Hold ’Em Hostage Page 12

  “What? Are you crazy? And miss Bee Cool winning the biggest poker tournament in the history of the world?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I put in. “The odds of that are less than getting struck by lightning.”

  “Not quite. Richard says they are nine thousand one hundred and twenty-three to one. We just posted it on the website.” Richard was the unusual but irresistible mathematician I met on the poker cruise. Ingrid had talked him into a column on the website, “Odds Are Odd.”

  Shaking my head, I sighed. I was really going to have to check the website more often. Apparently even more than I thought. I might not have wasted my time on the tournament if I thought my chances were that bad. “What are you wearing?” Ringo demanded.

  I looked down at my Donna Karan black linen knee-length sheath. Ignoring Ingrid’s selection and ensuing pleas, I chose to go low-key today. I thought the one shoulder added a bit of style, the clunky jewelry a bit of hip, the braided zebra heels a bit of vogue. I thought wrong, apparently.

  “That’s not on your list of WSOP outfits,” he chided.

  “What list?”

  He opened his mouth and I put up a hand to stop him. I was going to kill Ingrid. No wonder she’d been so insistent about what she called the “fresh green” layered dress with pointy, open-toed half heels. That must have been on the list. “Don’t tell me, ‘it’s on the website.’”

  Ringo nodded apologetically and ducked his head. Oops, I’d pissed off the help. “Well, Ringo, it’s too late for me to change, so I guess we’ll have to just pick out shades that rock so my fans forgive me. Should I go with the classic Gargoyles, the new age Dark Hots…” I paused as I reached into my purse to pull out the choices I’d actually remembered to pack.

  “Wait!” He patted his box. “You have a bigger job than that. Chanel saw your sound bite on CNN this morning and was so pleased you had theirs on, they same-dayed more over to the hotel!” He paused.

  “Shades for a sinner, huh?” I flipped open the box top and began rifling through my choices.

  “But, you have those to consider as well.” Ringo motioned to the nearby bench that held no less than a half dozen boxes.

  I shook my head. “Ringo, time to do your job. Pick a pair for me to wear tonight.”

  He fidgeted. He played with his four hairs again. “That’s a lot of pressure, Bee.”

  “Some of the best decisions in the world were made under pressure, Ringo. Go for it,” I said over my shoulder as I marched to the registration desk. It was amazing how quickly the numbers could dwindle…Ten thousand had become around a thousand players in just a day. Masses of WSOP hopefuls were on the loose in Vegas doing who knew what. If I’d gone into the game knowing this, I would have never played. I am a glass-half-empty person, to be sure. Backing into liking the cards, chips and felt, and then having life-and-death stakes on winning in my first experience were the only ways I ever would have kept on playing.

  Fate was a strange force.

  “Bee Cool.” I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned to see Thelma, wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing the day before. I wanted to get her a bath. I wanted to get her a hair-brush. Then I remembered I’d sent her on a mission. I’d forgotten because Richard might have given her a ten percent chance of showing up again with any information and I would have hoped for five. “I found out some stuff,” she whispered, furtively glancing over her shoulder. Suddenly I felt like I was in an old Alfred Hitchcock movie.

  “Okay,” I said, nodding encouragingly, only realizing, after an awkward moment, that she was expecting me to show her the money. Frank would have throttled me for passing her the C-note before she started talking but I did it anyway. I was rather impatient. Something Frank was occasionally grateful for.

  “That preacher man who’s hassling you?”

  I nodded again. This wasn’t the tree I’d really wanted her to bark up, but maybe there was more.

  “The girls he has out there holding those ugly signs?”

  I nodded, feeling like a bobblehead doll. Perhaps this was all I was going to get out of her—a series of rhetorical questions.

  “Those girls are off the street, a lot of them. They runaways. He pays them to hold the signs.”

  Interesting. I guess that was something I could throw at him if he irritated me again. “So he picks them up off Vegas street corners, gives them a twenty and tells them to walk around singing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ all day?” I couldn’t remember if I’d seen the same faces every day or if the faces changed.

