Hold ’Em Hostage (6 page)

“Ah, but it isn't that easy, Miss Cooley, with fame and fortune comes responsibility and you must face the fact that your private life is now public. What you do affects millions of others. Choose the path of righteousness before it is too late!”

Shaking my head, I pushed away, through the crowd and to the front door of the Fortune where a phalanx of deputies and casino security surrounded me and escorted me through the lobby to the registration table for the 2008 World Series of Poker.

As I was giving my name to the brush, I looked to my right and saw Dragsnashark standing amid the railbirds. He shot me a weighty glance, ducked his head and disappeared down the hallway.

A
ccording to the registration desk, Ben hadn't checked
into the tournament yet.

I had flirted with the idea of calling Shana looking for Ben, but hadn't wanted to worry her. I decided to call Ingrid instead.

“You look so
bad
,” Ingrid exclaimed.

“I know,” I snapped. “Only, how do you know?”

“They have the TV turned on in the poker room here. I see you're popular with the religious right.”

“They are more like the religious wrong if you ask me, but I suppose they are well-meaning.” I sighed. As stressed as I was over Affie's disappearance, the last thing I wanted and needed right now was the pressure of media attention. I wasn't sure how I would focus on the tournament. “If you thought I would look so bad, why did you choose this getup?”

“I meant baaaaad, like hot, like awesome, rad, cool.”

“Enough. I get it. I just don't agree,” I muttered. Ingrid was a runaway train when she got started with something. The more I'd argue, the more it would stoke her engines. I changed the subject. “How is Shana?”

“She's okay. She started off very distracted but since the game got going, she's down to checking her phone only every thirty seconds instead of every five. She told me at the last break that the guy sitting next to her was unduly interested in your encounter with the good reverend. She wants to get him to open up about why. I've seen her chatting him up.”

“Have either of you heard from Ben?”

“Ben? I thought he was with you!”

Uh-oh. I hoped Ingrid wouldn't squeal to Frank. “Well, I don't see him right now, and I'm curious about he and Shana being in each other's back pockets. It disturbs me on many levels.”

“Stop trying to control your brother's life, Bee,” Ingrid advised.

“Actually I'm trying to control my own since I know I will be caught in the middle of whatever debacle my brother creates here. There's no winning if these two get involved.”

“You don't think your brother is so low he'd take advantage of Shana when she is this vulnerable, do you?”

The silence spoke volumes. We both knew Ben was capable of that, even if not in a malicious way. “Forget I asked that,” she added quickly.

The tap on my shoulder made me jump. I'd stepped into a dark alcove to dial Ingrid and now felt trapped. Spinning around I looked down at a twentysomething guy with longish brown hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in days, wearing a wrinkled and coffee-stained button-down and jeans, holding an open tablet and a voice recorder. Perhaps worse than Dragsnashark, it was a reporter. Print if his appearance was any indication.

“Gotta go,” I told Ingrid, hanging up on her protest.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Bee Cool,” the pip-squeak said, flapping the press credential around his neck at me that claimed he was from the
Las Vegas Tribune.
“But I'm looking for your reaction.”

“America is the cornerstone of religious freedom in the world. Aren't we fortunate to host a forum for everyone's beliefs?”

He drew his eyebrows together. “But what does that have to do with murder?”

“Murder?” I parroted. Oops, I'd almost forgotten my poor swimming companion.

“Clark County brought you in for questioning in the overnight murder of a man found floating in the Image lagoon.”

Stupid cops leaked it. Probably Trankosky. Probably on purpose. I wanted to wrap my fingers around the reporter's pencil neck and get him to confess who ratted me out, but I decided that might reflect some guilt on my part. Best to play ignorant. I flashed my incisors and hoped it passed for a smile. “I happened to be in the vicinity of the man's unfortunate demise and was questioned as a matter of routine, I'm sure.”

“That's not what I hear.”

“From whom?”

“Oh no.” Mulish set to jaw. “I'm not telling you. I protect my sources.”

