Card Sharks (10 page)

A new kid in the front row leaned forward, squinted, and said, “Are you MachineGunMarianne?”

Marianne ignored the question and tried to make the poker tournament go away, but the pop-up windows with their exciting
casino promotions, designed with grotesque moneybag graphics, just kept on coming.

So much for no excessive perspiration, but at least there wasn't a face-plant.

Marianne picked up her laptop, muttered something about computer viruses, and left the room, practically running back to the office with the machine under one arm. She'd barely had a chance to stick it back in its docking station when Ilsa magically appeared as she often did, to hover and cluck and swear and ring her hands.

Marianne sat down heavily in her chair. “Were you there?”

“In the back corner.”

“Did it look that bad?”

“It was beyond bizarre.”

“Bizarre isn't bad.”

“At this company, there's nothing worse than bizarre. Bad can be made good. Bizarre is just . . . bizarre.”

“Right. Shit. I swear, it was only on my lunch hour.”

Ilsa glared at her. “That was really stupid, Marianne. We know each other well enough that I can say these things.”

Ilsa didn't mince words, and Marianne appreciated that fact. She was Marianne's mentor. She'd actually hired Marianne and had helped her up the ladder ever since. She was the one who explained to Marianne that it was still a man's world and that if she wanted to succeed, she'd have to a play a man's game.

So Marianne had taken both her advice and the card for a stylist who specialized in creating an image for career-oriented women who need a game plan for that man's playing field they'd be on.

The stylist had shown Marianne how to wear her hair and her makeup, and explained what clothes she should be wearing to work.

Ilsa was a bit stern. She was a rather conservative woman of Swedish stock, who, in Marianne's weaker moments, managed to scare her to death with dire warnings of all hell breaking loose at the slightest negative rumor, or doomsday predictions about who wouldn't make partner.

The thing was, she was right. She was entirely right. And while most of the women around Marianne faltered for one reason or another, being too this or too that, Marianne went straight as an arrow right up the ladder. The men liked that she was a strong team player but didn't seem to worry that she would steal their starting positions. Until the weak and undeserving among them lost their positions, as they would have anyway, and Marianne stepped up to the plate.

Marianne had never had trouble playing alongside the boys. She'd never had trouble beating them. (She just hadn't quite nailed the art of living with them.)

In any case, it was universal knowledge that Marianne was good enough and smart enough at what she did to deserve what she got, so everybody in the tax manager stratum got on quite well. And she was happy enough and well liked, and really, there just wasn't anything to complain about.

And after a few years at the firm, the pink lipstick and neutral eyeshadow and the gray skirts and pastel cashmere twinsets really didn't seem like costumes anymore.

Ilsa leaned over Marianne and read off some of the user names of the poker players still online. “HitMeGood66, Jenny-LuvsCards, CardsNotJobs . . . Jesus H., Marianne. If you don't stop this, you're going down.” She looked down at the screen, shook her head in disgust, then looked more closely, gasped, and looked up again. “PokerPussy?”

“It's a cat thing . . . I'm sure,” Marianne said weakly.

“It's gambling, Marianne. Do you understand how this looks? Very, very bizarre.”

“I—”

“Three years to partner. You're three years away from having a shot at partner. Three years to the payoff of all of your hard work.” She gestured disdainfully at Marianne's laptop. “Is this who you really are? No.” She waved her hand up and down, taking in Marianne's entire person. “
This
is who you are.” She pointed an accusing index finger back at the monitor. “You are not PokerPussy!”

What Marianne wanted to say was,
You're right. I'm not PokerPussy. PokerPussy is a seventy-eight-year-old cat-fanatic librarian in Tucson, Arizona, specializing in Omaha High-Low. I'm MachineGunMarianne. I know this because sometimes we chat on the side while we play.

What Marianne actually said was, “You're right.”

“All right then.” Ilsa sighed heavily. “I'll go out there and stand by the water cooler and try to do some sort of damage control. You pull yourself together.”

Ilsa left the room, and Marianne sat there quietly for a moment. Then she peeked around her monitor and looked through the glass to make sure no one was coming to give their condolences or whatever and tapped on the space bar to reactivate the screen.

