Gifted Grifter Ch. 03

Gifted Grifter #3: Viva Las Vegas

In my last few days at the Department of Defense, I worked on perfecting the secret discovery that would transform my life: a receive that could read people's minds. Recognizing the opportunities my invention would afford, I had wanted to quit immediately, but I had promised my graduate assistant, Jessie, that I would wait three weeks so that she could finish collecting her dissertation data first. I would have honored that promise even if I hadn't seduced her with help from my mindreader. But it was now week four, and I was running out of patience.

The extra time did serve me well, though. While my original mindreader, which I concealed by building it into an old baseball hat, worked fine, I wanted something even more portable. Scrounging micro-components from various departments, I was able to embed a mindreader into the frame of a pair of glasses. I actually build two mindreading glasses, one with clear lenses and one pair of sunglasses. The eyeglass version had a couple of differences from the hat-sized version besides size. For one, I only had space for a tiny battery, so I added an on/off switch hidden on the earpiece. This way, I wear them all the time but save battery by only turning them on when I needed them. Second, I had added a tiny message recorder circuit, like an answering machine might have. I knew that I would be using a number of different names and identities in the future; this feature would allow me to leave reminders for myself at to whom I was supposed to be.

On Wednesday morning, my mindreading hat told me that Jessie had finished collecting her data—but didn't want to tell me that she had. See, after we had sex the first time we had agreed to a moratorium on sleeping together again so long as I was still her boss. In the interim, she had decided that while she like me and all, I wasn't a good prospect for a long-term relationship—and she was much to serious and goal-oriented to invest time in a man that she didn't perceive to be a realistic marriage candidate. Too bad, because she had a great body and gave awesome head, but she was right; monogamy was not in my future plans.

My hat told me that her plan was to tell me at the end of the day Friday and have somewhere else she needed to be that night—although she wasn't sure what that was, having recently dumped her boyfriend. That was just two wasted days to me, so I decided to press the issue.

"OK, Jessie," I said, "I said I'd give you three weeks, but now you're over time. Are you gonna be done soon?"

"Uh, yeah, I hope to be done by the end of the week," she said.

"HOPE to? You'd better be!" I said in a joking tone. "Look, as soon as I quit here, I'm off to Vegas, and I want to book a flight for this Friday. Do you think you can be done by then?"

As I intended, this gave her the "out" she was looking for; she wouldn't have to deal with the sex moratorium if I was taking myself out of the picture. She had no idea that by the weekend, she wouldn't be even able to find me. "Well, I'll be sure to find a way," she said, knowing that she was actually already done. "You've been very nice to me to stay on just so that I had time enough to finish."

"What can I say, I'm just a nice guy." I said. I had recently met a girl named Lauren that probably would not have agreed.

I spent the rest of the morning booking my trip to Vegas. It wasn't as outrageously expensive as I feared, booking so late. I decided that I would stay at Planet Hollywood (I had always liked it when it was Aladdin). I then spent the afternoon scrounging around for spare parts, personal documents, copies of software I had written—anything that I thought I might want once I no longer had access to the resources of the DoD. I took home two boxes worth of potentially useful supplies—security might be tight as to who got in and out of the facility, but we were all research scientists and a lot of us worked on stuff at home, so nobody paid too much attention to what we took out the door with us.

First thing Thursday morning I went to find Jessie —wearing my mindreading glasses for the first time. I told her I was booked for a 7AM flight the next day; if she was ready, I wanted to turn in my resignation so I could go home and pack. I watched her do some mental arithmetic and decide that if I was escorted off the premises before the end of the day, she should be able to avoid me and the question of renewing intimacy until I left for Vegas. Thus she came clean:

"Yes, I am finally done!" she said. "Thank you so much for letting me finish before you leave. I..."

I had to work hard to refrain from laughing out loud. I knew from my glasses that she was thinking "I don't know how I can ever repay you," but of course the obvious answer would be that she could start by sleeping with me again, and she didn't want to do that. I decided not to make her squirm.

"Well, you're not done yet," I said. "It will take you longer than you think to do the analysis and write it up. But I'm confident you will do fine. Good luck on your final defense."

