Grift | Fiona McKay

Lisa yanks her dress into place, flimsy sequins winking neon-yellow, candy-pink, acid-green, walking past the yammering slots, arms ratcheting down, over and again, coins out, coins in; the house always wins. Cleavage showing, ass covered, just; a trail of silence as she passes through the bomb-loud room, explosions of music, grenades of money, hell-storm behind her like an action movie. In her head: walking through the flames. 

Door says, ‘Employees Only’. Everybody knows; behind here is the real action. Everything else; window-dressing. Slinks across the room and takes her place, hip-bones to the table, back arched: mirror-practised pose. Penguin-suited chick drops off her usual, rum-and-coke just so, all ice and coke, teaspoon of rum over the top. The little details. A Cuba Libre, mouthed poutily. Classy. 

The regulars at the table pay no notice. Always some fresh meat though. Out-of-towners passing through. The best kind. A minor dalliance, written off, re-written before they reach home. And always, always give a false name that they forget halfway through the evening. So many Brads and Buds. 

Tonight’s mark: actually called Mark; files it away in her brain to laugh over with the penguins, shoes slipped off puffy feet, out the back smoking by the stinking bins, under the kitchen vent, belching stale fat into the humid night. Later. Now is work. 

Mark’s in town for business, heard about the place from the concierge at his hotel, on the QT, green bills folded into palms, discreet nods. Lisa smiles. That’s how it works. Chains of money. Yes, she says, she comes here sometimes, likes to watch the action, you know? It’s so – pause – exciting. 

Drinks keep coming. Cu-ba Li-bre. Sultry sounding, hot night, fanning herself with a cocktail napkin, drawing attention to the bead of sweat that forms, and falls, slowly, down the canyon between her perky breasts. Distracting, maybe. 

Mark the mark is careful. Until he isn’t. Distracted, maybe. Gets her to blow on the dice for luck. Can’t believe how cheese that is, but tosses hair and blows. He buys more drinks, orders champagne, apple-bitter after the sweet Coke; she sips delicately. He slips her a few chips every time he wins. They’re stashed in her purse. Some guys demand them back when their luck changes, like that’s how it works. Their luck always changes. 

Mark talks about his family. The sick mom, the dead dad. No rings, but responsibilities. And work; they all talk about work like it’s a religion. But also about life, fun times, laughing faces. His own face lighting up for a family he doesn’t yet have. 

Later, with the penguins chattering, she’s quiet. They tease, joke, prod, making her spill out her night’s chips, impressed; nice bonus on top of what she’s paid. But in her head she’s somewhere else: on the road, passenger seat of a nice sedan, tall pines wave her off in the rear view mirror; new life ahead. 

Never fall for a mark; the first rule they’d given her.

Fiona McKay lives and writes beside the sea in Dublin, Ireland. She started writing Flash fiction in 2021 and is also querying a novel. Words in various places, including: FlashFlood Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, Reflex Fiction, Retreat West, Cranked Anvil, Janus Literary, EllipsisZine, Scrawl Place, The Birdseed. Nominated for Best Microfiction 2021. Tweets at @fionaemckayryan