Death Plays Poker (6 page)

NOAH

Noah woke up ten minutes before his alarm was set to ring. It was a gray morning, which was fine with him. He was feeling kind of dim anyway.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle Bert. He’d lost a pile of money the night before and he didn’t have anything to show for it. Sure, there was the bet with Joe — but was that really for the job, or did Noah just want a piece of Tiffany and need the added push to ask her out? Fuck, he had to stop overthinking things. He should have stayed at
NYU
and done something normal for a career.

Noah made a coffee and waited for the knock on his door. Halfway through the cup, it came. He rose to let Bert in.

“Nice room.” Bert bent down as if to remove his shoes but seemed to have a change of heart and left them on. Like the casino hotel carpet wasn’t good enough for his designer socks. “Shame about the slob who’s staying here.”

“Sorry,” Noah said. “Didn’t realize cleanliness was part of the code.”

“I should make a handbook.” Bert took an armchair by the window and set two Tim Hortons cups on the table beside him. “So what have you learned?”

Noah coughed into his hands and steadied his nerves. “I have leads. I’m not ready to discuss them.”

Bert shook his head. “Always the same with you people.”

“We people? Because my mother’s Jewish?”

“Yeah, I’m suddenly a racist prick, you schmuck. I mean, you people under thirty. Think you’re so hot, you can run the whole show.”

“I don’t think I’m so hot.” If he had, then a lifetime of being told otherwise by his father would have permanently cured him. “I don’t want to waste your time unless I know my leads might go somewhere.”

Bert sighed. “So don’t waste my time telling me you have them. Are you going to sit down, or do you plan to keep pacing the whole time we’re talking?”

Noah rolled his eyes as he took the other armchair. “If I tell you nothing, you’ll think I’m pissing away your resources. I lost twelve grand last night, incidentally.”

“Incidentally?” Bert’s mouth opened, and stayed that way. “Did you lose it down a drain, or at a card table?”

“A card table. Obviously.” Noah knew he was being rude. It was his natural reaction when he felt like a cornered fuck-up. Maybe one day that would change, but for now he just had to go with it. “I’m making headway with some of the name players.”

“Like who?”

“Joe Mangan.” Noah looked at his jeans and noticed a small red stain from the previous night’s pizza. He flicked at it with his finger, but the sauce was embedded pretty deeply. “I have a prop bet with him. We both want to nail the same girl.”

“Who’s the girl?”

“Tiffany James. She just joined the tour. She’s a trust fund princess, but she looks like she’d be fun in bed.”

“Is she involved in the hole card mess?”

“I don’t know,” Noah said. “But I wouldn’t mind getting messy with her.”

“This isn’t about you getting laid, Walker. It’s about the family-friendly game of poker being compromised without our consent.”

“Without our consent,” Noah muttered. Of course the problem wasn’t the game being compromised; it was that Bert and Co. weren’t in on it.

“Tell me about Joe Mangan,” Bert said. “He must be filthy rich from all his tournament successes.”

“And celebrity endorsements. He’s in beer commercials, car commercials; I wouldn’t be surprised to see him in condom commercials. Nice guy until you get him talking.”

Bert chuckled. “They’re all nice when they want to take your money.”

“Yeah. Joe’s the guy who took most of mine last night.”

“Never mind,” Bert said. “It’s going to be worth it in the end.”

“You mean I’m going to make more cheating than I can lose playing?”

“Careful what you say.” Bert looked around the room pointedly.

“I checked a million times. The room’s not bugged.”

Bert squinted, like he might see something Noah had missed.

“My god, you’re like an old-time mobster.”

“I like that comparison.” Bert grinned. “You shouldn’t knock those guys. They had style.”

“Whatever. They all killed each other in the end.”

“Make sure you don’t get blindsided by the girl’s body,” Bert said, serious again. “I don’t want you distracted from your mission.”

“My mission. You make it sound like I’m going to Mars.”