  “No, they not Vegas girls. They all say they live in the woods up northwest.”

  “The woods?” That was weird.

  She nodded, certain of that.

  I didn’t know what any of this meant or how it was going to help me, besides perhaps a way to blackmail Paul to shut up if I had the time and energy.

  “Thanks, Thelma,” I said. “You hear anything else, let me know.”

  “You know I will,” she said, shoving the cash into her bra and melting back into the crowd. Talk about the perfect surveillance operative. I doubted 90 percent of the public even noticed Thelma existed. I made a mental note to mention her to Frank. Maybe I could make an honest woman of her.

  “So,” a voice said to my right. “I finally get to meet the woman with the buzz.”

  It was one of the famous Phils, a real player, a true poker pro. Wow. I was a bit starstruck. He gathered my hand in his to give it a shake. Thank goodness because I wasn’t sure I could function. “Nice to meet you,” I began.

  “I’ve never gotten the opportunity to thank you for edging Steely Stan out of the game. Thanks from all of us pros,” he said. “He was scum.”

  Wasn’t that a diplomatic way of putting it? “Well…”

  “Now, you can learn to play the game so you don’t embarrass the rest of us.”

  “I have an intuitive technique,” I defended myself, finally finding my brain. “It might be different from yours, but still valid.”

  Laughing, he shook his head. “You are a PR queen for sure. Maybe you truly are the future of the game. Scary.”

  With that, Phil walked off. “Hey, what do you call your tantrums if not PR?” I hollered after him.

  Ringo reappeared, proudly squiring a pair of Africa Golds. Giving him a thumbs up, I donned them and walked into the ballroom for day two. But truth be told, I was anticipating my interrogation of Serrano more than the cards leading me to a twelve-million-dollar jackpot.

  Serrano didn’t show. And once again Blackie was there well before I was, seated and composed. Organized, show-offy bitch.

  With a bit of a fuss all around the table about me being late, the first hand was dealt and Serrano’s seat remained empty. I leaned over to the man next to me. “What happened to the ex-cop?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe he tied one on last night and couldn’t get up this early.”

  Most people didn’t consider noon early, but we were in Vegas, so I guess he had a point. No one else at the table seemed to know what happened to Serrano either. The disappointment I felt at losing the info train to Frank’s past was surprisingly sharp.

  The cards fell my way, though. The first deal gave me a pair of Kings with a Flop of a pair of Kings and a Queen, two of which were spades. That was good, because it might give someone with a queen in the hole enough gumption to stay in to see The River and those with a flush draw a glimmer of hope. A rope-a-dope strategy would earn me the most chips. I raised conservatively and promised myself not to show I had the nuts.

  Sure enough everyone but Blackie and the small blind folded before Fourth Street. The third spade, an eight, fell on The Turn, which conveniently kept the small blind in the game, apparently having made his flush draw. I called, waiting to raise on Blackie’s reraise. The pot had grown considerably. I was tempted to push, but thought I should scare them off less dramatically. I wouldn’t play aggressively tonight, it was way too early in the tournament for that. I wanted to milk the fun
ds out of the table gradually. Aph’s captors just told me to stay in it—not to win.

  I don’t know what Blackie had in her pocket because she finally folded on The River reraise when I made the all in decision.

  Two breaks later, a WSOP official came around and motioned across the room for a player to take Serrano’s place.

  “What?” the dealer asked. “The guy just didn’t show?”

  “You could say that. Rudolph Serrano is dead.”

  I gasped. “A heart attack? Stroke?”

  “Nope, he was offed. Found in an alley this morning. Knifed overnight. Cops are working the room right now.” He pointed to a couple of plainclothes detectives under close watch of a phalanx of plainclothes casino security. “Why? Anyone at this table have a special interest in the guy?”

  The dealer paused in middeal. Everyone turned and looked at me.

