Hold 'Em Hostage Part 14

Ingrid arched an eyebrow, looking like she might have an issue with that.

The poker room at the Mellagio is usually a full house-the managers do a good job of keeping things moving. Personally, I like the atmosphere, businesslike-productive, quiet and generally respectful. Most who sit down there want a solid game. For that reason, sometimes it is hard to win there if you aren't getting cards, because there aren't usually a lot of jackals. Even the fish tend to bail if they aren't drawing well. Each poker room on The Strip has its own unique character, drawing its own unique type of clientele. It's a chicken and the egg deal-I don't know if that is the type of client the casino seeks or whether that is the kind that has gravitated to the room and therefore the atmosphere follows. There are some poker rooms I won't play unless I'm trying to make a point, because they disrespect women. There are some poker rooms I won't play because it's a bunch of pro hard timers who live next to Moon and are out to make the rent by the end of the business day. There are some I won't play because they are full of young guns, there on Daddy's dime, dripping money. They want to win wild and big and loud and lose the same way. Some capable poker players like that kind of room, because it's an easy win for a patient Rock who likes to squish a table of c.o.c.ky fish. I play poker-usually-for fun and that isn't part of the fun for me, so I avoid those situations.

Having said that, I'd never played in the high-stakes room at the Mellagio. The general poker room was set up in the corner of the casino, along an open hallway. Unlike many casino poker rooms, which were sequestered by solid or gla.s.s walls, this one had no solid barriers, so pa.s.sersby could watch and hear as they walked by. It was probably a good way to draw in the crowd as well as keep players on their best behavior. I'm sure it was an intentional psychological effect that the high-stakes room was placed just off center within the main room, the floor raised five feet higher and cordoned off by half walls of frosted gla.s.s. I wasn't sure I was going to like this at all.

I knew I had to prove my ability to play with the big boys. I'd withdrawn fifty thousand dollars from my savings account on the way. I'd almost thrown up my swordfish dinner.

"Welcome to our high-stakes room, Bee Cool." The poker room manager came by as I checked in at the desk and shook my hand. "I wondered how long it would take you to get here."

Forever would have been the answer if it weren't for gangs and kidnappers and missing G.o.ddaughters. I was a natural chicken when it came to big cash games. I'd much rather invest small and win big in a tournament than the opposite, which is how I interpreted most ring games. I told him I wanted to wait for the far corner table. Rabbit's foot and all that. He nodded, apparently used to this kind of request. "It might be a few minutes. We have a Saudi Arabian prince who's about blown his wad."

"What would be the size of a prince's wad?" I whispered to Shana. Her awesome eyebrow wiggle told me she might try to find out. I was glad to see my friend showing glimmers of her hedonistic self. Because, while I might want to remake her the way I thought she should be, I still loved her for who she was.

We ambled up the far ramp and peeked behind the frosted gla.s.s at the handful of tables in the high-stakes room. There was a rail here, making us true railbirds until one of us played. I wished it would be Shana instead of me.

After watching the only table that the logistics allowed us to see for thirty minutes, I was called to play. We'd seen some big names-mostly the young geniuses who wore athletic shoes with no socks and sports jerseys, and ate their meals out of boxes at the table so as to not miss a hand-make some money. In one hand, twenty-two-year-old Jerrod Nealy had shoved in all his chips and had to grapple for forty thousand dollars in bills in the pocket of his Suns shorts to go all in. Ack. I didn't know if I could hang with these guys. That was some people's entire net worth. I think the other guy ended up winning 150 thousand dollars but I couldn't count that fast.

It was heady if you were watching. Scary if you had to play.

"Good thing you have the thirty thousand Ben pa.s.sed you," Shana commented in my ear at the time.

I hadn't wanted to take the cash Ben gave me on my way to purgatory. But I had taken it. For Affie.

Now, signaled by the room manager, I sidled over to the far table. Everybody stared at the striped atrocity I had on and the lumps under it, no doubt. I had noticed the player in the Redskins jersey first, when we'd come to the rail. If he hadn't been there, trust me, I would have bailed. I sat down in the open seat across from him. The rest of the table (aside from Redskin) was-from what I could gather-a collection of middle-aged, extremely well-heeled American amateurs, a millionaire from Hong Kong, a South African diamond heir who pa.s.sed me his card with his room number and another hard-nosed pro out of Rincon. There were only two women in the entire room. One of them was me. The other was Cyndy Violette. I was grateful she wasn't at my table.

