Death Plays Poker (13 page)

GEORGE

“Were you fucking Joe Mangan last night?” George knew there was probably a more tactful way to phrase the question. He didn’t care. The sun was setting on their first day in Vancouver. The new leg of the tournament would begin the next morning, and Loni would be Fiona’s co-anchor, not George.

“No.” Fiona gave him a small smile as she looked up from her veal marsala. It was early for dinner. Six p.m. But it was three hours later in the time zone they’d just come from, and they both wanted to crash early. “Were you?”

George watched her chew. Her lips stayed together and her eyes were thoughtful, as if she wanted to fully experience the flavors of the meat and the sauce and their pairing. He hadn’t seen this sensual side of her for a while. She normally kept it hidden behind makeup and microphones.

“Why did we break up again?” he asked.

Fiona swallowed. “Because you took issue with me screwing other people.”

“I still do.”

The light from the candle brought out gold highlights in Fiona’s red hair.

“But that’s not going to work for you, is it?” George asked.

“No.”

“Are you seeing anyone now?”

“No one special. But listen, George, let’s not do this.”

“I know. I promised I wouldn’t ask about your sex life. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that.” Fiona set her fork down and gestured around the half-full room. They were the only two without gray hair. “It’s this. What are we doing at a romantic Italian restaurant in a quaint Canadian fishing village?”

“You don’t want to stay friends?” George reached for the bottle. It was good wine — a Sangiovese from the middle of the list. George had contemplated Amarone, but as he was pretty sure he wasn’t getting laid the ninety bucks didn’t seem worth it.

“This is what lovers do,” Fiona said.

George frowned. “I like that we have history. It makes the mood that much more potent.”

“That’s because you’re a writer.” Fiona laughed sharply. “You think that if you torture your soul enough, your true brilliance will emerge.”

George topped up Fiona’s wine and his own. “I’m working on a fiction project.”

“You are?” Fiona’s eyes crinkled as she smiled this time. She was getting tiny crow’s feet in the corners. George thought they made her look wise. “George, that’s great. Can you talk about it, or is it all top secret intelligence until you’re finished?”

“I’ll say that it’s a murder mystery. Not the great American novel, but it’s a start, right?”

“It’s more than a start,” Fiona said. “You’re doing what you love.”

George thought about saying that he’d rather be doing
who
he loved, but they’d just left that topic. “What about you? Isn’t it about time you got back on track and went to law school?”

“Yeah, that. I’m not going.”

“Never?”

Fiona shook her head. “I’ve deferred acceptance too many times. I’d have to reapply, and I’m not sure how forgiving Harvard would be about my lack of commitment when there are hundreds of qualified applicants dying to go there.”

“So you’re giving up? Tossing it in? Who cares about other law schools — if Harvard won’t have you, what’s the point?” George wasn’t sure why he was being aggressive.

“I wanted to go into law so I could change the world. But that’s not what would happen. I’d be stuck in an office while my life passed by outside.”

“It’s passing you by now.”

“I know,” Fiona said. “But this way I have fun while it’s passing.”

George studied Fiona’s face. She wasn’t even thirty and she looked tired, like she’d lived an entire lifetime. He said, “What would you do if you could be catapulted into whatever career you chose? No school required, no cut to your salary. You wake up tomorrow and you’re doing it.”

Fiona didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’d be a kindergarten teacher.”

George pictured Fiona dashing around a roomful of five-year-olds, smiling at their finger paintings, helping them sound out words in picture books.

“Kids that age haven’t lost sight of what matters,” she said. “I could help make them strong, make them want to make a difference.”

“They’ll have forgotten it all by the time they’re angry teenagers.”

“So maybe I’d be a high school teacher. Arrange fun volunteering assignments, show kids how they can keep the world good going forward — and learn to like themselves in the process.”

“Come on, Fiona. You’re more than a teacher.”

“What does that mean: ‘more than’? Why are you such a snob?”

George ignored the second question and answered the first. “You love the spotlight. You want to live in it, not help other people find it.”

Fiona grabbed her wine glass with both hands and traced her index finger forcefully along the stem. “You have no idea what I want. And why do you care so much?” She took a long sip.

“Because you’re not happy.”

“I’m not your problem.”

George shook his head. “Have you never been in love? It doesn’t work like that.”

“Oh my god. Please don’t be morose.”

“How should I be, then?” George should shut up, but he’d had one glass of wine too many for that. “I sit here with you, and everything would be perfect if you didn’t want to sleep with other people, date them, maybe even marry one of them. If I was designing a torture chamber for myself, I’d put your image on the wall.”