Of course.
“You ambush a poor, helpless woman in a dark corner and protect a big, burly gun-toting cop. How chivalrous.”

“I work for the American public and the First Amendment, not for the Knights of the Round Table.”

Okay, a shrimp
and
a smart-ass. Just my luck. Grr. Time to change tactics. “Look, do you know Jack Smack?”

“Sure, the Smack is my hero! He's been on network TV and everything. With Diane.”

“Then run along and give him a ring. He's my publicist. He'll give you a comment.”

Pip-squeak shook his head, throwing a hank of greasy hair into his eye. He brushed it away. “He can't be. That's an ethical violation. It would undermine his ability to remain neutral in his reporting if he was on someone's payroll as a flack.”

Damn this little news-hunting bulldog. The bells outside the WSOP room tolled to mark five minutes to the start of the tournament. Finally, my karma was turning. I squinted at his credentials. “Sorry, Aaron, but I have to find my table.”

He shrugged and stepped back so I could pass, giving up so easily it made me nervous. “Good luck.”

I frowned at him as I passed. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, although luck might not do you any good since the cops expect to have enough evidence against you to put you behind bars by nightfall.”

I spun around to see him wave and scoot off down the hall.
Goody.
Painful as it was, I scanned my appearance in the glass along the gift shop, flecked a piece of lint off the right cuff of the shorts, smoothed a smear off the left pump, tucked a bit of my chestnut hair back into its braid and strode toward the ballroom, fighting a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Before I reached the door I was set upon by a couple dozen fans and autograph seekers. I signed playing cards, markers, T-shirts, programs but drew the line at one man's bare, hairy exposed shoulder. Fame was highly overrated. A railbird named Thelma whom I'd met at the tournament in Tunica walked with me to the door, talking fast and low. “My cash flow has a clog currently, Bee Cool. I was hoping you could float me a loan so I could go rake it in at one of the big cash games going down at Neptune's.”

Flush from my first win, I'd once given money to a railbird with a sad story and a promise of payback only to be chastised by Frank as being a fool. A fact proven at my next tournament when I found myself surrounded by sad stories, and needless to say never saw that loaner 2K again. Yet, as I shook my head at Thelma, I was struck with an inspiration. “I might be able to help with a couple hundred, but only if you can do something for me in return.”

Thelma nodded eagerly. She was whip thin, so ageless she could be anywhere from twenty to sixty and of indeterminate ethnicity. Sometimes she looked decidedly Asian, other times I saw some Indian in her and other times she looked as Caucasian as a Midwestern farm wife. Her colorless Dollar Store cotton shift and canvas slip-on shoes made her even more invisible. A human chameleon might be worth putting on the payroll. “Keep your ears open for any mentions of me. Something wrong is going down here this week, and I want to know what it is. I want to know why my name is associated with it. Can you do that?”

Again she nodded and stuck her hand out. I knew I'd never see the George Washingtons again, but I knew if she wanted more she would have to produce what I asked for. I was going codependent for her gambling and begging addiction but I was desperate.

As I entered the room, I heard the commentators from
Poker Live
.

“And now here is the other half of the Twin Terrifics—Belinda ‘Bee Cool' Cooley.”

“Now, Phil, you know that the moniker for these Houstonians is case specific. Those who play against them—Bee Cool and Ben Hot—call them the Twin Terrors.”

“The other half” made me think Ben was already in the room. I scanned it and was relieved to see him sitting down at table 114, with an uncharacteristically serious set to his face. He didn't even spare a wink at the pair of triple Ds sitting next to him. This was really bad. Perhaps he was coming down with a terminal illness.

“Of course, it's Belinda, not Ben, who looks
hot
today, Trixie.”

“That's a matter of opinion, Phil.”

“Or maybe it's a matter of gender.” Hahaha.

Fortunately I was out of earshot before the commentary descended any further. I found my table, introduced myself around, sat in my free seat and thanked the dealer for being there. The 2008 World Series of Poker was about to begin, and I couldn't be dreading it more.

