Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3

by Jeffery Deaver

  Ralston suggested setting off some explosion on the grounds. Blow up a car or pull the fire alarm.

  But Jake didn’t like that. “Fuck, as soon as anybody hears that they’ll know something’s going down, the money’ll have guards all over it.” Then the biker blinked and nodded. “Hey, you noticed people getting married around here a lot?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And everybody getting their pictures taken?”

  Ralston caught on. “All those flashes, yeah. You mean, blind ’em somehow with a camera?”

  Jake nodded. “But we walk up with a camera, the guards’d freak.”

  “How about we get one of those flashes you see at weddings. The remote ones.”

  “Yeah. On tripods.”

  “We get one of those, set it up about halfway along the walk. When they’re nearby we flash it. They’ll be totally fucking blinded. We come up behind. They won’t fucking know what hit them. I like it. Think we can find something like that around here?”

  “Probably.”

  The men paid for their beers and stepped out into the heat.

  “Oh, one thing?”

  “Yeah?” Jake grunted.

  “What about…you know.”

  “No, I don’t fucking know until you tell me.”

  “A piece. I don’t have a piece.”

  Jake laughed. “I’m curious. You ever used one?”

  “Fuck, yes.” In fact, no, he’d never fired a gun, not on a job. But he was pissed that Jake seemed to be laughing at him about it.

  When they were in the window-washing truck, Jake grabbed his canvas backpack from behind the seat. He opened it up for Ralston to see. There were three pistols inside.

  “Take your pick.”

  Ralston chose the revolver. It had fewer moving parts and levers and things on the side. With this one he wouldn’t have to ask Jake how it worked.

  * * *

  THE BANQUET HALL WHERE Go For Broke was being shot was huge and it was completely packed.

  The place was also decked out like every TV set that Mike O’Connor had ever been on: A very small portion—what the camera saw—was sleek and fashionably decorated. The rest was a mess: scaffolding, bleachers, cameras, wires, lights. It looked like a factory.

  The contestants had finished with hair and makeup (except Kresge: “You get me the way I am, leave me the fuck alone”) and the sound man had wired them—mikes to their chests and plugs to their ears. They were presently in the greenroom, making small talk. O’Connor noted the costumes. Sandra Glickman was low-cut and glittery; Kresge was still in his hat-backward, show-the-tats mode. Stone T was subdued South Central and had gotten Felter’s okay to wear Ali G goggles, not nearly as dark as sunglasses; you could get a good look at his eyes (for the “drama” when he won a big pot or ended up busted, presumably). Charles Bingham was in another blazer and razor-creased gray slacks. He wore a tie but an ascot wouldn’t’ve been out of place. Dillon McKennah wore the de rigueur costume of youthful West Hollywood, an untucked striped blue-and-white shirt over a black T-shirt and tan chinos. His hair was spiked up in a fringe above his handsome face.

  O’Connor had been dressed by Diane in “older man sexy.” Black sports coat, white T-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. “Gunfight at the O.K. Corral,” she’d whispered and kissed him for luck. “Go break a thumb.”

  The production assistant—not the big gay fellow from L.A., but a young nervous brunette—stood in the greenroom’s doorway, clutching a clipboard, a massive radio on her hip. She listened to the voice of the director from the control room and kept glancing at her watch.

  Television was timed to the tenth of a second.

  Suddenly she stiffened. “All right, everybody, please. We’re on in three.” She then rounded them up like cattle and headed them to the assembly point.

  There, O’Connor looked at the monitor, showing what the viewers around the country would be seeing: splashy graphics and some brash music. Then the camera settled on a handsome young man—dressed similarly to Dillon McKennah—sitting at a desk, like a sports commentator. Beside him were an African-American in a suit and a skinny white guy in a cowboy outfit.

  “Good evening, I’m Lyle Westerbrook, your host for Go For Broke. Two exciting days of no-holds-barred poker. And joining me here are Andy Brock, three times winner of the World Championship of Poker in Atlantic City. Welcome, Andy.”

