Death Plays Poker (5 page)

CLARE

Clare looked around and felt like laughing. She was standing at a bar with a stocky middle-aged gambler, wearing an electric blue dress that was almost certainly over-the-top even given her cover role, trying to find a killer in a haystack. If this was law enforcement, Clare wondered how anyone slept at night.

Of course Cloutier was right: Clare wasn’t qualified to be there. But she didn’t know what else she’d do for a career. She could take cars apart in her sleep, and she enjoyed it, but she didn’t get any thrill from the idea of spending her life as an auto mechanic. Undercover work made Clare feel alive. It used all her skills and senses. Her cover costume — in tonight’s case, the cocktail dress — was her superhero cloak. Wearing it, Clare wasn’t the angry kid from the trailer park, but a confident woman who could save the world from bad guys.

“You want another beer?” Mickey pointed to her empty bottle.

“Sure,” Clare said. “This round’s on me.”

“Keep your money.” She had picked up her purse, but he waved her off. “It don’t look right if people see you buying me drinks.”

“On the contrary.” Clare unfastened her glittery clutch. “It looks like I actually want to spend time with you.”

A grin spread across Mickey’s round face, making him look like a happy old monkey. “You sure you don’t want to date for real?”

“Positive.” Clare ordered a Bud for Mickey and a Heineken for herself.

“You ever change your mind, kid, I’m not half as bad as they say.”

“Tell you what.” Clare handed Mickey the Budweiser, wishing she could keep it and pass off the Heineken. “If all the men my age die or get herpes, I won’t totally discount the possibility.”

“You make an old man blush.”

From behind Clare, a female voice said, “You’re really splashing onto the scene, huh?”

“Hi, Elizabeth,” Mickey said. “Have you met Tiffany?”

“We met this morning. She donked me out of the tournament.” Elizabeth’s gaze moved up and down Clare, making her feel like she probably did look ridiculous.

“Rough luck,” Mickey said.

“At least I played my cards right. Anyway, congratulations . . . Tiffany. You’re sure making an impression your first day.”

“What do you mean?” Clare toyed with her beer label. That was one habit no cover role could cure her of.

“I mean all the guys have noticed you. Which is a real feat, considering most of them are only fascinated with their bank accounts and the cards in their hands.”

“I’m sure you don’t have trouble getting men to notice you.” Clare smiled benignly.

“I never said I did.” Elizabeth frowned. “I have a boyfriend, anyway. He’s over there in the striped shirt.”

“His mother pick that out for him?” Clare said, then wished she hadn’t.

“The shirt? I did.”

“Oh. It’s nice.”

“You don’t have to like the shirt,” Elizabeth said, “but you don’t have to patronize me either. I’m not a dumb little debutante like the rest of your friends.”

“What?” Clare didn’t think there was such a thing as a debutante in this day and age. Maybe in the Deep South, but not in Canada.

Mickey snorted. “Elizabeth, where do you come from that you think speaking like that is okay? You think the kid doesn’t have feelings? Sorry you lost today — but fucking get over it.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows lifted. “Etiquette lessons from Mickey Mills? What’s next, poker lessons from Tiffany?” Elizabeth walked a few steps away, then pivoted on her two-inch heel and returned to the bar. “Listen, I want to apologize. I’m tense tonight. I don’t like losing. But it’s not your fault.”

“No?” Mickey glowered at Liz. “So why the Jekyll and Hyde act?”

Elizabeth clenched her teeth so hard that Clare could see her cheeks tighten. “Tiffany played well today. I came back to say good job, congratulations, maybe we can be friends.”

“Um. Thanks.” Clare tried to keep the skepticism from her voice. “I know I didn’t play well. I hope to soon, but I’m still learning the game. Today I got lucky.”

“Whatever happened,” Elizabeth said, “I’m sorry I was a bad sport.”

“Yeah,
that
isn’t like you.” This from Mickey.

“Remind me never to apologize to
you
.” Elizabeth scowled as Mickey made a retreat in the direction of the men’s room. “Listen, whatever he’s told you about me, I swear I’m harmless.”

“I’m sure that’s not true either,” Clare said. “I’ve seen you on
TV
. You’re ruthless.”

“Thanks.” Elizabeth smiled, this time from her eyes. “Are you on the waiting list for tonight’s game?”

“Yeah.” Clare felt her breathing constrict as she said it. It didn’t matter whose money was on the line; she was nervous as hell to play in a cash game with these people.

