Hammer Lock

Janelle. I'll tell him my name is Janelle.

I thought of it a couple days ago; proof that I shouldn't be put in charge of deciding such things when I'm in the middle of a novel. Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm a little uncertain. I should have gone with something shorter, something cuter, but the name tag's already been made, already pinned on. So I'll just suck it up. Maybe I'll ask him to call me Jan. That almost works.

He'll be at one of the poker tables - it's his game. He has a couple cronies, might be hanging around. Chances are, though, they'll be hitting the slots, leaving the other seats empty, until a few fresh faces see him there, not realizing what they're up against.

The floor will be short staffed. Bad flu going around this time of the year, took out half the dealers, almost. The ones that are left will keep telling him they'll send someone around shortly. He's the patient kind, just laugh it off, tell them to take their time. He likes watching the floor almost as much as winning the casino's money, and he can afford to wait.

Never did find out what hair color he prefers, so I went with blonde - usually a good one to fall back on. I want to get his attention as soon as he catches a glimpse, keep him there, not let him look away. Robb told me that shouldn't be a problem. He tells me that all the time. I guess it'd be creepy if he weren't the closest thing to a father I got. As it is, I've come to expect it out of him. Don't believe a word of it.

The skirt has a slit up the side, almost high enough to do the job, but not quite. Can't say the shirt or vest are anything special, far as I can see, no different from any of the other dealers', which was, of course, the point, even if it won't help me much in this. I'll probably just do my best to catch his gaze, give him a good wink with my blue eye, pray that's enough to keep him watching, while I do the same for him with my green eye, as if I don't already know exactly what he looks like.

Long as I don't screw around too long getting over there, I shouldn't have any problem keeping him ensnared after that. Just need to pass by close enough for him to hear the crinkle underneath my skirt, see the bulge, take a whiff of my only perfume, the baby powder I'll be sure to use liberally. Freak's got very specific tastes; he likes his girls diapered, of all things, or so I've been told. And my information is rarely wrong, so, much as I dislike the thought, I can't afford to let my dignity or pride get in my way, not like other girls my age. When you're sixteen, you're supposed to think about boys, and talking on the phone, other dumb shit like that, as far as I can tell.

I got more important things to worry about. At one time, chief among them would've been making sure he didn't figure out how old I really was, but if I've learned anything about people, it's this: They see what they're expecting to see. They see a girl dressed like a card dealer, they adjust any discrepancies, 'till that's what they see. It's easier that way, I suppose. Certainly is for me. Could've tried to play younger, I suppose, if the situation'd warranted. It's starting to get harder now, but I can do it. Apparently, though, that's not what interests him, choice of wardrobe notwithstanding.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," I'll apologize, keeping my smile and my blush just for him, whether there are others waiting at the table with him or not. "I'm new here, and I got a bit lost, and..."

He should quiet me down then, wave his hand with a smile of his own, tell me not to worry. Maybe tell me I'm worth waiting for, and get another blush out of me. I'll waste a few more seconds staring at him, whether there're enough others waiting for a game or not. If there isn't, I'll find something to do after I tear my eyes away, down to the felt, too shy to think of anything to say, too new to know what I'm supposed to in this case. Though, with any luck, I'll be able to launch straight into the game.

I've been around Vegas long enough to pick up a few tricks, to feel almost more comfortable with a stack of cards in my hand than not. Maybe not quite long enough to say it's in my blood. Maybe. Had plenty of folks teaching me over the past few years. More than I'd like, but, as Robb told me the first time one've them I'd gotten attached to - Merle, her name was, more beautiful than I'd ever hope to be, with a smile that made me forget everything that'd happened, in the years leading up to then - wasn't there at her table when he brought me in.

"Just the way it is around here," he'd said. "People come and go so fast, you barely realize they're new 'till they're on their way out. Just how it is."

But not him.

"I'm here to stay, don't you worry about that. I ain't gonna leave you."

I believed him. Still do, don't have any plans of changing that. After everything he's done for me...

I owe him. I owe him big time. So much it makes me feel like a loser to have to remind myself of it, often as I do. I'm lucky he hasn't asked for more. And I know it. Sometimes I just need a reminder is all. This'll probably be one of those times, as I start to move closer and closer to the point of no return.

No matter what tricks I've picked up over the years, making myself look uncomfortable is one of the most useful. An awkward riffle, painfully slow, ought to set the stage for the follow-up, and my embarrassed overcompensation should send the cards to the floor behind the table, and me quickly afterward. Perhaps I'll give him a quick flash of my diaper as I kneel, before I remember myself, turning away quickly and straightening out my skirt as I grab my own deck from my pocket, slip it into my sleeve. My hand'll bump against the little metal box, maybe rattle the pill inside, but no big deal, long as I don't knock it out of my pocket as well.

I'll try to gather up all the cards for a second or two before giving up and going for a new deck with another set of apologies. My cards, of course, and this time, I'll 'remember' the procedure, start 'em off with a wash. I'll give myself a few seconds, make it look like I'm actually mixing them up, before scooping them back up. I can do it in a lot less time than that, certainly - I like to think I'm not -that- slow. Hell, all my teachers would be ashamed to see me take so much time. They'll just have to get over it.

