Hold 'Em Hostage Part 4

"Look." Ben pointed at the screen, grinning. A bleach blonde, poured into a silver spandex minidress, pranced across the street in five-inch electric plexigla.s.s platforms, right through the middle of the picketers and into the front door of the Fortune casino. No one even turned to look.

I had to smile. Only in Vegas would you see a hooker wander through a group of religious protestors, unaccosted as they protested card playing.

"They certainly are one-track-mind protestors," Ben observed drily.

"I saw them at the airport too," Shana's unusually small voice said from the other bedroom doorway. We all turned to look at her. She always bounced out of bed, looking pert and perfect. I'd never ever seen bags under her eyes before. My heart ached for her.

I moved to go to her, but Ben had already hurried over and led her to the couch. I c.o.c.ked my head, still trying to figure out what was going on as they murmured in low tones.

Frustrated and overwhelmed, I snapped, "Ben, this is all your fault. If you hadn't gotten me into the stupid game in the first place, we could all be vacationing in Cancun and Affie would be home. Safe."

In the middle of my tirade, the door had opened to Frank, with Ingrid and Jack in tow. They paused in the foyer as Ben's eyes narrowed at me in an anger I hadn't seen from him. Not ever. "Don't you lay this on me, Bee Bee. Don't you dare. You're the one who continues to play the game with no gun to your head."

"Right, except now the gun is against Affie's head," I snapped, then immediately regretted my flash of temper as Shana sucked in a breath. I couldn't miss Frank's raised eyebrows. Okay, so now I was the bad guy? Suddenly I was sick and tired of all the men in my life. Save the one shooting me an empathetic look with his big puppy dog eyes.

"L-listen, everybody," Jack piped up, letting his arm slide off Ingrid's waist as he walked toward me. "Blame is overrated. G-guilt is a waste of t-time and energy. Neither will f-find Aphrodite."

"Well spoken, Jack," Frank said, shooting me a warning look then looking pointedly at Ben. Obviously he expected me to apologize. Ha, dream on, dude. "You and I should go try to hunt down the two guys who mentioned Bee at the high-stakes room last night. Ingrid is here to keep an eye on Shana, so-"

"I'm going home," she announced. Ben patted her hand.

Frank shook his head, repeating his theory about the dangers of being at home when under surveillance. "You need to stay close. But I understand your need to do something. Why don't you register for one of the major satellites, throw Bee's name around a bit, and eavesdrop hard. The more ears and eyes we have out in Vegas, the better. Affie's abduction obviously has something to do with the game in town. If we all have something to do with the Main Event, the higher the odds we'll luck into some information that will lead us to our girl."

Shana bowed her head, sighed heavily, then raised it again. "I just don't know what's right."

Frank brushed his fingertips over the top of her head. "We'll just have to play that by ear."

Sparing me a vicious glare, Ben whispered something in Shana's ear then disappeared into his bedroom. "He's going to get changed for the tournament," Shana explained.

Frank looked at me, wearing his cop face. "Good, you two can get over there together. Take your car but it's best if you valet park from now on too-there are too many dark corners in parking garages."

Jack and Ingrid had wandered over to the alcove behind the bar, fawning over each other. It was cute in a sickening kind of way. I don't think they'd ever had a disagreement since they'd hooked up on the cruise last fall. I don't think Frank and I went a day without a disagreement since we'd hooked up the winter before that. Should I take that as a sign, or was I just hard to get along with?

As if reading my mind, Frank cupped my elbows in his palms and brushed his lips along my cheek. Then he ruined the gentle gesture by speaking. "You need to make up with Ben, Honey Bee. You hit him with a low blow."

"Yeah, but what I want to know is why is he taking it so hard," I narrowed my eyes at Ben's bedroom door, deep in thought. "Usually he doesn't feel the impact of those through his overinflated ego."

Frank shrugged. "I don't know why. And it doesn't matter. We are stronger working together as a team, and you're dividing us."

Grr.

Sometimes cascading warm water and perfumed soap change everything. Today, however, a shower didn't make me feel anything but clean. I supposed it was still an improvement, although not as big a one as I'd hoped for. At least the Church of the Believers couldn't fault me for my hygiene. Pulling my sash on my robe tight, I stepped out of the bathroom to find my wardrobe laid out on the bed. My sometimes fas.h.i.+onista had obviously been busy, apparently rifling through my Burberry bag with her eyes closed.

That motley collection of pieces was what I was supposed to wear to a nationally televised event? Well, that was going to change or I'd have Believers Against Fas.h.i.+on Disasters marching on me at my next tournament. I left the bedroom to fortify myself with a mineral water from the wet bar. As I poured, I was struck by how quiet the suite was. "Ben?"

No answer. I strode over to his bedroom door, which stood open. I jammed my hands on my hips and talked to the molding. "Ben, I know you're mad at me. Quit being juvenile."

No answer. I walked into the room, finding only a waft of Balenciaga Cristobal left behind. Ben had ditched me.