The sound of the chips clinking seemed magnified here, where talk was limited to a few exchanged words s.p.a.ced between long silences. A sheen of sweat filmed Redskin's face. He didn't look too mentally stable. That probably would be bad if I'd planned to collude, but since I'd decided I was going to blow him off, it meant I could psyche him out. I hoped so anyway. I was the big blind, which wasn't as terrible as it might have seemed. I might lose this thousand but I would get the next seven hands to read the table. The dealer finished the shuffle and dished out the hole cards. An unsuited Queen/8 was a perfect fold but I rode out my big blind through the calls of the first round. Redskin was tapping on his cards. He wore an MP3 player so I a.s.sumed in the back of my mind that he was jamming to his tunes. The Flop came an 8 of diamonds and blanks-an Ace and 3 of spades. Then I did fold-too cheap and unsure to go in for Hong Kong's ten-thousand raise. Hong Kong had two pair, Redskin had pocket rockets.

The next three hands I folded straight away. Redskin was still tapping. Somehow that tapping looked familiar. After a royal flush draw Flop and King on The Turn, he folded too, but accidentally flipped over his cards at the end of the hand-once more, he had a pair. Hmm. He accidentally fumbled over his cards again on hands six and nine-one a flush draw and another a straight draw. He was chastised by the dealer and made an excuse about having some sort of neurological condition that made his hands go numb.

Sure.

It had taken ten hands for me to figure out that Redskin was actually tapping out a morse code of his cards-the way we were supposed to collude.

Two hours later, I was finding it difficult to ignore his tapping, so I struck up a conversation with the South African who had the hots for me. It was going to be difficult to extricate myself from some extracurricular plans he'd have for later tonight, ones he kept alluding to, but I had to worry about one pain in the a.s.s at a time. Right now, I just had to win a bucket full of money. This was a tough table in one sense while being an unusually cool one in another sense, because the only one at it who saw me as a woman (and therefore handicapped) was South Africa. The rest just took me as a player. I wasn't used to that.

It made playing a bit more straightforward even though I got less gimme opportunities from being underestimated. The pots made me extremely nervous, though. I'd held my own, even was ahead a bit, but only by betting when I had the nuts. I had yet to take a single chance.

"I never pegged you for a Mouse, Bee Cool," the Chicago hotelier commented. "I always marveled in the Big Kahuna, then when they broadcast the Gambler tournament, how predictably unpredictable you play and still consistently win."

I smiled. "Maybe this room intimidates me. And the stakes. Tournaments seem so much safer-just lose chips and your entry fee, not real greenbacks."

They did play with real cash, if the chips ran out during a hand. In one I thankfully had folded, Hong Kong and the California investor went heads-up on a royal straight flush draw. Hong Kong dug in his pocket for forty thousand-dollar bills. Ack.

"It's all in the mindset. You just have to imagine this is your local brick-and-mortar with dollar bills, or your twenty buck sit and go. Then, you can judge the cards fairly, read everyone's tells with the proper perspective."

Nodding, I thanked him. It was excellent advice. I laid a bad beat, winning forty-three thousand dollars on the next hand with four of a kind-fives-I wouldn't have stayed around to play an hour before.

"Hey, what kind of secret did you tell her?" Hong Kong argued.

The hotelier smiled, despite losing a fifer to me. South Africa sulked, since twenty-five thousand of that had been his. I guess we weren't going to as nice a place for the dinner he had already invited me to.

Redskin was seriously sweating now. I wasn't responding to his signals, and it was making him crazy. If I could figure out his motivation, I might get a lead on Affie. Probably midtwenties, he was white as they come-blond, blue eyed and corn raised. He didn't talk much, but I could've sworn I heard a Midwest accent. No visible tattoos, but that didn't mean he didn't have one. I just didn't see him hanging with Dragsnashark; he looked more like a skinhead candidate, but of course so had Happy Ending. I was developing an alarming headache. I excused myself to go to the restroom and stopped to talk to Shana. "Where's Ben?"

"The tattoo creep came around, and he followed him."

My heart seized. "What? How did he know it was him?"

"That snake/dragon/shark thing on his neck is hard to miss."

"Why didn't he call Joe and have him do it?"

"He said Joe needs to be here for you."

I looked around nervously, noticing a couple of others brave enough to skinny along the narrow ramp and belly up to the high-stakes rail. The casino didn't make it inviting, so you either had to know someone playing or have b.a.l.l.s enough to try to look over a million-dollar player's shoulder, waiting for a pit boss to breathe down your neck. Neither railbird revealed the telltale tattoo. "Look, Shan, I'd feel better if you played a little at a table down in the poker room. At least you'd be in the middle of things and not easy to s.n.a.t.c.h up if someone wanted to."

