Death Plays Poker (4 page)

NOAH

Noah Walker frowned as he glanced around the bar. The room was filled with loud, ugly white trash, and he was supposed to make these people think he was their new fucking best friend. Good thing he liked challenges.

It was an odd room, with cheap wood paneling and swanky new lighting, like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be rustic or modern. Maybe ownership had changed recently. Maybe ownership just didn’t give a shit.

The two poker tables were already full and the rest of the room was filling fast. Great White North — yeah, right. More than half the people there were American, like Noah. Hoping to cash in on what they thought was weak play, given the Canadians’ reputation for reticence and politeness. Please. The Canadians were a savvy crowd. They might smile and act polite, but they knew how to hold onto their money.

Noah had crashed the party. It hadn’t been hard to find, with all those players yammering about seeing each other later in the back room at MacCauley’s. Wink wink, bring money for gambling. Like the cops cared about busting up their stupid side games. And like that should be the players’ biggest fear, with a killer basically picking them off, one by one, with some rope around their throats as they lay sleeping in their hotel rooms.

Noah willed a smile onto his face. You didn’t get anywhere good being negative. He only needed to think of his mother to remember that. She’d spent most of his childhood brooding around in depression, nursing her moods like she was a martyr to so much affliction.

Joe Mangan set his Coke on the bar rail beside Noah.

“Hey,” Noah said, seizing the chance to talk to one of the few people there who didn’t look like he’d just rolled in from a long shift in the scrapyard. Joe, though he had a small scar on his otherwise baby-smooth face that indicated he’d likely fare just fine in the scrapyard, at least took the time to gel up his hair and wear decent shoes. Most of the other clowns wore discount store jeans and old sneakers.

“Hey back,” Joe said. “Doesn’t look like this is your scene.”

Noah shrugged. “Why not? I like to win money.”

“Against this crowd?” Joe’s eyebrows lifted. “How good are you?”

“Good enough.” Noah knew he wasn’t as good as Joe and the other pros, but he had cash to throw around. His instructions were to infiltrate this scene, and he could afford to lose a bit up front, because soon he was only going to win. “You know how to get on the waiting list?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “You give your name to Loni.”

Noah glanced toward the bar where Joe was indicating. “Big blond with the rack?”

Joe nodded. “Looks good from a distance, huh? You can only tell her age when you get up close.”

“How old is she?” Noah’s mom would be off in a rant about women like Loni — fake breasts, probably fake lips, too — making women who didn’t artificially enhance their appearance feel inferior. His father would defend a woman’s right to plastic surgery. His mother would get insecure, and the conversation — if there had been a conversation — would degenerate.

Joe shrugged. “Late forties? Why, you want to hit that?”

Noah struggled to keep the slice of pizza he’d just eaten in his stomach. “No.”

“Don’t knock the powers of a woman with experience. Never had her myself, but I’ve heard good things.”

Noah studied Joe, whose eyes seemed to be on both poker tables at once. The tables were half a level below them on the other side of the rail, like a boxing ring for everyone to gawk at. Did Joe know that his game — his careful hand-reading, his assessment of odds, his strategic bullying — was being compromised by a ring of cheaters?

But hang on — here came someone interesting. Noah’s gaze shifted toward the entrance to the private room, where a young woman was walking in with Mickey Mills. All right, so she was wearing a bright blue dress that was a bit fashioned-up for this crowd — Noah didn’t have time for high-maintenance bullshit. But this girl had intelligent eyes which, unlike the rest of the players he’d met, looked like they could see beyond her own selfish interests.

“You know that girl?” he asked Joe.

Joe stopped watching the game and followed Noah’s gaze. “The brunette with Mickey? Why? You like her?”

Noah shrugged.

“That’s Tiffany. She’s the bane of my girlfriend’s existence.”

Noah felt a corner of his mouth lift in amusement. “Why do they hate each other?”

“It’s one-sided,” Joe said. “Liz hates Tiffany. She donked out and cost Liz her tournament.”

“What’s Tiffany doing with Mickey Mills?” Noah asked. “Are they dating? He looks like he’s twice her age and then some.”

“More likely he’s coaching her.” Joe turned his gaze back toward the poker tables. “She’s hot. I can see why you like her.”

“She’s not that good-looking.” Noah set down his beer and leaned into the bar rail. The rail wobbled a bit, so Noah stopped leaning — he didn’t think the players at the poker tables on the other side would like him to come crashing into their game. “But when you compare her to the rest of the women here, she stands out by a mile. You know what her story is?”

