by Liz Maverick
Peter started, as if he realized what he’d said. “I’m just saying that we have a lot in common. And we understand each other.”
With a disdainful sniff, she said, “I’m not so sure I understand you.”
“I think in the big picture, you do,” he said. “Here’s the thing. I’m saying I made a mistake. I’m saying that I’m sorry about it, especially if it’s made things between three longtime friends pretty rocky. And I’m saying that if I could start this whole thing over again, there wouldn’t be any me and Marianne, and there certainly wouldn’t be any me marrying any Marianne . . . screw it, here’s what I’m asking . . .”
Bijoux suppressed a smile; it was nice to see a boy struggling over her.
“. . . I’m asking, can we at least be friends? We can see where it goes from there, but can we at least be friends?”
She couldn’t help herself; she smiled for real. She thought about Peter coming around for her at Caesar’s and at the craps tables and how he’d just sort of accepted what she was about. He did understand her. And you couldn’t put a price on having someone in your corner who really accepted you for who you were.
“Bijoux? Do I have any sort of chance here?”
“Well, I really couldn’t say,” she teased. “These things take time.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll take that answer. I can appreciate that. And in the interest of full disclosure, there’s something else I need you to know. So that everything’s out in the—”
The unlatched door swung open and Donny walked in. “Hey, you leave her alone,” he yelled as he reached down and pulled Bijoux off the bed.
Peter jumped up and the two men faced each other.
Donny’s eyes narrowed. “Um, Bij. Are you going to be okay if I talk to Petey here for a second?”
She nodded and stepped away, a small thrill in the pit of her stomach as the two men squared off.
“It’s Pete. Or Peter.”
“Okay, Petey.”
They stared at each other in silence. Finally, Peter said, “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you.”
Donny looked even more pissed, if that were possible. “There’s nothing more annoying than fake maturity.”
Peter looked him up and down. “Yeah, there is. Real immaturity.”
Donny got in Peter’s face. “You make Marianne cry, and I will kill you.”
Peter stepped in even closer. “I’ve never made Marianne cry. I don’t think you can say the same.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Get out of my face or I’ll make you very sorry,” Peter growled.
“I’d like to see it. You wanna take it outside?”
“Sure. How about after the tournament and before the annulment?”
“The annulment?” Donny asked.
“Obviously.”
“Annulment,” Donny repeated. “Right. Obviously.” His body visibly relaxed. “Well, if we don’t get to it before the annulment, we’ll do it another time.”
Bijoux cleared her throat. “We’re really late for the tournament. It’s already started.” Stating the obvious, of course. “Will you guys go down with me?”
They stood there, still close enough to plant one on each other if they were so inclined. Donny broke the silence first this time. “I’d still like to beat your face in,” he said pleasantly.
“And I’d still like to beat in yours.”
Bijoux rolled her eyes.
Donny nodded at Peter, an appraising look in his eyes. “All right then . . . So you wanna check out a strip club before we leave?”
Peter cocked his head, giving Donny an appraising look in return. “Sure. Yeah.” He took a step back and straightened his jacket. Then he held out his hand and Donny took it. The two men shook hands in a cursory manner, and the testosterone levels in the room returned to normal, just like that.
As they headed down to the tournament spectator area, Bijoux just shook her head and looked up at the ceiling in wonder. Men. Marianne had better be doing her part at the table to put them in their place.
chapter twenty-two
The featured table wasn’t any big news for Marianne anymore. The cameras followed her around like flies. She sat down in her assigned spot, uncapped her bottled water and set it to one side. She pulled her sunglasses from her jacket pocket and put them on the table, then tucked her jacket around her chair, tying the arms around as she’d seen Johnny Chan do. Then she dumped her card cap on the table and signed in her plastic bag of chips. Thank god it was all beginning to feel old hat, by now, because her focus was wrecked.
Find your killer instinct, Marianne.
After all, there was nothing she could do at the moment about the big mess waiting for her after the game. All she could do was play her best and not create a big mess during the game.
“Way to hang in there,” her seatmate said.
“I was cutting it pretty close,” Marianne said, gesturing to the fairly meager stack of chips in front of her.
“A chip and a chair. That’s all you need. Good luck.”
Marianne nodded and they shook hands. “Good luck to you too,” she said.
Out of habit, she turned around and craned her neck over the crowd to see if she could find her friends behind the rail. To her surprise, Donny, Bijoux, and Peter were all there. She quickly turned back around and stared down at her hands as the ESPN crew finished checking the rigging above. A makeup guy suddenly attacked her, fussing over the size of the bags under her eyes and the slight pallor of her skin. “You must be so tired,” he said, pressing his hand to his chest in dramatic fashion.
He had no idea. This wasn’t quite so much fun anymore. This moment should have been more fun. She’d made it to the final day. She’d be made up and be on TV at the break, interviewing about her game and how she’d gotten into poker. They’d film her trying to do chip tricks, laughing as she, the novice coming from nowhere, adorably messed up.
Marianne would go back to the room, and she and Bijoux and Donny would cram onto one bed, Donny lying between Marianne’s legs with his head on her stomach. They’d point and laugh and scream at the ESPN rerun package. They’d have the time of their lives. Everything would be . . .
