Hold ’Em Hostage (22 page)

I almost groaned out loud. I didn't need an advertising degree to know that the WSOP was making a PR play—trying to boost their already out-of-sight ratings with a Rosie/Donald knock-down, drag-out. How popular was too popular, I wondered, as I reached the door.

“On behalf of the church and the holy interest of society in general, we accept, only if we can choose the player I will spar with.”

“Fair enough, Reverend,” Whitting hollered.

“There,” I heard Paul boom behind me. “We want her.”

The bouncer at the door put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. Oh no. No way. I couldn't be unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time again, could I?

“Belinda Cooley, Bee Cool, the epitome of the seductive evil of the game—glamorous on the outside and rotten inside—a microcosm of what greed and gambling do to beauty.”

“How do you know Miss Cooley will make the final table? Do you have an alternate choice?”

“She'll make it.”

“But how do you know?”

“I want no one else.”

“Okay. It's a deal, Reverend.”

The PR director was rubbing her hands together in excitement. Reporters, photographers, cameramen began running around like fire ants whose bed had been disturbed. I looked at the bouncer. “Please, please if you have an ounce of decency, let me in so I can hide.”

“Come on, face the cameras, think of the fame, think of the endorsements. Think of the money.”

“I don't want any of that. I just want to be left alone.”

“You came to the wrong place for that, lady.”

A
s I entered the ballroom, I sensed the still electricity
of an impending thunderstorm. When a thousand tables had been reduced to three, it changed the atmosphere. When what was effectively at stake went from losing a ten-thousand-dollar seat to winning fourteen million dollars, it changed the universe.

We'd all win something of course. But perhaps Paul was right about one thing. Greed did play a factor. Who wanted to settle for the twenty-seventh-place winnings when you could smell enough to buy you a medium-size island in the Caribbean?

Having said all that, I was truly the aberration. I didn't want to win. I just wanted my brother and my goddaughter back. I wanted a minute to myself to think about Frank. I wanted to never know of a gang that tattooed parts of snakes, dragons and sharks on their necks. I wanted to never hear of a Phineas Paul and the Church of the Believers. I wanted to rewind life and
not
do all this again.

My dad has always told me that life is all journey. There is no destination. Relish each step along your trip. But, couldn't I wish I'd taken a different fork in the road?

We redrew for tables. One of the players at my table introduced himself as Drew Terry. Clean-cut, well dressed and ordinary as your next-door neighbor, he made my skin crawl. Thank goodness he drew the seat across from me. I couldn't bear footsies with him.

The chemistry of our table was slightly off. A handful of players had gotten this far by chipping away slowly and patiently at other's stacks—the most often recommended tournament strategy—and the rest had lucked into it, both in cards and in timing of their bluffs. It made for a rather bipolar group. And then there was me, who alternately played both ways, depending on the tells around me and environmental factors like how many bodies had been slashed to death around me in the last twenty-four hours. I had a suspicion that affected the quality of my strategy.

I heard one of the commentators call me “patient and methodical” while the other argued I was a loose cannon. I guess it depended on which hand they watched me play. The third commentator settled on comparing my play to the behavior of his manic-depressive aunt who was completely unpredictable off her medication—sane one minute and crazed the next. “But throughout, she's got alligator blood. You never see her rattled.”

I had to smile at that. That's exactly the way I wanted to play because no one would be able to beat me with anything but better cards.

The first level of the night was a bust for me. I didn't get one decent pocket, failed one bluff and sat back and let everyone steal my blinds for the rest of the two-hour block. I could see myself doomed to twenty-seventh place and was almost welcoming it when, the last deal before the break, I got cowboys.

A pair of Kings in the pocket guarantees nothing except a beatable hand, but for some reason, I love this deal. It makes me warm and hopeful. Go figure. Sometimes feeling good is all you have in life. I called in late position to see The Flop.

Another King, and two spades fell—a seven and a deuce. I forced myself to check-raise so I wouldn't scare off the conservatives at the table. There were two guys at our table—one a major pro—who were carefully plotting their ways to a win, never making a mistake, surely checking their poker manual under the table, and I was pretty sure check-raising a three-of-a-kind nuts with two blanks on the board wasn't in there.

