Death Plays Poker (3 page)

GEORGE

Mickey Mills fidgeted with his cigarette pack on the table. “I’m telling you, Georgie. You should take me up on my offer. There’s thousands of people — maybe millions — who want to read my life story. You stick your name on this sucker and your writing career will soar through the roof.”

George stared past Mickey and out of the diner to the main floor of the casino. Slot machines dominated the scene — waves of neon and flashing
LED
s with bells and cheap carnival music to make you think it was a game, giving away your welfare check to sit there all day in an adult diaper. A large woman in spandex stood midway between two machines. She played them both with a dexterity George would have admired had it not been for the desperation in her posture — the quick, tense movements that told George she would mortgage her cat for another token to put in the machine.

George turned back to Mickey. “Unfortunately, Mick, most of those thousands are either poker players or your relatives, which means that even if I write the most brilliant biography in the history of time, they’ll wait until the free copy hits the library.”

“No, man. I got fans. You should check out the Internet. The World Wide Web. I got fan clubs all over the place.”

“I’m sure that’s true. You’re a poker legend.” George pushed his thick red glasses up on his nose. Seeing smudge marks, he pulled them off and wiped them with his shirt.

“So what are you pretending to hesitate for? You don’t like my terms? They’re negotiable.” Mickey took out a cigarette and started rolling it between his stubby fingers. A busboy walked by and looked nervously at Mickey. “Don’t worry,” Mickey told the kid. “I’m not gonna light up.”

George hadn’t smoked for four years, but watching Mickey toy with his cigarette made him want one. And what
was
he pretending to hesitate for? George had only agreed to this meeting because Mickey had cornered him when he’d been having a heart-to-heart with Fiona, and the fastest way to get rid of Mickey had been to say yes. No way was George writing Mickey’s biography. “I have a lot on the go at the moment. Maybe try one of the other writers.”

“I want you.”

“Why?” George hazarded the guess that Mickey had peddled this offer to the other writers on the scene and come up dry.

“People take you seriously.” Mickey spoke earnestly, as if from a script. “If you write my biography, they’re gonna take
me
seriously. You’re not like the other poker writers. You’re classy.”

George had once heard someone say that if you used the word classy, it meant that you weren’t. Not that the judgment would bother Mickey even if it were true.

“Why do you need strangers to take you seriously?” George asked. “You win piles of money at poker. Isn’t that its own reward?”

“Maybe thirty years ago the cash was exciting.” Mickey cast his glance down in dejected dismissal. “But that thrill is long gone. I still like beer more than Dom Perignon, and most of what’s extra goes to my douchebag ex-wife.”

“That must piss you off,” George said.

Mickey shrugged. “I still got enough to send home, keep my parents in style. They won’t move outta Southie, even though I keep sending brochures for these tropical fucking paradise old folks homes I wouldn’t mind checking myself into for a rest. But I paid for their new furnace last year, and when my mom broke her hip, I arranged for a nurse around the clock. That feels good.”

“So why a book?” George asked, pulling at a pill on his plaid flannel shirt sleeve and making it worse. “You just said it: the human rewards are way more exciting.”

“Because look at me.” Mickey grabbed a chunk of his graying black hair. “My parents don’t got too many years left. I’m gonna need something else — something that ain’t material — to make me feel like my life has some kind of purpose.”

“Then you should think about doing something, not having something written. Volunteer in a youth home. Start a charity. What do you want to see done differently in the world?”

Mickey snorted. “I want to see a new book on the shelves. No offense, George, but stop trying to know me. I know what I want, and I want you to help me. Can you just say yes or no?”

“What about a ghost writer?” George tried to sound upbeat. He didn’t hate Mickey; he just didn’t want to write this damn biography. “You tell the story how you want it, and it’s only your name on the cover.”

“Maybe you haven’t been listening to me. Which is sad, George. I thought writers were supposed to be good listeners. I want your name on the cover.”

“I have too much on the go right now.”

Mickey cast his glance around the diner like he was trying to find the secret angle, the one that would finally convince George. “Think of all the books we could sell if we do this together. You know how hot
Suicide Kings
is?”

Of course George knew. He tracked sales statistics for his poker strategy book obsessively. It wasn’t exactly falling off the shelves, but it was holding its own, close to the top in its category.

