Death On the Flop Page 2

  Ben was now alternately pounding on the keyboard and muttering invectives at his virtual players. Or were they real people? That was even scarier. I concentrated on following the game not because I was interested, I told myself, but because Ben’s obsession was worrying me. They played hand after hand in which I learned zero strategy. Yikes.

  “The strategy escapes me,” I said out loud.

  Ben talked to me with an eye on the game. “Some of it’s instinct, some is education, but it could be you are a pure body language player. Lots of women are. You need to play in person, not on the net. Plus, your natural talents would be wasted online.”

  Finally, the game ended. Ben had won. I noticed for the first time the sweat that pebbled his forehead. Horse Doc congratulated him, typing, “Good luck at the Big Kahuna in Vegas, Rogue. We all hope you’re the one who can bring Steely Stan down.” The one called Bimbo Bombshell, whose identifying icon looked like Jessica Rabbit on speed and who’d gotten knocked out of the game earlier, echoed the sentiment. “Do it for us, Rogue. We’re rooting for you.”

  Ben thanked them both and told them, “Good game. ” As heated as the Hold ’Em had been, even playing distanced by keyboards, screens, icons and mice, I was surprised and frankly, gratified, to see this good sportsmanship. I was also relieved to see Ben had only won forty-nine dollars. Even though he might be a candidate for Gamblers Anonymous at least he wasn’t going broke online. The local game was another story. I was going to have to check into that. And Vegas, well, I shuddered to think how much he might lose there.

  Suddenly, Ben let loose with an explosive sigh and slumped in my office chair, which I’d given up to him after, in the heat of a hand, he’d nearly squashed me to death. After about half a minute, in which I wondered if he hadn’t suffered a stroke, he attacked the keyboard again, typing his way onto another online table, swearing mightily when there was a waiting list, and going in search of an empty table.

  That was it. I’d had enough. I jammed my hands on my hips and yelled: “Hello? Earth to Ben!”

  He ignored me, signing onto a new game. Finally, I yanked the chair back so the keyboard was out of reach.

  “Hey, Bee! They’re waiting on my bet.”

  I stomped a foot, the impact diluted a bit because it was the foot without the heel and I wobbled. “They’ll just have to wait.”

  “What is your problem?” Ben asked, still letting his gaze stray to the computer screen. I moved in front of it. He frowned.

  “Look, I’ve had the week from hell—I turned forty, lost my fiancé and my job in that order. Now my darling brother is in my house ignoring me and my miseries in favor of some stupid card game on the computer. I know life up to now has been all about Ben, but guess what? Newsflash: the next forty years are going to be all about Belinda!”

  Ben blinked, the only time in our lifetime I’d seen him struck dumb with amazement. “Wow. I didn’t know you minded me being selfish.”

  I almost smiled because the comment was so like my brother. He didn’t apologize for his flaw, just how it affected me. He might be a lot of things but hypocritical wasn’t one of them. Considering the king of hypocrisy I had been about to marry, I had to appreciate Ben’s honesty. “Well, I do mind your self-absorption sometimes. Now, speaking of which, tell me about The Big Kahuna,” I demanded, realizing I had to keep an eye on his growing addiction. “Would it happen to be in Vegas at the time you wanted to take me for my birthday present?”

  Ben had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Yes, but I want to take you because I want you to have as much fun as I’m having playing. It’s a brain game and at the same time a total adrenaline rush. Better than chess and more exciting than bungee jumping. You just need to win once, Bee and you’ll be hooked. It’s not about the money. And you can see how supportive everyone is, even in the heat of competition. It’s not all that bad as far as hobbies go, sis. Besides there are other things to do in Vegas, considering your new, ah, liberated taste in dress, you might find a new job in no time . . .”

  “Very funny,” I told him, cracking a smile, relieved to see my brother did still exist within this poker obsessed man.