If his companions've spent any time around the game, they'll be expecting another riffle, and I know he will, so I'll start one, then think better of it as I glance down at the cards on the floor beneath me, and go into a pair of Faros instead, and a strip from the bottom into the middle. Four more Faros, a quick cut, and another pair. I repeat the sequence again, hands moving instinctively, fingers remembering just the right place to take the cards from, where to put them back.

They'll bet, they'll B.S., all the stuff that Robb always told me made this the finest game on God's green Earth. Can't say I ever saw the appeal, myself. I'd say I disapprove of any game that requires so much lying, but, as this whole night is going to center on deception on my part, it seems a bit contradictory.

Long as he doesn't get too cocky, first hand oughta end with a full house. Pair've rockets, otherwise. Could even get beat, if the man to his right holds out for the two sixes to go with the one in his hand.

Either way, he's not leaving after just one round. I'll let my hand shake a bit as I pick up his cards, let him think his smile makes me feel better. "You did good, Miss Janelle, don't you worry." He's a gentleman, or likes to sound it, at any rate.

"You can call me Jan." Has a decent ring to it. Could've come up with better, but it'll do.

He might introduce himself then, might not. Not like I'll listen. I know his face, know its him. I know all there is to know about him. Or, at least, all there is Robb thinks I need to know, and that's enough for me. Always has been. Easier to keep names - real ones, anyway - out of it.

I'll dry my hand off on my skirt before the next shuffle, see if I can get a nice crinkle out of the diaper. He should be listening for it by then, unless I screw up my entrance. Should put a new grin on his face as he urges his opponents to ante up, if he still had any doubts. It's his lucky night - he doesn't have anything to lose.

Cards from last hand to the bottom, spread and Faro. Shouldn't lose any players yet. If I do, I'll throw in another after the slide, before the cut. Let myself get a little quicker now, more confident.

He should get himself a case of snowmen this time. Tease the nice man three seats down with two-thirds of a royal flush; wouldn't want him to miss the rest of the show. I'm sure he'll want to be there when my guy wins the very next hand with the complete version.

"Guess you're my good luck charm, Miss Jan," he'll wink. Don't suppose the others will find it quite as amusing. Might be they'll leave, but there's always people to replace them. Always plenty of folks eager to lose their money in a casino, even against someone on such a winning streak. It has to end sometime, they'll tell themselves. Might as well be in when it happens.

It won't. I can keep it up as long as I need to, assuming I remember all the right numbers, all the right places to cut from and slide into. And I'm more likely to forget how to speak English than to let those slip my mind. Can't even count the number've times I been over them.

He's not going anywhere, not as long as I keep passing him all the best hands he's ever seen. By then, I hope he wouldn't anyway. That ain't gonna stop me from keeping him rolling in the chips, just as long as it takes for someone to get suspicious.

The manager's new, just came in from some riverboat last week, doesn't know all the dealers yet. From what I've heard, he likes to spend his time with the cocktail waitresses instead. Doesn't know me, either. That's almost more important, ought to give his performance a bit more edge, some nice realism.

He'll have some excuse to get me away from the table, like everyone there won't know what's up. Probably bring over another dealer, maybe say I forgot my shift was up. He's new, young, not the best liar, from what I've seen. Even as naive as I'm playing, I'll know what I'm in for.

I'd prefer not to cry, shouldn't need to. Just give the old Bambi-eyes, chew a bit on my bottom lip. My man won't stand for too much of that, especially when the alternative means being a knight in shining armor to such a poor, defenseless babe.

"Now, why don't you leave Miss Janelle here be?" he'll say, more demand than question. Might flash his gun, too, show how serious he is, how well he can protect me, should I need it. "When she's ready to go, she'll go."

"My apologies," the manager will mumble. "I-I didn't realize who you were, sir." He still won't, but security will, and we ought to be left alone.

My hand will shake a little as I raise it to my chest with a breathless sigh. "Thank you so much," I'll flutter.

"Don't mention it," though it's clear he likes to hear it. "I'm at your service, Miss Jan."

Another smile, then a squirm, just enough for him to see, a wrinkle of the nose just as small. "I think I do have to be leaving now, though, I'm afraid."

"Can't talk you into one more game, huh?"

"I don't want to seem ungrateful, but..." My voice will drop, I'll lean in closer, glance around nervously, like he's the only person in the place I'd dream of confiding something like this in. "I got something to take care of, and I don't know how much longer it'll wait."

Should be the last piece in the puzzle he needs, not to mention the invitation he's been looking for. "I believe I can take care of that for you, too, Miss."

"Oh, I don't know about that," I'll laugh dumbly.

He won't want to come out and say it, not where other people could hear it - what kind of hero would do that? - but he'll let me know somehow. Maybe he'll even just let his gaze drop down to the slight bulge around my waist, grin, say, "Trust me, I think I do."