“Why do you do this?” Fiona’s eyes grew watery. “We’re having a lovely time, and as soon as you realize it doesn’t mean we’re getting back together, you go in for the attack.”

“Why do
I
do this?” George pushed his plate to the side of the table. There was food left, but he was finished eating. “You’re the one who comes to my hotel room, all innocent and lonely, wanting to cuddle all night. When you reach for my cock — so casual, like you could take it or leave it, which is probably exactly how you feel — it’s like all my emotions get thrown into some flaming caustic substance. I can’t tell you to stop, because it’s all I want to feel, but when it’s over, the elation deflates into a pathetic puddle at the base of my stomach. It’s worse than coming down from ecstasy. I’m depressed for days.”

“George, you have to stop this.” Fiona folded her cloth napkin and set it on the table. “I think we should go back to the hotel.”

George stood up. He gave the waiter his credit card and asked him to call them a cab.

“One of us needs to leave this scene,” he said. “It’s ridiculous, what we’re doing to each other.”

Fiona shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Do you?”

“I’m looking.”

CLARE

“Mickey! What’s wrong?” Clare had just gotten out of her second taxi of the day and was walking toward the casino entrance where Mickey was flicking a lighter at his cigarette as if he couldn’t connect them fast enough. The evening had grown overcast, which was fine with her. Compared with the mirrored blandness of downtown, this ugly industrial neighborhood made Clare feel instantly at home.

“I’m livid is what’s wrong.” Mickey tossed the cigarette he’d just lit to the pavement. “I can’t even smoke, I’m so angry.”

“Why?” Clare lit a cigarette of her own and had no trouble smoking it. It felt like this whole city took pains to be smug about nicotine.

“No comment.” Mickey stalked a few steps away, pivoted, and walked back toward Clare. “You’re better off not knowing.”

Clare leaned against a trash bin, trying not to show interest. She realized that Tiffany would never lean against a trash bin, and straightened up. “I guess you’re in no mood to give me round two of those lessons.”

“I don’t know what I’m in the mood for.” Mickey fumbled in his pocket. “What did I throw my smoke away for? Now I gotta light another one.” He lit a new cigarette and moved closer to Clare so he could lean on the bin she’d abandoned. “You staying at the casino?”

Clare shook her head. “Downtown.”

“Smart kid. I’m staying here, and I just blew twenty-four grand as something to do between lunch and dinner.”

“No shit?” Did Tiffany swear? She did now. “No wonder you’re so angry.”

“Huh? No, the money doesn’t upset me. It’s the other way around: it’s because I was pissed off I lost it. Rule Number One: never gamble when you’re negative. Angry, sad, nervous. Doesn’t fucking matter how the cards fall. You’re gonna lose.”

“I thought Rule Number One was ‘Don’t drink when you’re gambling.’”

“So this is Rule Fucking Two, then. You gotta be so concerned about particulars?” Mickey squinted at her, inhaling.

Clare shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Good. Anyway, this is why it’s a stroke of fucking genius that you’re under T-Bone’s skin. You can knock him off his game just by talking shit to him.”

Clare frowned. “That sounds like a lousy way to win.”

“You’ll never be a better card player than he is. You gotta find your edge where you can catch it. Don’t think there’s anyone here — including me — who wouldn’t push your buttons if they knew how to find them.”

“That’s so cold. How can you justify making your living that way?”

“So cold my ass. Don’t give me that judgment crap.” Mickey stared at the sidewalk. “Maybe you got your education in fancier schools than the rest of us, but you want to join this game, you’re no better or worse than any of us.”

“I don’t think anyone’s better than anyone else. Still . . . can’t I try to win by playing the cards well?”

“Sure,” Mickey said. “Play how you want; it’s your entry fee. But you’ll never know cards better than T-Bone as long as he’s still breathing on his own, and you’re leaving money on the table if you don’t at least consider what I’m saying.”

“Leaving money on the table?”

“Not winning everything you could.”

Clare tossed her cigarette into the road but made no move to leave. She felt like her head was swimming in poker. “So what has you so angry?”

“Forget about it.” Mickey tossed his own smoke away — this time because it was finished. “Rule Number Three: there are some things you’re safer not knowing.”

ELIZABETH

“This boat is gorgeous.” Elizabeth looked at Joe, lounging on the deck in the rising moonlight. “You sure we can afford it?”