Noah blinked hard. “You have to be prepared to exploit this girl, if the situation calls for it.”

“I know.”

“You have to be prepared to see her as your enemy.”

Noah stared at the rim of his coffee. “I know.”

ELIZABETH

Elizabeth stood by the thick stone wall and gazed at the cloud of mist obliterating the bottom quarter of the falls. She could barely hear her thoughts over the thundering water gushing down in freefall for 170 feet, but she liked it that way. Her thoughts had been so dark recently; they could use some obscuring. She had no idea what might inspire someone to plummet over in a barrel, but she admired the courage of those who had tried.

Her peace was interrupted by a chirpy voice saying, “Morning.”

Elizabeth reluctantly turned to see Tiffany James carrying a giant take-out coffee that made her small frame look even more miniature. Tiffany clearly hadn’t showered yet, but even with messy hair and no make-up, the kid managed to look adorable.

“Morning back.” Elizabeth was going to be nice to this girl if it killed her.

“Are you looking forward to Vancouver?” Tiffany joined Elizabeth at the wall and peered over the edge.

Elizabeth wondered how much force it would take to toss Tiffany in. “No.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Vancouver? Once or twice. I grew up there.”

“Oh.” Tiffany nodded knowingly, like she might have the first clue about Elizabeth’s life. “And your family’s still there?”

“They live in Richmond,” Elizabeth said. “The same suburb as the River Rock Casino.”

“That’s convenient. Are you staying with them for the Vancouver leg of the tournament?”

“No,” Elizabeth said sharply. The last time she’d played at the River Rock, she and Joe had slept in her old bedroom for almost a week. Before their visit was over, Elizabeth had been ready to scream at pretty much everyone. “Joe chartered a boat. We’re keeping it moored at the casino.”

“In winter?” Tiffany shivered dramatically in her short white ski jacket.

“It’s nearly spring. Vancouver’s mild. Not like Ontario, where the people and the temperature are cold and bitter.” Elizabeth was pretty sure Tiffany was from Ontario. She had Entitled Little Toronto Bitch written all over her.

Tiffany shrugged. “I hope you don’t get seasick.”

Elizabeth hadn’t thought about that. They’d be moored in the river, but the Fraser was tidal and the water could get rough.

“So why do you hate your family?”

“I never said I hated them.” Elizabeth wished she hadn’t opened her mouth. She wanted Tiffany to go away so she could go back to being miserable alone.

“You didn’t?” Tiffany looked surprised. “Oh. Sorry. I guess I just thought . . . do you get along with them well, then?”

“I get along with them fine.” Which was true, because Elizabeth very rarely saw them.

“Are they hard on you about your career choice?”

Elizabeth furrowed her brow. She was tempted to say something snide about not appreciating the invasive analysis, but luckily, Tiffany kept right on talking.

“My parents wanted me to go to university, plod along miserably and learn useless things about literature and history,” Tiffany said. “So I get it.”

“Thanks,” Elizabeth forced herself to say. “So what does your dad do?”

“He’s in the import business.”

“Is he?” Elizabeth’s interest became genuine. “Mine, too. What does your dad import?”

“Furniture mostly.”

“Same here.” Elizabeth was surprised by the coincidence. “What’s your dad’s company called? I probably know it.”

“Um.” Tiffany bit her lip. “I’d rather not say.”

“Why not?” This was getting good.

“It’s — well — the point of all this is for me to go off on my own. Make my way in the world as an individual, not as someone’s daughter.”

Elizabeth snorted. “With a trust fund?”

“Oh.” Tiffany lowered her glance. “I guess I’m not that hardcore.”

Elizabeth wrinkled one corner of her mouth as she tried to make sense of this puzzle. Tiffany was lying about something. Maybe she’d call her brother, have him root through their father’s contacts and see what they could find.