Even that will almost be too much, and I'll drop back into another fierce round of blushes, but I'll nod, stare up at him with my big, trustful eyes, let him lead me off. I'm sure he'll be a gentleman - wouldn't want to lose me when he's so close - but I suppose I should expect a pat on my padded bottom once we're off the floor, out of sight. Also wouldn't want to get up to his room and find he was mistaken after all. He'll like what he finds, might hurry the pace a little, if he thinks my poor little feet can handle it.

Bet he's got a nice big room. A suite, even. Won't matter much, though personally, I prefer small.

Soon as the door's closed, I expect most of his shining armor routine will wear off as his patience does the same, and that he'll be sure to lock the door behind us. "Well, Jan, let's get on with this," he'll growl, either with his mouth or his eyes, probably both. Expect I'll get my skirt taken off, maybe even ripped off, depending on how well all the teasing of what's beneath has gone. Guess that means I'll need my 'accident' to be authentic, much as I hate that idea.

"Sir!" I'll exclaim with a blush, kneeling down to retrieve the skirt, hold it up in front of my bare legs.

"Oh, no need to be modest, little Jan," he'll say. "Daddy's seen it all before." Probably just the night before. If you've got the money, hookers will put up with just about anything, even his little game. And he's definitely got the money. Maybe he'll think one of his business associates sent me to him; maybe he'll think he lucked out, found some poor girl with a real problem. I don't imagine he'd care which it was.

"I just need a change," I'll whisper, innocence and light, just a hint of a little something more underneath.

"Of course. Just stay here, Daddy'll go get you a nice, dry diaper." A nod, and he'll be off.

It's the waiting that'll get you. In a small room, there's not far for him to go, can't leave you waiting for long. With a big room, there's room to think about it, to get nervous. I'd like to think I've moved beyond that by now, but I know that ain't true.

I'll wait and take the pill until it looks, or sounds, like he's heading back, sneak the tiny metal box out of my skirt's pocket. It'll burn for a few seconds, always does. Some medical thing, I don't know. Had it explained to me once, didn't pay much attention.

Don't know what all he'll have. At least a diaper, of course, probably some baby powder. God knows what else. I'll stand to meet him, greet him with a smile, ready for what's to come.

Then I'll slam my hand into his throat. He'll quiet down quick, drop whatever it is he -does- have. I'm sure I'll wince, like I always do - always did hate that crunching sound. He might fall to his knees, but I think he's stronger than that, and go for his gun instead. Pill should be kicking in full force by then. Be able to snap his arm like a twig, no problem.

It's at that point their eyes always get big, start to beg. That's why Robb taught me to go for the throat first. They're all liars, he told me, and most of them are damn good at it. If they can't talk, they can't trick you.

Even so, their eyes still get me, no matter how hard I try not to look at them. So I'll tell myself what I need to hear.

He's the bastard who left me alone after my mom died, decided he couldn't be a father alone, that the state could take better care of me. He's any one of the "fathers" from the foster homes, especially the one whose jaw I broke, the day I realized I was... special. He's the asshole who said he'd "take care" of me, out on the streets, when I was lost, and confused, whose idea of care was stealing everything I owned and leaving me alone in the middle of the night.

I know I won't believe it completely, I never do, but it'll do the job.

Hopefully I'll avoid the bones this time - gave myself a nasty cut punching through a guy's chest once, bled almost as bad as he did.

Then I'll go back, back to the only place that was ever a home to me. Robb will ask me how it went, and I'll tell him what a good job I did, how well I followed his orders. He'll nod, and smile, tell me, "That's my girl. Didn't expect anything less."

I won't ask him what the man did. He'll never tell me beforehand, says if I knew how evil they were, I'd want to kill them soon as I set my eyes on them, and that would just land me in prison, and what good can a superhero do when she's in the slammer? He doesn't tell me afterwards, either. "Doesn't matter," he tells me, "they're gone now. They won't do it again."

And, in the end, it doesn't matter. I trust him. I know, deep in my heart, that he wouldn't steer me wrong.

How can I not, after all he's done for me? After he took me in, even after I nearly broke all his ribs the first time I saw him, when I was still a runaway, afraid he wanted to take me to the cops, send me back "home". After he promised me a normal life, and delivered it, finding a doctor to lock my powers away, so I'd only have to deal with them when I absolutely needed to. After he gave me everything I have, everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of?

After he gave me a purpose. "You're one of the good guys," he'd told me, the first time. "You're a hero. Don't you want to use your power to help people?" Of course I did. I smiled, and I took the pill, and I did what he told me to do. It was only right. I was still scared of my strength back then, hadn't used it since he'd gotten it sealed, but I knew I couldn't let that stand in the way of doing the right thing.

I may not always like it. Doesn't matter. When Robb gives me a picture and a file, produces one of the pills from wherever it is he keeps them, I know what needs to be done, and I know that, by doing it, I'm making the world a better place.

And that's all I need to know, all I need to make myself step into the casino, doing my best to ignore all the stares I'm sure are directed my way, searching for the source of the crinkling noise that sounds even louder than my booming heartbeat.

It's all I need.