Her eyes widened. Even as her online account sat inactive save for automatically entering money to cover the big and small blinds her competitors had played badly and gambled themselves out of the game while actually paying attention. She'd placed third in the money!

It was possible to make money without even participating. And when she was participating, it was clearly possible to win. Marianne stared down at the account on her poker game. She should have felt more remorse, perhaps shame . . . something negative. She felt elated and even a little . . . naughty. Marianne missed feeling naughty.

A little
bing
chimed as a new message arrived in the in-box of her poker account:

Congratulations, MachineGunMarianne! You are one of the top five chip leaders at the close of the bonus qualifier. You have won an entry into the World Series of Poker! Please contact the competition administrator to receive your tournament entry receipt. And . . . see you in fabulous Las Vegas!

Marianne stared at the screen in near disbelief until her widemouthed gape relaxed into a self-satisfied smile. She picked up the phone and dialed.

“Peter, it's Marianne. I think I've got a story for you.”

S
quashed three abreast with her friends in the coach section of a no-frills airline, Bijoux sat with her fingers gripped tightly around the armrests, her gaze fixed firmly (and slightly insanely, should anyone look at her) in front of her.

On one side, Marianne struggled to focus on her inspirational reading material, Chris Moneymaker's memoirs of coming from a forty-dollar online tournament entry to win $2 million in the 2003 World Series of Poker.

On her other side, Peter outlined story ideas on his laptop, blissfully unaware of the torment around him, thanks to his headphones. Bijoux squirmed in her seat, and Marianne looked up. Poor Bij. “There's a place for frills,” her friend conceded. “I'll give you that. There's a definitely a time and a place for frills.”

Bijoux tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. She squirmed some more. “This would be that time and that place. I'd like to take this moment to thank you for showering this morning.”

“My pleasure. And likewise.”

Bijoux grunted.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing shortly . . . wah-
wah
-wah, wah-
wah
 . . . wah.”

It seemed as though the entire cabin heaved a sigh of relief as they descended. Probably the only thing worse than being on a no-frills plane going to Vegas was being on a no-frills plane returning from Vegas. At least on the way there everyone had a sense of possibility and hope and smelled relatively clean. Even so, it was all barbecue-stained T-shirts and baseball caps.

The plane lurched to a standstill at the gate, and, like sprinters waiting for the starter gun, the passengers poised, half-out of their seats . . . and when the seat belt light went out, the hand-carry stampede went into effect.

Bijoux unclipped her seat belt and leaped up, ready to claim nausea or leprosy if it would get her off the plane faster.

“Let's just wait,” Marianne hissed, cowering against Bijoux as a beer gut in the aisle swayed dangerously in her direction.

Peter slipped off his headphones and tucked them in his laptop bag. The doors opened and the plane began to empty out. Stepping out into the aisle was like trying to merge gracefully onto an L.A. freeway—it couldn't be done without guts, timing, and really good acceleration. Bijoux and Peter looked at her expectantly; Marianne chose to conserve her energy, and when everyone except the disabled and the child-laden had stampeded off the plane, she finally made her move.

Both Bijoux and Marianne struggled to pull their overstuffed carry-ons from out of the overhead compartment. “Here, allow me,” Peter said. Bijoux sent Marianne an approving glance behind his back and they ambled off the aircraft, weaving their way through the Las Vegas airport out to the curb.

The taxi line was moving at a brisk pace. Everything moved at a brisk pace in this town. Everyone wanted to get into the
mix, and the World Series of Poker was part of the draw. Marianne handled the logistics with the driver as Bijoux struggled with her luggage once more, the wheels on her largest designer piece hardly capable of balancing the load stuffed into it. Once more it was Peter to the rescue. They filled the cab and headed out, with only one near accident as the cabbie braked suddenly to accommodate the undulating stiletto-handicapped crossing of a woman whose person appeared to be entirely composed of silicone and BOTOX.

A twenty-minute drive and they were checking into the hotel.

