by Jana DeLeon
"Wasn't Harry that confessed."
Mallory studied the man for a minute then sighed. "Stanley's been reading mail again, hasn't he?"
J.T. shrugged. "You know how Stanley is. Leopard ain't gonna change its spots."
"Good God, he's been a postman for over thirty years. Doesn't he have any appreciation for federal law?" Not to mention the privacy issue. She made a mental note to change the mailing address on a recently placed order for a "personal item" she'd bought from a "specialty" store in New Orleans.
"I swear, J.T," she continued, "I sometimes wonder why our government spends so much money on war. If we really wanted to cripple the intelligence of other countries, we'd just send the two of them over."
She was just trying to recall anything damaging or otherwise embarrassing that she might have mentioned to Father Thomas the week before when Scooter clapped her on the back and dropped a hundred in front of her.
"No problem collecting?" she asked. "I figured he'd argue for a rematch."
Scooter grinned. "Idiot claimed his hand went to sleep, then cut out of here with the rest of those Yankees. I asked if he wanted your number, but he didn't even look at me." He poked Mallory in the ribs with his elbow. "Guess that means your date is off." Laughing hysterically at himself, he motioned to J.T. for a beer.
J.T. grabbed a bottle, popped the cap and slid it across the bar to Scooter, then leaned on the bar in front of Mallory. "So if the tax note goes on sale, are you going to buy?"
She downed the remainder of her beer and picked up the hundred-dollar bill Scooter had dropped in front of her. "Fifty thousand dollars? Father Thomas would have to challenge the rest of Louisiana to a pool match for that to happen. Even with all my savings, I'm about ten grand short and no assets for a quick sale, none I can do without, anyway."
J.T. nodded. "I hear ya. Ten Gs is a wad of cash, especially to come up with in such a short time frame."
Scooter turned around on his bar stool and gave her a curious look. "You short on cash, Mal? You can have my other hundred. I was just going to buy new lures with it anyway.
Mallory smiled at Scooter, his offer confirming her opinion that her neighbor was silly as a goose but had a heart the size of the Gulf of Mexico. "I appreciate it, Scooter, really I do, but I need a lot more than a hundred."
Scooter scratched his head for a moment, his eyebrows scrunched together in obvious concentration. "There is probably one way you can make a lot of money fast - next week, as a matter of fact."
Mallory stared at Scooter. "I'm not doing anything illegal," she said, bringing up the only thing she could imagine Scooter would come up with. "Besides, ten grand in two weeks is a lot, even for a New Orleans prostitute. And I don't have the enthusiasm for the job anyway."
J.T. laughed. "She got you there."
Scooter stared at her, a dumbstruck expression on his normally jovial face. "Good God Almighty, Mallory, I never said you should do anything of the sort. I wouldn't even think it."
She narrowed her eyes at Scooter, still waiting for his suggestion. "So if it's not something illegal then why don't you just come out with it?"
Scooter glanced both directions, apparently making sure they couldn't be overheard, then leaned over closer to Mallory. "Your uncle is hosting a high-stakes poker tournament. I bet he'd cough up a pretty penny for you to cool for him."
J.T., who had leaned in to hear what Scooter said, jerked back from the bar, his jaw set in a hard line. "Hell no, Mallory. You're not working that tournament for your uncle. Even if I have to padlock you in the storage room to keep you from it."
Mallory stared at J.T. in surprise, trying to process what Scooter said and the bar owner's unexpected reaction. "What in the world has gotten into you, J.T.? I know Reginald flies on the wrong side of the law sometimes, but I've cooled for him before and you haven't had a problem with it."
"Damn it." J.T. grabbed a rag from the bar and shook it at Scooter. "You want to ask your genius neighbor how he knows about this tournament? Because he's been doing construction at your uncle's floating boat of fun. And do you know what he's been installing, specifically for this tournament?"
"Forget I said anything," Scooter mumbled. He slid off his bar stool and slunk across the bar, away from J.T.'s wrath.
J.T. tossed the rag on the bar and ran one hand across his balding head. "That idiot you live next to has been installing metal detectors at the casino, that's what. This unorthodox tournament of your uncle's is a chance to beat the house. Dealers have been flocking from all over the state to try out for a spot."