  “Really, Bee, Vegas is a cool town. It’s the best place to forget your troubles, cuz there’s just too much to see and do. You have more world class performers within one city’s limits than probably anywhere in the world. You can hear Celine Dion, walk across the street and watch David Copperfield and then go next door and enjoy Cirque du Soleil. If you’re tired of just watching, get pampered at a spa, dance beyond dawn, shop for the best of everything under the sun. You deserve it all. Nothing is too good for my favorite sister.”

  “Only sister,” I corrected. “Only, penniless, unemployed sister . . .”

  “Come on, Bee, at best, it will be a great vacation—maybe you’ll fall in love and win a million dollars. At worst, it will be a change of scene and you’ll learn a little something about your bro’s favorite hobby.”

  “As long as it stays a hobby,” I warned carefully, not wanting to admit out loud that it had advanced to the next level already. He just grinned and tried to get a look around my heinie at the screen when the computer dinged.

  “Who’s this Steely Stan guy?”

  Ben wrinkled his brow. “He’s a pro on the World Poker Tour. This guy gives poker a bad rep because he’s such a poor sport and a big head. He thinks he’s so cool, running around everywhere in his shades with at least two different women on his arm at a time, squashing amateurs in his wake. He thinks he’s untouchable and that makes him dangerous.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Hmm. Ben was taking this a little too personally. “Isn’t that the point of the sport: to win?”

  “Yeah, but you see how supportive all the players are, and he isn’t like that.” Ben ground his molars together so hard his jaw popped out on the right side. He only did that when he was really upset. Or maniacally driven. Focus mode. Hmm. “It’s time for someone to take him down and I want to see it happen or, better yet, make it happen. Steely Stan is the celebrity pro who’ll play the four amateurs to make it to the final round of this Hold ’Em tournament. Please say you’ll go with me, Bee.”

  I could see clearly that this Vegas vacation was about Ben and some weird vendetta against a larger-than-life stranger and not about me, no matter what he said. But, the truth was, I was too afraid that his poker obsession was out of control to let him go alone. His focus mode was usually properly directed, like on succeeding in business, but the Pac-Man obsession nearly got him kicked out of college. It was only when I stepped in that I got him to switch majors and actually graduate. I shivered when I thought how he might have ended up, bartending in some dark dive living on those little martini onions, one hand on the Pac-Man control.

  “What about work? I thought you weren’t due time off until later in the year?” Ben was a pharmaceutical salesman. He’d been lucky to get the job when the medical supply company he had started four years ago went belly-up.

  “I already met my quota. The deal is when I do that, I get an extra week off every six months.”

  Whoa. Was it because he needed to impress his bosses or get that time off?

  “You won’t be sorry, Bee. This will definitely make you forget your troubles.”

  That was what I was afraid of. I would be trading worry over my troubles for worry over his. Swell. Sounded like a blast.

  Ben scooted me out of the way long enough to sign out of the game. He was nearly vibrating with excitement as he made for the front door.

  “So, you never finished explaining.” I pointed out, delaying making a decision. “What other talents do I have for this game besides my—disputable—poker face?”

  In the hallway, Ben paused with a grin. “Innocent eyes, long legs, and . . . how do I put this delicately . . . size D’s.”

  Who knew I was so talented? “Great, so as long as I wear mascara, a push up bra and a miniskirt, I’ve got it made at the Hold ’Em table, huh?”

&nbs
p; I opened the front door and he winked as he walked out. “No, those are just to distract the other players and hide how smart you are. You’ve got to learn the game in order to act like you don’t know it.”

  “Sounds dishonest.”

  “It’s called bluffing, sis. A fun way to lie. And in Vegas it’s expected.” Ben reached in his back pocket and handed me a thick envelope with a travel agency logo on it.

  Uh-oh. “You certainly were sure of yourself. You already bought the tickets?”

  Ben flashed a dimpled grin and shrugged apologetically. Damn. After what he still owed business creditors, he couldn’t afford to go squandering airfare. I groaned. “I guess I have to go, don’t I?”

  “Cool!” He kissed the top of my head again, then jogged down the walk to his parked car. “I’ll pick you up in two hours. You won’t be sorry.”