"I'll be fine. I have a good set of lungs."

"Which I'm sure they know and know how to neutralize. What if some old gentle-looking grandma came to tell you that your daughter sent a message that she was waiting outside the hotel right now?"

Shana looked down, caught. "I'd go. I'd have to. Just in case."

"Exactly my point-they'd hand Grandma a C-note, shove you into a car and whisk you away. These guys are ruthless. I can't lose you too. Besides, I need the extra pair of legs to help find Aph."

Shana sighed. "Okay, I'll go play."

"I'll come back for you. Don't leave with anyone else. Under any circ.u.mstances."

Nodding, she wandered off to sign up for a table. I locked myself into a stall in the restroom and heard the restroom door open. The knock at my stall door sent my heart to my throat. "Bee Cool?"

When I opened my mouth, but couldn't make a sound come out, the female voice demanded: "Cool!?"

"Y-yes?"

"It's Thelma. I got some good scoop and I thought you'd never get up from that d.a.m.ned table."

Eighteen.

Thelma already had her hand out by the time I exited the stall. Sighing, I reached into my Betsey Johnson and pulled out a hundred for her. I think I'd created a monster. She c.o.c.ked her head at it. "What I got is d.a.m.ned good. It might be worth more, I'm thinking."

It was one thing to be motivated. It was another to be greedy. I just wasn't sure how much I could trust greedy information. I'd just have to wait and see. Thelma must've been doing more nosing around for me than playing poker. I raised my eyebrows. "If it's that good, I'll pay double for the next report."

"I guess that's fair." A good sign, apparently she thought there was more where that came from.

After a long pause, I nudged, "I've got to get back, Thelma, let's have it."

"The Reverend Phineas Paul is a big creep."

I shouldn't have encouraged her the first time when she had something on the stupid pain-in-the-you-know-what minister. I wanted something on the Medula and Dragsnashark and his friends. Instead my paid informant was wasting time and money on Paul. "Thelma- "And the church is a cult."

"What do you mean?"

"Y'know, like the Branch Davidians, Jim Jones' People's Temple, the Uganda doomsday sect, he has a compound and everything. In southwestern Oregon, on the Idaho border. A day's drive from here. In the woods."

Woods? Idaho? Oregon? That rang a recent bell but I couldn't remember why. "Old timers" was setting in. Or maybe "overwhelmers."

"Where did you hear this?"

"Hey, I'm not stupid. I tell you and you cut me out."

The level of trust was heartwarming. "Look, Thelma, I just want to make sure your source is reliable."

"I don't think you got much room for being choosy. I don't notice no information train heading through your crib."

Now I was getting sa.s.s. I think I needed a lesson in managing informants. I sighed-of course she was also right. I had exactly one car on my info train. "Okay, Thelma, go ahead with whatever else you've got. Even though I was kind of hoping for something on the Medula-the creeps with the dragon/shark/snake tattoos instead of crosses."

"I don't know nothing about them, but I've heard talk about snakes with the Bible thumpers."

"What about snakes?" Here was the first connection-snake head in the tattoo of the Medula, snakes in Paul's church. I prayed it wasn't a coincidence. With my luck it would be.

"That this Church of the Believers might be a sect of those snake handlers."

I s.h.i.+vered. I actually owned a snake. A pet. Grog had been an inheritance I didn't want. Although I'd become attached to mine, I don't like the fanged reptiles as a general rule. I especially didn't like them wielded by bloodthirsty criminals and religious zealots. "What else?"

"Whoo, Cool, you never satisfied, are you?"

I swallowed my comeback, hiding it with a smile. "Thanks, so much, Thelma."

"See that was worth more than a p.i.s.sy hundred, now, right?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as I pushed my way out the bathroom door and back to the high-stakes room. I was angry at Phineas Paul, not only for distracting me with his rhetoric, but every ear to the ground I had as well. I might just have to put him in his place the next time I saw him.

Back at the table, Redskin had raked in a hand or two by the looks of it. I found that difficult to believe, since he seemed only a marginally capable player, certainly not one who could hang in the ranks of a prince, diamond heir and trillionaire hotelier. Sweat beaded his upper lip as soon as he saw me. I guess I was the only one who made him nervous.

