Death On the Flop (28 page)

“
You think you’re real hot, don’t you?” Stan hissed as
he brought his highball to his lips to swig whatever clear liquid he was drinking. The tournament had decided to even the odds a bit in the last round by letting us put in secret drink orders. It took away an element of one of the weapons I’d used thus far with success.

But if I had to guess, I’d say Stan was drinking vodka. His movements were more studied and careful than I had seen him make so far. Perhaps I could get him to say, or better, do something he would regret.

But he threw me off balance first.

“So, Bee Cool, I hear your boyfriend is drinking again. That’s too bad. I know you must be worried, having to sit here while he’s getting soused. It’s pretty easy to die of alcohol poisoning, you know. And drunks fall off high places all the time.”

I stiffened. He knew about Frank. He knew Frank drank. They had Frank. They were pouring alcohol down his throat and were about to push him off the top of the Mirage parking garage. “I wouldn’t know, actually,” I said, trying to infuse my tone with scorn instead of the panic I was feeling. I dropped my gaze to his glass and hoped it burned through my Gargoyles. “But I guess
you
would.”

His neck reddened. His knuckles whitened.

I peeked at the cards in front of me, willing my hand not to shake—Ace/spade and King/heart. Good thing the cards were falling for me, because nothing else seemed to be. I waited for Stan to call the big blind and I raised. Everyone else at the table folded. Stan called my raise.

The flop was a five/club, six/heart and King/diamond. Two blanks and one semipossibility for me. He could have a straight working or two pair or who knows what.

Stan bet ten thousand. I called.

The turn was a seven/club.

Stan bet another ten. I called.

The River was a three/diamond.

Stan bet another ten. I called.

I heard the ESPN commentator say something about “calling station.”

His pockets were a four/club and King/heart. He double beat me. I decided right then and there that I had to change everything. Whatever he said had made me emotional and I couldn’t get that way in a game. I was distracted, too busy thinking about Ben and Frank to read any of his body language. From now on, I told myself, I would play two games simultaneously. Hold ’Em and save ’Em.

I would save them by psyching Stan out of his mind.

 
It wasn’t hard to win the next couple of half-decent
hands I had, because everyone at the table had immediately underestimated me after the way I played the first hand so badly. Now I had them confused.

That was exactly where I wanted them, especially Stan.

I’d refrained from any talk until I got my mind squarely back into the card game, but now that I felt more secure, I could start shaking Stan’s tree.

“I hear you are a supporter of third world cinema,” I said low but loud enough that the microphones might pick it up. “Of Mexico, especially.”

His head snapped toward mine. I smiled. Slowly.

“I think Sundance is great,” he answered. His head snapped back to the front of the table. His fingers moved stiffly to flip up his pocket cards like the tin man.

I had a pocket pair of tens. I played through against three of the other pros. Stan folded early on. No telling what he had, but he did drain another glass of whatever. He flashed a number two to the waitress. We were given the choice of two drinks, with one being water. I wondered if he were ordering another vodka or if he was switching to water. I won about thirty thousand dollars on that hand, but infinitely more in the psychological war with Stan.

My advantage didn’t last long, though, because two hands later he pretended to drop his cocktail napkin and leaned down next to me.

“Your brother is a very good actor,” he whispered.

I couldn’t suppress my shiver. Nausea rose in my throat. I grabbed my glass and took a gulp to wash it down. The other players watched me curiously, waiting for my bet.

I suddenly couldn’t remember my pocket cards. I folded.

 
“
Psst. Bee?”

In my stall, I tried to ignore the woman next to me. We’d been given a fifteen minute restroom break while ESPN ran commercials and a background story on each of the players. One of the pros at the table told me they’d interviewed his family. I wondered who they’d found to yak about me. If it was my mother, it was going to be scary.

Since they’d sent me with one of Conner’s goons who was posted outside the door, the odds of me getting to a pay phone to try to find Frank were nil, unless I could give him one of my famous heels to the groin. . . .

“Bee?” my would-be fan persisted. This restroom had been locked since noon, I was told. And the goon with me cleared the bathroom before I went in.

“Yes?” I sighed as I opened the door.

She grappled with her lock and shoved the door open, falling through. I recognized her but I couldn’t remember from where.

“Beth Watson,” she held out her hand. We shook as she continued, “I’ve been waiting in here, standing on the toilet seat, since noon to talk to you. Thank goodness you needed to pee.”

“You win the award for persistence,” I commented.

“Well, you promised me the exclusive,” she said.

“I remember. I would’ve given you the interview without a twelve hour wait in the loo.”

“I believe you,” Beth said, breathless, grabbing my forearm. “But I had to tell you what I found out about Steely Stan as soon as I could. I left you a message at your hotel room, but when you didn’t call me back, I knew this was probably the most guaranteed way to catch you before the end of the tournament.”

Damn, we’d been so busy I hadn’t checked the room messages since yesterday. “What?”

“You know they call the girls that hang with Stan his Squeezes, right?” I nodded and she went on. “Three of the girls known to hang out with Stan have each been listed as missing with their hometown police departments over the past couple of years. Shari Reichardt, Marianna Gomez and Lisa Aaron. The detectives I talked to each said that they contacted this county’s sheriff ’s department to check out Stan. They were assured by the detective he’d cleared an interview but they would keep an eye on him.”

I felt my hands going clammy. My heart raced. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. Finally I swallowed and asked, “Did they give you the name of the detective?”

“Daniel Conner.”

