Authors: Monica McGurk
“As you wish. It will be but a moment.”
With that, he whisked himself away behind the façade of the cage, leaving us alone.
The seconds drained away, each moment filling me with dread. Michael sat calmly next to me, draping a proprietary arm over my shoulders. I curled my lip and shot him my most venomous look, but he simply squeezed my shoulder and leaned over as if to kiss my hair. I felt my breath catch and silently cursed my body for not getting the message that Michael was no longer to be trusted or even liked. He was the enemy. Never mind that he was helping me find Maria.
“Don’t blow it, Carmichael,” Michael whispered into my ear. “I need you to play along. And look up. Smile. There’s a camera right above us.” With that, he lifted his head, shooting me a warning look before receding back into his most blasé pose.
I scanned the ceiling but saw nothing but a sea of big, black domes.
“Where?” I whispered, my eyes never leaving the vast darkness above.
“Everywhere. They probably trained some on us the minute Arnaud left. So like I said, smile.”
I gave the ceiling a good hard look, remembering what Michael had said about being caught on the surveillance camera to give my dad an alibi. Then, we sat for what seemed like hours—but that was in reality only minutes—until Arnaud reappeared.
“Everything is in order, Mr. Carmichael,” he said, discreetly
leaning in toward us to deliver the good news and pass something back to Michael. “You are cleared for your marker. Should you require more, I am at your service.”
Michael nodded his head genteelly, as if he had expected nothing less.
“May I see to your accommodations at Wynn, sir?”
Michael raised a hand. “No need. We’ve arranged to stay elsewhere.”
“Very well. Dinner reservations, then? Or perhaps theater tickets for the young lady?”
A curt shake of Michael’s head cut Arnaud’s litany off. “She won’t be leaving my side. Are there any private games I can join?”
“Of course, sir. Baccarat, poker, blackjack—?”
“Poker. Pai Gau if you have it.”
Arnaud’s smooth forehead suddenly collapsed into worried folds like an accordion. “You wish to gamble with the Chinese, sir?”
Michael snorted. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Yes.”
“Their minimums are quite high, sir.”
“I think you know I am good for it, Arnaud.” Michael raised an eyebrow pointedly, then slowly rose from his seat, clamping on to my arm to pull me up after him. I ignored the heat that emanated from his touch, licking me like flames.
“Can you arrange an introduction?” Michael persisted.
Arnaud bowed his head slightly, as if in defeat. “Follow me, sir.”
We were whisked away through the casino and guided to a hallway that was cordoned off and kept by an attendant. He saw Arnaud and jumped to attention, straightening his jacket automatically. Arnaud whispered in his ear and the velvet rope was cleared. As we walked down the hall, light bouncing off the shiny marble, I could hear the attendant mumbling on the phone.
We made our way to an unlabeled brass elevator. The doors
swept open and we walked in. Inside, Arnaud pushed the only button available and stood before us, facing the door like a dutiful soldier.
“Mr. Carmichael. I will need to discuss this with my colleague and make the proper introductions in order to secure you entrance to the game. Unfortunately, I cannot guarantee that they will admit you, but the chances are better today than they might have been, as one of their party has already retired for the evening. When I speak with my colleague, it will help if I can share your credentials.”
The elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors whisked open. Arnaud turned, waiting for Michael’s answer. I found I was as eager to hear his response as Arnaud was.
“You can tell them I am from Atlanta and am an entrepreneur with interests in the shipping and personnel industries.”
Arnaud tilted his head in assent and beckoned me through the door. “And the young lady?”
“You may introduce her as Miss Carmichael. All they need to know is that she is with me. And if that isn’t enough, you can tell them my bank account balance.”
Arnaud walked us into the lounge, depositing us before a long polished bar where several attractive young women were waiting to attend to us, and then he disappeared through a looming set of double doors.
With him gone, I shook my arm, which Michael still held like a vice.
He quickly dropped it and started to stalk the room.
I trailed behind him, politely declining the drinks proffered by the bored eye-candy. “What if we can’t get in? Did you ever think of that?” I whispered. “What will we do then?”
“Relax, Hope,” he said in his lowest voice. “It will work.”
