Hold ’Em Hostage Page 6

The silence spoke volumes. We both knew Ben was capable of that, even if not in a malicious way. “Forget I asked that,” she added quickly.

  The tap on my shoulder made me jump. I’d stepped into a dark alcove to dial Ingrid and now felt trapped. Spinning around I looked down at a twentysomething guy with longish brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in days, wearing a wrinkled and coffee-stained button-down and jeans, holding an open tablet and a voice recorder. Perhaps worse than Dragsnashark, it was a reporter. Print if his appearance was any indication.

  “Gotta go,” I told Ingrid, hanging up on her protest.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Bee Cool,” the pip-squeak said, flapping the press credential around his neck at me that claimed he was from the Las Vegas Tribune. “But I’m looking for your reaction.”

  “America is the cornerstone of religious freedom in the world. Aren’t we fortunate to host a forum for everyone’s beliefs?”

  He drew his eyebrows together. “But what does that have to do with murder?”

  “Murder?” I parroted. Oops, I’d almost forgotten my poor swimming companion.

  “Clark County brought you in for questioning in the overnight murder of a man found floating in the Image lagoon.”

  Stupid cops leaked it. Probably Trankosky. Probably on purpose. I wanted to wrap my fingers around the reporter’s pencil neck and get him to confess who ratted me out, but I decided that might reflect some guilt on my part. Best to play ignorant. I flashed my incisors and hoped it passed for a smile. “I happened to be in the vicinity of the man’s unfortunate demise and was questioned as a matter of routine, I’m sure.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  “From whom?”

  “Oh no.” Mulish set to jaw. “I’m not telling you. I protect my sources.”

  Of course. “You ambush a poor, helpless woman in a dark corner and protect a big, burly gun-toting cop. How chivalrous.”

  “I work for the American public and the First Amendment, not for the Knights of the Round Table.”

  Okay, a shrimp and a smart-ass. Just my luck. Grr. Time to change tactics. “Look, do you know Jack Smack?”

  “Sure, the Smack is my hero! He’s been on network TV and everything. With Diane.”

  “Then run along and give him a ring. He’s my publicist. He’ll give you a comment.”

  Pip-squeak shook his head, throwing a hank of greasy hair into his eye. He brushed it away. “He can’t be. That’s an ethical violation. It would undermine his ability to remain neutral in his reporting if he was on someone’s payroll as a flack.”

  Damn this little news-hunting bulldog. The bells outside the WSOP room tolled to mark five minutes to the start of the tournament. Finally, my karma was turning. I squinted at his credentials. “Sorry, Aaron, but I have to find my table.”

  He shrugged and stepped back so I could pass, giving up so easily it made me nervous. “Good luck.”

  I frowned at him as I passed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, although luck might not do you any good since the cops expect to have enough evidence against you to put you behind bars by nightfall.”

  I spun around to see him wave and scoot off down the hall. Goody. Painful as it was, I scanned my appearance in the glass along the gift shop, flecked a piece of lint off the right cuff of the shorts, smoothed a smear off the left pump, tucked a bit of my chestnut hair back into its braid and strode toward the ballroom, fighting a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Before I reached the door I was set upon by a couple dozen fans and autograph seekers. I signed playing cards, markers, T-shirts, programs but drew the line at one man’s bare, hairy exposed shoulder. Fame was highly overrated. A railbird named Thelma whom I’d met at the tournament in Tunica walked with me to the door, talking fast and low. “My cash flow has a clog currently, Bee Cool. I was hoping you could float me a loan so I could go rake it in at one of the big cash games going down at Neptune’s.”

  Flush from my first win, I’d once given money to a railbird with a sad story and a promise of payback only to be chastised by Frank as being a fool. A fact proven at my next tournament when I found myself surrounded by sad stories, and needless to say never saw that loaner 2K again. Yet, as I shook my head at Thelma, I was struck with an inspiration. “I might be able to help with a couple hundred, but only if you can do something for me in return.”