“She’s a trust fund kid,” Joe said. “She’s read a few poker books and she thinks this poker tour is a better investment than the stock market.”

Noah laughed. “She any good?”

“At poker? No. But she’s smart. I saw a couple of moves that would make Sklansky proud. Too bad her eyes give her game away. Still, with Mickey coaching her — and maybe a pair of dark glasses — she might pick it up in time to do okay in Vancouver.”

“Is she going to Vancouver?” Noah was surprised to feel his hopes rise.

“I think so.”

Noah took a smoke from his pack. The nice thing about an illegal side game was the bar bent the idiotic bylaws about smoking. The nice thing about hanging with white trash was that most of them smoked. “You don’t think she’ll cash in Niagara?”

“Not a chance,” Joe said. “She might get a few more flukes, but the odds are she’ll give her chips away as quickly as she got them. I’d lay, like, six to one she doesn’t cash.”

Noah smirked. “Is everything an odds game to you?”

“Pretty much.”

“What would you give my chances of getting Tiffany out on a date?”

“Depends if I ask her first.” Joe tilted his head to one side as if he was contemplating it.

“You just said you have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah?”

“Tiffany’s not going to date a guy who’s taken.”

“How do you know? I thought you’d never met her.” Joe slurped at his nearly empty Coke can.

“I can see it in her eyes,” Noah said. “She has integrity.”

“You’re a funny guy. All right, I’ll give her to you,” Joe said.

“You don’t have to give me anything. How about a prop bet?” Noah felt pretty clever for thinking of this. If he could get a long-term bet going with Joe — especially a secret one, that no one could know about — it would be an indefinite in.

“What?” Joe shook his head, as if trying to understand what Noah had proposed. “No way. My girlfriend would have a fit if she found out I made a bet about dating someone else.”

Noah felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was probably Bert, wanting to arrange the next day’s meeting. “I was thinking more than a date. And you’re the one who basically told me you’re willing to cheat on your girlfriend . . .”

Joe’s eyes widened. “You want a prop bet on who gets Tiffany into bed?”

“Yeah,” Noah said. It was a long shot, but if this worked, it was his easy ticket into the in crowd. He wished he could send tips back to his thirteen-year-old self, which was the last time he could remember giving two shits about the in crowd.

Joe wrinkled his forehead in the same way Noah had seen him do when he was pretending to think about a big hand on
TV
. “You’d have an advantage from the get-go. With Lizzie around, it will be a challenge finding time to nail Tiffany.”

“Fair enough,” Noah said. “But you’re famous. I’m not. So you’ll get her attention faster.”

“I guess that’s a wash.” Joe glanced around the room. He smiled and waved when he made eye contact with Elizabeth, safely out of earshot.

“Are you willing to call my being handsome a wash with your charm?”

Joe laughed. “Yeah, that’s fair. Although I do have a cult following on the gay scene.”

“Seriously?”

“Someone started a Facebook page called ‘I Want to Blow Joe Mangan.’ Sixteen hundred fans; twelve hundred are men.”

Noah wasn’t surprised. “Might be the frosted tips.”

“You think?” Joe patted his short, spiky hair. “What’s the bet for? Five grand? Ten?”

Noah shrugged. “I could go higher. Make it twenty.”

“Twenty, huh?” Joe pursed his lips and nodded. “You’re on. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Nate Wilkes,” Noah said, shaking hands on the bet.

ELIZABETH

Fiona Gallagher twirled a strand of red hair around her index finger as she scanned the party — presumably for someone more important to talk to. “I like the new girl. Too bad we can’t keep her.”

“Tiffany? Why can’t we keep her?” Elizabeth asked. She’d like to be talking to someone other than Fiona and Loni, too, but she wasn’t rude enough to show it. “Joe thinks she’s here for a while.”

Loni Mills tapped her cigarette holder over the black plastic ashtray. Elizabeth wanted to tell her that the cigarette holder made her look old, not glamorous. “She’s a real polite thing,” Loni said. “Comes up to me, ‘Excuse me, Miss, can you please tell me how the waiting list for the poker game works?’”

Elizabeth snorted. “I’d love to see Tiffany play at these stakes. She’ll drain that trust fund in no time.”

“I can’t play poker,” Loni said. “Doesn’t stop me from sticking like glue to this scene.”