Angrily, I stomped back to my room and finished slapping on my MAC. I was halfway through the bronzer when another possibility occurred to me-Ben might have been kidnapped. It wouldn't be the first time. I called his cell phone. It transferred immediately to voice mail. "Where are you?" I demanded. I raced back into his room, but could see no sign of anything but sloppiness. I returned to my room, and, after smoothing on lip liner and gloss, began to paw through the clothes in my suitcase. It was no use. I couldn't concentrate now that Ben might have joined Affie in the great unknown. I turned to Ingrid's fas.h.i.+on disaster on the bed and blew out a breath. It would have to do.

"Hubbahubba."

Suppressing a wince, I handed the taxi driver my cash before he started drooling, then turned toward the Fortune. Of course Ben had taken the car, or at least the car keys, leaving me to fend for myself. The insensitivity actually comforted me because it was so in character and, unless the kidnappers came to s.n.a.t.c.h him without transportation, Ben was probably okay.

Unless, that is, they took the keys so I couldn't follow. I hated having such a fertile imagination. It was mostly a pain in the a.s.s.

Since Frank had produced one of his "company phones" for me to use until I could get a new one of my own, I'd considered calling him, but didn't-partly because I was still put out with him and partly because I didn't want to distract him from the "team" work just to worry about me getting to the WSOP. That would definitely be my excuse for not calling him if Ben really was AWOL. Turning his advice around that way would make Frank furious. I smiled to myself. I'm a bit perverse that way.

My reflection in the building's mirrored gla.s.s turned my smile into a grimace. The hot pink satin blouson shorts didn't at all match the long-sleeved, tailored white Ann Taylor b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt. The charcoal gray velveteen vest was part of a three-piece Donna Karan, although it did admittedly have a barely visible strip of hot pink thread that ran along the seam, its saving grace in this ensemble. The dark silver pumps were meant for my somber Prada suit. The gypsy beads around my neck Shana picked up from a seer at the Renaissance festival and the sea gla.s.s dangling from my ears said "Kokomo" not "raise you two mil."

I was aiming to avoid the picket line by ducking into the side door of the casino, but unfortunately, as I turned the corner, I saw they'd staked out that door as well. Sliding my Gargoyles from the top of my head to my nose, I realized I should've worn my church lady suit, because sneaking by in hot pink is hard to do.

"There she is," I heard ripple through the protestors.

I sped up. They rallied around as a reporter from KLVS weaved her way to me. "I'm sorry, you must be looking for Clonie Gowan. She'll be along in the next taxi." I waved my hand toward the street and dove for the door.

"No, Miss Cooley, I'm looking for a comment from you," the reporter said, grabbing my forearm in such an intense vise grip that I wondered if they didn't send reporters to ambush boot camp.

"I can't imagine why." I smiled tightly. "There are so many other players more worthy of your attention than I am."

"I don't think so," the reporter answered, gleefully pointing at a sign held by a teenager that read: Bee Cool, BURN YOUR CARDS OR BURN IN h.e.l.l. "What do you say about that?"

"This country is built on free speech, although that right is restricted to not injuring another with that freedom. An inflammatory statement such as that would certainly be considered injurious and thus not protected by the first amendment, wouldn't you say?"

"And what would you say, Miss Cooley," a booming voice spoke from the back of the crowd, resonating so deeply I wondered for a moment if he didn't have a megaphone. I could see the coiffed snow white hair move through the protestors who suddenly parted like the Red Sea. "If I told you that you are injuring millions of people, young and old, throughout this G.o.d-given world of ours by your sinful decision to play poker and flaunt your body in such a way as this?"

The Reverend Phineas Paul. I had to admit he was impressively charismatic, although I had to say his tan looked more artifical in person. Fighting him head-on would only play into his hand so I hit where he didn't expect it. After all, we hadn't been introduced, had we? "I would ask who it is accusing me."

He blinked, temporarily speechless, but recovering quickly, extended his hand. I took it as he said, "I am the Reverend Phineas Paul, supremely blessed to lead the Church of the Believers."

The camera was taking it all in. I dropped his hand as soon as I politely could, resisting the urge to wipe it on my shorts. Although it hadn't been sweaty, his shake had left me feeling somehow soiled. He smiled knowingly at me. "And your answer to my question? What would you tell these impressionable young girls here today about the devil's work you do?" In a grand sweeping motion, he indicated the teenage girls holding signs around us.

"I would tell all of you to choose what you want to do in life and do it lawfully, honestly and to the best of your abilities."

"You are saying, Miss Cooley, that anything sanctioned by secular law is right?" Paul demanded. "How about alcohol? It isn't against the law to drink an entire gallon of whiskey at once but is that right?"

He'd hit me where it hurt. Frank's alcoholism continued to be one of the heartaches of my life. I looked at Paul, wondering if he'd just gotten lucky in his barb. Of course, he had. He was a professional verbal attacker. He used scare tactics for a living. I shrugged off the paranoia and dredged up a polite smile. "I suppose you are right. I shouldn't be telling people what is right and wrong, that is your job. I'll just live my life and stay out of everyone else's."

"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.

Six.

According 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 b.u.t.ton-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 pa.s.sed 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-a.s.s. 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."

d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.s, giving up so easily it made me nervous. "Good luck."

I frowned at him as I pa.s.sed. "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 gla.s.s 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-s.h.i.+rts, 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 a.s.sociated with it. Can you do that?"

Again she nodded and stuck her hand out. I knew I'd never see the George Was.h.i.+ngtons 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."