“Does he own his own business?” Elizabeth watched Tiffany’s face as she asked this. A yes meant that he would be easy enough to find — his last name would be James, like Tiffany. A no would make things trickier — if he worked for someone else’s company, Tiffany’s dad could be anyone.

“Yeah,” Tiffany said. “But can we not talk about my family either? I’m like you — I’m here to get away from them.”

Maybe the secret was that innocent. But Elizabeth doubted it.

“You’re doing well so far.” Elizabeth forced cheer into her voice. “You’re still in the game after the first day. That’s better than I did in my first major tournament.”

“Yeah?” Tiffany looked at Elizabeth and her eyes lit up like a kid’s. “I’m doing better than you in this tournament, too.”

Elizabeth smiled, because the alternative was punching Tiffany in the mouth. “Good for you.”

CLARE

“Tell me about yourself,” Joe Mangan said to Clare. “What’s your favorite food?”

Clare looked quickly at her pocket nines and stayed quiet. It was hard not to laugh at Joe: in place of the previous day’s hockey gear, he was now wearing a giant fruit basket on his head. She wanted to ask him why the costumes. Were they a publicity stunt, so he maximized his camera time? Or did he think they disarmed his competitors and drew their attention away from the game?

But these cards were important. Clare had to focus hard and make it past the bubble — that turning point between losing her entry fee and getting paid out a portion of the prize pool — or stupid Cloutier would pull her from the case. She had to hang on tight, playing only the best hands possible, until five or six more players were eliminated.

“You like Italian?” Joe said. “You look like you can handle spice.”

Clare said nothing.

“Maybe Mexican? I’d say let’s go for Indian, but curry’s not my thing. I feel like my clothes smell for three days afterwards.”

There was a nine on the board, plus an ace and a king, and Clare put in a bet for half the pot.

“Come on, honey. I want to know who I’m playing with.” Joe’s voice lifted playfully. “This game doesn’t have to be so cold.”

Clare thought she could beat whatever Joe held. He liked his hand; he didn’t want to fold. Clare had him on either two pair or a flush draw. If she played this right, maybe she could double through him. If she played it wrong, he’d fold and leave her with a tiny pot.

She smiled benignly. “Ask me anything you like when I’m not in a hand. If you want to know more about me, we can grab a coffee after the game.”

“Ah,” he said. “Confidence. I fold.”

Why had she opened her mouth? Clare mucked her trips and accepted the small pot when it was pushed her way.

“Not gonna show me what you won with?”

“Not a chance.” Clare was disgusted with herself for giving her hand away.

“You played well last night,” Joe said. “A couple times at MacCauley’s, you made plays that I wasn’t sure were genius or dumb luck.”

“Please. You guys ate me for breakfast.” Clare wanted to believe she was making good plays — she’d been studying the game intensely — but she knew when she was outclassed by a million.

Joe tossed some chips into the center and covered his hole cards with a protector chip. “Did someone say breakfast?” He pulled a banana from his hat and tossed it to Clare. “You should play in our Vancouver side game, too.”

“Are you suffering so badly for weak competition?” Clare opened the banana and took a bite. It tasted good, considering it had been in someone’s hat. She looked at her cards and saw aces. Her heart started thumping. She hoped Joe couldn’t hear it across the table.

“Partly,” Joe said. “But if you want to make a living at poker, you’re going to have to get good at cash games. Tournaments have too much luck involved. That banana looks great in your mouth, by the way.”

“Glad you like it.” Clare toyed with her stack, wondering if sex was Joe’s weakness. More likely not — he was probably trying to throw her off her game. Joe had raised, so Clare decided to play cautiously and re-raise with her aces.

Joe pulled a plum from his hat and started chomping. “All business, huh? That’s cool. I figured you must be smarter than you look. Though what I can’t seem to make sense of is why you’re here, and not off touring the art galleries of Europe while you sort out who you want to be when you grow up.”

“I don’t like art. And people who study it are pretentious.”

