The Vig
vigorish : noun : a charge taken (as by a bookie or a gambling house) on bets; also : the degree of such a charge
This time, Rusty counts the days.
He circles New Jersey, stays close, but not too close.
He has more money than he knows what to do with, and the fun of imagining how he'll spend it lasts for a couple of weeks -- almost as long as the irritation he feels at Danny for letting himself be locked up again, for the sake of the girl.
Danny used to tease Rusty about being susceptible to romantic notions, but Danny's the one who screwed up, falling for Tess in the first place and engineering that charade in Vegas to get her back. She's just another shiny thing Danny needed to steal, and when the shiny wears off, Rusty will be there the way he always has been.
This is the second time Rusty's walked away and let Danny take the fall, and while he knows Danny doesn't hold it against him, Rusty resents it, resents feeling like he owes Danny, as if Danny's the house looking to collect the vig and he's some penny-ante loser who can't afford to pay it. He wants to blame the girl, because this is twice now Danny's chosen her over him, and even though Rusty knows Danny will always come back, that he's under Danny's skin the way Danny's under his, it takes him a few weeks to work it out, get to the point where it's okay again.
Which is when Tess shows up.
Rusty figures it's his opportunity to pay up, to show Danny he's over it (even if Danny will never know), so he doesn't cut and run when he spots her in the lobby of his hotel. When he opens the door to his room two days later and she's standing there, arms crossed over her chest, beauty edged with anger, his grin is genuine.
"Checked in as Mr. Redford, Rusty? I thought you were supposed to be clever," she says, her voice honey-sweet and laced with poison.
"My mother was a fan," he answers easily, and truthfully. "Lunch?"
She shrugs a shoulder, pretend-casual. "Sure."
He takes her to a French bistro on 53rd, down the block from the hotel, and they blend in with the busy lunchtime crowd of businessmen and tourists, he in his dark blue suit and Italian shoes, and she in her black linen dress and pearls, her silver bangle bracelet (a gift from Danny, bought and paid for at Tiffany's when they'd first started dating), and expensive ballerina flats.
He lets the silence stretch between them. She came looking for him, she can damn well make the first move.
She cocks her head and watches him, and he wonders what it is she sees with her appraiser's eye.
The waiter takes their order -- filet mignon for him, salmon for her, a bottle of merlot -- and he sets his napkin on his lap, every movement precise, economical, invisible.
She breaks when he's buttering a roll, fluttering her napkin like a white sheet on a clothesline in a breeze, her voice sharp as a knife.
"Thank you for the help," she says. "I appreciate it." Formal, proper, and only half a lie. She doesn't like him any more than he likes her, and likes being indebted to him even less. Which is the way it should be. He'd think less of her, otherwise, and of all people, she's not one he wants to underestimate.
He smiles again, less genuine this time. "Couldn't leave you stranded in Vegas with nothing but the clothes on your back." He takes a bite of the roll, enjoying the salty, yeasty taste of butter melting on warm bread. He swallows and says, "Danny wouldn't have wanted that."
"Danny." Short and sharp, an exhalation more than a word. She looks away, looks back, and he slips his fingers along the heavy silver handle of his butter knife, the metal warm against his hand. "Did he ask you to look out for me?"
"He didn't have to." Again, the truth, and less painful than he'd expected.
"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" she says after he's let the silence grow uncomfortable again.
"You're here for Danny." He gives her the smile that has gotten him out of more than one tight spot. "And you're here for me." Because it's the same thing, and as much as she'd like to deny it, she can't.
Her lips tighten and she looks down at her napkin, not charmed in the slightest. "I guess you've got me all figured out, huh?"
He laughs, absently brushing his chin with his thumb. "No man has any woman all figured out. It's part of your charm. Anyone who says he does is a liar."
She looks up, shakes her head. "They do say it takes one to know one."
"They say a lot of things, Tess. Only some of them are actually worth listening to."
"The truth--"
"Is just another scam." He shakes his head, letting some of his exasperation show, so she thinks she's getting more of that truth she craves so much.
She smiles then, dazzling and artificial -- all mouth and no eyes -- and he can see why Danny was taken in. Danny always did have a weakness for a pretty face.
"Is there anything real in your world, Rusty?" she asks, and he wants to tell her to shove her condescension and her false pity, but he swallows it down, too professional to let it show. He knows if it were anyone but her, it wouldn't bother him at all.
"Everything in my world is more authentic than the crap these losers deal with every day," he answers, flicking his fingers dismissively at the businessmen in their boring suits and the tourists in their unfashionable clothes.
She leans forward, and he can see the mask come down; the intensity in her eyes is genuine, and the amusement in her voice, true. "Don't hand me that bullshit, Rusty. I can tell the real thing from a fake."
He leans in as well, covers her hand with his, enjoying the slight hitch in her breathing at his touch. "Then why are you here, Tess, if not for Danny?" She has no answer to that, and she looks away. He drops his hand, mouth curling in a slow, pleased grin. "There's your truth."
As he says it, he realizes another truth, as well.
Danny's not going to go straight for the love of a good woman. Guys like them don't. Because for them, it's not about the money -- they don't steal out of need. Not need for material things, anyway. They do it for the thrill, the action, the excitement of being on the job, of knowing they are smarter, quicker, cooler than the mark. And because they never want to be marks themselves.
Tess probably knows that on some level, though she'll refuse to acknowledge it right away. She thinks she wants the house with the white picket fence and the two point five kids, but if she did, she wouldn't have been with Benedict. And she wouldn't be hanging around now, waiting for Danny.
But there's something else going on with Tess; some spark or flash of insight tells him she's not as set on civilian life as she appears. She's enjoying this too much, though she doesn't want him to see it.
And that, more than anything else, is what reconciles Rusty to her presence in Danny's -- and by extension, his -- life. For now, anyway. Taking care of her while Danny's away is the least he can do, after all.
The wine arrives, and takes the surface of his attention for a few minutes, long enough for her to reach her conclusions, and come to a decision. He can see it in the subtle way she relaxes, the muscles in her shoulders easing, her face softening the slightest bit.
The sommelier leaves and Rusty raises his glass in a toast. "To Danny."
Her lips quirk in a half-smile, all the more enjoyable because of how it reaches her eyes, and how reluctantly it's given, and taps her glass against his. "To Danny."
It's going to be an interesting few months, but Rusty likes his odds.