The Auction House

by Vito Zuppardo

  Margaret cut him off and stood, giving them both a kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Howard said.

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “Not you—but I wouldn’t kick you out of bed. I’m talking about Monique.”

  The waiter took his new guests’ cocktail order. Chit-chat rounded the table and sometimes they talked over each other. Mario heard them, but his mind was stuck on Margaret’s comment. She had a poker game at midnight. They were on a date, and she had lined up a card game. His ego shattered when thinking dinner fit in a window between Margaret leaving the poker room and returning.

  Mario argued with himself. Margaret’s gambling was nothing like his job when he’d leave Kate in a restaurant and run to the scene of a crime. Then reasoning hit him. It wasn’t because he was on duty because he wasn’t. It was his choice—he was a cop above everything else. He tightened his jar as reality set in. Margaret had a first love, too—poker. Like him, everything came second to police work, and for Margaret, nothing stood in front of a good poker game.

  The waiter delivered the cocktails to Howard and Monique, then courteously discussed dinner specials. Mario’s eyes rolled as he listened to the endless description of overpriced entrees—just because the chef suggested. Then they followed Mario’s lead and all ordered from the menu.

  While Howard and Monique engaged in what appeared as a private conversation, Mario gave a stare at Margaret and took a chance he wasn’t running a lovely dinner.

  “So, Margaret? Who’s the mark you’re going after tonight?” He tried to keep a pleasant demeanor, but she saw through his fake smile.

  She sipped her cocktail. “Since when are you so interested?”

  “I make it my business when you cut our date short,” Mario said. It came out like he was talking to a criminal in handcuffs. It wasn’t well accepted.

  “Mario, I’m a professional poker player.” She took another sip and drained the drink. “It’s no different than when you get a hot lead and race downtown to make the arrest and start the interview process.”

  She took a deep breath and tried to explain that a man she’d heard about had come into town. She’d tracked his action from Las Vegas to the Gulf Coast. He came with what the poker players called “a deep pocket” and was not afraid to push the table. That was the dream for a skilled gambler to have a loose player with a lot of money. It showed he wanted action. His thrill was throwing the cards across the table when dragging down a pot—only to reveal the bluff. It was not about the money—it was the excitement and the adrenaline rush for these guys.

  Margaret reached in her purse and took out a cell phone, flipping through pictures. “I’m not sure this is his real name, but he’s called Never Wong.” Then she passed the phone.

  Mario, about to down the last of his drink, all but stopped in mid-air, seeing the man’s picture. “They call him Never Wong?”

  “That’s what all the poker magazines call him.”

  Howard was still engaged in a private conversation, but Mario interrupted anyway.

  “Look who Margaret is playing cards with tonight.” Mario gulped the rest of his drink.

  “Are you kidding me?” Howard’s eyes all but popped out of his head.

  He handed the cell phone back to Margaret. “This guy came in on a private jet today. He’s someone’s bodyguard and tried to kill us with a dump truck.” Howard gave a slightly evil grin. “We’ll be paying this guy a visit tonight.”

  “Is this Wong guy a relative of Julie’s?” Mario questioned.

  Howard quickly shot back, “Like Smiths in the states. Half the people in China’s last name is Wong.”

  Margaret clenched her hand. “Mario, you can’t touch this guy until the game is over.” She pulled him by his coat lapel. “Promise! I’ve waited too long to get a seat at a table with him. I don’t think he’s someone’s bodyguard—he’s in too many poker magazines.”

  Mario’s eyes shifted to Howard, then he exhaled loudly. “Okay, when you’re ready to leave the game, call me. Hopefully, you’ll win—you’ll not get a second shot at him.”

  The dinner came, and halfway through, Monique asked Howard, “Can I tell them?”

  Howard gave a forced smile. There wasn’t much he could say. He’d be the fool if he said no. “Of course, tell them the exciting news.”

  Mario watched Howard’s eyes and the hand that swept across his face.