“But how do you know?” I pressed.
“I just do.” He dug one hand into the high back of a club chair, his knuckles whitening as he kneaded the smooth leather. For a split second his face seemed to contort with a terrible wince, but just as quickly, he composed himself.
Careful
.
Henri’s warning reminded me that Michael was still in pain and potentially volatile. Half of me yearned to comfort him, to smooth the worry from his wrinkled forehead; the other half knew that our friendship was a sham, our search for Maria a compromise he’d made only to get me to go along with his other scheme. Better to be quiet. I sank down in the chair, waiting sullenly, resenting the entire situation.
Arnaud came through the door and beckoned to us, holding the door as we rose and crossed the room.
“Showtime,” Michael breathed so that only I could hear. “If you want to find Maria, do what I say.”
I opened my mouth to protest but snapped it shut as we approached Arnaud.
“And smile for the cameras,” Michael hissed before sweeping me before him into the private suite.
The room was unlike any other part of the hotel I’d seen. The bright, airy, and almost whimsical public spaces had been replaced with rich velvet and silk drapes in deep gold and lacquer-bright red, and the entire room was swathed in shadow from candles and dim lights. Asian artifacts graced the walls: calligraphy, jade statues, and silk paintings that looked old and expensive. My brow furrowed as I noticed the lifelike terra cotta figures standing at attention in niches that interrupted each wall—didn’t those belong in museums? I spun around, trying to take it all in, and realized the walls of the room formed a clear octagon. All the energy in
the room seemed to flow to the center, beneath a ceiling that was crowned with a subtle painting of a dragon.
A row of marble columns separated us from the game: a table sunk lower in the room, down a flight of stairs. Around the room’s perimeter stood a buffet line, a bar, even a massage table. A few discreet doors punctuated the silk wallpaper. Somewhere, I could hear the serene trickle of water.
“Koi pond,” Michael mouthed as we moved in the shadows toward the center of the room and down the stairs.
“Mr. Carmichael,” exclaimed a tanned, silver-haired man, proffering his outreached hand as he met us halfway up the stairs. “Thank you so much for joining us. Allow me to make a few introductions.” The man began by gesturing toward the table.
“Mr. Chen has joined us from Hong Kong.”
A short man with close-clipped hair and a slight five o’clock shadow inclined his head but made no other move. His wary eyes took us in. They seemed to narrow slightly as he lingered on me, taking me in from head to toe.
Nervously, my hand drifted to my neck, where my Mark was, and I felt myself blush. Michael drew his eyebrows sharply together, clamping his hand on my arm and staring down Mr. Chen with obvious displeasure. Mr. Chen did not break his gaze. Instead, I saw the corner of his mouth flicker up with amusement.
The silver-haired man continued his introductions, oblivious to my discomfort and the testosterone match that was already brewing.
“Mr. Tung is visiting us from Shanghai today,” he said, gesturing to the much taller and younger man standing next to Chen. Mr. Tung stared stonily at Michael, paying me no attention. He was impeccably dressed, his muscle-bound body draped in clothes that showed his fine form and his long hair pulled back into a neat
ponytail at the nape of his neck. “I believe he has similar business interests to yours, Mr. Carmichael.”
I could feel Michael tense, but the man did not notice and continued on with his introductions.
“We have Mr. Wak, in from Macau,” the host said. Wak seemed barely able to fit into his expensive striped suit, through which his muscles bulged. He scowled at Michael.
“And next to him is Mr. Liu. Mr. Liu has also made a permanent residence on Macau, but is a frequent guest here at Wynn.”
Liu alone smiled, opening his arms wide from where they rested on top of his slight paunch. He looked as if he’d been gambling for a while, the tails of his elegant linen shirt untucked and his whole appearance slightly rumpled.
“Welcome to our game, Mr. Carmichael. We are pleased to have you join us. And your young lady, too. She is so charming.”
I felt myself blush.
Liu continued, beaming at me solicitously. “Perhaps she will be more comfortable in the back rooms with the other young ladies?”
Michael’s grip imperceptibly tightened on my arm. “Thank you for your hospitality. I would prefer she stays here.” He broke into a grin, softening the hard look of determination in his eyes. “She’s lucky.”
