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  Applause filled the room again.

  Kenny’s song swelled . . . “know when to run. You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table. There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done. . . . ”

  Kinkaid smiled tightly at me in reluctant approval and motioned for all the dealers to begin. I could see Ian give me another subtle thumbs-up. I dipped my head in acknowledegment and made for table sixty-six.

  On my way, I saw an empty seat at table three and knew it must be Rick’s. He still hadn’t shown.

  Six hours later, I was heads up with a middle school English teacher who had nerves of steel. I guess trying to teach teenage hellions not to use “like” every other word will toughen a person’s nervous system—convenient for tournament Hold ’Em. I, on the other hand, rarely feel cool under pressure even though my fans seem to think I look cool. I think they need glasses. Prescription ones. I jittered, on edge as I watched Delia Santobella repeatedly peek into the big room, no doubt praying Rick would materialize at any moment.

  Normally in tournament Hold ’Em, players were moved to different tables as the number at their tables diminished, but I think Kinkaid and her minions were so distracted by Rick’s disappearance that she was slow on finding the tables low on players. That left me with the wrath of Semion High.

  The Flop was Ace of spades, Jack of clubs, eight of clubs. I had a King of clubs and nine of clubs—setting me up for a straight draw, which I hate, or a flush draw, which I hate only slightly less, or a straight flush, which I find almost as unbelievable as the perfect man. I love trips and pairs and full houses. They seem so clean and easy, attainable. My opponent was hard to read, so much so I had thought she was the sucker at the table for the first twelve hands. After that, she took out at least four players, big wake-up call to me before I went broke. I belatedly remembered my earlier sage advice to the room. Fortunately, I was the big blind in this hand and had to wait for her bet. She looked tempted to go all in. I could see her counting her chips in her head. I figured she had two clubs also or perhaps pocket Aces.

  I knew I should fold as I calculated the odds of my draws. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hans rush up to Kinkaid, who was patrolling the room, and whisper in her ear. She spun around, looked at table forty-three where three people still played. Hans nodded. They marched over to the table and spoke to the dealer. He nodded and looked at his watch. Kinkaid motioned to Hans and then they both hustled out of the room.

  “Miss Cooley?” The dealer verbally nudged me.

  I looked around. Both the dealer and the teacher stared at me. Uh-oh. I looked at the chips pushed forward on the table in front of my opponent. Not all her chips, but damned close. I might have to go all in to stay in the game, as I calculated that I probably had a couple hundred less in chips than she did. I looked back at the doorway where Kinkaid and Hans had disappeared. A couple of the poker chip/flower shirt uniformed cruise dudes were trying to unobtrusively stand guard, but it was pretty obvious to me. What was going on? Had they found Rick? If so, why did they go over to table forty-three if his table had been number three?

  “We can’t wait any longer for your bet, Bee Cool,” the dealer announced.

  The teacher took a sip of her Scotch and soda, giving me the stony stare she must have perfected on a thousand middle school renegades. And suddenly I felt like acting like one of them. My limited Hold ’Em knowledge told me to fold and take my five hundred dollar hit. The renegade in me said, “All in.”

  The teacher choked on a cube of ice. The dealer grimaced in pain for me, I thought, not the teacher. A couple of the folks watching from outside the boundary whooped as I pushed all my chips forward, then began stacking them to get a count. The teacher began stacking her chips too, matching my stacks with her own and pushing them to the center of the table. In the end, she was left with about two hundred fifty dollars in front of her. Shaking his head, the dealer turned over an Ace of hearts on Fourth Street. Damn. The teacher bit back a smile. She had pocket Aces for sure. The dealer sighed as he slid the next card off the deck.

  He flipped it over. Two of clubs. The teacher shrugged. It was muck to her, as she already had her trips. The dealer looked expectantly at me, but I waited for propriety. The teacher turned over her pocket pair of Aces. I showed my flush.

  Just then we heard a muffled, “Oh no!” from the doorway, where Delia grabbed a cruise employee’s arm and covered her mouth with her other hand as she stared into the room, toward the table where Kinkaid had paid a visit.