Fiona tossed her glance down the bar so Loni could follow it. “And look — Tiffany seems to be coming onto this scene just like you did. Notice how she’s hanging all over your ex-husband, bringing him beers like some dog who’s just learned how to fetch.”

“Hey, I never fetched anything for Mickey.” Loni pushed her chest out and glanced down as if saying,
With a rack like this, it was Mickey who did all the fetching
. But Loni’s smile faded. Her gaze remained on Tiffany and Mickey.

Fiona sipped her white wine. “What do you think she wants from him?”

Elizabeth had had enough of Fiona. But she had nowhere else to go except home to bed. “I seriously doubt Tiffany James — How old is she? Twelve? — wants anything from Mickey Mills except to learn how to play poker.”

“I like her dress,” Fiona said. “It looks like new Dolce and Gabbana. You think it’s real?”

“Who cares?” Elizabeth thought Tiffany looked like a bridesmaid at a legion hall wedding. All she needed was a stick of bubble gum to complete the image.

“I hate that about tournament poker,” Fiona said. “None of the women look like women.” She paused and corrected herself, badly. “Um, present company excepted.” Fiona laughed slightly. “But you know what I mean. Most go around in old jeans and men’s T-shirts. It sucks for the ratings.”

Because it was all about Fiona being a superstar. She was a backwater poker anchor and she walked around like she was hosting the Oscars.

Loni took a long sip of beer and said, “Why not ask Poker Stars and Full Tilt to vamp up their women’s clothes. Might not be Versace, but least the sponsored girls will look sexier on
TV
.”

“Good plan.” Fiona pulled a pen from her purse and made a note. “Thanks, ‘Miss.’”

Elizabeth groaned. “Oh my god. Please can we not all talk like Tiffany?” And really, when Elizabeth thought about it, was “Miss” a word a little aristocrat would use? It sounded more like trailer trash to her ear.

“Loosen up, Lizzie.” Fiona reached over and undid the top button on Elizabeth’s blouse. She appraised it, and undid one more. “Much better. Now you’d never even guess about that pickle in your ass.”

Elizabeth looked down and did one of the buttons back up. She met Joe’s eye — he was standing with some dark-haired guy she didn’t recognize — and he gave her a thumbs-up.

“See,” Fiona said. “Joe likes it better undone.”

Elizabeth winced. She didn’t know why she was at this party when she was in no mood to gamble. She’d never understood the point of socializing for its own sake. There were so many valid reasons to interact, like work or family obligations; to arbitrarily invent one seemed bizarre.

“At least you’re actually with Joe,” Fiona said. “Poor old George looks at me like I’m only being single for now, and I’ll eventually find my way home to him.”

“You’re both lucky,” Loni said, her eyes still fixed firmly on Tiffany. “Mickey looks at me like I’m the devil.”

“You did kind of take him for more than he’s worth,” Fiona said with a grin.

“I had a good lawyer.” Loni patted her big blond hair into place.

“Also, Fiona, you still sleep with George,” Elizabeth said. “So maybe that’s a factor in his so-called self-delusion.”

Fiona looked at Elizabeth sharply. “How do you know about that?”

“What’s the big secret? You’re both single; you’re allowed.”

“No, it’s just — I didn’t know anyone cared who I slept with.”

“What else do we have to do, honey?” Loni stubbed out her cigarette and set the holder on the bar beside the ashtray. “We’re with each other day and night; we’re going to know each other’s business.”

“True,” Fiona said. “Like earlier tonight — maybe I shouldn’t say anything, but it’s better you know, Elizabeth, rather than everyone talking behind your back —”

Loni sputtered on a mouthful of beer. “Fiona, some things are better not said. There’s a reason people protect their friends from the truth.”

“Tell me.” Elizabeth glared at them both.

Fiona shrugged. “Don’t shoot me because I’m the messenger, but I overheard Joe and that guy he’s talking to . . . I’m pretty sure they made a bet.”

Elizabeth glanced at Joe with the dark-haired stranger. “A bet about what?”

“Don’t get mad,” Fiona said. “I might be wrong about what I heard.”

“Fiona, cut the dramatic build-up and say what you have to say.”

“I think they have a bet about which one of them can get Tiffany into bed first.”

Elizabeth felt poison creep into her veins. Fiona liked to stir shit up, but why would she invent this?

“Tiffany might think she’s here to stay.” Fiona sipped her white wine. “But I think the three of us can convince her she’s better off back in the real world.”