  Detective Trankosky wasn’t happy to see me when the WSOP official dragged me over to their impromptu interrogation room at the next break. The tournament wanted the cops to go away and they apparently were willing to sacrifice me in order to accomplish that goal.

  “You again,” he growled, hitting himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand.

  “What are the odds that of all the hundreds of detectives in this county, I would encounter you twice in forty-eight hours, Detective?” I smiled sweetly.

  “What are the odds that I would have two poker players slashed to death in two days and you were around both of them within hours of their deaths, Belinda?” he returned.

  Mexican standoff. Though naturally impatient, I waited silently because I knew he’d hate it. I expected him to arrest me this time, and I wanted to make sure he had to work for it.

  Finally, he said: “How long had you known Serrano?”

  “About three hours. He sat down at my tournament table. We met.”

  Trankosky waited again. I bit my tongue again. “But I hear you chatted him up all night.”

  I shrugged my left shoulder. There was no way I was going to tell him about the Frank connection even though suspicion had sprung directly into my mind. Where had Frank been all night? I hated this operating half in the dark.

  “Well, what about it?”

  “It was no big deal; I like to make conversation.”

  “With everyone but me, apparently,” Trankosky said out of the side of his mouth. I thought he might be ready to get rid of one of his wads of tobacco but there wasn’t one there. “What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing in particular…good shows, the best restaurants…”

  “So you didn’t know he was from the same hometown as your boyfriend?”

  I blinked, taken aback by the fact that the cops knew I had a boyfriend. Did I have no secrets from either side of the law? “I think he mentioned it. It’s a pretty big hometown.”

  “It’s a pretty big coincidence that Serrano and Gilbert both were cops there too, huh?” Trankosky sounded like someone else I knew for which coincidence was a four-letter word.

  “I guess so,” I said, wishing I could ask Trankosky how much he know about Frank’s past. Argh. How could a stranger who’d never met Frank know more than I did?

  “Did Serrano mention he and Gilbert actually knew each other?”

  “Not in so many words,” I said, damning my mother for ingraining the inability to lie in me. A little ability to prevaricate might come in handy right now to keep me out of the slammer.

  “Did Gilbert explain it all to you when he got home after dawn this morning?”

  Show off. I guess the police tail had been there all along. Either that or they were using the hotel cameras to view our room. “Hey, Detective Dale, if you know so much, then I imagine you know I didn’t kill Serrano.” I pointed out.

  “Believe me, this is the one time I’ve regretted setting up a surveillance on someone. If I hadn’t, I would’ve had enough circumstantial cause to lock you up—”

  “But I didn’t do anything, and you just admitted you know that!”

  “—just to get you out of the way!”

  “Oh,” I said, my anger suddenly deflated.

  “I know you know something but I just don’t know if it’s worth all this pain and suffering and the time of my guy—”

  “That’s easy, pull him off, then.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s having way too much fun. He loved the Harley shirt and miniskirt.”

  I glared.

  “By the way, he wants to know where you got your tattoo and if you could get his horoscope the next time you visit your psychic.”

  Enough was enough. With that I stood, and huffed off as Trankosky laughed at my back. I decided being a joke was worse than being a suspect. I was determined to lose the police tail, no matter if I knew which guy he was or not.

  In the first deal back after my rendezvous with Trankosky, I held two off-suit midlevel cards. Crap.

  I hated to play these. A 9 of diamonds and a 5 of clubs do not engender much confidence, especially early in a tournament at a table that had dropped all but me and Blackie of the original players. I’d been so distracted that I hadn’t gotten much of a read on the other five currently sitting there. The only saving grace was I was the last seat on this hand and all but Blackie and a dolphin trainer from Florida folded.

  Surely they had better odds than I did. Blackie was impossible to figure. She could have my hand or she could have the total nuts. The other girl looked like a fish (no pun intended), but a rock of one. If I bet on anything, it was that she had a crown or two in front of her. I called, hoping for luck.