“Nice, huh? Don’t worry about the money; this one’s mine.”

Elizabeth took a can of chickpeas from her cloth shopping bag and reached up to place it in a cupboard. She felt disoriented. She’d spent the afternoon shopping at what used to be her local grocery store, and she’d been terrified that she’d run into someone she knew. At the same time, she felt let down that she hadn’t. “Fine: can
you
afford this?”

“It’s only for a week. Should I be saving my money until I’m too old to enjoy it?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I like to live sustainably. You’d have to guarantee a final table finish to make this leg break even.”

“Don’t tell me you’re turning into a hippie.” Joe groaned. “Last week it was shade-grown coffee. This week it’s sustainability. What’s next week? Living off the land?”

“We could buy fishing rods,” Elizabeth said with a smile.

“Yeah. The two fish we’ll catch this week will make up for all the fuel we’ll need to find them. I bet it’s not even fish season. Come sit down. You want a drink?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

She was glad she’d run into George the night before, glad he’d been able to talk her away from beating down Fiona’s door and either finding Joe or not. George was nice — the kind of guy she wished she was attracted to, but wasn’t. Joe was nice too — too bad he was nice to so many people.

“You want to go for a ride?” Joe asked.

“It’s risky at night, with all the logs in the river.”

Joe rattled the ice in the bottom of his empty drink. “Where’s your sense of adventure? We have a searchlight and you can be my lookout.”

“Fine,” Elizabeth said. “As long as we can sail north.”

“There’s no sail. It’s power.” He looked at her fondly, like he found women’s lack of common sense both expected and endearing. “What’s north?”

“Vancouver. Gibson’s. Indian Arm.”

“Ah,” Joe said. “You mean not Richmond.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “There are some great spots to drop anchor, or tie up and go in for dinner later. South is just . . . I don’t know . . . boring. There’s Steveston and Ladner, then you’re pretty much at the U.S. border.”

“How far from the States are we?”

“Maybe half an hour by car. Probably two or three hours by boat. Why? Are you homesick already?”

Joe snorted. “Homesick for what? Anyway, why the aversion to seeing your family for one polite meal?”

“Have you ever had a family?” Elizabeth wanted to pull the words back as soon as she’d said them.

“Ouch. You know I haven’t.”

“Sorry.” Elizabeth reached across from her chair and touched his hand. “You know I didn’t mean . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” Joe flashed the grin the cameras loved so much.

“You don’t need to keep that smile on for me. You can be angry if you want to.”

“You sound like Father Leo.” Joe pulled his hand away and got up to fix himself a new drink.

“Are you Catholic?” Elizabeth had never heard Joe talk about religion.

“How would I know? I doubt I was baptized.”

“Who’s Father Leo?”

“He’s a priest I met in Battle Creek.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I would never have guessed you’d had a friendship with a religious leader.”

“Religious leader? I said he was a priest. If you’re religious, you’re a follower. Unless you’re Buddha or Jesus or someone with something original to say.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “How old were you when you knew him?”

“Young — maybe eight. The house I was living in was one of the worst — not for physical abuse, but the head games were unreal. I used to run away and hide in the church.”

“And the priest found you there?”

“I found him. I asked if I could work for room and board. He said no, but we started having conversations.”

Joe found the key for the boat and pushed it toward the ignition. His hand was shaking; he had to try a few times before the key slipped into its slot. Elizabeth untied the ropes that held the boat to the dock. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Joe’s hand shake.

“That sounds like something out of Charles Dickens.”

“I guess.” Joe started the engine. “The guy actually helped me a lot. He showed me how to get my foster parents to treat me with respect, taught me how to react like an adult when the assholes bought their real kid a Nintendo for Christmas and gave me an ugly T-shirt that was way too big for me, but it came free in a case of beer.”

“That’s horrible.” Elizabeth’s family was looking all right in comparison.

“Whatever. It wasn’t the worst thing they did.”

Joe eased the boat out of the dock. It had thrusters, which supposedly made it easier to maneuver, but Elizabeth was still impressed with his dexterity. “Which way’s north?”

“We have to get into the strait first.” Elizabeth pointed Joe left.

Joe’s face was still locked in that irritating perma-grin. “This is fun. I haven’t driven a boat since that time in Monaco. Remember what we did when we dropped anchor?”

“Yeah.” The poison was coming. Elizabeth smiled through it. “We should find somewhere secluded and maybe do that again.”

“You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Elizabeth said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”