  “I’ve been offered a job in New Orleans, and I accepted,” Monique said, giddy like a teenager on a first date.

  Margaret was the first to congratulate her.

  Mario hesitantly said, “That’s great.” His eyes peered at Howard’s glumness.

  Monique invited Margaret to go apartment shopping with her the next day. She declined, knowing her poker game could run until the following day.

  “Where are you staying until you find an apartment?” Margaret asked. She wanted to retract it when seeing Monique’s face.

  Monique frowned and looked Howard’s way. “The company is putting me up in a hotel.”

  “Howard?” Margaret asked. “Why can’t she stay with you until she finds an apartment?”

  Mario let out a big chuckle. “Yeah, Howard, why not?”

  The waiter delivered the bill and saved Howard from answering the question the rest were so interested in hearing. Howard paid, insisting it was his special night with Monique but mostly to dodge the question and leave without answering.

  Mario dropped Margaret off at the casino valet on Canal Street for her poker game while Howard headed to a nearby hotel where Monique’s company had made a reservation for her. He gave her a kiss goodnight before the hotel doorman greeted them at the curb and walked her inside.

  Chapter 11

  Later, the two detectives met at Mario’s condo. The plush building with a doorman was slightly above Mario’s pay grade, but he loved the location. He justified the purchase because it was close to the French Quarter and the casino, making the Warehouse District high demand, and could fetch top dollar should Mario ever decided to sell.

  The condo’s rooftop patio offered a view of the ships coming upriver. It was the sounds of the city that sold Mario when he was shopping for a residence. Windows surrounded the entire condo, and in the fall and spring, they created a cross draft of fresh air. Mario saw one advantage of living on the second floor—the windows could stay open all night. The sounds of car horns, emergency vehicle sirens, and tug boat horns blasting as they rounded the river bend made New Orleans unique. No other city offered such a variety of sounds and still allowed you to sleep through the night.

  The detectives set up camp at the condo. Howard sat rooftop while Mario made coffee after they both took turns taking a nap. With a few hours under their belts, they were ready to spring into action when the call came.

  The plan was set that Margaret would play poker with Never Wong and alert Mario after getting a shot at his money—win or lose. She was stern in her demand. If they blew her shot of playtime with the notorious gambler, she’d do her best to foil the arrest—if they even had reason to arrest him. Mario didn’t have a choice—he had to play by Margaret’s rules and waited for her to call.

  Howard tried to avoid Mario’s pounding of questions regarding Monique staying with him while searching for an apartment. He finally gave in and explained that Monique popping in every eight weeks or so for a few nights was perfect for him. A full-time girlfriend and a live-in—he wasn’t ready for that type of relationship.

  The sky turned from night to morning in the east as daylight broke through the low clouds and let off a beam of sunshine over the French Quarter rooftops.

  “What the hell time is it?” Howard asked

  Mario peaked at his cell phone. “6:45.”

  “You’re sure Margaret is shooting straight with us?” Howard asked, then poured himself more coffee.

  Mario waved him off for a second cup. Howard understood poker players less than Mario and classified the
m as strange ducks with no regard for money’s value.

  “They play for hours. From night into the next day—she’ll call,” Mario said.

  Howard’s eyes widened as he took a sip of coffee. “It’s been eight hours.”

  Mario laughed. “From what Margaret has told me they’re just getting started.”

  Howard pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster and checked the chamber and clip. Then a pistol from an ankle holster and an eight-inch switchblade and checked them out, too. He opened the knife, then closed and put everything back in place.

  Mario watched then shook his head slightly. “That’s the second time you’ve checked your weapons.”

  “I’m ready to take this asshole apart and beat him into the ground. He’ll beg to die.” Howard cracked his knuckles.

  “If you’re going to beat him to death,” Mario’s eyebrows went upward, “what’s with checking your weapons twice?”

  “No reason. Already determined to kill him with my hands.” Howard grinned. “It has to look like self-defense.”