“Marianne, could you lift your chin a little?” A light meter was thrust into her face and they took a reading.
She looked around at her competitors. The playing field had condensed to the point where she was actually playing at a table with Howard Lederer, Barry Greenstein, Phil Hellmuth, and Richard Sparks.
Another lucky Dead Money player at her side pointed to the felt in front of her and asked, “Did you mean to have two card caps? Is that even allowed?”
“Oh. Oops. No.” She stared down at the stretched penny alongside the plastic wedding ring that had tumbled out with the rest of her stuff. She stuck the ring back in her pocket and focused.
For the final time, the announcer called out, “Dealers: shuffle up and deal!”
The gears of the tournament began to turn and Marianne headed down the home stretch. Win this thing. Marianne settled in, pushing her blind into the center of the table. Her head might be pounding and her stomach might be protesting, but she was going to give this last run everything she had.
The dealer laid the cards down, waiting as everyone pulled the corners up for the keyhole camera. Jack/ten, suited. She was already in for the big blind, so all that was left was to wait and see what kind of a raise might come out of the table.
There wasn’t a raise. The small blind paid to see the flop, but surprisingly, no one else wanted action. The flop came as a queen, nine, and three, setting Marianne up for a straight. She bet, the small blind called, and they watched a king come down on fourth street. Marianne raised big and scared her opponent out. Oh, well. A small win was better than nothing.
Another round. Marianne looked at her suited jack and nine this time. She paid to see the flop, then instantly regretted it as a pair of kings came on the board. She mucked her cards and
took a hit that was about the same size as her prior win.
As the lights shone down on the table and time passed, jackets were removed and eyes were rubbed. Marianne was feeling incredibly weary—weary with her cards, and with her chips going up and down in small increments. She had the strange sensation of wanting to just chuck it all and end this thing. It didn’t seem like she could win. And it did seem like this game could last forever. No, no suck it up! Focus!
Marianne signaled for another water, blinked to clear her blurry vision and looked at her newest hand. Ace/three, unsuited. As the small blind this time, she paid only a little to see the flop. It came down as ace/five/jack. With the ace showing up, she had to work hard not to show sudden signs of alertness.
There were too many people in this hand. Too many people had paid up to see the flop. If anyone else had an ace, chances were that they’d have a better kicker than she did with her paltry three. And if someone was slow-playing a king/ace combo, the story ended there. A raise came around the table. Marianne figured that with the chips she’d already put in and the chips she had left, she didn’t have many more hands to get lucky with. She might not get another chance with an ace pair. She played the hand out to the end, only to find she’d been beaten with an ace/four.
The crowd behind her groaned in unison as the announcer repeated the cards. Lederer pulled the chips in and Marianne knew that she was only one or two hands away from her last stand. She’d fight to the very end, though, because if she could wait even one more opponent out, the prize money would be that much higher. But also for the principle of the thing. She was not going to mentally quit now. She’d had a lapse earlier in the day and she was paying for it, but she was not going to quit now.
She and Greenstein eyed each other, both the smallest-stacked of the table. There were only five players left—four players away from glory. Marianne looked away from Greenstein and steeled herself as the cards came around. A pair of tits. How appropriate.
Marianne played the queens aggressively, raising big and acting like she had a pair of pocket aces instead. Greenstein went all-in. Marianne went all-in. And Hellmuth called.
The flop came with a third sister to bring Marianne’s pair the good news. Three queens. It didn’t take long for Greenstein and Hellmuth to realize their fates. Within minutes Greenstein was standing up from his chair, shaking hands with Marianne and the others, and making his exit in a hail of applause and cheers.
Marianne pulled in her winnings, her heart pounding like a heart attack. She’d driven one of poker’s biggest out of the tournament, and she’d won big, but compared to the other men it wasn’t big enough. On her next good hand she was going to try to double up.
The dealer spread the cards. Marianne took one look and folded, since she wasn’t on the hook for either blind. A new hand came around. Again Marianne folded. This went on for a while, as she just couldn’t seem to catch the right cards on the deal. But even as she stayed on the sidelines, the more aggressive players continued to knock each other off.
A sudden flurry of activity distracted her, and in a burst of applause, the remaining players at the table got up and started stretching out, ordering up bottled water, or wandering up to the spectator section. Marianne looked up at the ESPN assistant. “We’ve lost enough players to combine to the final table,” he said. “Congratulations.”
Marianne’s jaw dropped. She looked behind her at her friends in the stands, squared her shoulders and forced herself to go do what she had to do before the tournament officials called her back over. She marched up to the stands, where Peter, Donny, and Bijoux sat in a row, and went first to Peter. “Peter, it was great getting to know you. You’re a fun guy . . .”
He stepped down and gave her a hug. “It’s all going to be fine,” he whispered into her ear before returning to his seat.
“Donny, I don’t even know where to begin.”
“How about going back to the table and trying to win?” he said, holding up crossed fingers. “At least give me bragging rights to take back with me.”
Marianne looked at him helplessly, then turned to Bijoux. “Bij, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I—”
Bijoux stood up. “Marianne Hollingsworth!” she shrieked.