  I looked back at table forty-three and tried to remember if I saw anything unusual there earlier. That’s when I saw the marker still sitting in front of one of the empty seats. It looked like a piece of rawhide.

  Eight

  “Delia,” I demanded, dragging her into the hallway on my way to the bathroom. I only had eight minutes to get back to the table. “What’s wrong? Is it Rick?”

  “This time it’s Rawhide. He’s disappeared.”

  “From table forty-three,” I mused.

  She nodded, dark eyes hooded with worry.

  “How?” I asked.

  “We don’t know. Miss Kinkaid said he requested permission to go to the restroom in an unscheduled break. The dealer told him he would fold his hands and post his blinds until he returned. He never did. That’s not like him.”

  “That’s not like any gambler,” I reflected. “How long has he been gone?”

  “About an hour. First we thought he might have sat back down at a different table, but he’s so distinctive and no one remembers seeing him since he was moved from table twenty-seven to table forty-three about two and a half hours ago. We’ve got our security force combing the ship. He’ll turn up,” Kinkaid finished with certainty as she swished past us on her way to a dealer who had his hand up in the air.

  “Sure,” Delia murmured, glaring at her. “Like Rick’s turned up. I tell you, Bee, she’s trying to brush this under the rug.”

  “I suppose that’s her job, minimizing the damage that might interfere with her tournament’s success.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Delia demanded softly, which was worse than a shriek.

  “Yours, Delia.” She looked at me suspiciously, so I felt forced to continue. “If for no other reason than self-preservation—we’ve been at sea sixteen hours, two people have disappeared, both are high-profile poker players and I fall into that category. All I’m saying is—we need to see things from Kinkaid’s perspective in order to figure out how to motivate her to do more.”

  “I’m sorry, Bee.” She bowed her head, looking small and alone. “I’m just tired and frustrated and scared.”

  I patted her arm. “I know, Delia, you need to get some rest.”

  She shook her head. “But how can I with Rick . . .” She paused, swallowing hard. “Out there somewhere.”

  “Look, Delia, I think Rick’s on board. If he is, then he’ll be found. If he’s not, well, he’s gone. There isn’t a whole lot you can do about that, right?”

  Tears welling in her eyes, Delia nodded, swallowing hard. “Except imagine his pain. His fear.”

  “Tomorrow when we make port, we will demand that the captain get the authorities to search the ship, bow to stern, for Rick and Rawhide.”

  Delia extracted a handkerchief from her silver sequined clutch and pressed it to the tip of her nose. “Thank you, Bee. I’m sorry I’m so emotional.”

  Suddenly I remembered how hysterical I’d been when Frank disappeared in Vegas, and I’d only known him a couple of days. Geez. If we’d been married for decades like the Santobellas, I’d probably be comatose with what she was going through now. I sighed and swallowed around a lump in my throat. Now I missed Frank again. Dammit.

  “Are you okay, Bee?” Delia asked, watching me closely.

  “Don’t worry about me. You go back to your cabin. Maybe Rick will be there waiting.”

  She offered a watery smile and shuffled off, desultorily.

 
Glancing at my watch I saw I now had two minutes to return to the table. The devil in polyester was there waiting, watching me with eagle eyes, no doubt hoping she could will me to get lost on the way to the bathroom like Rawhide. Hmm. Could it really be someone trying to knock off the competition? It certainly looked like it. Two down and ten to go.

  The rest of the evening’s play was rather anticlimactic. One of the tournament flunkies finally figured out our table had gone to heads up and quickly moved us, twenty minutes too late for my opponent. Worse luck for her that the bonehead put us at the same table again. I apparently had psyched the teacher out with my accidentally brave all in and she played scared the rest of the game. Of course having few chips didn’t help her. She really needed to play aggressively to get back into the game, but didn’t. It wasn’t even challenging. She finally lucked into a few good hands that I folded before The Flop, so she only gained blinds. Finally the cards turned for me. I wiped her out with trips—a pair of tens in my pocket and a ten on The River. She’d gone all in with a pair of Aces. It was hard to argue with playing her hand, so if Richard’s theory held true, she would be lucky in love.

