Death Plays Poker (17 page)

GEORGE

“You think this is a bit cloak-and-dagger, Mickey?” George shrugged off his leather jacket and hooked it onto the back of his chair. “The bar downtown . . . the separate cabs . . .”

Mickey squinted as he glanced around the busy room. “You think I’m funny. But anyone overhears this, I’m toast, you’re toast, we can both kiss all our dreams goodbye.”

“All right, I get it,” George said. “I say anything, we’re both dead.”

Mickey shook his head. “Joke all you fucking want to. There’s already three people who ain’t breathing too well anymore.”

A waiter in black arrived at their table. He wore a little black apron from which he pulled a notepad and pen. Mickey ordered a bottle of Bud. George had the waiter list the microbrews on tap before selecting a local pale ale.

When the waiter had left, George leaned into the table and said, “You’re willing to risk both of our lives just so I write your biography?”

Mickey nodded. “A deal’s a deal. I’ll share information about this hole card scam as I find it; you make this book as good as it can be.”

“How can one book be worth so much to you?”

Mickey’s face pulled a pained, almost pleading expression. “It just is.”

The drinks arrived. The waiter set down two cocktail napkins and the beers, frowning the whole time. He gave an exaggerated wrist swirl before turning and prancing away.

“What, we’re not gay enough for him?” Mickey said when the waiter had left.

George shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a gay or straight thing. I think he draws his self-worth from making himself feel superior to his customers.”

“Why should he care who’s superior? Anyway, it’s you he hates. ‘What kind of fucking microbrew?’ Who asks that shit?”

George rolled his eyes. “I like beer that has flavor. And I understand why the waiter’s sensitive. It takes brains to do his job well, but there’s zero prestige associated.”

“Who cares about prestige?” Mickey asked. “Is he living for himself or other people?”

“Who’s your biography for, if not for other people?”

Mickey muttered something into his beer bottle.

“Pardon?” George said.

“I said it’s for my fucking father.”

George looked at Mickey for a moment and said, “Families are fucked. We can leave them, go out on our own and never talk to them, but we can’t escape their criticism.”

Mickey looked at George oddly. “Why you gotta philosophize about everything today? My old man don’t criticize me. He’s prouder than punch that I made it so far. Watches me on
TV
with his buddies all the time.”

“So I don’t get it.”

“Obviously. I mean, I’m sorry about your family and all. They sound like pompous windbags, so I guess it’s not your fault you’re like you are. But at some point, George, you gotta claim your life.”

George fingered the stubby base of his glass. It wasn’t the smoothest beer he’d ever tasted, but it had body, and he liked that. “This isn’t about me.”

“Sure it is. You don’t want to write my biography because you think it’s not prestigious. You’re as bad as that fucking gay waiter.”

“You think he’s judging you for preferring big blonds with silicon implants?” Yet another problem George had with the poker scene; it insulated the rednecks from ever having to change their bigoted ways.

Mickey snorted. “Don’t make this about me being a queer-o-phobe. I had friends who used to beat queers up; I never joined them.”

“Nice friends.”

“Nicer than your fucking friends,” Mickey said. “Making you feel like less than a man if you don’t get all the perfect credentials from Snob School.”

“Can we dispense with the abusive preamble and cut to the reason you called me here?”

“Yeah, all right.” Mickey glanced around again. “So I’m talking to Loni after I bust out of the tourney in Niagara — it’s her favorite time to talk, when she thinks I’m down — and she tells me she’s thinking of playing in the Vancouver game.”

“I was at Loni’s table today,” George said. “She’s doing well in the game. I’m surprised.”

“You should be fucking surprised. Not to malign her intelligence, because Loni is one of the most skilled manipulators I know. But neither math nor cards are her forte.”

George hoped this wasn’t the whole reason Mickey had wanted to meet. Sure, with cheaters in the game, it was natural to suspect everything unusual. But — “A monkey could win one of these tournaments if the cards chose to fall that way. Is this why we’re here incognito?”

“We’re not incognito. We’re not wearing disguises.”

“Sorry,” George said. “Wrong word, but you get my meaning.”

“As a writer, you should choose your words more carefully. Maybe I shouldn’t have picked you to write my biography.”

“Would you come off it, Mickey, and tell me what there is to tell.”

“Fine. Anyway, Loni had had some drinks — it was the middle of the afternoon, but life with T-Bone drives her to the bottle at all hours — and she starts saying shit like what if there was a way for her to know everyone’s hole cards.”

“Really,” George said. “Just out in the open. The most skilled manipulator suddenly forgets how to keep a secret.”

“Shit,” Mickey said. “You think she’s playing me?”

“Either that or you’re playing me.”

“Why would I play you? I want to get to the bottom of this scam as much as you do. I would have bailed on this Canadian Classic bullshit tournament if I didn’t think I could help fix it.”

George wasn’t sure what Mickey meant by “fix.” “How many players do you think are cheating?”

Mickey shrugged. “There’s two or three I’d lay money on. I don’t want to say any names until I’m more sure.”

“You’d lay money on them, but you can’t say their names out loud?”

“To lay cash I need odds. To accuse someone of cheating, I need close to a hundred percent.”

George half-smiled. “How did you get these names?”

“Other than Loni — who I’m going to call as a sure thing — I watch them play poker.”

“And if they play a hand they should have folded, they go on your radar?” George asked.

“No. If their eyes say they can see my fucking hole cards, they go on my radar.”

“How do their eyes say that?” George wondered what his own eyes were saying.

