Death On the Flop Page 4

  “I take that as a no. So I can also assume you never watched a naughty video either?”

  Fighting the heat rising up my neck, I looked around to see who was listening. A May-December couple passed us but didn’t seem to take offense at our conversational topic. In fact, she had her hand a little too far down the front of his slacks to be quite polite. I nudged Ben and nodded in their direction.

  “You are avoiding my question, but if that sight makes you blush then I know the answer. You’ve never seen a skin flick.”

  The temperature of my face would register at about three hundred degrees. “Ben!”

  “If that’s the case, maybe calling good ole Cyrano might do you some good then!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Cyrano was a pervert, albeit a rich one. Porn was his business. He wanted to see you ‘in action,’ either alone or with someone else and put it on CD to see over and over and over.”

  “Gross!” I shivered. “You have a sick, demented mind, Ben. There’s no way anyone would want to see that.”

  Ben just sighed and shook his head. “Welcome to Vegas, where the underbelly of the world is the norm. Tell you what, let’s go play poker and maybe you’ll meet some semi-normal folks.”

  “I thought we were going to check into our hotel?” I rubbed on my bare arms. “I feel dirty suddenly. I need a shower.”

  “We’ve got plenty of time for that. Let’s play a hand or two at a table here.” Ben took off toward the mass of tables crowded with players. What were they thinking? It was midnight. It was past my bedtime.

  I felt my heart leap in my chest as I chased him. “But I don’t know how to play.”

  Just one look at Ben’s eyes told me he was already in focus mode. I nudged him to make sure he heard me. He barely spared me a look. This was the Ben I saw playing poker on the Net. Swell.

  “I need to teach you first, before you sit down at a table,” he said more to himself than to me. He grabbed my arm and steered me to a seat at the bar. He parked the suitcase next to me. “Have a drink and unwind.” He motioned to the bartender. “Get the lady anything she wants and run a tab for me.” The world-weary looking brunette nodded. Ben patted me on the head. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I watched his long strides carry him across the room and around the corner. Great, abandoned in Vegas where I knew no one but a porn purveyor named Cyrano. I’d even forgotten the name of our hotel so I couldn’t scoot off and check in. “Damn.” I swore under my breath.

  “Was he going to play Hold ’Em?”

  I looked at the man sitting one seat over from me. I hadn’t noticed him there earlier, but then again, I’d been distracted. In his forties, he was attractive in an unkempt way—wavy dark blond hair just overdue for a cut, tan face hours out of a five o’clock shadow and clothes just rumpled enough to look like they might have been worn days before being washed. He struck me as a man who might clean up well if he ever cared to try. The waitress brought him a drink in a highball glass. He took a sip and withstood my appraisal without comment.

  “Hold ’Em?” I answered finally. It sounded familiar but I was so unsure of anything in this new world, I didn’t want to go out on a limb and respond in the affirmative. It might have been Beat ’Em or Deal ’Em for all I remembered.

  “Poker,” he reiterated patiently. “Texas Hold ’Em is a kind of poker. Sounds from your accent like you might know a little about Texas, if not poker.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. He looked sort of normal, but then the couple from Omaha had too. “Tell me you aren’t a ‘talent agent.’ You don’t have a card, do you?”

  “No. This isn’t a convention, you know.”

  “Sure it is. Vegas is a convention of freaks, as far as I can tell,” I blurted.

  His crow’s feet crinkled, warming his dark eyes. He had a rich, ironic laugh that made me shift on my stool a bit. “You’re very articulate. Well put.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Vegas,” he answered.

  My blush crept back with a vengeance. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Frank Gilbert.” He offered his hand over the seat between us. With only a slight pause, I shook it. He had big hands that had known outdoor work and a firm, strong shake. Very nice.

  I remembered my last introduction and couldn’t help smiling. He tilted his head quizzically.

  “I introduced myself earlier as Paris Carlo,” I chuckled and shook my head, disbelieving the whole crazy episode all over again.