“People are going to buy something right now just ’cause it’s by you. Add my name into the mix and we got an instant bestseller.”

“Thanks for the praise, Mick. I’m gonna take a pass.”

George could only imagine what his family in Boston would say if he started writing biographies of poker players. He might as well get a tattoo saying
Charlatan
in big red letters on his forehead and wear it home for Christmas.

Mickey was scowling. “What does that mean, ‘take a pass’? What a stupid expression. Just say, ‘No, Mickey. Fuck you. I’m not writing your goddamn biography.’”

“I said exactly that.” George took a sip of the tepid black coffee. “Minus the fuck you.”

“This is nuts!” Mickey’s coffee splashed over into its saucer as he slammed it down. “You guys should be banging down
my
door. Fucking snobs, all you writers.”

“I’m sorry, man. I’m really busy,” George said. “I have my blog, I’m guest hosting Fiona’s show for the Vancouver leg, I’m pitching 2+2 Publishing about a sequel to
Suicide Kings
. Not to mention I’m playing in a tournament.”

“You call that playing?” Mickey snorted. “More like blinding off until you fade away. You have to actually play a hand sometimes.”

“I choose my spots carefully.” George knew Mickey was right about his game. Although Mickey had busted out in the second round of the tournament, he had gone out with gusto, and had probably already made his entry fee back from the cash games he’d been playing all afternoon. George’s poker game, though technically competent, was too peppered with fear to ever make him a star.

“Let’s hope you choose your writing projects less selectively than your poker hands, or you’ll be out of work until you’re a hundred.”

“Thanks for the offer, Mickey.” George pulled out enough money for both coffees and set it in the middle of the table. “I’m sure you’ll find the right fit for your project.”

“Take your fucking money.” Mickey grabbed the ten-dollar bill and thrust it into George’s hand. “You think I’m such a degenerate gambler, I can’t pay for a coffee when I invite someone out for one?”

“No. I didn’t think that.” George replaced the money in his wallet and stood up. “I’ll see you around.”

As George rode the elevator up to his room, he felt anticipation tingle in his veins. Tonight, he was continuing his real writing project — the one he hadn’t told a soul about.

CLARE

Clare was walking through the hotel lobby after dinner with Cloutier when she practically collided with Mickey Mills.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going.”

“Sorry.” Clare looked up to see an unshaven face scowling at her. “I guess I was lost in thought.”

“You’re the kid who pissed off T-Bone.” Mickey’s hostility vanished as quickly as it had come. “Good for you.”

“How did I piss off T-Bone?” Clare found that dramatic. “I called down one hand. He was bullying me all day.”

“Well, you’re under his skin,” Mickey gestured with his hands, sliding two fingers under his other palm, “which is a piece of very good luck. You can use that if you’re at the same table again.”

“I can?” Clare wondered if this stocky little man was about to give her some tips. She hoped he would, but quickly. She wanted to go upstairs and phone Kevin, her boyfriend, at home. And change into some sweats — even if they had some designer logo on the ass. And fall asleep.

Mickey’s dark eyes flitted around the lobby. He ticked his pointer finger in her direction. “I can help you make T-Bone’s temper work in your favor, but you gotta do something for me in return.”

Naturally. “Thanks. I’ll be all right.”

“You mental?” Mickey furrowed his brow. “I said I’ll help you take down T-Bone Jones. Most newbies would jump at that chance. Hell, most newbies wouldn’t
get
that chance.”

“I’m not most newbies.” Clare studied the tips of her pointy pink boots. She wasn’t used to wearing heels with jeans, but there was something cool about it. She liked feeling taller as Tiffany. “I don’t like to owe people favors.”

Mickey’s eyes relaxed. “Is that all? You can do the favor up front. Then I’ll owe you.”

Clare thought about this. “What if your advice doesn’t work?”

Mickey laughed. “Then I’ll coach you for free. Hell, I’ll do that regardless — I like the spirit in you. You following the tour to Vancouver?”

Clare wished she knew the answer to that. “Probably. I’ll think about your offer.” She started to walk toward the elevator and stopped. “Anyway, what’s the favor you want from me?”

A grin spread across Mickey’s face. “Promise you won’t get creeped out?”

“No.”

“I need a date for tonight.”

“Creepy.” But Clare stayed where she was.

