Death On the Flop (24 page)

“I’m Tom.”

“Pleasure to share a table with you, Tom.” I smiled slowly as I shook his hand. “I’m Belinda.”

Tom took a second to inspect my cleavage as he released my hand. “So, how long have you been playing Hold ’Em, Belinda?”

“Not very long. I think I just got lucky last night.” I giggled and tried not to gag.

Tom’s eyes lit. He’d already eliminated me from the table but not from his fantasies. “Well, if luck isn’t your lady tonight, maybe we can meet for a drink later.”

“Maybe, Tom.” I giggled again.

The rest of the table had filled in while we talked, so I didn’t have to repeat anything. The other seven men playing with me had pretty much decided I was out of there, except for one young algebra teacher type who looked immune to anything but numbers. That was okay, he could probably be beat with a well-timed bluff.

Out of the corner of my eye, I’d watched Conner stalk past our table, probably trying to intimidate me. It was working but I refused to show it.

“Did y’all see the news this morning?” I asked the table. “They found a body all chopped up in a dumpster behind a casino! What would make someone do that?” While the table speculated about that a bit, Conner paused a step and tensed. Frank shot me a warning glance. I might be pushing Conner too far, but all I had were hunches and intuition.

And luck.

She was my lady again. Three hours later, I was heads up with the math junkie (whose name was Harold) when he folded in fear when an ace fell on Fourth Street next to a Flop of a suited trio of ace, deuce and four of hearts. I had suddenly gone from folding several hands and calling this hand to raising a hundred. He thought I either had a flush or a straight or pocket aces, when all I had was a pair of sevens, neither a heart.

But he didn’t know that and no one else did, either. Still no one could categorize me. Tomorrow night ESPN would have commentators delivering the game to a television audience but by then it would be too late for the players to benefit from any expert’s categorization. Of course, I still might not make it that far.

I shook Harold’s hand and I had to laugh when he leaned in and whispered, “Don’t think Tom wants to meet you for a drink anymore.”

Tom had stormed off after calling what he thought was my bluff but was really four Queens. “I don’t think things worked out the way he expected.”

“They didn’t for me either, but I have to appreciate someone with such a natural flair for the game. Tell me, do you figure odds and probabilities?”

I nodded, “In my head, like I balance my checkbook. And sometimes what I come up with takes a backseat to body language.”

“Good for you. That’s why I won’t ever be a pro, I can’t let the numbers go. Not ever.”

“I bet you stay on the winning side, over time, though, don’t you?”

He nodded and patted me on the shoulder as Conner accompanied a tournament official over to our table. For a moment I thought Conner had squealed that I’d taken Ben’s place, but the official was smiling. “Congratulations, Miss Cooley. You advance with a sizeable check.” He handed it to me. I tucked it in my clutch without looking. The numbers would distract me for sure. “Now, draw your table for the next round.”

Just as I drew, I heard excited murmurs and applause break out in the ballroom. Steely Stan had finally appeared to play in the semis. Tonight he had his pet size Es on each arm and wore a cheetah fur coat, a copper silk shirt, black jeans, snakeskin boots, and thirty pounds of gold. He looked like a pimp.

While everyone was ogling Stan, Conner leaned down and whispered, “You know everyone’s luck runs out sometime Miss Cooley. I plan to be there when yours does.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Where is my brother?”

His thin lips spread in a mirthless smile and I wondered why I ever thought him attractive. He was as cold as a copperhead. “Your brother is going to be a star.”

The tournament official, who’d run over to shake Stan’s hand, now beckoned Conner. He walked away without a backward glance. Frank was pacing behind the boundary cord, not taking his eyes off me. I smiled reassuringly, but inside I felt like I was going to explode.

Ben is going to be a star? Does that mean Conner was going to kill him? That his body was going to be on TV in parts like Pete? Did it mean he already killed him?

I wanted to brainstorm with Frank, but it would have to wait. I looked at the number in my hand and then at the table where the tournament official was escorting Stan. Could it be my luck had chosen now to run out?

 
Stan and I didn’t sit at the same table for the semis
after all. The official walked past my table and onto table number one where Stan took the first seat. I took the third seat at table three. I found that portentous, since three is my lucky number.

Frank warned me it would be a different game starting with six players that I hadn’t read yet. Sure enough, he was right—the cards fell differently and I had to play a bit tighter. I didn’t like waiting for the ten best hands to bet, but this time I did. My patience paid off and I ended up heads up again with a pro from Paris, Phillippe. He was rude and demeaning but I continued to flirt. I’d been letting him catch calculated looks over the tops of my lenses. I intended to use that to my advantage now.

I had pocket Queens, both black, and let Phillippe see a worried look over my Gargoyles. He knew by now that I was only betting on decent hands, although I had played loose enough a couple of times to leave a bit of doubt in his mind. I called the blind. That, plus the worried look, should have told him I had a playable hand but not a great one. The Flop was a ten/clubs, three/clubs and an ace/hearts. He raised a thousand. I thought he had something, maybe an ace. He’d played like a bit of a Maniac. I didn’t think he’d have stayed in the game this long except he’d had incredible luck with the cards.

I waited as long as the dealer would let me to bet. I even let him give me a verbal nudge. I called the thousand. An ace/clubs fell on Fourth Street. If he had a pocket ace I might be sunk, except I was a card away from flush. I calculated the probability, pushed the chair back and crossed my legs. He looked down while I let my stiletto sandaled foot bounce nervously. He went all in. I called.

The dealer nudged Phillippe to turn over his cards. Instead, he smiled smugly, enjoying what he was certain was a win.

A deuce of clubs fell on The River.