I felt her wonder whether I would come to her final defense; she was torn between being genuinely grateful for the favor I had done her and wanting to avoid being around me so the sex question couldn't come up again—that's the biggest problem with sleeping with your advisor, its hard to reject them on a personal level when you are indebted to them on a professional one.

"Well, I'm off to turn in my resignation," I announced to break the silence. "Who knows if and when we'll meet again," I and shook her hand, "but you've been a great assistant and I wish you nothing but the best." I paused for a second, then added "In your career...and in your life."

I saw that my speech had left her wondering. What did I mean if I'll ever see you again? She hadn't considered that she might not see me again. And what did I mean by "in your life?" Was I trying to give her the hint that I didn't want to screw her again? Funny, but that actually ignited a twinge of competitiveness in her, something like maybe I didn't want to have sex with her again meant I didn't think she was good enough, which made part of her want to prove otherwise. I didn't have time to exploit that little opening in her psyche, however, so I just wanted her to not have to worry about my pursuing her. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to jump her bones again. But in all likelihood, once I went underground, she and I would never cross paths again.

I went up to my boss' office, turned off my mindreading glasses—I didn't want to know what HE was thinking—then marched in and handed in my resignation. He called security and stripped me of my clearance right then and there, as I knew he must. Then security escorted me to my desk with a box, and watched as I put all my personal belongings into it, making sure that I didn't take anything but what was mine. (I had left all my personal things at my desk so that it wouldn't be as obvious that I had already cleaned out the good stuff the day before). Once I announced I was done, I was walked out to the parking lot and locked out of the building.

At last, my new life was set to begin.

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Las Vegas had long been one of my favorite vacation destinations, but it wasn't going to be the same this time. It was early Friday evening, and at last I my turn had been called for a seat at the highest stakes Texas Hold'em table open at the Luxor. The idea was simple; play high stakes poker, use my mindreading glasses to know my odds of winning a particular hand, and bet accordingly. The execution was going to have to something I worked at, however. Obviously, I couldn't just win every hand, that would get suspicious fast. Also, I had to be careful not to give away any tells while I was considering my odds. So I had decided to try a specific plan of attack: I would keep my glasses turn off and play straight-up most of the time, turning them on only when the stakes of the hand got high. I was not a particularly good poker player, so I figured I'd lose enough when playing "blind" to not attract suspicion. I knew that by either winning or avoiding losing the big pots, I would come out ahead; it would just appear that I was getting lucky as to when I would get my winning hands. But I had to be sure to touch the frames of my glasses on every hand, or I'd give away when I was turning them on.

Even with all that forethought, pulling it off turned out to be a more delicate balancing act than I had imagined. A couple of guys quickly didn't like the vibe they got from me and left the table shortly after I arrived. A dumb-luck inside straight draw and better-two-pair were all I had to show for my first hour of play, and I had taken a hit when I couldn't match my pocket kings and lost to three-tens. And while I was consciously touching my glasses every time, I hadn't even turned them on yet.

In the second hour was the first time they came in handy. I had A-8 suited in my under cards, and after the turn there was A-A-K-3 showing. I figured my three aces would be pretty good, but one of the players ahead of put down a bigger bet than I expected. "What is he thinking," I thought, and when I put on my glasses I learned he had A-K under. I saved a boatload of money folding there.

In the third hour, a young guy who thought a lot of himself came in and after a few hands suddenly started betting big. He scared away the rest of the table; he might have been bluffing, but we didn't have a good read on him yet. My glasses confirmed that he was bluffing, and my two pair were plenty to beat him. Having started down the path, he felt he had to stick to it, but I of course reraised him every time. I cleaned him out.

The big score came about an hour later. On the table were the 8, 9 and Jack of hearts, Jack of clubs, and four of diamonds. A guy across the table was betting on his nut flush, A and 3 of hearts. It never occurred to him—I know, I was reading his mind—that I could have the 10 and Queen of hearts, which amazingly enough I did. That win put me in the neighborhood of 10 grand ahead for the night; I had promised myself that I would quit for the night if I managed to get that far. I decided to play a few more hands for politeness sake, then cash out.