That was probably good, because I was tired of this game and ready to put everyone out of their misery, especially me.

Unfortunately the cards weren't on the same page. I was dealt a Doyle Brunson, of all things. I stared at the deuce of diamonds, 10 of diamonds, disgusted. Only one person in America could be lucky enough to win with this-Doyle had done it, twice, in the WSOP years ago.

"Ready for dinner yet, doll?" South Africa whispered.

Grr. I called the big blind and the reraise for twenty-three thousand dollars. This is not an advisable option-betting to prove a man wrong-but sometimes Lady Luck remembers which gender pool she belongs to. The Flop came a deuce of spades, 10 of hearts and 5 of diamonds. I had two pair now, not super, but beating out anyone who might hold pocket rockets. If somebody had fives in the hole, well, I was sunk. I raised. Everyone hung in, which was disturbing. South Africa reraised, so I went along, just because. Fourth Street came another diamond, a 9-now I had a flush draw too and still the high pair playing off the board. Goody.

With about two hundred thousand in the pot, The River brought a 10 of spades. I had the nuts. I went all in. Everyone folded but a perplexed Redskin who'd been tapping furiously to no avail and my would-be date. He went all in too.

"How many suckout hands have you gotten anyway?" South Africa whined.

"Not as many as you remember," I commented as I hauled in my chips and random cash, counting in my head as I did.

The hotelier said: "Beat out by what made you rich-diamonds. That's a h.e.l.luva thing, isn't it?"

I counted my money-I'd made enough to call it an afternoon. I thanked the boys, picked up my stack and went to cash out.

For some reason, South Africa had forgotten his invitation. Dinner wasn't mentioned in the grunted good-bye.

The kidnappers had been right. It took forever to get the cash. No less than fifteen times, someone from the casino office came out to ask me if I wouldn't rather have casino credit, a check, anything but greenbacks. The longer I sat at the three-card poker table, the more money I made.

Unfortunately for them, it was still my lucky day and I'd won another thirty-three hundred dollars by the time they finally delivered me my winnings. I'd seen the other gang member lurking and wondered if he wasn't supposed to be following me to the drop since Ben had neutralized Dragsnashark. Ingrid had pa.s.sed by about thirty minutes before to inform me she was picking up Shana and would meet us at the suite after the drop. Now I hoped Joe had gotten my page and was waiting for me outside the hotel. I was tough, I was independent, but I didn't want to walk around Vegas with this much money, a cop on my tail, a bad guy in spitting distance and probably a few religious heretics behind a pillar or two without my own personal Marlboro Man in my back pocket.

The drop went off quietly, although along the way Joe had disappeared and had yet to reappear. I guessed if Frank ever showed again, the permanent loss of his right-hand man would tick him off, and since for some reason I cared about that, I retraced my steps before meeting up with the group in case Joe had sprained his ankle or something.

I was almost back to the Mellagio when a hand reached out and grabbed me, dragging me into a s.e.x store. My heart pounded. My palms sweated.

Darn it. It was just Joe.

Having a serious conversation with my boyfriend's hot a.s.sistant between a leather and chain bustier and a whip collection was a bit disarming, although Joe didn't seem to notice where we were at all.

"Do you know that the Redskins' colors are red and yellow?"

"Okay?" I said, slowly, distracted by the odd-shaped plastic thing hanging from the ceiling. "What's that?"

Joe put his knuckle under my chin and forced my focus back to him. "And Affie sent you that note in red and yellow..."

I guess I had just spent six hours not making that connection. Duh.

"Do you think it means something?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I lost you because I had an opportunity to chat with your poker buddy." Joe was staring down at his hand, flexing his fingers, examining his palm.

"My supposed collusion partner? Where is he?" I looked around, why I don't know since I didn't expect him to have hung around, becoming Joe's best friend. One could hope, however.

"At the hospital, I guess."

"What?"

"Well, he wasn't as forthcoming as I'd have liked. I was nice. I threw him out on the sidewalk so someone would call an ambulance."

"Joe! You can't hurt people to get information."

"Why not? They're hurting Affie and she didn't do anything to deserve it. Look at it in terms of a business goal, Bee, and how to reach it. There are lots of paths to the same destination-it depends on how fast you want to get there. I'd like to take a Learjet instead of walking to find this girl. At FBG, we are cleared to use what it takes at the time."

I swallowed, trying not to think about Frank telling them to kill people to meet the "goal." "It didn't really do any good this time, though, did it?" I asked a bit self-righteously, I'll admit.