  “Good to see you, Lyle.”

  “And Pete Bronsky, a professional gambler from Dallas and the man who wrote Making a Living at Cards. Hi, Pete.”

  “Back at you, Lyle.”

  “This is reality TV at its most real. You are watching live, on location, six individuals who aren’t playing for prestige, they aren’t playing for a charity of their choice. They’re playing with their own hard cash. Somebody’s going to lose big—a quarter of a million dollars. And somebody’s going to win—maybe as much as six times that. One and a half million dollars is going to be at play tonight. You gentlemen must know the excitement of what our contestants are feeling.”

  “Oh, you bet I do, Lyle…”

  O’Connor tuned out of the banter, realizing that this was, in fact, the big time. Millions of people would be watching them and, more important, dozens of network and studio execs would be watching the ratings.

  The bump…

  “And now, let’s meet our contestants.”

  They went out in alphabetical order, as the announcer made a few comments about them and their careers. O’Connor caught Diane’s eye—she was in the front row—when the applause erupted at the mention of Homicide Detail and the character of Detective Mike Olson. Though when, like the rest of the players, he said a few words to Lyle and mentioned the phrase “Save it for the judge,” one of his signature lines from the series, not many people laughed, which told him that the APPLAUSE sign had prompted people to cheer when the name of his show was mentioned.

  Welcome to the world of TV.

  When they were all seated around the table security guards brought in the cash, which had been wire transferred to a local bank yesterday. The audience murmured when the guards, rather dramatically, opened the cases and set them behind each player on a low table. (Was there an illuminated sign that urged, “SOUND AWED”?) The guards stood back, hands near their guns, scanning the audience from behind sunglasses.

  O’Connor tried not to laugh.

  The dealer explained the rules again—for the audience—then with cameras hovering, sweat already dripping, the room went utterly silent. The dealer nodded to O’Connor, to his immediate left. In Texas Hold ’Em, this was the button position, which signified the initial player, since unlike in informal games the players would not be dealing; a pro would be handling that job. O’Connor pushed the small blind out onto the table, the agreed-upon $1000.

  For the big blind, Kresge, to O’Connor’s left, splashed the table, tossing his $2000 out carelessly—very bad form. Chugging a beer, he grinned as the dealer straightened it.

  The hole cards were dealt, the top card burned—discarded—and the flop cards spun elegantly into the center of the table.

  The game proceeded with nobody winning or losing big, no dramatic hands. Kresge bet hard and took some losses but then pulled back. Sandy Glickman, with the quick mind of a natural comedian (and mathematician), seemed to be calculating the odds before each bet. She increased her winnings slowly. Stone T was a middle-of-the-road player, suffering some losses and catching some wins, as did McKennah. Neither seemed like natural players. O’Connor played conservatively and continually reminded himself of the basic poker strategy he’d picked up over the years—and that Diane had helped drill into him in the last few weeks:

  It’s all right to fold up front. You don’t have to play every hand.

  Bluff rarely, if at all. Bluffing should be used appropriately and only against certain players in limited circumstances. Many professional players go for months at a time without bluffing.

  Fold if you th
ink you’re going to lose no matter how much you’ve already put into the pot.

  Always watch the cards. Texas Hold ’Em is played with a single fifty-two-card deck and only seven cards are known to any one player: his two and the five community cards. Unlike counting cards at blackjack or baccarat, knowing those seven won’t give you great insights into what the others have. But knowing the board, you can roughly calculate the odds of whether someone else has a hand that beats yours.

  Most important in poker, of course, is to watch the people playing against you. Some gamblers believe in tells—gestures or expressions that suggest what people have as their hole cards. O’Connor didn’t believe that there were obvious tells, like scratching your eye when you had a high pair in the hole. But he did know that people respond consistently to stimuli—he’d learned this not from his limited experience as a card player but as an empathic actor. For instance he’d noticed that Stone T’s face grew still when he had a good, though not necessarily a winning, hand. File those facts away and be aware of them.