  “You’re a sick bastard.”

  Howard shrugged his shoulders. “You come at me with a dump truck—there’s going to be consequences.”

  Mario’s phone rang, and his anxiety jumped a notch. Before answering, he checked the screen. “Oh crap. It’s the Chief.”

  “Good morning, Chief,” he said with a bogus happy voice.”

  “What are you so happy about?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “We have a meeting with the Mayor at ten o’clock,” she said. “I want you and Howard there—need someone on my side at the meeting.”

  Mario rolled his eyes across the table at Howard. “Sorry, Chief, we were in a stakeout all night and are about to bust a case open—we both need to get some sleep, plus still hurting from getting hit by the runaway dump truck.”

  She jumped down his throat. “Remember who helped make you capitan on the force so you could stop these all-night vigils.”

  He didn’t respond, hoping she’d drop the inquiry.

  “What case?”

  The phone stayed silent. Mario learned a long time ago that the best way to handle the Chief was not to respond. Telling her he was working an unauthorized case by phone wasn’t a good idea, although it crossed his mind—it could be less dangerous than facing the consequences in front of her. He chose to let her keep asking questions until she got tired of him not reacting.

  “And by the way! What the hell have you two done for the last few days?” Chief Parks wasn’t one to hold her tongue. “I want a checklist of cases and updates. Pick me up in the garage at 9:50 a.m.” The phone went dead.

  “We’re going to have to come clean,” Mario said as he clicked the call off. “The Chief is pissed and wants us at a meeting in a few hours.”

  “Let’s go bust this guy,” Howard said, gulping the rest of his coffee down.

  “I promised Margaret I’d wait for her call.”

  Howard gave his evil smile. “You promised—not me. Deal with your girlfriend. Someone on that jet knows who hired the dump truck. I’ll beat Mr. Never Wong’s ass until he gives it up.”

  The detectives freshened up, which amounted to splashing water on their faces and swishing mouthwash, giving a good rinse to freshen their coffee breath.

  A few minutes later, they arrived at the front entrance of an empty casino parking area. Too early for the morning crowd, and only a few degenerates still mulling around. Again, a flash of a badge to the valet man standing at the podium got a nod of approval.

  Mario flagged down a security guard, identified himself, and put them on alert that he might arrest a man in the casino.

  The detectives strolled to the poker room, and Mario described to Howard just how often arrests were made in the casino. It wasn’t uncommon for cops to pull someone from a gambling establishment. Security might call for backup on an unorderly drunk or two gamblers disagreeing, and before anyone knew, they are rolling on the floor fighting. That would get you arrested every time.

  A person winning a jackpot usually over a few thousand dollars must provide a driver’s license before the payout. The name then ran through a database that showed if the person had an outstanding warrant, federal tax lien, or past child support owed. If so, they weren’t walking out with the money. The police would drag them out, and a court would decide how much money, if any, was due to the person.

  An arrest Mario heard about brought a smile to his face as he was describing it to Howard—as if he enjoyed the person’s terrible luck.

  One unlucky winner hit the bad beat jackpot in the poker room for over a hundred thousand dollars.

  The first he heard of a bad beat was from Margaret. A pool of money was divided between two players when one loses with four of a kind or higher. Howard shook his head—he was lost in the description.

  During the celebration, the bad beat winner graciously handed over his driver’s license to the casino manager to collect his money. The license scan showed a warrant for his arrest in Alabama for an armed robbery. He had robbed a merchant of two hundred dollars at gunpoint, and a judge ruled he used the stolen money to play in a poker game. Not only did the guy get a ten-year sentence, but when he got out of jail, there was no jackpot money waiting for him.

  Howard stayed off to the side while Mario got the poker room manager’s attention. The detective’s plan was to politely take Never Wrong out of his seat just after the next hand. Hopefully, he’d go peacefully. Howard hoped for a confrontation—of which Never would surely lose.