  As I slid the Anarchys to the top of my head, she congratulated me. “You have a unique style, rather chaotic but effective. Where did you learn to play?”

  “I’m still learning,” I admitted as I shook her outstretched hand. “But a friend taught me the game.”

  “Someone special, I can tell.”

  I remembered Ringo’s observation that my eyes couldn’t lie. Good thing I’d had the sunglasses tonight after all. “I thought he was, anyway.”

  “Oh.” She grinned. “One of those, huh?”

  I chuckled. “You have one of those?”

  “Oh, I’ve had many, but I don’t have one now. I got married a year ago. Steven is the bomb.”

  The kids were rubbing off on her a little. Smiling, I looked again at her hands. I usually try to categorize my opponents from the get-go. I’d pegged her as a spinster, could I have missed the ring? No, her ring finger was bare. “You don’t wear a ring?”

  “Not when I’m playing poker; it’s too distracting. I see it and I start thinking of him and then, well, I can’t concentrate on the game.”

  Chalk one up for Richard’s theory. The way she was glowing, she was way too lucky in love to have won Hold ’Em. “I think you’re the one due the congratulations, then,” I said.

  She giggled as a man snuck up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck. “I guess you’re right.”

  Sighing, I watched as they walked away.

  The dealer called us back into action as I glanced at the doorway to see Kinkaid consulting with Hans and a man I didn’t recognize. Two of the other three people at the table who I’d read at the first flop fell off predictably. One older man was getting tired as the clock neared two in the morning, proving one important element of tournament poker: it truly is a marathon. Being stubborn with stamina is a distinct advantage. A twentysomething salesman who was lucky to still be in after playing like an ultra Maniac finally went all in when I had the nuts. He’d read me wrong, mostly because he read me as a 36D instead of a 125 IQ. I love playing against those kind of guys. That left me and a wily middle-aged department store shoe buyer from Pittsburgh at the table with only a few minutes to go. I wasn’t looking forward to playing heads up with this character, whom I guessed drove to Atlantic City for the big game every weekend.

  One piece of luck fell my way when Kinkaid called the tournament for the night and moved us to a new table for the continuation. The dealer passed the chip count to Kinkaid who had materialized to approve it. “I guess you listened to your own advice, tonight,” she said to me.

  “Just in time.”

  Kinkaid dismissed the dealer for the night. I collected my faded wooden marker and tried to stop thinking about the man who’d given it to me. “You need to keep quiet about the disappearances, Belinda.”

  “Why?”

  “Haven’t you ever read Mutiny on the Bounty? We are living on an isolated floating society with no way off when we are at sea. We don’t want mass panic among the thousands on board. That would only make it more difficult to find Mr. Santobella and Mr. Jones, now wouldn’t it?”

  The isolated society thing shook me a bit. Titanic, Inferno , Earthquake, the disaster movies of my youth popped into my mind’s eye. Perhaps even worse, I imagined a Gilligan’s Island sort of existence with my mom, Ben, Stella, Ingrid and Jack Smack. Ack, back to the image of the disaster films, those suddenly seemed less scary. I couldn’t think of anyone I knew on the cruise who would be much help in a crisis except my Dad and Rick. Maybe Rhonda, but I didn’t know her that well. I suddenly had trouble swallowing. I cleared my throat and forced myself to think like Frank, the former cop.

  “It seems to me the more people know about Rick and Rawhide the more eyes you’d have looking for clues.”

  “That’s true, Miss Cooley.” Hans appeared at my left elbow. “But investigators will tell you that more eyes don’t necessarily mean better clues, just more of them—most of which only muddy the waters and waste our time. The fewer people know about this the better it will be for the gentlemen in the long run.”

  I opened my mouth to argue further, but an arm snaked around my waist and a voice to my right spoke first, “If you can excuse us, Miss Cooley and I have a date.”