  Thelma nodded eagerly. She was whip thin, so ageless she could be anywhere from twenty to sixty and of indeterminate ethnicity. Sometimes she looked decidedly Asian, other times I saw some Indian in her and other times she looked as Caucasian as a Midwestern farm wife. Her colorless Dollar Store cotton shift and canvas slip-on shoes made her even more invisible. A human chameleon might be worth putting on the payroll. “Keep your ears open for any mentions of me. Something wrong is going down here this week, and I want to know what it is. I want to know why my name is associated with it. Can you do that?”

  Again she nodded and stuck her hand out. I knew I’d never see the George Washingtons again, but I knew if she wanted more she would have to produce what I asked for. I was going codependent for her gambling and begging addiction but I was desperate.

  As I entered the room, I heard the commentators from Poker Live.

  “And now here is the other half of the Twin Terrifics—Belinda ‘Bee Cool’ Cooley.”

  “Now, Phil, you know that the moniker for these Houstonians is case specific. Those who play against them—Bee Cool and Ben Hot—call them the Twin Terrors.”

  “The other half” made me think Ben was already in the room. I scanned it and was relieved to see him sitting down at table 114, with an uncharacteristically serious set to his face. He didn’t even spare a wink at the pair of triple Ds sitting next to him. This was really bad. Perhaps he was coming down with a terminal illness.

  “Of course, it’s Belinda, not Ben, who looks hot today, Trixie.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion, Phil.”

  “Or maybe it’s a matter of gender.” Hahaha.

  Fortunately I was out of earshot before the commentary descended any further. I found my table, introduced myself around, sat in my free seat and thanked the dealer for being there. The 2008 World Series of Poker was about to begin, and I couldn’t be dreading it more.

  I’d been dealt three combination hands in a row and it was giving me a headache. Players like Ben relished combo hands as energetically as I despised them. They just presented so many opportunities for self-made failure. You couldn’t get by without counting cards at each street and even when you did, played tight, played smart, you still got stung in the end. It was the close-but-no-cigar hand that tempted you with the possibilities only to leave you wanting.

  I peeked at my pocket of 9 of clubs, 7 of clubs once more. A fish move, I knew, but since I was the big blind and the dealer was letting the table nap in between bets and I had been watching Ben, I’d needed a refresher as the dealer burned a card. Since no one raised Preflop, I didn’t have a decision until the first three cards went faceup.

  Since I was well on my way to my fourth combo in a row, I sucked in a breath, praying for a clean trio of nines to fall on The Flop. Wasn’t my life difficult enough? Fate must not have thought so, because 8 of clubs, 7 of hearts and 10 of clubs flopped. So now I had a flush draw for a golf bag (club flush), a straight draw and a pair of sevens. Wow, this could go to my head. Except for all the outs for the others—including the real possibility that I would end up drawing dead twice and a pair of tens would beat me.

  Ack. In first position, I couldn’t even wait to see some bets. I checked. The chair to my right was empty—a Saudi Arabian oil prince without a head for numbers and without a lick of sense had busted out in the second hand after going all in on a 2-Ace-7 off-suit Flop with sailboats (pair of 4s). The next six were a racehorse jockey from Ecuador who was an emotive jackal, a staid banker who had done nothing but check so far, a couple of lotto player (play any hand) college kids, an off-duty deale
r from the Flynn who played like he shouldn’t give up his day job and a stay-at-home mother of five who’d won her seat in an Internet tourney. To my left was a woman who was so wrapped up and covered up it was amazing she could breathe. She wore butter-plate-size black Diors, her hair wound up under a turban and a feather-plumed hat á la Dorothy Lamour, a black dress that went from floor to chin and shockingly white satin gloves. She hadn’t spoken—to anyone—and I, frankly, was kind of scared to talk to her. I didn’t think anyone had anything, even the jockey was being conservative. Then ole Blackie, as I’d come to call her, pushed in a raise of a thousand. Of course.

  She was impossible to read with only a four-inch strip of skin showing on her whole body and absolutely still countenance. Then I saw her lower lip twitch. Just barely. I called.

  The jockey did too. I think just for the hell of it. “Jou remind me of my fav-o-rite chestnut ’orse. Fire on outside, ice on inside. Sizz…” he said as he pushed his chips across the felt.