  Too late, I already was. As he zipped off with a wave in his red Spyder, I opened the envelope and saw it held no plane tickets, just folded pieces of magazine paper. I pulled out the top one. Ben’s sprawling script read: It worked, huh? We’ll get tickets at the airport. This is your first poker lesson, Sis. You’ve been bluffed.

  Two

  Considering I was allergic to spontaneity, packing in an hour to go to the sin capital of the world was akin to an out-of-body experience. I was so accustomed to dressing as an advertising exec during the week and, on weekends, as fiancée of an advertising head honcho with a strict girlfriend dress code that I had no clue what I should wear when I no longer had either of those roles to fill. Well, I reminded myself, I was going on this trip as my brother’s protector. What fashion challenges would that role require?

  Immediately an image of a silvering haired spinster in sensible black shoes and loose, calf-length navy dress with a Peter Pan collar, possibly carrying a bag of knitting popped into my mind’s eye. I glanced at my row of short-skirted suits, lacy silk camisoles, low rise Calvins and the three-inch Steve Madden heels on the floor below them and decided I wasn’t fit for this job. My glance in the mirror at my chestnut hair, with some random gray strands at the roots, and chipped nail polish confirmed the suspicion. Tears threatened again. Was I good for nothing anymore?

  The doorbell dinged. I stared at my neon Swatch. Way too early for Ben. On time was too early for Ben and he had another hour to be that. Perhaps it was Toby, here to beg me to come back to him and to work, thus saving me from this torture.

  Banging began on my front door. Not knocking, banging. That’s when I knew it had to be either the cops on a raid or my best friend, Shana.

  She pushed through the door before I even had it half-open. “Bee Cooley, what the hell do you think you are doing?”

  Good question. I wasn’t sure how to answer it. “Um,” I began.

  “You aren’t answering either one of your phones. I was worried. Don’t tell me you are going to become a recluse, just because you’re forty and your best years are behind you, you got dumped by the hottest man you’ll ever hope to marry and got canned from the best job you ever had?”

  Leave it to Shana to tell it like it was. That was why I liked her so much, no artifice. What you saw with her was what you got. She’d never stab you in the back. She would prefer a frontal attack so you could watch.

  “Well?” she demanded, looking around at the stack of plates, bowls and utensils in the sink.

  “No, I’m not becoming a recluse,” I retorted definitively, although AC/DC might argue.

  Shana jammed her hands on her hips. “Prove it.”

  Ha. I’d show her. “I’m going to Las Vegas.”

  Her big brown eyes widened so far I thought they’d pop out and roll across the floor. Her mouth moved but no sound came out for at least thirty seconds. I was slightly insulted. I mean, I wasn’t that boring, was I?

  “Vegas? You? No way!” she finally sputtered.

  Humph. “Why not Vegas? Why not me?”

  “Because.” Shana pursed her lips and drew her eyebrows together. She jerked her hands off her hips and gestured something indecipherable before she clasped them together. “Because you like everything in its place and nothing is in its place in Vegas. Or, better said, everything is so ‘far out’ there, that there is no ‘proper place’ for anything. It’ll blow your mind.”

  “Huh?”

  Shana rolled her eyes to the ceiling then said on her exhale, “I mean, you give new meaning to the word anal-retentive and Vegas is the exact opposite. Vegas is wild, loose, unexpected.” She drew in a breath, held it a moment, then blew it out in a rush. “You’ll hate it.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe since my ‘best years are behind me’ I want to turn over a new leaf. Maybe I want to be wild, loose and unexpected.”

  “Sure you do.” Shana wasn’t buying it. “You’ve never even had sex anywhere but in a bed. Have you?”

  I frowned and looked away. Ugh. I guess I was that big a stick in the mud. Where did most people have sex anyway?

  Shana was still chortling. “Wild, loose, unexpected, yada yada.”

  “Okay, maybe my brother is making me go to Vegas with him to some poker tournament.”

  Shana burst out laughing. No it was more like guffawing. Belly busting. Finally, she choked out: “You? Ben? Vegas? Poker? The tightest tight ass I know is going to Sin City to gamble with a lunatic.” She snorted once more, then sobered and bored me with a look. “You aren’t on antidepressants are you?”