  The hand ended and Mario made his approach toward the table. Margaret wasn’t seated and as she came from the lady’s room, she shouted to the dealer to deal her in. She only had about twenty seconds to play the cards, or the dealer would muck the hand.

  She grabbed Mario by the coat lapel as she passed him. “One more hand. I’ve got him on tilt. It’s taken nine hours to get him to this point.”

  “What the hell is a tilt?”

  “Mario, I don’t have time to explain poker slang,” she said, then walked away. Taking her seat, she shot Mario a wicked stare then looked at her cards.

  The bet was two hundred, and she was looking down at her cards which consisted of a four and seven of hearts. The first reaction was to toss the cards and save the money. It was possibly the worst hand you could have in poker other than they were both hearts. You might draw to a flush but lose to someone with a higher flush. Her poker skills told her to toss the hand and take the money she’d won from Never Wong and call it a night, wishing she showed Never earlier the hand she won from him on a stone-cold bluff—it would have given her some satisfaction.

  It was the last hand with Never before the detectives would haul him off, and who knew if she’d run across him again. Maybe Mario had something on him and he’d go to jail—she’d never get another shot. She called the bet, and so did three other players. The flop came, and it was a three and six of hearts, followed by a seven of clubs.

  Wong had sat all night with a stone face, and this hand was no different. He peeked at his cards for the second time after the flop. Not only looking twice, but when the seven showed at the flop, his eyes shifted quickly from the seven on the board to his hand. Margaret was sure he had pocket sevens.

  He bet a thousand, and only Margaret called.

  The turn came, and she saw from the corner of the card a heart. Her mind raced, wondering if the seven of hearts in her hand would be a high enough flush to win. The dealer laid the card flat and exposed a five of hearts.

  Margaret’s mind continued to race. As a professional, she didn’t talk during a hand which was a dead giveaway you were nervous. No matter what he had, the river card couldn’t beat her. She had what was called in poker as the Nuts—she couldn’t lose.

  Checking the board one more time and then the two cards in her hand, her heart beat rapidly—she had a straight flush.

  She thought of an old trick learned from her father. He said when you’re one hundred percent
sure to win the pot talk to your opponent. Get in his face, show weakness.

  “Sending you back to Never Never Land, Never Wong.” Then she laughed. Not nervously but strong and at him.

  The dealer said, “Ms. M., it’s your bet.”

  She had to make a bet big enough not to run him off but enough to suck him in. She pushed five hundred—a good sign of weakness. Her hand shook, purposely pushing the chips out, and continued the mocking—another sign of weakness her father taught her.

  “Mr. Never Land, I’ve got the Nuts—save your money.” No one would ever say they have the Nuts in the middle of a hand—but Margaret followed her father’s teachings.

  “That’s the best you can say?” Never gave a grin. The most dramatic expression he’d given all night, then called the bet.

  The dealer turned the river card—a five of diamonds. Margaret, first to bet, studied the board as if she were thinking of what he might have—another talent learned over the years.

  Margaret tapped the table. “I check.”

  Never quickly shouted, “All-in.” and threw one chip in, confirming his bet. It was a traditional way of making an all-in bet, so the person didn’t have to break down his stack if the other person didn’t call.

  Margaret puffed her cheeks, moved in her seat, then asked the dealer, “How much?”

  The money in front of Never was counted out by the dealer. “Twenty-eight thousand, two hundred,” he said.

  Margaret had more than enough to cover the bet and quickly said, “I call.” Then counted out the amount—pushing it into the pot.

  The dealer took Never’s full stack and pushed all his chips in the center of the table. The remainder of the players sat, eyes glued on the two finalists. The anticipation to see one person take down a record sized pot was exciting to poker players even if they weren’t in the game.

  With enthusiasm oozing from his excited body, Never stood and flopped his cards in the center of the table. As expected, he had pocket sevens. “Full house—move on, lady, you’re playing with a big dog,” he said as a grin broadened across his face. “Your flush simply doesn’t win the pot.”