Death Plays Poker (10 page)

CLARE

“They call him the Poker Choker.” Clare looked out the passenger window onto Lake Ontario.

“Cute.” Cloutier’s eyes stayed on the highway in front of him.

Clare reached forward to press in the car lighter.

“People close to horror need to lighten things up to make sense of them,” Cloutier said in response to her silence.

“I don’t need to lighten things up. I can handle reality fine.”

“Yeah?” Cloutier changed lanes to pass an Indian family in a sedan. Clare tried to figure out how there could be enough seat belts for all the passengers. “What’s your sarcasm all about, then?”

“My sarcasm reflects the way I see the world,” Clare said. “I don’t take myself too seriously.”

“You’ve just proven my point.”

“Which point? The point about me not being qualified to follow the tournament to Vancouver?”

“I meant the smaller point — about lightening up reality. I don’t need to justify my decision about your job.”

Clare continued to stare out the window. “I think some of the players might be cheating. Have you heard anything about that from the
RCMP
?”

Sergeant Cloutier shook his head. “Wouldn’t surprise me, though. Poker’s not known for the honest people who are drawn to the game. You got names?”

“I think that’s why Willard Oppal died.”

“Come on, Vengel. Stop clutching at straws.”

“I’m serious. About Oppal. Send me wherever you want — undercover yoga, for all I care — but I think he got made as a cop when he was sniffing around this cheating scam.”

“Hm.” Cloutier moved his jaw to one side. It made him look French. “Where are you getting this impression?”

Clare opened her pack and took out two cigarettes. “Mickey Mills and Fiona Gallagher.”

“Yeah?” Cloutier accepted the cigarette and the light.

“I could fly out to Vancouver and —”

“Can you be quiet for five seconds? I’m thinking.”

“About my job?”

“And the rest.”

Clare frowned at her glittery pink manicure and wondered why she’d been drawn to a job that forced her to be so duplicitous.

After three or four minutes, Cloutier rolled the window down a crack and said, “Tell me more about the cheating.”

“Mickey says he thinks some players are tuning into the hole card camera feed. So they can basically play like they’re psychic.”

“And why did Mickey tell you this?”

“Because he’s coaching me.
Was
coaching me.”

“Shit, Vengel.” Cloutier smacked his fist into the vinyl dash, accidentally flicking ash forward.

“What?” Clare had no idea what she’d said wrong.

“You want to keep your job, you might want to open with that. Getting coached by Mickey Mills is a legitimate in. Better than any of this speculation about Oppal and hole card scams.”

Clare felt stupid for not seeing that before.

Cloutier brushed the ash from the dashboard. It smudged a bit, but he didn’t seem bothered. It was the government’s car.

Clare didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. Then, “So can I stay?”

Cloutier did that thing with his mouth again, moving his lower jaw so it wasn’t aligned with his top one. “I know you think you can do this. But even the fact that you didn’t put your best argument forward — you’re stumbling. Maybe you’ll stumble onto something great, like you did with your first case. But to survive in this field you need to act aware. Knowing, not guessing, is what gets the job done well. It’s also what keeps you alive.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Clare tried to keep her voice level and respectful. “Too much confidence can close your mind. I want to be a damn good undercover cop one day, and I know I still have lots to learn. But I think my open mind is a good thing on a case as complicated as this. The only way I’ll get killed is if I get made, and Amanda did a great job creating Tiffany as someone who
won’t
get made anytime soon.”

Cloutier glanced at her briefly and turned his eyes back to the road.

“I want to figure out a way into this cheating ring,” Clare said. “What do you think?”

“You want to cheat at cards?” Cloutier shook his head from side to side, like a bobble-head toy. “I think you’d have to be fucking mental.”

“And I want to take a closer look at Loni Mills.”

Cloutier ashed his cigarette, this time out the window and on purpose. “Why?”

“Because she’s everyone’s ho. I’d put money on her playing a supporting role.”

“You’d put money on it, would you? Because now you’re a professional gambler.”

Clare rolled her eyes. “You want to hear my theory?”

“Why not? We have half an hour before we’re in Toronto, your job’s still up in the air, and there’s not much on the radio.”

“I’m trying to figure out why I thought I’d miss you.”

“Because you’re an excellent judge of character.”

“True,” Clare said. “But for some reason I like you anyway. I don’t think Loni’s the instigator, but my guess is she’s been brought in by whoever is.”

“Hold on.” Cloutier put his hand in the air like a stop sign. Clare was impressed that he could do this and not look like a choreographer. “Brought into the murders, or the cheating?”