I had been full-house poor the whole tournament so when another seven fell on The Turn, I tried not to even breathe harder. Nobody but someone holding pocket rockets or double sevens could best me right now. I reconfigured the odds and liked them. Still, I check-raised again, drawing the mice in, hoping I could salvage this level well enough to stay in. When blinds are nearing a half million, you had to pay attention.

Drew Terry, the skin crawler, had been tapping the table oddly off and on during the night. He was a bit of a Nervous Nelly. It reminded me of something but I couldn't place it offhand. Besides, I was busy now trying to negotiate a win and didn't have time to rack my brain.

I had to push when we got to the 3 of diamonds on The River. I know a couple of players were tempted to force me to show my hand but none of them felt rich enough. They all folded—no one would see my nuts. And that was okay, because they also wouldn't be able to say whether or not I'd been bluffing. My play had not been linear. The pro to my right gave me a sidelong look that I knew said, “Can you even count? And how lucky are you?”

Those were the kind of guys I was dying to show my hand to, but also the kind I was dying to bust out of the game. Patience was not my strong suit, but poker was a great game to teach me that quality. I knew I could bust this know-it-all pro out, but I had to watch and wait.

I giggled, winked at him and gathered my chips, just solidifying his impression of me as a lucky airhead. I'd use that later.

 

I
was on the way to the restroom at the break when
Drew Terry walked up next to me, leaned in and whispered: “I can help you win.”

I drew back, shocked. “I don't need help, thanks.”

“Everybody needs help. Watch my fingers. I'll tell you when we can squeeze the table.”

Watch my fingers.
That was it! That was what had been bothering me. His weird tapping was similar to what Emerald Ear had done at Neptune's. Poker players did all sorts of things with their hands and I guess their appearances had been so dissimilar I hadn't easily made the connection. Was he a member of the Medula? It seemed unlikely, but then the Happy Ending guy running around Neptune's with Dragsnashark had been a surprisingly a clean-cut preppy type too. Maybe it was part of their cover.

I narrowed my eyes at the choir boy. “Where is my goddaughter?”

He blinked innocently. “What are you talking about?”

“I know your people have Affie. I want her released.”

“You're crazy, lady. I just want to do some back scratching so we can both profit.”

Uh-huh. “If you don't help me save a life, I won't help you, you jerk.”

His eyes narrowed to scary slits. He didn't look so much like a choir boy any more. “You'll be sorry, Bee Cool.”

“We'll see who's sorry,” I said, hustling into the ladies' room as soon as I could. Only as the door was easing shut did I see the TV cameras passing by in the hallway. Dammit, were eyes everywhere? I wasn't doing anything wrong and somehow it might look like it. I had to get Terry out of the game and thus reduce the chances he'd drag me into trouble.

I snatched the sunglasses off the top of my head and set them on the counter, suddenly remembering Ringo. Where had he been? I felt a shot of guilt that I hadn't missed him with his usual sunglass check when I'd started the game. Fortunately, I'd had about five pair in my purse and had plucked one out without any thought. I looked in the mirror—I'd put on the Stylists, now on the top of my head. Since I'd started playing tournament poker, I hadn't had to do without Ringo at the start of a game. It was a bad sign.

I dialed Ringo now and got no answer. Maybe he was off enjoying Vegas and not obsessing about my game. I hoped so. “Hey, Ringo, I just wanted to let you know without your expert opinion today, I went with the Stylists. I hope that's okay. See you soon!”

On the way back to the table, I prayed Terry would jump out from behind a potted plant and agree to give me information on Affie. Of course I was dreaming. He was seated and started tapping the moment he saw me as a creepy reminder. It didn't take long to eliminate him, though. The first deal was a pair of eights, which made me pause, and frankly, with now seven at our table, I would have folded had it not been for my fury. Terry was tapping furiously. I was ignoring him. I had the small blind, which gave me good enough reason to see The Flop. The pair of Aces on the board should have only convinced me to bail. But I checked and rode out the hand to Fourth Street where a four fell. The muck made everyone fold but Terry, the man who held the Ace in his pocket—three of a kind—and me with my dead man's hand.