  He hitched his right eyebrow. “Aha, with an Italian/ French accent, no doubt. I guess I should be asking you if you don’t have a card?”

  I knew I should have been affronted, but the way he said it, just struck me as funny. I laughed, and he did too. Finally, I shook my head. “I don’t have a card, although maybe now I wish I did.”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.”

  Crow’s feet crinkled. He reminded me of Brad Pitt in Mr. and Mrs. Smith, a little dangerous, a little sexy, a little funny. A man with some secrets. “I’m glad you did. So, who are you now? With your twang, maybe Christie Houston, or perhaps Debbie Dallas?”

  Shaking my head, I was surprised that his nomenclature didn’t make me blush. I might have never seen an adult video but I had heard of the most infamous one. “Is everything about sex here in Vegas?”

  “Not everything.” Frank took another sip of his drink and looked off into the crowd around one of the green felt covered tables on the floor. “Some things are about money. Some things are about both.”

  Some of those secrets were simmering under the surface. For some irresistible reason, I wanted to pry, but I had to remind myself that Frank was a stranger in a strange place and prying could only lead to trouble. Plus, his secrets were none of my business. In five minutes, he’d be a memory like good ole Cyrano.

  Frank drew out of his reverie and motioned at me with his glass. “What are you drinking? Your husband told you to have the house.”

  “Oh, no,” I corrected quickly, “Ben isn’t my husband.” I wiggled my left hand fingers at him to show the absence of a ring.

  Frank chuckled. “Don’t rely on rings in Vegas to tell you who’s attached. Half the rings in town disappear into pockets once the cabs turn onto The Strip.”

  “I noticed,” I said dryly.

  “There’s a story there.” Frank observed.

  “One that wouldn’t shock you, I’m sure.”

  “I’d advise you to order a drink so your boyfriend won’t feel so bad when he’s three hours at the table.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my brother. And I’m sure he won’t be three hours—we still have to check into our hotel.”

  With a wry smile, Frank shook his head. “Sorry, honey, but he had The Look. I’d venture to say he’s a candidate for Gamblers Anonymous. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he’s in the poorhouse or anything. Yet. Just, he can’t resist the call of the chips when he gets in a situation where they’re offered. Like he’d be okay outside walking The Strip, but once inside, with the noise, he gravitates to the tables. I bet when he’s at home when the computer is on, he’s just got to go check out what’s up on Poker Stars. Right?”

  My face answered, I guess, because Frank nodded and finished his highball and signaled the bartender for another. “Give her a chardonnay.”

  Toby had ordered for me always and I never argued, but for some reason it bothered me that this Frank guy would try it. “No, thanks. I’ll take a pinot grigio.”

  Frank laughed. “An independent woman. Almost as rare a species here as an honest one.”

  “It sounds like you have a bad history with the opposite sex,” I offered taking a sip of my white wine.

  Frank threw me a dark look and took a slug. The bartender appeared with a bottle of Chivas Regal and refilled his glass.

  “Then we have something in common, because I do too,” I said, surpri
sing myself. The Caught Banging the Young Secretary Incident still smarted. Why would I tell a total stranger that I was a loser? I decided it was the white knuckle grip he put on his glass at the mention of women. His must have been bad. If misery really does love company I was trying to make him seem not so alone.

  Frank lapsed into silence. I took the opportunity to soak up the surroundings inside Caesars. The variety of people in various types of dress surprised me, from couples in matching aloha wear to sequined dresses and tuxedos. After a few minutes I did notice that there were an inordinate amount of May-December couples like the one we saw when we first entered. Older men, much younger women. Hmm.

  “I hope you’re not planning on playing poker with your brother,” Frank offered.

  “Why not?” Did I look like a loser in cards as much as I did a loser in love?

  “Because your face is an open book. They’ll see the cards in your eyes.”

  “Okay, what was I thinking?”