“Cheating,” Clare said. “Because the way Mickey thinks the scam is working, it needs at least two people to operate. My guess is the killer is only one person.”

Cloutier nodded.

“Loni’s on the sidelines, Loni knows the winning players . . . and according to Mickey —”

“Who might be lying.”

“Sure. Might be. But according to him, the scam needs someone who isn’t playing to coordinate it. And who better than the woman who walks around the Players Only zones like she was born there? Security doesn’t blink if she crosses the little red rope.”

“You always ramble when you talk, or did that actually make sense in your mind?”

“It makes sense in yours, too. Stop pretending you’re obtuse.”

They drove in silence for the next several minutes. They turned north on Highway 427 and east onto the 401. Clare was trying to figure out Loni’s connection, and presumably Cloutier was off in his own thoughts as well. She’d barely noticed they’d come into the city when Cloutier pulled to a stop on Dundas West in front of the antique store she lived above.

“So are you letting me go on?” Clare chewed at her lower lip.

“Yeah, kid. I think I am.”

“Will the
RCMP
be fine with that?” Clare couldn’t stop her mouth from widening across her face.

“Should be. I haven’t said anything to them about pulling you yet.”

“Because you thought I’d come through?”

“Because I thought you deserved the chance.”

“What do I do now?”

“Lay low for today. Grab a cab to the airport in the morning. A Town Car, in case anyone sees you arrive.”

ELIZABETH

Elizabeth picked at some fluff from the seam of the leather couch. She squeezed Joe’s hand. Neither of them wanted to be at this viewing, but she thought it was important, and Joe, for once, had listened.

They were gathered in the players’ lounge — the one where the players really hung out, not the fake
VIP
room where players put in appearances so fans would think they were partying with the stars. Everyone’s attention was glued to the giant flat-screen.

Normally Elizabeth couldn’t be bothered to watch tournament footage. There was always a better way to spend the last night in a new city than sitting around rehashing every play through the lens of Fiona Gallagher’s narcissism. Even the Criminals Hall of Fame wax museum would be more entertaining. But tonight, Elizabeth was convinced that she and Joe could learn something.

“Okay, guys, you know this is rough still.” Fiona said. “Feel free to give commentary — what you like, what you don’t think we should air. I don’t get final say, but the producers listen to my feedback.”

“I think you should wear a lower cut dress,” T-Bone said from his armchair.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Maybe you could get them to
CGI
the neckline. And you know, fill it in with Loni’s rack.”

Elizabeth punched Joe’s arm lightly.

“Come on, guys. This is serious.” Fiona pretended to pout. “I really value your input. Okay, play it, Oliver.”

Oliver, Fiona’s goateed teenage assistant, pressed a button and the show came to life.

Elizabeth swirled the ice around her iced tea and focused on the
TV
.

Onscreen, Fiona brushed a flyaway hair from her face and gave the camera her best serious journalist smile. “We have eight players left. T-Bone Jones has the big stack, but the way this game’s been playing, anyone could still be crowned the champion.”

Elizabeth cringed at the rhetoric but knew the fans gobbled it up. They wanted to be spoon-fed so they wouldn’t have to think too hard.

Back onscreen, Fiona was saying, “Nate Wilkes has a pair of sevens in first position. He’s new on the scene, but he’s a savvy New Yorker — these old pros can’t push him around. He’s cute, too — the shaggy dark hair and deep brown eyes make him look intense and brooding. I wouldn’t mind seeing more of him. He wisely limps.”

Loni Mills, Fiona’s guest host for the Niagara game, chimed in with her own opinion: “Now, honey, I agree that this newcomer’s a looker — and he looks about your age; you should find out if he has a lady friend back in New York — but why is limping wise? I don’t claim to be no professional, but I always thought the rule was when you’re first in a pot, you raise.”

“A rule a lot of players swear by, Loni. And it’s not without merit. But the unique thing about small and middle pairs is you can only afford to commit about 5% of your stack preflop, which means you can call a raise profitably, but it’s a mistake to call a reraise. So you limp, and hope to catch a set.”

“Ah, math.” Loni waved a heavily braceleted hand in dismissal. “I knew there was a reason I couldn’t stand this game.”

Fiona grinned and looked straight into the camera. “Pretty Boy Mangan looks down in third position and sees ace-queen. He makes a standard raise, with one limper, to four big blinds.”