  Oops, I’d forgotten all about Ian Reno. I suppressed a shiver at the contact of his fingers at the strip of skin at my midriff. Poor effort, evidently, for he felt my response and slid his finger along the waistband of my satin slacks, torturing me further. My mind might be full of Frank, but my body was listening to Ian. There was something to be said for the howl of pure animal attraction and this was the loudest I’d ever fallen victim to.

  Kinkaid’s eyebrows rose and Hans gave Ian the once-over. I introduced everyone around. The two cruise ship employees gladly bid us good night, no doubt glad to be rid of meddling me. As they walked off, I stepped out of Ian’s grasp and looked at my watch—one forty in the morning. “Isn’t it too late?”

  “Too late for what? The dance club stays open until four. I thought we’d go to the post-tournament chocolate fountain, dip a few strawberries, sip a little champagne, then hit the club for some salsa dancing.”

  “Oh, well,” I stammered, the mention of champagne reminding me of the last time I drank it with Frank, making me feel guilty. “See, I’m usually in bed by now.”

  Ian’s gaze held mine. His smile spread slowly. “Sure. We can do that instead.”

  My face flushed. I felt like an awkward teenager. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m usually sleeping. Y’know, snore, snore. Alone. In pajamas.” I dropped my gaze. Ack. Why couldn’t I be smooth and cosmopolitan about this? Because my brother got all those genes, leaving me with the uptight and nerdy ones.

  “Of course, they are Victoria’s Secret pj’s,” I added, suddenly not wanting him to think I went to bed in neck-to-toe flannel. His eyebrows rose, forcing me to add, “Not the see-through ones, just the lacy ones.”

  Ian tipped my chin up with a finger that caressed my chin. “I think you are hard up for some fun, Bee Cool.”

  Uh-oh. I don’t know why I was dragging my feet. Ian Reno was attractive. Okay, better than attractive. He was hot. He was a professional with a fascinating career. He was for some reason interested in me. The only drawback was he was just slightly younger than I was, and so what? Demi and Ashton had made that cool a long time ago.

  There was the issue of Frank, but, I told myself with resolution, Frank had made that a nonissue by his nonappearance on the cruise.

  I heard a thump behind us and saw a man hopping on one foot, his back to us. He had apparently stumbled over a lawn chair on deck, and was hurrying away, obviously embarrassed. A sense of déjà vu washed over me and I cocked my head, wondering what had inspired it.

  “Well?” Ian murmured.

  Turning back, I smiled slowly a
t him. “I think you’re right.”

  Ian blinked, a little taken aback. Maybe I was calling his bluff.

  I continued, not ready to be that brave. “I think it’s time to grab some of my favorite junk food and hit the club.”

  Recovering from his surprise quickly, Ian nodded and dropped his hand to caress the small of my back. “You’re on. Come with me.”

  As we strolled to the Rendezvous Room for the luscious dessert layout, I asked Ian about his poker play that night. He explained the cards hadn’t fallen his way, but he’d been fortunate to have moved tables often, then been able to read the players well enough, and quickly enough, to outplay them. “I’m still in it, mostly, I believe, due to my theory.”

  Did everyone on the boat have a theory? “And what’s that?”

  “I think luck plays a role, a high enough IQ to do basic math is vital, but mostly Hold ’Em’s a game of psychology.”

  “Giving you psychologists an automatic edge,” I pointed out as we paused at the rail. I leaned against it and stared down at the churning silver sea.

  “Not necessarily. You’d be surprised at how book learning does not always translate into life experience and inherent talent,” he admitted, body radiating an intensity that told me he loved his job, or at the very least this topic. “Some people are born with sensory abilities that give them the edge when it comes to reading all the intangibles—body language, pauses in play, choices in play. Volumes are written on how to do this but I think they are a waste of time. Yes, you can read all the laws of averages in shifting of the eyes, bouncing of legs, sweat patterns, lip tension, pauses in bets and play them. But in each individual game, if you can assimilate the laws of averages and then override them when your brain tells you the woman next to you is really a Maniac when she plays like a Rock, then you win that game, don’t you? That’s what makes a Hold ’Em champion.”

  “Whoa. That means there is a lot of thinking going on. I sort of feel my game. Maybe I am doing it all wrong.”