Two pair—eights and Aces—were what Wild Bill Hickok held when he was shot dead at the table. What a portentous sign.

The eight on The River saved me. I had regained what I'd lost in the span of the last couple of hours and knocked another out. Terry held only enough chips for the next blind and he'd have to get lucky to last. He didn't, and faded away when he caught the next small blind. “Damn you. You should have taken my offer because now you won't be the only one who's sorry.”

The rest of the table looked at me and shared bemused glances, before watching Terry as he slammed his chair back and stalked out of the room.

 

T
he WSOP officials announced the dinner break before
I could even consider who I might want to share dinner with. As I strode out the ballroom door and into the hallway, Trankosky sidled up next to me. “Your boyfriend spent the day in the cop shop.”

“You did that on purpose,” I said more vehemently than I'd meant, worried about the lost time finding Affie.

He ground his jaw. “Yes, it was on purpose. Because of a murder investigation. I'm insulted you'd suggest otherwise.”

“I'm insulted you're letting a man get in the way of the job you have to do.”

“We let him go and I see he didn't come running back to you.”

“He has a job to do.”

“What
exactly
do you know about his job?”

“Why do you care?”

“That's a loaded question. Do you really want to hear the answer right now?”

I held his gaze. Oops. “No.”

“I didn't think so.” He slid his hand across my shoulder as he walked on. “You let me know when you want to hear the answer.”

“Bee!” I turned to the sound of the voice and saw Ringo and Carey hurrying up to me.

Beyond the facts that Carey was dressed in breast-to-thigh gold spandex, Ringo wore rainbow plaid Bermudas and it was Vegas, this was certainly an odd pair—Carey nearly a foot taller than Ringo in her five-inch light-up platforms. They were jostling, giggling and generally being goofy. Uh-oh. “What are you two doing?”

“Girlfrien'! Ringo was stressing because he didn't get here in time to make sure your sunglass attire was squared away,” Carey said.

“Good choice.” He approved the Stylists.

“What have you been up to?”

They exchanged a look, then burst out laughing. “I've been showing Ringo
my
Vegas.”

I grabbed Carey's arm and told her, “Be gentle, he's very sweet.”

Carey hooted. “She thinks you're sweet, dude.”

Ringo blushed. I rolled my eyes; clearly this relationship was beyond my control. “Okay, I have a job for you two. Listen up.”

 

B
ecause I'd had to share a rather morbid dinner at
Rotoo's—one of my favorites—with Joe, who not only was ticked at me for speaking to Trankosky, but was probably more ticked Frank had given him babysitting duty, I hadn't eaten much. The lack of appetite was completely unlike me, but as it turned out, it was a good thing, because the last couple of levels tested my stomach.

I was fortunate that none of the big-time pros was at my table, but I was less fortunate in that some real wild cards were. They were all totally unpredictable. It was justice, I suppose, that I was playing a half dozen of me. What the hell kind of strategy was I supposed to adopt?

In the first hand, one guy who called himself an Internet pro and who was chip poor coming into the deal, pushed before The Flop with a deuce/five unsuited and won a boatload on the bluff. That kind of pissed people off, so on the next hand the guy to his right, who was a dealer from New Orleans, went all in on the Jack of hearts, King of hearts, 3 of hearts Flop with only a pair of sixes in his pocket that he rode all the way to Fifth Street. I had folded both those hands, losing a small blind when I thought the water was a bit too turbulent to try to navigate safely. By the time I was ready to bet, the Internet pro had busted, and everyone at the table was reeling from shell shock.

I had to drag my mind from Frank on his way to rescue Affie from the Medula and play my way back into the game.

Four grueling hours later, having fought my way into the final table, I dragged myself back to the Mellagio, slid my key card and opened the door to the suite. Exhausted, I pitched my Kate Spade bag over the back of the maroon couch and swore when it slid off onto the floor. But when I turned back to get it, I saw I had much bigger problems. The floor was wet with blood.