“Same way they say if they’re bluffing or holding the nuts. I could always see behind people’s eyes, since I was a kid watching my uncles play.”

“What about the guys who wear sunglasses?”

“Well, they’re the smart ones, aren’t they? But there’s other ways you can tell. How they handle their chips, are their hands shaking or even, are their shoulders tight or relaxed —”

George cut in, “So why would Loni bait you? What did her eyes et cetera say?”

“You know what interferes with my reading skills?” Mickey slammed back the rest of his beer. He held the bottle up and pointed at it to show the snotty waiter he was ready for a new one. “Loni. Because even though I know she’s an opportunistic bitch who would throw me to the curb without glancing back to see if I was bleeding, she’s still my ex-fucking-wife, and I still go crazy when we’re in the same room together. She’s the only thing on this whole scene that makes my radar go kaboom.”

George wrinkled his forehead. “What Loni told you — whatever it means — does that put T-Bone on the radar as a cheater?”

Mickey nodded. “But what I don’t got figured out — and maybe our two brains can work on this together — is why T-Bone would cheat.”

“Yeah,” George said. “I’m not sure either. He’s been a winning player for over fifty years.”

“I’m not saying the man isn’t scum. If he was down and out he’d pimp his grandmother for a ticket to a tournament.”

“But T-Bone’s not down and out, is he?”

Mickey shrugged. “He hasn’t been doing so hot. Since the game exploded into the public eye and the rest of us have been cashing in on these newcomers who like to take chances, T-Bone’s game has been slipping downhill. He hasn’t been able to make the right adjustments to the newer, looser play.”

“Has he been losing money, though? Or just earning a bit less? Cheating seems drastic even for someone you call scum.”

“Put it this way,” Mickey said. “He wouldn’t have a moral opposition. I’ve known the guy a long time. When you were off getting Ivy League educated, I was down in Texas playing cards with the real sharps. You can take notes about that if you like. The Texas years are going to be a great section in my book.”

“Your South Boston friends won’t be upset that you abandoned the neighborhood because you didn’t think it had enough action?”

“I’m not dumb enough to think my Southie friends will read the book.”

“Right. It’s for your father.”

“He loves books. Collects them. He says everything important that ever happened can be found in a book.”

“He doesn’t place a lot of importance on real life.”

“He means big things. The things that change history. If I could come home one Christmas and give him a book, all wrapped up, with my picture on it, I’d think I really made it in this world.”

CLARE

Clare ran her finger along the rim of the aluminum bench. She frowned at a pigeon, who dutifully flew away.

“I’m not sure I made the right decision on that exclusivity clause.” Through the cell phone, Kevin’s voice was heavy.

“You don’t want to be exclusive with me anymore?” Clare felt her phone shake in her hand.

“Of course I do. But I want to be exclusive with all of your many personalities.”

Clare watched a tugboat churn solidly through the river, a massive train of logs gliding behind it. She much preferred this working river by the casino over the yuppies and their yachts near her hotel.

“I’m too late,” Kevin said.

She nodded, though of course he couldn’t see. He wasn’t technically too late — nothing physical had happened with Nate except that kiss a few hours earlier.

“It’s not really up to you.” Clare tried to speak gently, so it didn’t sound like she was dictating terms. “It’s my job to be single — to be open to dating, if necessary.”

“Are you falling for someone?” Kevin’s voice rose in pitch, making him sound about twelve. If nothing else, it succeeded in making Clare feel less attracted to him for the moment.

“Of course I’m not falling for a guy who might be a killer.” Clare wasn’t sure why she wanted Kevin to know there was someone here. It was a horrible breach of security — she shouldn’t be talking about the case at all. She tried to tell herself it was in the name of relationship transparency.

“What?” Kevin’s voice deepened again, became angry. “Why would you take such a stupid risk?”

“It’s my job.”

“It’s your job to catch the killer, not fuck him and then let him shoot you.”

“How do you know I’m not aroused by that kind of thing?”

Kevin snorted. “No one is turned on by being shot.”

Clare lit a cigarette. She decided not to correct Kevin by telling him the killer was a strangler. “How have you been the past couple of days?”

“Worried about you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m too safe for comfort. A million security guys are spying on my every move, and my hotel is nowhere near the danger zone.”

“There’s a danger zone? That doesn’t help me, Clare.”

“Whatever. You know I can’t be more specific.” She should have been a lot less specific. Clare hoped her call wasn’t being monitored. “How’s business? Have you started with the YouTube videos?”

“Yep. So far I’ve made ‘Troubleshooting Fuses’ and ‘Maybe Your
TV
is Not Really Broken.’ I haven’t gone live with them. I want to do a big launch all at once, with, like six or eight videos to help solve common problems.”

Clare smiled. “Do you care if I tell Roberta, and put the same idea in her head? A mechanic isn’t competition, right?”

“Yeah, of course, tell Roberta. I’m not competitive anyway, even if she was another electrician.”

That was true. But Clare wasn’t hot for Kevin’s non-competitive side. “How’s my Triumph?”

“Sitting quietly in my garage. It’s been lousy weather — rainy and windy. Besides, I wouldn’t feel right riding your bike without you holding on behind me.”

Kevin was the first man Clare had ever allowed to drive her motorcycle. Though she would never say so out loud, she preferred to be a passenger when she was with him.

“My Triumph likes you,” she told him. “You’d be fine on it alone.”

“Thanks.” Kevin sounded surprised. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”