Struggling to maintain my composure, I walked
slowly back to the Hold ’Em table. I now had the only proof that Conner and Stan were connected. Had Conner forced Stan to give him a cut of the Fresh Foods smuggling deal in exchange for keeping quiet about the disappearances? Had they cooked up a bigger plan once they found themselves kindred evil spirits, or had they been in it together before? Did Conner get himself assigned to the cases just to cover them up?

And what had happened to those girls?

The same thing that was happening to Ben?

I stopped my thoughts from traveling in that direction. I had to compartmentalize. I had to play my two games and win. I had a new weapon. Now I had to decide how to use it.

By the time I eased into my seat, I was deep in my
best zone for playing Hold ’Em. My focus was sharp. I could feel the players around me and nothing beyond the table. I couldn’t hear the commentators anymore; I couldn’t hear the crowds’ calls of encouragement, either. I needed to win as soon as possible so I could get on with finding Frank and Ben before it was too late.

My new cohort and budding investigative journalist Beth was busy trying to track down a guy named Joe who worked for a security guy named Frank Gilbert. Once she’d exhausted all avenues there, she was going to look up the Hold ’Em dealer that had started to tell me about Stan’s “other job.” That’s all I could really afford to let her do. There was no way I was going to let anyone else die or get hurt because of me.

I ignored Stan as I peered at my pocket cards—muck. I folded. Stan’s chest puffed up. I folded the next three hands, playing a waiting game, hoping to make Stan overconfident and letting him knock out the competition. It worked. He narrowed the field to three in less than an hour with big bets and reraises.

Five hands later, I had a pair of Kings in my pocket and decided to call the big blind. Stan said almost inaudibly behind his big mustache, “Bet you’d make a great actress. Bet you make lots of noise. Bet you have one killer scream.”

“I bet they give gringos life in prison for murder in Mexico. I bet life expectancies aren’t too long behind bars south of the border either, Donald.”

Stan paled.

The flop was a Queen/spade and two blanks—three/ diamond, ten/club.

I raised fifty thousand. The only other player left was a middle-aged pro from Atlantic City. He was a huge chauvanist and had spent most of his game staring at my chest behind his Oakleys and snorting at my bets. I know he was still deciding whether I was a rock or a Maniac. Either way he had no respect for me. He raised fifty and Stan called.

Fourth Street was a Queen/heart. I went all in.

Stan, still pale, folded. The Atlantic City chauvinist went all in, having decided I couldn’t read my cards, I guess.

The River was a ten/diamond. A.C. Chauvinist ooched around in his chair. Guess he had a pocket ten.

We showed our cards and he said a word that had to be bleeped from live television. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Beth elbow her way to the front of the boundary and give me a thumbs up. Whatever that meant. She found Joe? She’d found Frank? She’d been hired by the
Washington Post
?

I’d have to wait to find out.

The dealer asked if we needed a break before the first heads-up hand. Stan had recovered his composure and was looking to hurt me again. He’d acted like a rattlesnake every time he’d been hit. He’d coil and strike again.

“I’m ready,” Stan said authoritatively and the crowd ooed. “But this is Miz Cooley’s first big tournament. Oh, sorry, her
only
tournament. So if she needs more time, I certainly understand.”

Sure he did. Actually, I wanted to take more time. But since I wouldn’t be able to do what I wanted with that time—like try to find Frank and contact Joe—I eschewed the offer in favor of keeping Stan off balance. “Thank you so much for your consideration, Stan, but I’m ready,” I announced. My fans roared.

Stan frowned. Obviously this wasn’t playing into his expected hand. I hoped the cards wouldn’t either.

I drew the dealer button for the first hand. ESPN would be showing our pocket cards to the viewing audience at home. I doubted this would affect my play. After all, I pretty much didn’t know what I was doing, so looking stupid to couch potato poker experts was a foregone conclusion for me. Stan, however, had a reputation to uphold. He was the winningest Maniac in the history of the game, according to Ben. He might take some risks just to dazzle the viewers. I was counting on that.

As the dealer began to shuffle, a hush fell over the crowd. I did some quick math on the chips in front of us and decided Stan had a forty thousand dollar advantage. That was a good thing. He would play a little looser.

An hour later I hadn’t made much headway. I wasn’t getting cards and was doing a lot of folding. TVs across America were changing channels because this game had to be more boring than watching paint dry. I refused to lose, though. I knew if I waited long enough for the right cards, it would be time to really play. The tournament president was pacing, sweat popping out on his forehead. The PR flack for the casino was wringing her hands. I know they all wanted to slap me around.

“Bad case of nerves?” The dealer asked quietly during a commercial break as Stan chatted with one of the ESPN commentators. I could hear him say that it might take all night but he’d win by the blinds.

I smiled, winking behind my Gargoyles. “Nerves. Exactly.” Exactly what I want Stan to think.

The tournament president wandered by. “We would love to see some action.”

I smiled. “So would I.” I motioned to the dealer and joked, “Talk to him.”

When we were back on the air, the dealer gave us our pocket cards. I placed the marker on mine and prayed for a miracle. I peeled up the edges and let them slap back down. Finally. My luck was turning. Queen/heart, King/spade.

I called the big blind. Stan was so taken aback that I’d placed a bet that he paused, then raised fifty thousand. I called.

The Flop was nine/heart, deuce/heart and nine/spade.

I bet a hundred thousand. Stan raised fifty. I called.

The Turn was a nine/diamond. I checked. Stan bet fifty. I called and guessed he was trying to play the board with a big kicker. As long as I kept calling, I would keep him from getting suspicious of my hand. The way he kept nodding smugly, I knew he thought I’d been shamed into betting by the dealer’s and official’s comments. If I didn’t get a King I would have to play the board too, with a King kicker. I prayed he didn’t have an ace.