Elizabeth hated Joe’s nickname. “Pretty Boy” made him sound gay, when in fact he was flamboyantly heterosexual.

Back onscreen: “Action folds around to T-Bone, who calls on the button with king-ten suited. A loose play for an amateur, but T-Bone’s no rookie. He’s counting on a combination of position and skill to guide him after the flop.”

“He’s got some skilled positions, all right,” said Loni.

Elizabeth could picture Fiona coaching Loni about coyly playing up her relationship with T-Bone. When Elizabeth had guest hosted in Halifax, her instructions had been to talk about Joe in a “lovingly competitive” way. Fans loved to think they were seeing inside the lives of their stars.

“Tell me, Loni,” Fiona said, on camera, “in your private life, what would you say is T-Bone’s greatest skill?”

Loni batted her eyelashes — definitely rehearsed. “I thought you said this was prime time, dear.”

Fiona laughed indulgently. “Nate Wilkes calls the raise.”

The odds shot up on the screen.

“These three players are as even as you can get before the flop. And here it is: the flop comes queen-jack-seven rainbow.

“First to act is Nate, who has soared into the lead with trip sevens. He makes a rookie move and checks — you never want to slow-play trips against multiple opponents. But maybe he’s counting on a bet: both Joe and T-Bone are known to be aggressive.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about Joe,” Loni said. This woman was made for
TV
. “But are you saying three of a kind isn’t a strong enough hand to trap with? Hell, when I get trips, I’m coy as a cucumber.”

Elizabeth cringed at the mixed simile. Viewers would forgive it.

Fiona grinned. “Luckily for Nate Wilkes, Joe Mangan loves this flop — poor guy doesn’t realize he’s only 3% to win. He bets out three-quarters of the pot.”

“Motherfucker,” Joe muttered from his seat beside Elizabeth. “Why are we watching this shit?”

Elizabeth put a finger to her lips.

Back on Fiona’s show: “T-Bone makes the call, and here’s where Nate should make his move. He’s a 70% favorite on this hand, but he doesn’t want to give away any free cards. There’s only one good move: he should go all in.”

“That’s my favorite move when T-Bone makes it.”

“Prime time, Loni. Prime time.”

“Right. Sorry about that.”

Fiona smiled. “Instead Nate goes for a minimum raise. He’s hoping to lure in someone like Joe, whose odds are too low to even call that. And it works. Joe makes the call easily. But so does T-Bone, who has exactly the hand Nate should fear.

“The turn is the deuce of spades. Now Nate makes his all-in move. But it’s too late. The pot is huge, and while Joe correctly tosses his top pair, top kicker, T-Bone calls in a flash. He has a straight draw, a flush draw, and easy odds to call it.

“The cards are turned over. Nate’s grin takes over his face, because even though he’s messed this hand up royally, he’s more than a 70% favorite to double through T-Bone. But luck plays its role, too, because the river is the eight of spades, and T-Bone’s flush beats Nate’s trips.”

“That’s my baby.” Loni clapped her hands. “Go, T-Bone, go.”

“Our eighth place finisher, Nate Wilkes. Played a great game, but ultimately wasn’t ready to take on the pros. We’ll be interviewing him after this break.”

Back in the screening room, the real-life Fiona told her techie, “Okay, you can cut it here, Oliver. We’ll get feedback on this first segment before moving on.”

Fiona’s sullen little helper pressed a switch and paused the feed. Oliver was one of those kids — maybe nineteen or twenty — who dressed in baggy clothes and had ten thousand piercings that made it impossible to know what his real face looked like.

“You’re doing great!” Fiona said to Loni, who off-camera was perched on the thick arm of T-Bone’s chair. “Full of life, the right amount of innuendo; fans will devour you.”

“I’m having fun,” Loni said.

“Hey, I’m not officially allowed to ask you this, because it’s the network’s decision who to hire . . . but it’s a pain in the ass to constantly search for a guest host — more than half the time I end up with some player who falls flat on camera. No offence to anyone in this room.”

No? Then why was Fiona staring straight at Elizabeth?

“If I could convince the network to make your spot permanent, would you be interested?”

“Me? Working for a living?” Loni patted her big blond hair. “I’d love to.”

Elizabeth felt Joe’s hand touch hers.

“You saw that, right?” Joe said quietly enough so only Elizabeth could hear.

Elizabeth pursed her mouth. “Saw what?”

“That hand. The way Nate played it.”

“Like a novice?”

“No.” Joe shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Like a guy who knew what everyone else held.”