So, I turned over my pocket cards, showing a flush. He flung his cards at the dealer and mumbled what I was sure was an invective in French. He’d had a pair of tens. I’d talked him into the bet!

I hadn’t noticed, but we’d been the last table to finish, so when he threw his cards down, everyone watching cheered, some chanting, “Bee Cool, Bee Cool.”

I’d gotten lucky again. But I’d take it. I shook the official’s hand and took another check. “We look forward to seeing you tomorrow night, Miss Cooley,” he said.

Stan had won his table but hadn’t hung around. Conner glared from the ballroom doorway. Cocking his head, Frank was throwing me a heavy look that said “Get your ass over here.”

I waved at the well wishers and gave Ringo another squeeze. “The Gargoyles made the difference,” I told him. He grinned. I rubbed his bald head as I headed toward the elevator, with a couple of Conner’s goons escorting me.

Frank and I had agreed to meet in the room, but he would follow me to make sure no one tracked me. Of course that was ridiculous because I was being followed by dozens of fans, not to mention Conner’s men. I suppose all the attention would keep Conner and Stan off me better than even Frank would.

Which was a good thing, because Frank had disappeared. I was waiting for the elevator and wondering how I was going to get to Frank’s room undetected, when a bell-man handed me a note.

 
It could have been a setup, except I knew Frank’s handwriting.

I made it to the lobby, after being stopped only three times, once by a local reporter and twice by women who wanted to know how I stayed so cool when I was being bullied by the male players.

I thought about telling them the truth—have the pro kidnap your brother and you will have real motivation to be cool. But instead I just said, “You’ve got to believe you have as big a right as they do to be sitting at that table.”

I pushed my way out the doors and the yellow Hummer pulled up. I jumped in and Frank sped off. “Joe called. There’s a Fresh Foods truck out back of the Galaxy and he saw the driver and another man he tagged as casino security arguing about what to do with ‘the extra baggage.’ Then the man in the suit got a suitcase, unzipped it and showed the driver some money. We’ll follow the truck. Maybe we’ll find Ben.”

We got to the Galaxy in time to see the Fresh Foods
truck turning south and heading toward us on Las Vegas Boulevard. Frank pulled into the casino’s circular drive and negotiated around tourists toting luggage out of vehicles. Soon, we were behind the truck, headed south. At Tropicana, the truck turned left. Frank hung back to keep about a half dozen cars between us and followed.

“Why isn’t Joe following the truck?”

“I sent him to see if he can shadow Stan.”

“But Stan was at the Lanai,” I pointed out. “What if the limo swoops in and takes him off before Joe gets a tail on him?”

“That won’t happen any time soon,” Frank said. “I happened to see the limo in the garage and I slit a hole in the tire while the driver was making time with one of Stan’s girls.”

“Smooth.”

“So, you won.” Frank finally acknowledged. “Congratulations. Although I’m not sure I want you to go through with the final round.”

“What?” I sat bolt upright and screamed.

“I think this might be getting too dangerous. Conner knows who you are, Stan knows who you are. Maybe you should just fade out of sight and we’ll try to find Ben in ways like this.”

We’d reached Highway 95 and the truck turned south. It was three o’clock in the morning so there wasn’t much traffic to disguise the big yellow Hummer. I just hoped the driver didn’t expect to be followed.

“I’m not quitting. I’m just getting to the point where the pressure is paying off. Conner told me tonight that Ben ‘was going to be a star’.”

“What does that mean?”

“I assumed that was his way of telling me he’s planning on killing him.” I swallowed. “Or already has.”

“Don’t think that way, Bee,” Frank assured me, following the truck onto the Highway 93 east exit toward the Hoover Dam.

I looked out at the desert, which seemed so much more desolate and desperate in the moonlight, wondering where my brother was and how I was letting him down by not being able to find him. We crossed over the Hoover Dam, its power and beauty electrified at night. Once we crossed over into Arizona and Lake Mead was behind us, there wasn’t much to see in the dark. The excitement of the night and the rhythm of the road caught up with me. I drifted off to sleep.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed before I felt Frank jog my shoulder. I blinked up at his face. His eyes were urgent in the dark. “Bee, wake up. Quick.”

Yawning, I lifted my head out of his lap. We weren’t moving. It was blacker than night. Even the interior lights, including the speedometer were off. Looking out the window, I gauged we were pulled off at a rest stop. A truck I recognized as the Fresh Foods’ one we’d been chasing was about a hundred yards in front of us. The passing lights of the vehicles on the highway gave me a snapshot view of the rest. A dark, late model sedan was next to it, and I could see two figures between the vehicles. I was so tired, I felt like the produce truck had run over me, several times.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice groggy.

“I’m not sure, but it’s tense,” Frank answered, his eyes focused on the scene before us.

“Where are we?”

“In northern Arizona, somewhere, maybe near Chloride. You really weren’t asleep that long. About an hour.”

One man got in the truck; the other in the driver’s seat of the sedan. The produce truck moved off. The sedan didn’t. After about thirty seconds, Frank started the Hummer and drove on too. We couldn’t see in the tinted windows of the sedan when we passed, but it remained motionless.

We’d driven another ten miles before we heard it. A zing. A ting. A cracked rear window.

“What’s going on?” I thought I knew, but I hoped I was wrong.

“We’re the target and someone has a gun,” Frank answered, his jaw flexed. He wrenched the wheel and tried to run the car next to us off the road. I’d bet anything it was the dark sedan from the truck stop, but it didn’t take an Einstein to figure that one out. Frank let the sedan get ahead of us. He gunned the massive engine to try to ram our enemy, but instead the driver’s accomplice shot our right headlight out.

“Damn,” Frank spit out. “Where is the truck?”