Elizabeth said, “I could help you. T-Bone’s steaming. You can use that.”

“Maybe some other time.” Why was everyone so concerned with helping her? At least Mickey had been up front about what he wanted from Clare — or from Tiffany, because the real Clare on his arm might not be such a trophy — in return.

“Mickey already offered to help you.”

“Um.”

“You don’t have to answer, if it’s supposed to be some secret.”

“It’s not a secret.” Clare glanced in the direction of the washroom, where Mickey was chatting with someone. “I don’t know what it is. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

“By the poker scene?”

Clare nodded.

“Not the same world you read about in
Harrington on Hold’em
?”

“Right,” Clare said genuinely. She wasn’t sure if she was reacting right now as Clare or as Tiffany. “This is nothing like I pictured it would be.”

“It gets easier.” Was Elizabeth being kind?

“It does?”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth said. “You learn who your friends aren’t.”

GEORGE

George cupped his hands around his mug as he watched his MacBook boot up. The hotel was quiet — most people were out at the gambling party. He had the evening to himself to work on his secret project.

He took a sip of the coffee he’d made from the so-called espresso machine in the room. It was as bland as any motel room percolator’s, but at least someone was trying to make a change in the right direction. He reread his first scene, about Willard Oppal’s death, and he began to type the next scene.

June 2010

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Flash back to the beginning. The poker scene is normal — not a hotbed of murder; just a bunch of selfish people trying to make a living off of other people’s mistakes. Peter Pan would be proud: every night’s a party, every day’s a photo op. The real world is as far away as Mars.

Josie Carter.

You’re alone in your hotel room. You’ve had a good day at the tables and you’ve poured yourself a drink. You have a date tonight, but you’re not going to make it.

You don’t know this, though, so you slide into a cocktail dress, some slinky thing that shows off your 26-year-old curves, and you bring your drink into the bathroom to apply your makeup.

The TV’s on — an
Entourage
rerun. You like the raunchy humor, the
au courant
cultural references. It makes you feel hip, in the game.

You light a smoke. You know this shit is killing you — but wait — smoke away, Josie. You’re one of the few people who can enjoy the privilege with impunity.

If George ever learned his date of death, he would start smoking again immediately. He had quit smoking often, each time deciding that a long life was worth more than the delicious pleasure, the romantic satisfaction, the perfect vile taste of cigarettes.

You exhale into the mirror. You smile as you catch your own eye. You wonder if this is how the TV cameras see you, while you crack jokes with your opponents at the tables, while you slowly amass all our chips.

There’s a knock on the door. You don’t want to answer. You’re enjoying your alone time. As much as you love the spotlight, you’re an introvert at heart.

George had no idea if Josie was an introvert or an extrovert or a pervert. But this was his book, and he could dream away. He’d change the names at the end — he’d make it look like fiction. He could even change the victims’ genders — Josie could become Jose.

“Just a minute,” you call.

You toss a brush through your hair and look through the peephole. It’s someone you recognize, so you open the door.

Should George identify the someone? Give the killer a name? Not for now.

“Do you want to come in?” You say this reluctantly; you hope the caller doesn’t take you up on the invitation.

George hesitated. Should he at least give the killer a gender? It was better, he thought, to give readers something they could sink their teeth into. And a male killer — at least to George — felt more menacing than a female.

He dried the sweat from his palms on his rumpled dress shirt and kept typing.

Your friend comes in. He accepts the drink you offer; he makes himself comfortable on your bed.

“I’m about to leave for dinner,” you say. “Mind if I keep getting ready?”

“Nah,” he says. “Just came to hang.”

“Fine.” You’re irritated. “You like
Entourage
?”

“You kidding? It’s my favorite show. Is this the one where Vince is banging the vegan?”

“Yeah,” you say. Less irritated for the common ground.

You top up your own drink.

George got up for more coffee. It took three cups of this shit to give him the same kick as a real cup of caffeine. He should have grabbed a large from Starbucks — sorry, a
Venti —
on the way up to his room.

Maybe one day George would take the plunge and buy the writing space he craved, in New York or New England. Old, and real, and his. Or maybe he’d pack his things into storage and move to Paris for a year, like the old-school alcoholic writers had done.

One thing he knew: his writing space would have a decent coffee maker. He would grind his beans fresh for every cup. He might even learn how to roast them.

He gave his attention back to Josie.

You’re lifting your blush brush to your cheek when you catch your friend’s eye in the mirror. He’s followed you into the bathroom.