  The Turn came an Ace of hearts, a blank for me. Could be a homerun for her, a pair of Aces, trips, a possible heart flush draw. But if she’d had less than a heart flush draw a card ago why would she have raised then? On a bluff? Blackie’s lip twitched again as she pushed in another raise.

  She’d won two hands so far and I hadn’t noticed the twitch. I had to go with my gut. I raised her. Everyone else fell off the board, even the lotto players. But Blackie reraised, no twitch, dammit.

  I called. A 7 of spades fell on The River, wiping out the heart flush draw, turning my candy canes into trips. If she had Ace trips or trips with any other card on the board, I was sunk. Her lip wasn’t twitching anymore. Shoot. I ought to fold. My gut told me to quit even though I was pot committed.

  I didn’t.

  She turned over her pocket rockets and still didn’t smile.

  I’d lost all but three thousand dollars in chips. My cell phone vibrated with a text message. As the dealer let the machine in front of him shuffle the cards, I read: Frank called us with your new number. No word from Affie. Good luck at the Main Event. Love, Mom and Dad. I’d just slipped it back into my pocket when it vibrated again. The dealer spent the burn card and began passing out our pockets. I glanced down at the screen on my phone: Remember: If you bust out, so does she.

  Gasping, I looked around frantically—for what? An answer? Help? Someone to tell me how these guys had found my new phone number so quickly?

  “Are you okay, Miss Cooley?” the dealer asked.

  Then I saw him, over the hundreds of tables, behind the tape. Dragsnashark drilled me with a look, then turned around and disappeared behind a tall, leggy woman who was waving. Her face came into focus and I smiled, waving back. Carey, my old pal who’d literally saved my life at my last Vegas tournament. She cocked her head and looked at Dragsnashark’s back as he disappeared. She raised her palms in question. I nodded. She took off after him.

  “Miss Cooley?” The dealer interrupted sharply. “It’s a good thing that didn’t take place in the middle of a hand or you’d be called out.”

  “What?”

  “Security has been tightened this year. No talking on phones at the table, no motioning to railbirds behind the tape except on break. I noticed you checking your text messages.”

  Thank goodness I had an overpair. I bid conservatively and hoped I could afford to protect the nuts. I saw the jockey flirting with the idea of scaring me off the hand, but he must have learned from being burned the few times he’d tried to do that. He folded. Blackie folded with a twitch. Damn, what did that mean?

  In the end, I won barely more than the blinds. At least I was moving in the right direction. The bell rang for our first break. Two hours down, only dozens more to go to the final table. I hoped I could keep it together to make it that far. Or as far as it took to bring Affie home.

  I sensed Ben would prefer to avoid me, but too bad. I made my way to his table, which was still in play, having been dealt the last hand just before the bell, apparently. A couple dozen other players stopped to watch too. Ben looked like he was playing as distractedly as I had been, although with much more success. Eyeballing the table, he looked to be the chip leader. It’s where I’d fancied myself to be at this point, instead of barely hanging on.

  On The Turn of a 4 of diamonds ( joining the Ace of spades, Jack of hearts, 6 of clubs Flop), Ben placed what looked to me like a post oak bluff, raising the couple-thousand-dollar pot by a hundred dollars. He could have a Jordan (two/three) in his pocket hoping for a straight draw or sailboats (four/four) to give him trips but then why not raise more aggressively? Sure enough, all the players who had muck folded. Ben won. The dealer flipped over what would’ve been The River—a Jack of diamonds—and the guy to Ben’s right groaned. Normally, this would have made Ben giddy. Instead he didn’t even smile as he raked the chips his way.

  The table cleared out for the remainder of the break. Ben stacked his chips. A minute later, he still hadn’t looked at me when we were the only two left at the table.

  “Ben,” I said softly, ready to apologize.

  He finally looked at me, the tension lines around his eyes making him appear older but also more mature while still a traffic-stopping ringer for Colin Farrell. His kismet. Mine was to look like Aunt Hilda. The woman walking by behind me sighed. Instead of winking at her, Ben looked back down at his chips. Whoa.

  “What is the matter with you?” I demanded in my surprise. Shouldn’t I be thrilled? I’d always wanted my brother to grow up. Here it looked like he had, and I was irritated. I suppose I hadn’t expected it to happen in twelve hours’ time.