“Ah,” Joe said, calling Clare’s raise and closing the pre-flop betting. “A
truly
smart rich kid. I can see why T-Bone’s pissed at you.”

Clare rolled her eyes. “Has the almighty cowboy never lost a hand before? Or am I supposed to cower in his presence?”

The flop came king-ten-three. Two hearts were on the board. It wasn’t great for her aces — the drawing possibilities to straights and flushes were dangerous. She probably still had the best hand at the moment, though.

“Not cower, exactly . . .” Joe looked at the flop, frowned, and checked. “Maybe stand back in worship.”

“I read T-Bone’s book. It wasn’t exactly worthy of worship.”

“Yeah?” Joe said. “Good book?”

“It sucked. I didn’t learn a thing about how to play poker.” Clare was pretty sure she was supposed to bet here; she just wasn’t sure how much. She went with half the pot.

“You should tell T-Bone that,” Joe said, calling quickly. “Maybe it will make him like you more.”

“I don’t care if T-Bone likes me.”

“No kidding.” Joe took a sip of Coke as they watched the turn come down: the ace of hearts. It gave Clare trips, which was nice, but it also put a flush and a straight possibility on the board — both of which would beat Clare’s hand. “Have you read my book?” Joe asked.

Clare shook her head. “Is it any good?”

“Probably not. It was ghost-written and I haven’t even read the final published version. So you mean it about that coffee? Or would you rather go for a beer? I think beer’s more personable.” Joe stared at the community cards, wrinkling his mouth. “I’m thinking I should go all in.”

Clare said nothing. She hoped he didn’t go all in. This close to the bubble, with her career riding in the balance, she’d have to believe him and fold.

“Nah,” Joe said. “Check. So — beer?”

“I’ll take a rain check,” Clare said, checking quickly.

“Perfect,” Joe said. “It rains a lot in Vancouver, so I’ll consider that a date.”

“Consider it what you like.” Clare grinned, though she’d been trying not to. The real Clare would love to have Joe as a one-nighter — he was a sleazeball, but he was seriously fun to flirt with — but with his girlfriend treating her with that suspicious mix of warmth and derision, there was no way screwing Joe could be a smart move. “And hey, maybe bring Elizabeth, so she doesn’t get the wrong idea.”

“Why? Do you have a wrong idea?”

The river card came. The ten of spades, giving Clare the full house she’d been hoping for. In a perfect world, Joe had the flush or the straight that had scared her on the turn, because now Clare could beat it, and he’d still be willing to commit a good portion of his stack.

“You’re inviting me in front of all these people.” Clare cast her glance around the poker table. A skinny kid in a backwards baseball cap smirked when she caught his glance, and a disheveled academic type at the end of the table nodded at Clare with a glint in his eye. The table was clearly interested in their conversation.

“Hmm.” Joe tilted his head to one side. He glanced at Clare’s remaining chips and bet about half the pot. “I don’t think these people will talk. I think we should go out one-on-one.”

“I’ll think about it.” Clare pushed her chips all in. She bit her lip, clasped her hands, trying to look nervous so he’d call. “As in, I’ll contemplate how socially suicidal I’m feeling.”

“How is going out with me social suicide?” Joe leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, studying Clare, eyeing the cards on the table. “Most people would think a date with me was the opposite.”

“I like Elizabeth,” Clare said.

“Why? Lizzie hates you.”

“But she pretends she doesn’t, and that fascinates me.”

“Ah, come on. One date. You might even want to have sex with me at the end.”

Clare smiled, this time on purpose. “I’d rather fuck your girlfriend.”

“Cool,” Joe said. “I’ll try to arrange that. By the way, I call. I’m sorry to knock you out of the game like this. I hope we can still be friends.”

“What do you mean?” Clare flipped her cards and showed Joe her full house. She felt her heart sink when Joe’s confidence didn’t waver. “Don’t tell me you have a royal flush.”

“I don’t have a royal flush.” Joe flipped over two tens. “But my quads still beat you.”