  The Flop came an Ace of diamonds, a 3 of diamonds and—a gift—9 of clubs. Either one of them could have a flush draw now. Or a pair or trips. Calculating the outs, I put my win odds somewhere below 20 percent. Usually a place to fold. Blackie wasn’t even breathing, I think. A good sign. She was probably bluffing. Flipper’s friend, on the other hand, was eyeballing her chips. She had a pair of Aces. I was going to have to play aggressive near the end to scare her off or not play at all.

  So I drew her out, limping in with soft calls through Fourth Street that was a 4 of diamonds. Darn it. Someone could have made the flush. Still, Blackie wasn’t breathing, but was still calling. Good, it wasn’t her—she was just after stealing the pot. When the 9 of hearts fell on The River, it made me be brave doing what I had decided to do no matter what card came—I pushed. Blackie was tempted. She had to have the flush. Dolphin Girl studied her chips, counted mine and hyperventilated for a few moments.

  We must have looked dramatic, three women about to go heads-up, because the ESPN cameraman swooped in and stuck his lens in the middle of our table. The dealer gave the girl a little extra time, no doubt to let the commentators blab on, building the suspense if they chose this clip to run later.

  Finally, she blew out her breath, shoved all her chips forward and waited. The dealer reached over and selected two stacks of my chips to return to me—so I wouldn’t be eliminated no matter what was on the other side of her cards, just seriously handicapped. Then, with a flourish, he turned over our cards simultaneously. She had an Ace and King spade suited. She started crying as one of the commentators came over to interview her about her bad decision when it really hadn’t been a bad decision at all. If I’d folded and Blackie had folded as we should have, she would have raked in the blinds. Instead we’d made it a game and luck fell my way. I smiled and gathered my chips. Richard wouldn’t be proud of me—that was no way to play the odds—going from seventeen and a half percent to a hundred with pure luck, but I was proud of myself. Finally maybe I was learning to calculate odds, read the players and intuit the fall of the cards in proper measure.

  Either that or I was just lucky today.

  I slow played the next hand, just to keep everyone guessing. Most of them thought I had nothing as I had before, and figured I wouldn’t get lucky twice. Truth was, I’d been dealt American Airlines (a pair of Aces) so I waited until four other players were deeply committe
d to the pot to raise when another Ace fell on The Turn. Now they all thought I had a mere pair when my Rockies were the nuts according to the mishmash on the board. I won a big pot and made everyone mad.

  “How can she be so lucky!?” the banker from Nebraska whined.

  “Something fishy is going on here, and I’m getting to the bottom of it,” a pro from Council Bluffs threatened.

  Blackie smiled and that’s when I knew something was wrong.

  Fifteen

  I’d found Blackie’s hands hovering near my chip stack when I returned from my cop shop session and hadn’t thought much of it. I didn’t think she was wholesale stealing my chips or anything. More likely, freaky as she was, she was putting a curse on my seat. I’d been in such a hurry when I’d sat down I’d knocked a couple of hundred-dollar discs that were on the edge of the felt off onto the floor; I figured I’d wait until an all in or a break to pick them up. It hadn’t mattered, since I was chip leader and frankly, I’d forgotten about them.

  Now, a couple of tournament officials marched over to see what the ruckus was all about. Of course, the TV cameras followed. Good thing, since I’d forgotten all about the kidnappers’ demand that I talk to reporters. Maybe I could think of something stimulating to say that they would put on TV tonight to keep the cretins happy.

  Keeping only half on ear open to the whiner and the complainer, I checked my text messages. Just one from Mom, reporting no word from Affie and the impending botox injection of the lips of the president of the garden club. That’s when all hell broke loose.

  “What’s this, then?” Whiner demanded, pointing under the table. Down dove Moaner, who hollered, “There’re chips down here.”

  One of the WSOP officials ordered him back out and he crawled under the table, reemerging with two hundred-dollar chips. I looked up from my phone and opened my mouth just as he flipped them over and said, “Look, they’re marked!”