  The game progressed, with Glickman and McKennah up slightly, Kresge, Stone and O’Connor down a bit. Bingham was the big loser so far. On the whole O’Connor was pleased with his performance. He was playing a solid game.

  They took a commercial break and Felter walked out, dispensing water and telling everybody how pleased he was—and how favorable the initial responses were. He walked off stage and they heard the voice of God.

  “Now, back to the million-dollar action,” the commentator said. Then silence. O’Connor and the others couldn’t hear anything else from the host or the pros in the control booth; he wondered how they were critiquing the performances.

  A new deal. The blinds were now increased: five thousand and ten. The button player pushed out the small blind, the one to his left the big. Then the hole cards were dealt.

  Shit.

  O’Connor hoped he hadn’t muttered that out loud. (His mother was watching.) He had a hammer. These were the worst hole cards dealt anyone could have, an unsuited two and a seven. You can’t make a straight—you’re allowed only three cards from the board—and there was no chance of a flush. There was a miraculous possibility for a full house but at best it would be sevens and twos. Not terrible, but still a long shot.

  He stayed in for one round of betting but Bingham and Glickman started raising each other. Kresge folded, spitting out a word that O’Connor knew the standards and practices people would bleep.

  McKennah folded and then O’Connor did, too. He was mentally counting the money he had left—about $220,000—when he realized that something was going on at the table. Bingham, Glickman and Stone were engaged in battle. He sensed that Stone didn’t have great cards but was already in for close to a hundred thousand. Glickman was less raucous than earlier, which told him that she might have a solid hand, and Bingham tried to appear neutral. He fondled the lapel of his blazer.

  The flop cards were the jack of spades, king of diamonds, three of clubs, seven of clubs, six of hearts.

  “Ma’am?” the dealer asked Glickman.

  “Seventy-five thousand,” she raised, sighing, “Think of all the eyeliner that’d buy.”

  The audience laughed. In her routines she was known for excessive makeup.

  Stone sighed, too. And folded.

  Bingham snuck a peek at his cards again. This was a bad tell. It meant that you were double-checking to verify that you had one of the better hands, like a straight or flush. Then he looked over his money. His suitcase was empty and he had only about sixty thousand on the table.

  “All in,” he said. Under standard rules of poker he could call with less than the raise, but couldn’t win more than what he’d put into the pot.

  O’Connor saw the older man’s hands descend to his slacks; he wiped his sweaty palms. His face was still.

  All eyes were on the cards.

  O’Connor was sitting forward. Who won? What were the cards?

  And the announcer said, “And we’ll be right back, folks, for the conclusion of this exciting day in Las Vegas.”

  Agony. The next five minutes were agony.

  The cards remained facedown on the table, the contestants chatted, sipped water. Kresge told a filthy joke to Glickman, who was subdued for a change and she smiled distantly. If she lost this hand she wouldn’t go bust but she’d be way behind. If Bingham lost he’d be heading home.

  No money, no bump.

  Both Glickman and Bingham kept smiles on their faces, but you could see the tension they felt. Their overturned cards sat in front of them. The waiting was torture for O’Connor—and he had nothing to lose.

  After an interminable few minutes during which beer, cars and consulting services were hawked to millions of people around the country, the action returned to the table.

  The dealer said, “Ma’am, you’ve been called. Would you please show your cards?”

  She turned her two over and revealed the full house.

  Bingham smiled stoically. “Ah.” He displayed the ace-high flush. She’d beaten him with one hand better than his.

  He rose and gave her a kiss. Then shook the others’ hands.

  The protocol, Aaron Felter had told them, was that anyone who went bust had to rise and leave.

  Head off down the Walk of Shame, O’Connor dubbed it.

  Departing this way seemed a bit ignominious, but this wasn’t just poker, of course; it was the hybrid of poker on television.

  I want drama…

  The security guard displayed his empty suitcase to the table and the camera—more drama—and then deposited it in a specially built trash can.

