for you?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said cheerfully.
After trying on ten pairs, I settled on a classic Louboutin black pump. “Are you this good at finding dresses too?” I asked him.
“Come with me,” he said warmly, as I shelled out the thousand in cash to pay for the shoes. He was nicer to me now that I was spending money.
“Let me introduce you to my friend on the fourth floor,” he said.
Her name was Caroline. Walking along with her, I felt like how my car must have felt in the lot with all of those fancier versions of what a car could be. I was incredibly aware of my own sloppy appearance. Barney’s was filled with perfectly put-together women who looked like they had never had a bad hair day in their lives. I was in jean shorts, flip-flops, and a sweatshirt, my hair was in a messy ponytail, and I had on a Denver Broncos hat, but the worst was my glaringly obvious fake Prada purse that I had bought from a vendor in downtown L.A.
“How can I help?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a dress that makes me look nothing like myself.” I laughed. She laughed too.
“Is this for work? Date? An audition?”
“With these prices, hopefully all of the above.”
“I’m going to pull some options, so have a seat.” She motioned toward the large plush dressing room.
“While I’m doing that, take off the hat, put your hair in a bun, and put on the new shoes.”
I did as I was told.
She returned with several gorgeous dresses.
“Show me each one,” she said.
I wiggled into a structured black Dolce & Gabbana. It was like a magic trick—it lifted my boobs, sucked in my waist, and accentuated my butt.
I walked out of the dressing room.
“Where did this body come from?” Caroline asked appreciatively, leading me to a three-way mirror. The dress created an optical illusion dress that made me look not only elegant, but sexy.
How could I say no, even to the price tag? This dress had transformed me as much as Valerie’s makeup application.
“So there’s your sexy, now let’s get a classic, and you’re well on your way to leaving the old you behind.”
I smiled happily.
I tried on a navy-blue Valentino that hugged my body in the right places without being too provocative.
We finished the look with a strand of Chanel pearls.
“You sure are good at your job,” I said admiringly.
She smiled. “Just give me your credit card and you will be on your way.”
“Oh,” I said, pulling out my wad of hundreds. “I have cash.”
Caroline’s face fell. I was sad. I could tell she thought I was a call girl.
“I’ll be back with the total.” Her voice was still friendly, just a little cooler. I was changing back into my clothes when she let herself into the dressing room.
“I’m not supposed to do this, it could get me fired. But I like you and I’ve seen this town destroy young girls.”
“I promise you, Caroline, I am not an escort or anything like that. I just had a really good run at a poker game. And that’s the truth.”
She smiled. “That’s very cool, and much better than the answer I feared.
“Here is my card, you call me anytime you need anything.”
I smiled back. “Thanks for being honest, even at the risk of getting in trouble.”
I walked out of Barneys with my new outfits, beaming from ear to ear.
FINALLY TUESDAY CAME, and Reardon actually let me leave work at a reasonable hour this time, so I drove home to change into my new outfit.
I was driving when my phone rang; it was one of my bosses from the club world. I was still picking up shifts when I could.
“Hey, T.J. What’s up?”
“I need you to work tonight,” he said. He sounded impatient. Everyone who works in the nightclub industry is always grumpy during the daytime hours.
“I can’t,” I said. This was the first time I had ever told him no.
“I guess you don’t value your job,” he said, his tone sharp. “There are a million girls in this town that would kill for it.”
I thought about the money I had made last week working the game, more money in one night than I might take home in a month at the club, and I sucked in my breath and said, “Well, why don’t you call one of them, because I quit.”
He paused, shocked. I politely thanked him for the opportunity and hung up.
I knew I was being reckless. There was no guarantee this card game would last, but I was going to try to push it as far as I could. And it felt damn good to quit that thankless, demeaning cocktail job.
I SHOWED UP IN MY NEW DRESS AND SHOES. I had chosen the sexier one.
“Whoa, look at you,” Diego said, taking the bags of liquor from me. “Your tips are gonna be gooood tonight.”
“Is it too much?” I asked
“No way, you look hot, mama.
“Speaking of tips, what do you want to do about that?”
“About what?” I asked.
“Tips,” he said. “The guys tip me throughout the game. I saw that they gave you some cash at the end. You’re always gonna make more when there’s chips involved. We can split if you want. Fifty-fifty.”
I thought about this carefully. I had seen the guys throwing the chips into the center after winning a hand. So logic told me that ten guys tipping over the course of many hours probably translated to a lot of money, However, Reardon had made it clear that tipping me was the way to get invited back.
“Let’s see what happens tonight and decide after the game.” I wanted to see how much he made.
“Okay,” he said, smiling.
Reardon walked in just then.
“Whoaaa,” he said, laughing. “You kind of look like a piece of ass.” That was as close to a compliment as I would ever get from him.
I