  “You were wondering why so many rich old coots are walking around with gorgeous jailbait on their arms.”

  I deflated. And Ben had claimed I had a poker face. “Bingo,” I muttered.

  Frank continued. “And the answer is, each casino has a certain type that gravitates to it—either by the casino’s design or the natural order of things. Most of these are call girls, pro or amateur.”

  “Amateur call girl?”

  “Any woman who’ll use sex to get money is a call girl.”

  Hmm. To call his tone bitter would have been generous. At least one of Frank’s secrets definitely involved a woman.

  Frank drained his glass again. The bartender shook her head when he asked for another. “Frank, don’t do this,” she said as she walked by. He tapped her arm and she nodded slightly, pouring him another. He didn’t act drunk to me, but he was a muscular guy, so he could probably withstand a few extra drinks without showing it. I, on the other hand, was already feeling a little looser just halfway through my first glass of vino. I’d better watch it.

  “So what are you going to do in Vegas while your brother loses his shirt?”

  “Stand by his chair at the tournament I guess and make sure he keeps it.”

  Frank shook his head. “They won’t let you stand by any chair, honey.”

  “Why not?”

  “You might give other players signals. You might give your brother a signal.”

  “But I don’t know poker!”

  “They don’t know that. Besides, that’s just what you say and all poker players are liars.”

  “Then what am I going to do while Ben’s at the tournament?” I asked myself more than Frank.

  “What tournament?”

  “Some big one,” I mused. “Let me see if I can remember, it’s some Hawaiian island.”

  “The Lanai Pro-Am?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “He must be good, then, your brother. Or rich.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The only way you get into this particular tournament is by being invited as a pro or paying your way in as an amateur.”

  Uh-oh. Ben hadn’t been traveling around the nation playing professional poker, I knew that much. “How much does it cost to get a seat?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  Four

  “Five thousand dollars!” I gasped. Several people at the bar lifted their glasses in a toast, no doubt assuming I was talking to Frank about some sort of gaming win. I lowered my voice and mused, “What is Ben thinking? Surely he can’t hope to win that back.”

  “He could win that and more. Last year’s World Poker Tour Main Event gave out fifty-two million dollars in prize money. I know the Lanai has put up a bunch of prize money on top of the pool, so the winnings would be up there. But with a couple thousand playing in the tournament, odds are low that he will bring in any big money unless he’s a pro.”

  Frank had drained another glass. I was beginning to wonder when he was going to fall off the stool, although he didn’t seem drunk. He was getting that faraway look more often, however, which made me wonder why he’d drink to avoid his ghosts if it just seemed to bring them back to him. Ah, perhaps I was being too psychoanalytic. Maybe he was just drinking at the bar to pick up women, biding his time while his wife was feeding slots or drinking up the courage to hit his own gaming table.

  “You seem to know a lot about it, do you play Texas Hold ’Em, Frank?”

  Faraway look accompanied by a headshake. More secrets. “I used to play Hold ’Em,” he murmured. “Now, when I play at all, I stick to blackjack.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Poker is a game of thirty percent luck and seventy percent skill. I went through a time where Lady Luck wasn’t shining on me in any part in my life, so I decided to go with a game where I could have more control over my wins. You play it right, and blackjack is just about ninety percent skill.”

  The waitress, who obviously knew Frank, walked past and raised her eyebrows. Hmm. I had a feeling Frank was telling me more than he probably would have if he’d stopped a few whiskeys ago. I was intrigued. There was something vulnerable behind this guy’s rather hard exterior, something that made me want to draw it out, but it was obvious there would be thorns to go through along the way. He definitely had more dimension than Toby, which might not necessarily be a good thing. Toby was a simple creature for the most part, predictable and easy to have a relationship with. Of course he was also simply a cheating scum. Perhaps I should look for complicated in a relationship partner this time. I looked at Frank again. Hmm. He was damned sexy, even if he was a little morose. Unaware of my musings, he stared into the bottom of his glass.