 

I
'd been dealt three combination hands in a row and
it was giving me a headache. Players like Ben relished combo hands as energetically as I despised them. They just presented so many opportunities for self-made failure. You couldn't get by without counting cards at each street and even when you did, played tight, played smart, you still got stung in the end. It was the close-but-no-cigar hand that tempted you with the possibilities only to leave you wanting.

I peeked at my pocket of 9 of clubs, 7 of clubs once more. A fish move, I knew, but since I was the big blind and the dealer was letting the table nap in between bets and I had been watching Ben, I'd needed a refresher as the dealer burned a card. Since no one raised Preflop, I didn't have a decision until the first three cards went faceup.

Since I was well on my way to my fourth combo in a row, I sucked in a breath, praying for a clean trio of nines to fall on The Flop. Wasn't my life difficult enough? Fate must not have thought so, because 8 of clubs, 7 of hearts and 10 of clubs flopped. So now I had a flush draw for a golf bag (club flush), a straight draw and a pair of sevens. Wow, this could go to my head. Except for all the outs for the others—including the real possibility that I would end up drawing dead twice and a pair of tens would beat me.

Ack. In first position, I couldn't even wait to see some bets. I checked. The chair to my right was empty—a Saudi Arabian oil prince without a head for numbers and without a lick of sense had busted out in the second hand after going all in on a 2-Ace-7 off-suit Flop with sailboats (pair of 4s). The next six were a racehorse jockey from Ecuador who was an emotive jackal, a staid banker who had done nothing but check so far, a couple of lotto player (play any hand) college kids, an off-duty dealer from the Flynn who played like he shouldn't give up his day job and a stay-at-home mother of five who'd won her seat in an Internet tourney. To my left was a woman who was so wrapped up and covered up it was amazing she could breathe. She wore butter-plate-size black Diors, her hair wound up under a turban and a feather-plumed hat á la Dorothy Lamour, a black dress that went from floor to chin and shockingly white satin gloves. She hadn't spoken—to anyone—and I, frankly, was kind of scared to talk to her. I didn't think anyone had anything, even the jockey was being conservative. Then ole Blackie, as I'd come to call her, pushed in a raise of a thousand. Of course.

She was impossible to read with only a four-inch strip of skin showing on her whole body and absolutely still countenance. Then I saw her lower lip twitch. Just barely. I called.

The jockey did too. I think just for the hell of it. “Jou remind me of my fav-o-rite chestnut 'orse. Fire on outside, ice on inside. Sizz…” he said as he pushed his chips across the felt.

The Turn came an Ace of hearts, a blank for me. Could be a homerun for her, a pair of Aces, trips, a possible heart flush draw. But if she'd had less than a heart flush draw a card ago why would she have raised then? On a bluff? Blackie's lip twitched again as she pushed in another raise.

She'd won two hands so far and I hadn't noticed the twitch. I had to go with my gut. I raised her. Everyone else fell off the board, even the lotto players. But Blackie reraised, no twitch, dammit.

I called. A 7 of spades fell on The River, wiping out the heart flush draw, turning my candy canes into trips. If she had Ace trips or trips with any other card on the board, I was sunk. Her lip wasn't twitching anymore. Shoot. I ought to fold. My gut told me to quit even though I was pot committed.

I didn't.

She turned over her pocket rockets and still didn't smile.

I'd lost all but three thousand dollars in chips. My cell phone vibrated with a text message. As the dealer let the machine in front of him shuffle the cards, I read:
Frank called us with your new number. No word from Affie. Good luck at the Main Event. Love, Mom and Dad.
I'd just slipped it back into my pocket when it vibrated again. The dealer spent the burn card and began passing out our pockets. I glanced down at the screen on my phone:
Remember: If you bust out, so does she.

Gasping, I looked around frantically—for what? An answer? Help? Someone to tell me how these guys had found my new phone number so quickly?

“Are you okay, Miss Cooley?” the dealer asked.