Word Count: 444
Prompt: Elvis Pony picture for a_muse_meme
Notes: Long before the Island of Lost Luggage
Vegas is a funny place. Never know who you might run into. Course being a city full of sinners, most of the people you meet were running more of a con than I was. Not that I was running a con now. Hadn’t found a mark yet. That was going to take time. I had to take my time perusing the minnows and deciding which one of the plastic princesses was wearing real Tiffany’s and which were as phony as the Elvis clone working the Blue Lagoon Lounge down the Strip.
I was dressed in a good Brook’s Brother’s suit. The real deal. You can’t catch a sweet fish without using the proper bait, and a rich woman will know a fake when she sees it. Especially since that suit wasn’t likely to be on for long once I pasted on my charms, and I didn’t want her finding a fake label. The watch on my wrist was a fake though. I didn’t have enough money left over to buy a real Rolex, but it was a good imitation.
There she was, checking out every man who walked past her table. She should have been paying more attention to her cards. The stack of chips in front of her was sinking fast. I sauntered on over, giving her and the dealer a slow lazy smile. Sliding the last of my seed money towards the dealer to get my own rack of chips. I’m a good poker player, but I wasn’t in this game to win.
The lady was wearing the real deal, dripping in gold and diamond tips on her fingernails. Her dress cost more than I’d made in the last six months, and I couldn’t wait to try to get her out of it. She smiled back, twining a long lock of her graying blonde hair around her finger. “Have you come to take my money too?”
“Could be,” I said with a wicked grin. I know it’s wicked, had plenty of the ladies tell me it was. “But I’d rather take the house’s cash.”
She didn’t have much of a poker face. There was a tiny crease near one of her Botox resistant wrinkles that told me the cougar had a bad hand. I didn’t. It was probably the best hand I’d ever had, but I folded, letting her have the pot. By the time I was nearly out of money, I had her in the palm of my hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she laughed, draping her fingers over my arm. “Let me at least buy you dinner.”
“Darlin’,” I drawled. “I’d like nothing better than to share a meal with you.”