  I sighed. Another time I might want to take up the Frank challenge. Not tonight. Not this trip. Keeping Ben out of hock was challenge enough for me right now. There’d be another Frank in my future. Of course, I might be using a walker and Depends by then.

  “Thanks so much for the education,” I said, sliding off the seat as I felt in my purse for cash to pay for my glass of wine. Frank signaled the waitress with some obscure finger wiggle; she nodded and called out, “Frank’s taken care of your tab, miss.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I argued, turning to Frank.

  “It’s been my pleasure,” he said, flashing a warm grin. For an instant that too often used platitude seemed completely sincere. It was a good thing I was taking off, because the Pinot Grigio had loosened my inhibitions enough to get me in trouble with Frank Gilbert. “Wish your brother good luck, sharp skill and an extra dose of sportsmanship for the tournament.”

  “Thank you, as long as he doesn’t go into debt or lose his mind over this, I’ll be happy, and as long as he can get close to beating some guy named Steely Stan, he’ll be happy.”

  Frank frowned and snapped, “What do you know about Steely Stan?”

  His tone was so ominous, I took a step back into my stool. “I don’t know anything about him, except that my brother seems to dislike him. Ben thinks he’s a bad sport, bad ambassador for the game. I guess he’s the best player and the guy to beat. It sounds like overblown competitive male egos if you ask me.”

  “I hope it’s just that,” Frank said seriously, laying a hand on my forearm. “Just tell your brother to be careful. Stan Trident is a powerful guy.”

  “Oh.” I leaned in, whispering, “Like Ben shouldn’t rock the boat because these tournaments are fixed?”

  “No.” Frank shook his head decisively. “This one isn’t fixed, I can guarantee that. Just tell Ben to play his game, but not to get on the wrong side of Stan outside the tables.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “Sounds a little over-dramatic to me.”

  Frank glowered. “This is serious stuff. Where are you two staying?”

  I shrugged. “Ben failed to tell me before he ran off to lose money.”

  Standing, Frank reached into the back pocket of his well worn Levi’s, stretching the old denim impressively over his hips. I
forced my gaze back up. Bad girl. He grabbed my right hand and put a business card in it. Uh-oh. Not another Cyrano.

  He met my gaze with his dark-eyed one that bored into my core. Frank was nothing if not intense. I resisted the shiver that tickled at the base of my spine. “Listen, if you need anything while you are here, call me,” he whispered quietly but not softly. “That has my cell phone on the front and my room number at the Lanai is on the back. Call me if you have any questions or need any help. Okay?”

  Great, I hadn’t been in Vegas an hour and I already had two men force their phone numbers on me. I guess I wasn’t totally over the hill yet. Of course, I don’t think either one wanted to sleep with me. One wanted to watch me sleep with someone else and the other just wanted to protect my brother. Here we go again. Life was all about other people. I sighed. “Thanks, Frank.”

  Turning his back to me, he reached into his pocket again and I resisted the urge to be jealous of his hand. He threw a wad of bills on the bar, knocked on it and pointed at the waitress, another secret signal, no doubt. She waved him off with concern in her eyes. Frank spared me one more deep glance carrying a meaning I couldn’t interpret and strode off toward the front door of the casino. He was taller than he’d seemed slumped on the bar stool, about six-one, and his long strides consumed the floor so confidently I wouldn’t have believed he’d had as much to drink as I’d seen. Maybe his whisky had been watered down. I picked up his empty glass and sniffed. Nope.

  When he was out of sight, I opened my fingers to read the card in my hand.

  FRANK GILBERT

  Security

  Security? A Bruce Willis commando type or polyester uniform security guard type? What or who was he securing anyway? I turned the card over. In a bold, heavy script he’d written Rm 2521. Did he have this handy to pass out to every available woman he encountered?

  And if he was a Las Vegas local, why was he staying in a casino hotel?

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” the bartender, whose name tag read “Spring,” warned as she collected Frank’s glass.