Now that I wasn't concentrating on making money, I suddenly became aware of my surroundings again. I noticed that behind the rail that separates the poker room from the rest of the floor, a number of people had been watching the game. I realized this was trophy wife's row. Three guys' wives were watching their husbands play. One had medium-length blonde hair and augmented breasts, much of which were visible in the cleavage of her black, satiny halter-style top that she wore with black three-quarter length pants and heels. A second was Asian-looking, wearing a very tight, short red dress with cutouts above the breasts and at the waist on either side to allow more skin to show through. The third was the hottest of the bunch: long brown hair, wearing a vest-like top that exposed three inches of midriff, including a large diamond navel ring, and a tight mini-skirt. There was a long expanse of very tan leg between the bottom of her skirt and top of her heels. Not a one of them had hit 30 yet—or else, they had excellent plastic surgeons. I even overheard one of them telling the others about having taken the Stripper 101 class at the Desert Passage earlier that evening, and that she had a surprise in store for her man. Fuck!

I was envious of these guys, having these girls waiting for them while they played. I was going back to my room alone—obviously, I didn't have time to pick up for women and earn my living at the same time. I consoled myself that I would have plenty of time to prowl for pussy once I was back home with my three months or so of money in my pocket, but that didn't help me feel envious of the guys that would be getting fucked by these dolls tonight. I know I wouldn't have kept them waiting—course then again I hadn't already fucked them every day for however long they had been together, either. One thing I had going for me was the availability of variety—the spice of life.

Still, I was feeling sorry for myself after I cashed out, so instead of heading straight back to my room, I went to the bar nearest the high roller area. Most of the people there were in couples or groups, but four were not—three amazingly hot women and one man, who I watched sit down at the bar next to one of the women but whose body language indicated he did not know her—yet. I was too naïve yet to recognize what I was looking at, and I was wondering how three girls so hot could still be sitting by themselves at this bar, with no guys around hitting on them. I turned on my glasses and got a quick education: all three were scanning the crowd for potential customers. They were all high-price prostitutes.

The one closest to me was wearing a blonde wearing a red cocktail dress, short and with a plunging neckline; sexy, but not revealing enough to stand out from the rest of the Las Vegas late evening/after-show crowd.

The second was wearing what appeared to be a blue dress, with a similar neck and hemline, but when she bent from time to time her skin would peek out from her midsection; it must have been two separate pieces. And she had red hair, my favorite, although a little darker than ideal.

The third, the one talking to the guy, had her back to me, although I could make out much of an attractive face in the mirror behind the bar. I noticed she wasn't looking at him while she talked to him; she was assessing if he might be a customer or if he didn't realize she wasn't free. She had long blonde hair and wore a white, tank-like top that stopped a couple of inches short of her short, black skirt.

What he was thinking was: is my microphone picking this up? He was a cop.

People think that prostitution is legal in Las Vegas; it isn't. Prostitution is legal in Nevada, but only in counties with a population under 400,000. Obviously, Clark County does not qualify. That's not to say there aren't prostitutes in Vegas; its just that they're just as illegal there as in any other city in America. And because there is big money in Vegas, there are high-end prostitutes there as well, hookers of a price and caliber you won't find in middle America.

Now I had never in my life, up to that moment, even considered securing the services of a prostitute. There were a lot of reasons: I couldn't be sure she wasn't going to give me an awful disease; I couldn't be sure she wasn't setting me up to rip me off (a common occurrence among Vegas escort services); I couldn't be sure she wasn't a cop; and I wouldn't have had the money to afford a woman of this caliber. But suddenly, all of these issues were non-issues: with my mindreader I could find out for certain whether she was a cop, diseased, or a con artist, and I had ten grand in my pocket. Was there any reason NOT to rent a working girl for the night? Didn't I just complain about not getting laid tonight because I had spent my time making money at the poker table? Now I could use that money to rectify the situation—plus, I could (within reasonable limits) order whatever sexual experience I wanted. That in itself intrigued me greatly.