  The audience applauded furiously as Sandy raked in her cash.

  After a commercial break and the ceremonial opening of a fresh deck of cards, the play continued. The remaining players were warmed up now and the betting grew more furious. On the sixth hand of this segment, Glickman, O’Connor and McKennah all folded and Stone T went one-on-one with Kresge.

  Then the rapper made a bad mistake. He tried to bluff. O’Connor knew you couldn’t bluff against people like Kresge—in poker or in real life. People who trash hotel rooms and smack their girlfriends don’t have anything to lose. They kept raising hard and O’Connor could see that Stone was breaking the rule he had been reciting to himself all night: Don’t stay in, just because you’ve already spent money.

  Stone pushed in all his remaining stake—nearly eighty thousand—a cool smile on his lips, terror in his eyes, through Da Ali G lenses.

  Kresge took his time finishing a light beer and then, with a sour smile, called the rapper.

  Stone’s two-pair hand was annihilated by an ace-high full house.

  One more contestant was gone.

  There was time on tonight’s show for one more hand and it was during this round that divine retribution, in the form of Mike O’Connor, was visited upon Brad Kresge.

  It was really too bad, O’Connor reflected from the vantage point of someone who happened to have the best hand he’d ever had in poker: a straight flush, jack high. As the betting progressed and Glickman and McKennah dropped out, O’Connor assumed the same mannerisms he’d witnessed in Stone T when the rapper was bluffing.

  You’re an actor, he told himself; so act.

  Kresge was buzzed from the beer and kept raising, intent on bankrupting the old guy. The odds were minuscule that Kresge had a better hand than this, so it seemed almost unfair to drive him out of the game so easily. But O’Connor had always treated acting as a serious profession and was offended by Kresge’s ego and his childish behavior, which demeaned the business. Especially after seeing the sneer on his face when he knocked Stone T out of the game, O’Connor wanted the punk gone.

  Which happened all of ten seconds later.

  Kresge went all in and O’Connor turned the hole cards, his eyes boring into Kresge’s, as if saying: When I stay in a hotel, kid, I clean it up before I leave.

  The audience applauded, as if the good gunslinger had jus
t nailed the bad one.

  Kresge grinned, finished his beer and took O’Connor’s hand, trying for a vise grip, which didn’t work, given O’Connor’s workout regimen. The kid then sauntered off, down the Walk of Shame, as if he could actually set fire to a quarter-million dollars and have more fun.

  Then the theme music came up and the host announced the winnings for the night: McKennah had $490,000. Glickman had $505,000. Mike O’Connor was the night’s big winner with $515,000. Now, the control room mike went live to them and the poker experts took the stage to talk a bit about how the game had gone. The three remaining contestants chatted with them and Lyle for a few minutes.

  Then, the theme once again and the red eyes on the cameras went dark.

  The show was over for the night.

  Exhausted and sweating, O’Connor said good night to the other players, the host and the experts. Aaron Felter joined them. He was excited about the initial ratings, which were apparently even better than he’d hoped. Diane joined them. They all made plans to have dinner together in the resort’s dining room. O’Connor suggested that those who’d lost join them, too, but Felter said they were being taken out to the best restaurant in the city by an assistant.

  O’Connor understood. It was important to keep the buzz going. And losers don’t figure in that.

  Diane said she’d meet them in the bar in twenty minutes; she wanted to call the girls. She headed off to the room and Felter went to talk to the line producer, while O’Connor and McKennah signed some autographs.

  “Hey, buy you a beer?” McKennah asked.

  O’Connor said sure and they started through the huge hall as the assistants took care of the equipment. TV and movies are as much about lights and electronics and computers as they are about acting. The two security guards were assembling the suitcases of money.

  He didn’t have his bump, not yet.

  On the other hand, he was a quarter-million dollars richer.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  “Where’s the bar?”

  McKennah looked around. “The main building. I think that’s a shortcut. There’s a walkway there.”