“What’s with you tonight?” you say. “You need some extra attention or something?”

“Nice job.” You think he means the makeup. You wonder if he’s flirting. You don’t think so; he’s one of your buddies. But — what the fuck is going on?

Before you notice, he’s slipped a rope around your throat. For a second you think it’s some crazy kind of foreplay, but when he doesn’t draw the rope away, you become alarmed.

You struggle with your friend. Why is he trying to kill you? Has he taken drugs that make him paranoid? You try to get your fingers between the rope and your skin for long enough to reason with him.

He says in a clear, unimpaired voice, “I told you not to stray from the plan.”

And you know. You pull frantically at the rope. You want to tell him you’re sorry. You’ll get back with the plan — you won’t breathe a word. You’ll be the perfect little poker cheater from this day forward.

You try to scream.

Too late.

You’re dead.

George rolled his eyes at his own melodrama. Of course he wasn’t going to submit this to any publishers in second person. But he would edit later, when he swapped out the real names for fictional ones. It felt good to be writing this freely. Normally he criticized himself so much as he wrote that he probably averaged four words an hour.

You’re Victim Number One. The police think you were killed in a crime of passion. They interview your friends, interrogate your exes, and arrest the middling poker player you’ve just begun to date. When there’s no evidence, they release him. They let the leads dry up until your case becomes one unsolved of many.

George closed the document and double-clicked its icon, making sure his password worked. Yup. Sealed up nice and tight. He didn’t want the world to see these words until they were very, very ready.

CLARE

“I hate it here,” Clare moaned into her Android phone with the stupid pink case. The party was over, she’d lost three thousand dollars at the poker table, and she was nowhere closer to knowing who the killer was. “I wish like hell that I could tell you where I am.”

“I wish you could, too.” Kevin’s voice was strong, and Clare wanted to be wrapped up by his body. “I could fly out and see you on the weekend.”

“You could drive,” Clare said. “I haven’t even left the province yet. And by the looks of things, I’m not going to.”

“Are you allowed to tell me that?”

“I don’t care.” Clare stared at her primly made bed. She should have requested a room with no flowers on the bedspread.

“You should care. I thought you loved your job.”

“I love it when everything’s going right.” If Clare ever found the perfect man, it would be someone who didn’t feel compelled to give her advice about her own job. “Anyway, you couldn’t visit, because my character is supposed to be single.” And then to drive home the point: “In case I have to get close to someone for the assignment.”

“So I shouldn’t consider it cheating.” Kevin was good-natured, which wasn’t the response Clare had been aiming for.

“Exactly. But you have to stay faithful, because you’re still the same Kevin Findlay. With a girlfriend named Clare.”

“Girlfriend?” Kevin said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My girlfriend doesn’t exist. She vaporized yesterday.”

“That’s not how it works.” But Clare smiled despite herself.

“No? You’d better tell me how it works, then.”

“Pretend I’m an actor. The real me and the real you have to stay faithful to each other. But if I’m in a movie — or in this case, a cover assignment — my character might have to interact romantically with another character in the movie.”

“Or the cover assignment.”

“Right.”

“For artistic reasons.”

“Yeah,” Clare said. “Or for espionage.”

“What a life you lead.”

“It’s pretty awesome.”

“So what if I’m off on an electrical job, and — for argument’s sake — a super-hot housewife wants to blow me and double my pay. Does that count as sleeping around in the name of a job? Or would that be cheating?”

“I think that’s prostitution,” Clare said. “Which would be a relationship-ender on a couple of levels.”

“Fair enough.” The sound of Kevin cracking a can of beer came through the phone. “Okay, so let’s say she — it’s the same hot housewife — calls me over because her outlet can’t handle her plug-in vibrator, and it keeps shorting out or blowing a fuse. Is it cheating if I watch her use the vibrator until I can figure out the problem?”

“No,” Clare said. “In that exact situation, you can watch the hot housewife masturbate with no negative impact upon our relationship. You can even help her out, if the situation demands it.”

“Great. Well, thanks for that clarity.”

“No problem.” Clare was starting to feel both more and less homesick. “So we’re good then? You and Clare, that is?”

“Yes.” Kevin grumbled. “And Anastasia DeWitt, or whatever name you’re operating under, is free to mess around with whomever she likes.”

“Thanks.” This was the best of both worlds, right?

Then why, when Clare tossed her clothes on the floor and crawled under that floral-print bedspread, did she feel like she was alone in both worlds?