Everyone went silent.
“Now you listen to me,” she said. “You are in the middle of something very important. Don’t you get distracted now. Not at this late date.”
“But, I—”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
Marianne gulped and shut her mouth.
Bijoux leaned down over the rail. “Don’t mess up your chance to win over something stupid that we’ll get over and laugh about later. Turn around and focus on finishing in style.”
Marianne stared up at Bijoux. “It’s not stupid.”
Bijoux’s eyebrow arched.
“I said, ‘it’s not stupid.’ ”
“Okay, it’s not stupid. But I guarantee you that we are all going to laugh very hard about it all later.”
Marianne glanced over at Donny and couldn’t tell if he agreed with that or not. She looked back up at her best friend. “For a golddigger, you’re just about the most generous person I’ve ever met.”
Bijoux went and teared up, which made Marianne tear up. “Don’t make me cry on ESPN. I doubt Annie Duke has ever cried on ESPN.”
“I bet not. But sometimes the tennis players do. And the Olympians always do,” Bijoux said.
Marianne swallowed her tears. Showing one’s car-accident underwear was one thing, but crying internationally was something else. “You are the very best friend I could ask for.”
“I know,” Bijoux said. “But so are you.”
“You gotta get back out there, Mare,” Donny said, peeling Bijoux and Marianne away from each other. “Go.”
Marianne went back to the table and settled in once more. She was short-stacked to say the least. It only took a few hours of play to bounce out five more players, putting Marianne in the final four. The dealer dealt the cards. Marianne took one look and folded. A new hand came around. Again, Marianne folded. Yet another hand. This time, Marianne was the big blind. She took one look at her cards and knew this was her moment. The men across from her didn’t make a sound as she pushed her chips into the center of the table and uttered the timeless phrase: “All-in.”
All or nothing. Please don’t let me end up with nothing.
chapter twenty-three
“I can’t breathe,” Bijoux said. “Did she just go all-in?” Peter took her hand, an act that Bijoux registered on several different levels. But her primary focus was on Marianne, who was just sitting there rather limply in her chair, stock-still. She didn’t move. Her hair was in her face, and Bijoux couldn’t see her expression.
Bijoux strained to get the best view, looking up at the television monitors, then craning her neck to see over the people in front of her.
“She’s gone all-in, folks. This could be the end of the line for our favorite new sweetheart of poker. . . .”
Bijoux cringed.
“What do you think, Bob?”
“Well, Stan, I think it was the right move. She’s short-stacked against three of the world’s best players. This is no place for conservative play. And frankly, she’s probably thinking that whatever she’s going in with is probably as good as she’s likely to draw before her chips drain out on the blinds. Okay, wait a minute. . . . Right, so Phil Hellmuth has asked for a count on her chips. He’s thinking about it . . . and yes . . . yes, both Hellmuth and Sparks have called. Lederer has folded, steering clear of what might be the final bloodbath.”
“Anything can happen, Stan. All our Miss Marianne needs now is a little luck.”
The color commentator laughed. “Funny how it all comes down to that. Let’s see what we’re looking at.”
Having gone all in, it was time to show the stuff. As Marianne moved to flip over her cards, Bijoux sucked in a breath so loud it drew notice from the othe
r spectators. A pair of threes. Oh, God. A pair of threes against Sparks’s damn suited ace/king and Hellmuth’s pocket tens.
Bijoux watched Marianne plaster a frozen grin on her face as Hellmuth tried to shake her confidence with a running commentary.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” she hissed.
Peter gave her hand a squeeze. She looked at him and smiled, then clutched at her heart. “I’m not cut out for this kind of stress. I don’t know how Marianne can sit there in front of all these people and not completely panic.”
“I think everyone’s a little tense,” he said, pointing to the floor.
Richard Sparks leaned back in his chair, taking a long, noisy slurp through the tiny cocktail straw in his drink. But his knee bounced under the table, suggesting that maybe he wasn’t feeling as cavalier on the inside as he was trying to portray on the outside.
“Here it comes,” Donny said. He leaned forward in his seat as the dealer burned a card and flipped the first three community cards.
A king. Sparks’s odds soared, and he wasn’t shy about his excitement. Marianne’s odds tanked; she just sat very still.
The dealer burned one card and dealt the fourth card. Bijoux sucked in another breath as the crowd reacted and she got a look. A six. Didn’t help anyone. It would come down to the final card.
Bijoux shook her fists in front of her. “Come on, come on. Let’s see a three!”
The dealer flipped the fifth and final card. It seemed to take an eternity for her hand to move away and reveal the card. Bijoux gripped Peter’s and Donny’s wrists on either side and shrieked in dismay.
A ten. It was all Hellmuth with a set of tens. Sparks nearly fell out of his chair with his hands up to his head and a look of total pain on his face. Hellmouth was celebrating big time, and Marianne was just . . . sitting there. That was it. That was the end. Bijoux stared, gaping out over the rail at her friend still just sitting there watching Phil Hellmuth rake in the pot with a cocky grin on his face. The crowd started to applaud as they realized Marianne was out. Marianne didn’t get up.