Liu laughed heartily while the other men exchanged looks and slight smiles, breaking the tension in the room.
“You may need her more than you know, then,” Liu continued.
Michael did not move. “Who are they?” he said, gesturing to the men hovering in the shadows on the far side of the table.
“Mr. Jones and Mr. Rashid are executives with the casino. It is normal to have them observe when we play with such high stakes.” The tanned man looked at Michael shrewdly. “But of course you know that already.”
“I like to know names,” Michael responded smoothly. “Including yours and his.” He looked pointedly at the dealer who was standing at the center of the table.
“I am the host for Mr. Chen. You may call me Richard. And your dealer today is Frank.” The dealer nodded as he was introduced. I saw a little bead of sweat trickle down from his forehead. “Now, shall we begin?”
Wak absentmindedly fingered a small figurine that sat next to his bankroll on the table, not even bothering to look up. “You ask too many questions.”
“Richard spoke too soon. I do not think we have invited you to join us yet, Mr. Carmichael,” Tung added, a note of menace creeping into his smooth voice. “You are presumptuous.”
Michael shrugged, unperturbed. “Perhaps it’s just as well. I’m not so sure I want to join a game of four,” he said, his face unreadable. I was confused: Why wouldn’t he want to join a game of four? He started turning away from the rail when Chen interrupted.
“Please, Mr. Carmichael. My friends here are hasty,” he intoned in perfect English with a clipped British accent. “We had a fifth, but he was taken ill and had to leave us. But with your knowledge of our culture, perhaps you will prove to be a worthy adversary. Your presence here is lucky for us.”
Michael turned back to the rail. “Of course, I hope my presence here is
un
lucky for you.”
Chen snorted. “That we shall see. Please, join us.” The other men at the table bit back their protests. Only Tung seemed unperturbed by Chen’s pronouncement.
Michael’s lips formed a hard smile of satisfaction. “Stay here,” he ordered as he began descending to the table. From nowhere, an attendant appeared with a chair, giving me a seat from which to watch the entire table from above.
I watched as Michael took a spot at the end of the table. He placed his marker down, and Frank, the dealer, pushed an enormous pile of chips his way.
Frank looked once behind him to where the casino executives were standing. They gave him some signal and he sighed, straightening up. “Hundred ante, gentlemen. You know the game.”
Without hesitation, Michael dropped some chips onto the felt, as did the other men. I looked at the number and color of chips and blanched. Hundred ante meant hundred
thousand
ante.
Frank wordlessly shuffled and loaded the cards into a dealing shoe. Then, without pause, he dealt the cards, his hands moving with an efficiency that could have only come from years of practice.
The men took their cards, their expressions blank. Then, play began, a complicated dance of betting, drawing, and folding that I could not follow. I felt myself leaning forward in my chair, straining to understand the game, which seemed to have boiled down to just Michael and Chen. The dealer softly called for the men to show their cards. Chen fanned his out slowly, the faintest of smiles floating across his face. Michael threw down his cards in disgust. The dealer called the hand, and Chen reached into the middle of the table, clearing the vast pile of chips.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars, gone in a matter of minutes. And then they did it again. And again.
Ten hands passed, some as quickly as the first, some drawn out like an elaborate seduction. More often than not, Liu, Wak, and Tung bowed out early, leaving Chen against Michael to battle it out. It was a cat-and-mouse game in which Chen seemed to have the upper hand.
The serving women flitted around the table, discreetly removing emptied crystal and sliding fresh drinks to the men. Wak and Liu relaxed, sipping their drinks, as they watched hand after hand
fall to Chen. Tung joined them, not bothering to disguise his pleasure at each of Michael’s losses. Michael’s posture became more rigid with each passing hand. Even from where I sat, I could see the vein throbbing in his temple.
After the tenth hand, Michael knocked over his pile of chips in disgust.
“Quite a run of luck,” he spat across the table. “Does anyone else ever win at your table?”
Chen said nothing, ignoring Michael’s outburst. Tung, on the other hand, laughed out loud as the dealer swept the felt clean and prepared for the next hand. “Maybe you should be asking your girl. She doesn’t seem to be helping you that much today.”