  “No!”

  “Are you sure, because they can cause, you know, hallucinations.”

  I turned away and marched back to my bedroom. Shana followed, still chuckling. I began yanking clothes out of my closet and throwing them into the suitcase with angry abandon—silver lace camisole, black leather mini skirt, fire red silk jacket, a bunch of suede this and satin that.

  Shana gasped, pointing. “You are separating suits, mixing labels. I’ve never seen you do that before.”

  “You’re going to be seeing me do a lot that I’ve never done before. Just wait,” I promised with a bravado fed by fury. “I’m going to start French-kissing life, beginning today!”

  Lips curling in a skeptical smile, Shana asked: “Goody. Can I come watch you do all this French-kissing of life?”

  “No.” Normally, I’d welcome Shana. She had a wild streak that I probably needed to follow through with this promise in Vegas. But Ben was going, so she couldn’t. I’d been trying to keep Ben and Shana away from each other for years. Shana had a huge crush on my brother and he, unbeknownst to her, had the hots for her. Of course, Ben had the hots for any semiattractive woman between the ages of sixteen and sixty. No kidding, he just got through dating Ruby, a fifty-nine-year-old bartender who Ben claimed was the most fun he’d ever had. Anyway, I didn’t want Ben using and abusing my best friend only to discard her the moment he got bored. I thought it might strain our friendship. And a quickie for either of them wasn’t worth that, I decided.

  Shana shoved her lower lip out, crossed her arms over her chest and watched as I flipped more mix-matched separates onto the pile. “What accessories are you going to wear with those?”

  I tried to hide my panic. I never wore anything but the same accessories with the same outfits. I just didn’t have a knack for throwing earrings and bracelets and necklaces and scarves and belts together without a diagram. I was famous for buying what the mannequins or models in catalogs wore from head to toe and wearing that ensemble without changing a piece several times. I had been given complete ensembles as thank-yous for my ad campaigns and never wore them except exactly as the models had. But now I narrowed my eyes at Shana, marched to my dresser, reached for my jewelry box and overturned it into the pocket of the suitcase, shrugging for effect. “I’ll just figure out what to wear when I get there.”

  Shana’s eyebrows went skyward. “You must be on something.”

  We heard the front door swing open. I guess I didn’t shut it properly in the wake of Shana’s onslaught. A familiar male voice rang out. “Knock. Knock. Ding. Dong
. Your prince has come!”

  Reflexively, Shana’s gaze flew to the mirror. She ran a fingertip along the edge of her lip gloss, shook her thick straight black hair artfully around her heart-shaped face and grinned at herself coquettishly. Ugh. “We’re back here, Ben,” she called in a frilly voice that made me nauseous.

  Ben walked in with a paper sack full of clothes and gave Shana an appreciative once-over. She blushed. Double ugh. He gave my overflowing suitcase an even more appreciative once-over. He dumped his clothes on top and smashed the pile down. It was going to be so much fun to travel with my brother. I just hoped the hotel had an iron.

  “I’m impressed,” Ben said, pulling my Burberry case upright. “I thought I’d have to pack for you, sis.”

  “Bee’s decided to French-kiss life.” Shana put in.

  Ben whistled. “Sounds like fun.” He winked at Shana. “The French-kissing part.” She blushed a deeper crimson. Triple ugh.

  “The poker part sounds fun to me,” Shana said coyly.

  “You play poker?” Ben and I responded in unison, but with completely different inflections. My “you” made her sound like a leper, his “you” made her sound like she’d revealed her secret occupation as a stripper.

  “I play some Hold ’Em on the Net,” she admitted.

  “Limit, No Limit or Pot Limit?” he asked.

  “I like No Limit.”

  Ben whistled. “That’s my game. I bet you are a bit of a Maniac at the table.”

  I thought she’d be offended, but instead, Shana giggled. “I’d like to learn to play like a Rock but I just can’t help going for it sometimes.” Huh?