  “You know what’s wrong,” he snapped, fiddling with his chips. “This is all my fault.”

  “You know I really didn’t mean that,” I pushed out through a tight jaw. I sort of had meant it but took Frank’s teamwork message to heart. “Yes, it was your idea to get involved with it, but I play poker because I want to, now. It’s my loved one, not yours, these creeps are after. You don’t have anything to do with it.”

  Ben dropped his head and muttered what sounded like, “That’s what you think.” I opened my mouth to ask him to elaborate when one of the television commentators approached, dragging a cameraman behind him. “It’s the Terrific Twins together! What are you two doing, concocting a winning strategy?”

  “Yeah, a winning dinner strategy.” Ben blew him off. I shook my head. I’d never in my life seen Ben shun the chance to be on camera.

  Phil cocked his pointer finger and fired at me. “We’ve got our eyes on you two. Nothing would be more fun than a Twin Terror showdown on the final table. Talk about ratings!”

  I smiled as they zeroed in on another victim. Ben bowed his head and fiddled with his chips again.

  “Have you heard from Shana?” he asked.

  “No, but Mom and Dad texted to report they haven’t heard from Affie. And…” I handed him my phone. “I got this.”

  He read the last message, his jaw bunching as he ground his teeth. His narrowing eyes slowly rose to meet mine. Focus mode. I didn’t know what to make of this state of being I recognized my brother adopting, which was typically only in relation to attaining things he wanted—winning the state baseball championship, stealing the biggest pharmaceutical client in the Southwest, discrediting the guy who gave Texas Hold ’Em a bad name on our last trip to Vegas, which incidentally almost got him killed.

  For Ben, focus mode meant winning something for himself. What did he hope to win now? What would getting Affie back get him?

  Maybe he truly had picked a really weird time to grow up.

  The bell rang the tournament back into play before I could make up my mind. I rose from the seat next to Ben and headed back toward my seat. “Bee Bee,” he called. “Take care of yourself.”

  I mulled that tender warning over in my head as I scanned the railbirds for Carey. She was nowhere to be found. Carey had proven she could take care of herself but Dragsnashark was scary. I hoped now I hadn’t sent her
off into some serious trouble. I had enough to worry about without adding my transvestite pal onto the list.

  Being scared to death for my goddaughter had a positive effect on my play. I won the first three hands after the break with marginal cards. I’d finished stacking my last chip when I noticed Ben standing up. Bathroom trip, no doubt, since I hadn’t given him the chance during the break. It wasn’t until the final round of betting on The River at my table that I saw a figure sitting down in Ben’s chair. The three-hundred-pound woman in the muumuu sure wasn’t Ben. He’d busted out and they’d filled his seat with a player from a short table.

  Chip leader to a bust out in three hands? No way. Ben was too good a tournament player for that. Something bad was definitely up.

  Seven

  As if life wasn’t complicated enough, I got The Trucker in my pocket in the next deal and half the table folded, tempting me to stay in to see The Flop. The Trucker is probably the worst starting hand in Texas Hold ’Em—a ten/four unsuited. Not much you can make out of that, unless three tens fell on The Flop. I stared at Blackie and saw the lip twitch as she raised the big blind in an early position. Ack.

  My phone vibrated just then and I would have to remember to thank Frank later. I folded and walked away from the table to take the call.

  “Have you found Affie?” I demanded.

  “Wow, you must think I’m Batman. I’m honored,” Frank said, just like a man, because if he’d asked me that I would’ve assumed guilt for my failure to produce, not assumed success. I sighed. “Where are you, Not-Even-Robin?”

  “Ouch, that hurt. We’re just pulling into the Fortune, although it looks like there might not be any parking. We might have to park down The Strip and hoof it back over here.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Nothing to get excited about. How are things going for you?”

  “I’m having a hard time concentrating.” I paused, unsure of whether to tell him about the text message warning. Sometimes death threats distracted Frank. I was afraid this latest would derail his attempts to run down the freshest leads. And although I was worried for Carey, there wasn’t anything Frank could do to find her right now other than put out an APB. Although I was worried for myself, I’d rather he get a line on Aph. I decided to wait to tell him in person, after I heard what he’d learned.