Weaving through the crowd, Marianne smiled back at her, looking as if she could practically smell the excitement of the poker tournament in the air. Bijoux could smell it, all right; it smelled like cigarettes, money that had been wadded in someone's sweaty pocket for a week, and spilled, stale liquor. But Marianne was clearly compartmentalizing all of that.

Peter, on the other hand, simply surveyed the scene with a neutral expression of curious observation. A recorder up to his mouth, he was already documenting details.

Apparently sensing Bijoux's distress, Marianne put her arm around her and turned inward a bit to protect her as she used her forearm to clear a path before them.

“I feel like Whitney Houston in
The Bodyguard.
”

“I will always love you, Bijoux.”

“Um . . . let's just get to the room, shall we?”

Marianne laughed and beelined to the check-in counter, already swarming with people. As Peter was ushered in a separate direction he raised his cell phone, signalling they'd talk later, and twenty minutes later Bijoux and Marianne finally managed to check in, take a breath and really look around. Once they were out of the forest, they could actually see the trees.

The elevator bank was on the other side of the lobby, which meant they'd need to make another pass across the casino floor. It was a sea of green felt, marquee lights rimming what seemed like every possible edge in the place. Flashing neon, with slot machines ringing and literally programmed to shout encouragement at the players perched on stools in their pastel sweat suits and gaudy jewelry. The blackjack tables were crowded with an equal mix of cocky fraternity boys and jaded old-timers.

“There have to be at least a thousand people here—Hey!” Marianne swiveled around. “Did you just spank me?”

Bijoux raised an eyebrow. “It wasn't me.”

Marianne ran her palm down the back of her skirt. “Someone just spanked me.”

“Spanked you? Are you sure it was a spank and not a grab or a pat?”

“I'm sure it was a spank. Not to mention if it was a grab or a pat, that wouldn't be better.”

Bijoux crowded in behind Marianne as the people continued to shuffle, stream, and push around them. “Let's move to the side.”

They shuffled down a row of slot machines to get out of the way of the foot traffic, stumbling over a cane left sprawled on the ground by a slot machine junkie. Marianne stared at the lady's blue cloud of hair and her glassy-eyed fixation on the symbols whirling before her eyes. Turning back to Bijoux, she said, “It's visuals like that that make gambling unfun.”

Bijoux glanced over and nodded. “Let's not have that be you in fifty years, 'kay?”

“Deal . . . Okay, so let's see.” Away from the vortex, they had a better picture of the situation. Marianne surveyed the scene . . . and then she saw it: a huge space of the casino floor being converted to what was essentially tournament central.
Her stomach leaped, and in a hushed whisper she said, “Over there.”

“There” was a huge floor-to-ceiling whiteboard completely filled from one to almost seven thousand with the names of the competition participants. Marianne and Bijoux gaped at the enormity of the event as they approached the area.

“Is it alphabetical?” Bijoux asked.

“I'm not sure. I think they just add names as they come.”

Bijoux squealed. “Then you should be on there already from winning your entry from that online satellite. You start from the front, and I'll start from the back.”

Five minutes later, plus a crick in her neck, Marianne found her name. “Here, Bij! Number seven sixty-three. Hollingsworth, Marianne.” They stared at the name in silence for a moment, then turned to each other and started jumping up and down and squealing and laughing.

Marianne had been fairly mellow about the whole thing up to this point. But suddenly she just went nuts. “This is crazy. I don't believe it! Can you believe it? Hilarious. Just . . . hilarious!” Pointing to the board, then clutching her chest . . . pointing to the board, then clutching her chest . . . Suddenly she reeled around and grabbed Bijoux by the shoulders. She tried to speak but nothing game out. She just shook her, a slightly crazed look in her eyes that said,
I want to win this thing.

“I know,” Bijoux said, giving Marianne a nice pat on the arm, and then working a little harder to dislodge her friend's fingers from her collar. “You're going to be great.”

Marianne gulped in a huge breath. “My God. I've got to prepare myself. I've got to find my center, my Zen, my inner champion, my whatever. I've got to get to the room and rest.”

Bijoux frowned. “Don't you want to go out and have some dinner?”