Now, normally I would have gone up to the redhead, because, well, redheads are my thing. But for some reason, I didn't want to watch this cop haul the cutie at the bar off to jail, and she was getting close to falling for his bait. He was sitting on her lefthand side; I made a beeline for the chair to her right.

I sidled up to the bar and announced "Man, I could sure use a drink." This interrupted their conversation, so I continued "But not here, I'm sick of this place." I pretended to have just noticed the guy. "Oh, sorry friend, I didn't see you there—you aren't like married or something, are you?" While I was saying this I slipped a couple of Franklins into the girl's shirt under her arm, so that he couldn't see me do it.

He kind of hemmed and hawed, but she piped right up, "No, we were just sitting here talking; we actually just met," she said, with emphasis. While she was doing this, she nonchalantly crossed her arms in order to surreptitiously retrieve and identify what it was I had slipped there. Her fingers immediately recognized the feel of US currency; she didn't know how much money it was, but she knew I had just slipped her some scratch.

"Well, then what would it take to get a girl like you to join me for a drink over at Planet Hollywood?" I said.

"You just have to ask," she said smiling and turning towards me, gathering her purse. Her mind, however, said $3000. She turned to the guy with a light handshake and said, "It was nice meeting you."

He was a little perplexed, but responded in kind then got up to look around for another working girl to try to entrap.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I whispered to her "That guy was a cop you know."

She was not new to this line of work; she coolly betrayed no response whatever to my statement while whispering back "Are you sure?"

I nodded. Then she gave the other girls a sign of some sort. I have no idea what the sign was, as I didn't see her do anything unusual, but somehow she had tipped off the other two girls about there being a cop in the bar. I peeked back briefly as we filed out; both of the other girls were collecting their things and preparing to move elsewhere.

"Nice." I said.

"What?" she asked, not knowing what I was talking about.

"Whatever signal you just gave the other girls. I didn't even see you do anything."

She smiled, "That's what makes it such a good signal." It was pretty clear that I knew she was a prostitute, so she didn't have to play coy. "How did you know he was a cop?" she asked.

"I saw him bust another girl last night at Mandalay Bay," I lied. "Or at least, I saw her go up the elevator with him, then come back down five minutes later in handcuffs. Not too hard to figure out."

She nodded knowingly. "Well, I guess I owe you one," she said. "I'm Heather from LA." My glasses told me she was really Julie from Oklahoma City.

"I'm Tom," I lied, "and you never did answer my question. What would it take to get a girl like you to come up to my place for a drink?"

She looked at me carefully, trying now to decide whether I might not be the police.

"C'mon, surely there must be a way for a guy like me to have a drink with a girl like you," I said. While I was talking, I put my arm around her in an exaggerated fashion, then subtly wrapped my hand around and placed my hand squarely on top of her breast, lingering my finger over her nipple as I let go before causing a scene. This achieved the desired effect; she decided that no undercover officer would cop a feel in public before making a bust, so I must be legit.

"Well, usually 3," she said; I guess I was supposed to know she meant thousand, although I wouldn't have without the glasses on. "but since you just saved me at least $500," she continued, "I'll consider that as a down payment."

"Not to mention..." I said, referring to the bills I had slipped her earlier.

"I didn't forget," she said. She was smooth; she had been carrying those Franklins in her hand the whole time, and I had no idea. She finally looked to see that there were three of them.

"Hmm, you're not going to cause me any trouble, are you?" I asked. The word trouble triggered thoughts of getting busted, but didn't trigger thoughts of disease or a man with a gun waiting in hiding somewhere. Good, she was clean.

"I promise," she said.

"OK, one more question. Is that a one-shot deal? Or, for that price, will you stay and have breakfast with me?"

She looked at me like I was from Mars. Her thoughts really didn't know what to make of me; for a lot of guys, the best part of hiring a pro is that you can kick them out when you're done with them. The last thing they would want is for her to stay the night. But I wasn't the law if I was copping a feel of her tits in public. She concluded that I was just naïve—she was right, really.