Free CASINO SHUFFLE by J. Fields Jr. Page B

him they were looking for a single Asian male with no luggage hustling down the hallways.   He had already scouted out the tinted security camera bubbles in the ceiling of the elevator landing and stood in a spot that was more likely out of their field of view.   Unless they had hidden cameras somewhere, which he doubted, but hey, sometimes he was surprised by security measures.   Not usually.  
    Finally the elevators dinged open just as he was reading about how long it took to jog to Lantern Hill at a moderate pace.   A Vietnamese family expelled themselves and their luggage from the elevator, chattering in their stupid language and sounding like a flock of gargling turkey vultures.
    He thought, Ha.   I blend in great.   Dumb security don’t know Vietnamese from Chinese.   All look alike.
    He shook his head.   He was even thinking in the fake accent now.
    Snatching up his bag Ang caught up to the family that choked the narrow hotel corridor.   The pack leader, a white-haired old fart the height and weight of a ten-year-old, was holding his room key card in the air like a winning lottery ticket, comparing it to every room number plaque they swarmed past.   He would grunt if the number didn’t match and that was the signal for everybody to keep moving.   One of the kids in the back of the blabbering group, all of them dee-dong-fing-fong -ing each other, looked around at Ang and said something in Vietnamese.
    Ang poked his finger up his nose and stuck his teeth out over his bottom lip.   “Dong dong dong,” he said.   He didn’t speak any of their dumb dialects.
    The kid frowned and turned away from him.
    Ang was American.   Grew up in Boston .   He liked big tits and bare ass.   Pot and beer.   Red Sox and ultimate fighting.   Watched pay-per-view porn.   Tailgated hybrids with his SUV.   He didn’t rock the vote.  
    In fact the only thing he liked that was Chinese was the #17 lunch special at the chink take-out joint down the block from his apartment.   He didn’t know squat about General Tso or what war he was in, but damn, that guy made good chicken.
    Never having met his parents, Ang was adopted as a toddler by a couple of rich Internet investors looking to save a foreign kid to get them into Heaven.   They bought him toys and gelled his hair and dressed him in cashmere and Reeboks.   Sent him to private schools and enrolled him in photojournalism classes, probably because they figured all Chinese kids liked cameras.   He used his newfound skills to sneak pics of the neighbor’s teenage daughter trying on her training bra and developed them in the darkroom Mom and Dad had built for him, which turned out to also be a great place to masturbate.   They never came in there, so he did, frequently.
    He grew up loaded and spoiled and was still pretty loaded and spoiled, even with the dope and the hookers and the gambling.   Every picture was worth a thousand words and about ten thousand bucks, if it was the right kind of picture.   And most of his pictures were the right kind, even the first one he ever sold.   He was seventeen and wandering a private beach in the Hamptons , avoiding his parents and sneaking shots of hot chicks napping in the sun.   All of sudden he spotted Shayla Cole.   She was wearing shades and a baseball cap and a bikini, but he knew it was the girl from the popular TV show his parents watched every week.   He followed her, camera at his side but lens pointing at her rear end, pressing the button over and over.   Then she jogged up the beach and ducked into the clubhouse restrooms.   Without even thinking about it he went right in after her.   Her stall door was closing.   There was a fat lady primping herself in the mirror and she didn’t even turn around.   He ducked into the stall next to Shayla Cole.   Waited until he heard her peeing.   Stood on his toilet, stuck the camera over the connecting wall, snapped a picture, jumped down, opened the door, and ran