“Don’t take it the wrong way. You don’t gotta have sex with me or nothing. I just need a date for this party.”

“You don’t have one yet?” Clare looked at her watch. “It’s almost nine.”

“It’s not the kind of thing you normally bring a date to. It’s just . . . okay, my ex-wife is hosting it.”

“Your ex-wife lives in Niagara Falls?” Clare was surprised.

“Loni? No. She lives in L.A. She’s hosting the party in the back room of a bar and grill.”

“Why the back room?”

“It’s a poker game. Nosebleed stakes. You know how much a casino robs you for, playing for that kind of money?”

“No.” Clare assumed it must be a lot, or the
RCMP
wouldn’t have such a liberal budget to ensure that poker stayed safe in the public eye.

“They rake as much as you can win, if you’re playing half-decent players.” Mickey shook his head with scorn. “I feel like I’m working for the government half the time, and the other half I’m earning for the goombas running the casinos.”

“I still don’t see why you need a date. If you’re going to gamble all night, what’s my job?”

“Your job is to cheer me on. Bring me drinks. I’ll buy them — I don’t want you to be out any cash for this — but a sweet girl on my arm will do wonders for my game.”

“How?”

“My ex’s new boyfriend is T-Bone Jones.”

Clare laughed. It sounded a bit like a snort, so she quickly pitched her voice higher and turned it into a Tiffany-style titter. “I should have known your motivation for helping me beat T-Bone wasn’t pure.”

“No one’s motivation ever is.”

Mickey shifted his weight from one foot to the next like a kid who had to use the bathroom. “So not only will you beef up my self-esteem — which is more fragile than people think — but if you play it right, T-Bone’s gonna frustrate himself into giving me all his money. Then he’ll hate you even more, and it’s gonna be that much easier for you to get him to lose his cool at the table.”

Clare wasn’t sure if Mickey’s logic worked, but she had to take him up on his offer. Getting in with Mickey Mills might be just the way to show Cloutier she was the right person for this case.

“How will a fake date beef up your self-esteem?” Clare didn’t want to seem too eager to accept the invitation.

“Because my ex-wife is a total fucking cunt — pardon my language — and I would love to see the look on Loni’s face when I walk in with the hottest new broad on the scene.”

Clare wasn’t used to being thought of as hot — not by so many people in one day. She knew she shouldn’t like the feeling too much — it was only her cover character inspiring the attention — still . . . “Two conditions,” she said.

Mickey’s eyes widened.

“No
PDA
s.”

“What the fuck’s a
PDA
?”

“No cuddling, no hand-holding. Nothing.”

“Fine, I wasn’t gonna be all over you. You just have to come up to me the odd time, maybe rub my shoulders —”

“I’m not rubbing your shoulders.”

“You don’t gotta be so cold about it.” Mickey brushed his arms and shivered as if it was forty below.

Clare put a hand on her hip. “Condition two: if anyone asks, we’re there as friends.”

“Ah, come on. Why can’t we say we’re on a date?”

“Because you’re thirty years older than me, and if I meet someone I
do
want to date, it won’t be worth any poker lessons if I have to turn down real romance.”

“Fine,” Mickey said, glancing down as if she’d hurt his feelings. “We’ll say we’re friends. But only if we’re asked directly.”

“Deal. So why is your ex such a . . .” Clare wasn’t prudish, but Tiffany wouldn’t repeat Mickey’s epithet. “. . . bitch?”

“You mean besides the million bucks she convinced the judge to award her in our divorce, which I’m still fucking paying in installments?” Mickey scowled at the lobby carpet. “I’m not worth a million bucks. Don’t know why she should be.”

“Maybe the judge went by income instead of net worth,” Clare said.

“Fucking hell. You on her side already?”

“Would I have to change clothes for the party?” By her own standards, Clare was dressed up already, but she had a whole new wardrobe in her hotel room, courtesy of the
RCMP
.

“Up to you,” Mickey said. He was in dress pants and a pressed shirt, which seemed to be his everyday attire. “You’d be sexier than Loni if you wore a paper sack.”

“I have this blue D&G dress I’ve been dying for an excuse to wear.” Clare might as well do this wholeheartedly. She had to show Cloutier she was serious. “I’ll meet you back in the lobby in ten minutes.”