“No,” Marianne said. “I'll get room service. I'm officially in fighting mode.”

“Does that mean you don't want to go out to a nightclub and flirt with boys?”

Marianne looked at her like she was insane. “This isn't about boys anymore.”

“It's not? You're not going to look around at all?”

“Bijoux, this has
nothing
to do with boys anymore.”

“It doesn't?”

“No! This is about . . . me! I've got to conserve my energy. There will be ample time to play around, but I don't want to get bounced on the first day. I'll need all my wits about me.”

“I guess I just didn't realize you were taking this quite so seriously. I mean, it's Vegas.” Bijoux chewed on her lower lip and glanced around at the activity. “I thought we'd take advantage of that and have some fun.” Bijoux shrugged and nodded to the desk clerk to have a porter bring their luggage to the room.

She knew what Marianne was thinking. She was thinking that they would still be there when the tournament was over. That the boys would always be there and, like poker, it was just a question of timing and luck. All well and good for Marianne.
She
seemed to have plenty of time and luck.

After the door to the hotel room opened, the first thing Bijoux always did was run into the bathroom and look at the toiletries. The only thing better than free toiletries were really tony free toiletries, and it was always fun to see what the hotel had to offer.

A high-pitched giggling and the sound of springs expanding and contracting signaled the other hotel tradition. Bijoux raced out of the bathroom and leaped up on the bed next to Marianne, who was jumping up and down, laughing hysterically.

Bijoux always let Marianne pick which bed she wanted and which drawers suited her best. She took what was left and
quickly unpacked her things, hanging up the clothes and arranging her vast collection of makeup and toiletries over the expanse of the bathroom counter.

The unspoken rule was that Bijoux owned the lion's share of the closet and the bathroom. In exchange, Marianne got to choose her side of the room, her drawers, and the average room temperature. They'd successfully traveled together many times under this arrangement.

Marianne flopped down on the bed and, still giggling, picked up the phone to order room service. As she launched into strained negotiations with the room service people about the meaning of “on the side,” Bijoux just tossed the gift she'd brought for her friend onto the bed, meaningfully arched her eyebrow, and went in for a quick shower.

The powerful hotel spigot sluiced away the travel ick. Bijoux took a deep, calming breath of hot steam and told herself not to be irritated with Marianne. Bijoux had been hoping for more of a romp through Vegas, not an episode of the Marianne Show, as she sometimes called it when she thought the two of them were going off to do something together when really it was more about Marianne obsessing about something specific to her.

She should have known, though. Marianne had a competitive streak a mile wide. And she also had Donny to fall back on. So it would be Marianne focusing on her game this weekend and Bijoux romping about by herself trying to get the Fates to coordinate things so she could meet somebody perfect. If the Fates worked quickly enough, she'd find someone to romp about Vegas with her while Marianne did her thing.

Turning off the spigot and pulling the shower cap from her head, Bijoux made quick work of toweling off, pausing to wait a moment as Marianne settled things with the porter and the door slammed shut.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Marianne had unwrapped the gift and had already buried her nose deep into it:
Caro's Book of Tells.
“This is fantastic,” Marianne said. “Thank you so much!”

“You're welcome,” Bijoux said. “I wasn't sure if it was a joke gift or a serious gift, but since you're serious, it's a serious gift.”

“It's perfect.”

“Nah.”

Marianne looked up at Bijoux and made a face. “What am I thinking? Can you tell what I'm thinking?”

Bijoux stared at Marianne for a few seconds. “I have no idea.”

“Okay, how about this?” She stared at Marianne, then shifted her gaze quickly from left to right. “Well? What do you think that means?”

“Um . . .” Bijoux slowly shook her head. “I really couldn't say. Though they say that people who don't hold your gaze are lying.”

“Perfect! This book is awesome.” Marianne stuck a cocktail straw in her mouth and scrunched up her features. “How about now? I'm thinking something. . . . Can you read my tell?”

With a sigh, Bijoux studied Marianne's face once more.

“I really think that out of context—”

“Just pretend we're there at the tables. I'm a player, you're a player . . . what am I thinking?”