"Why would dealers care?"
"Because they're playing on the casino's behalf. They put up ten grand for the spot and get to keep half their winnings, less what Reginald kicks in. Reginald is matching the ten with another forty. He's got several hundred thousand at stake."
Mallory frowned. "Okay, so putting up his money isn't the smartest thing Reginald's ever done, but how do metal detectors fit into it?"
J.T. leaned across the bar, his voice low. "The tournament is invitation only. There's a couple of locals invited for good measure, I suppose, but the rest ..."
"The rest what?" Mallory prodded.
"Oh hell," J.T. said finally. "Your uncle has assembled a group of heavy hitters-Mafia, drug dealers, politicians, crooked law enforcement-and not a single one of them worth pulling out of the bayou if they were drowning. He's putting together a floating boat of criminals-hardcore, no-conscience-having, bad guys."
Mallory sat back in her chair and stared at J.T., stunned. "You're sure about that?"
"Not a doubt in my mind. The teller down at the bank said Reginald's been in there every day for the past week, depositing cash in fifty-thousand-dollar increments. He listed the name of each player on their deposit, so the teller was real clear on that. This tournament is going to happen all right - they've already bought in."
"What in the world is Reginald thinking?"
J.T. shook his head. "I don't know, and I don't think I want to. Word on the street is that he's into a New Orleans loan shark for a wad of cash. If this is his best idea for getting repayment, I'm afraid Reginald has finally lost his mind."
"Then I guess asking him to loan me the money is probably out of the question, and that was actually my original plan. But if he's really in that much of a bind over money, I'd be a sure bet for him to get a hunk of it back. I bet he'd pay a pretty penny for that guarantee."
J.T. sighed, knowing he was losing the battle. "But at what cost? Cooling for a bunch of bored husbands or businessmen is one thing, but this is an entirely different kettle of fish. Your uncle has been pretty good to you over the years, but that doesn't change what kind of man he is. Do you really want to get in the middle of one of Reginald's schemes - especially if he's as desperate as it appears?"
Mallory stared out the window of the bar, the billboard for Royal Port-A-Johns seeming to taunt her from its roadside perch. "I don't have a choice, J.T. It's the only way."
Chapter Two
Jake Randoll looked across the poker table at Reginald St. Claire and hoped like hell the man wasn't holding a flush. Trying to pull an inside straight with the cards he held was risky, but then some might say that most of his choices were. Securing the lead dealer position at St. Claire's poker tournament was a huge gamble, but it was also his only option-his last chance to take down a money launderer who kept getting away. He also hoped to find out what had happened to his partner, Mark, who had been working undercover for the money launderer and had disappeared more than a month ago.
Which left Mark's frantic wife, Janine, and his young son with no answers. And that wasn't good enough for Jake.
Nothing short of beating St. Claire at this round of cards would give Jake the coveted dealer's slot at the lead table - a seat across from the money launderer, Silas Hebert - and he was willing to risk anything for that position.
St. Claire studied his hand with the intensity of a trained pit bull monitoring an intruder. A
t one time his beefy frame had probably been muscular and toned. But with St. Claire on the other side of fifty, what used to be firm and hard hung loosely on his arms and created jowls on his neck. His face was completely blank, his dark piercing eyes focused on the cards he held, never once even glancing across the table at his opponent. Which was perfectly fine by Jake. He hoped the casino owner was distracted enough by the game to forgo looking too deeply into Jake's background. Oh, he had the usual cover-ups in place, but anyone with determination and a little cleverness could always get through them.
And of all the things people had accused Reginald St. Claire of being, stupid definitely wasn't one of them. Jake didn't for one minute consider St. Claire as anything less than a formidable opponent, despite his less-than-stellar physical fitness.
Jake pulled a single card from his hand and discarded it. Time to let his talent flow. He'd been holding back just a bit from the onset, keeping a low profile to ensure that St. Claire didn't get too interested, but it was time to take the rest of the man's chips and collect his dealer position. Time to get the answers he'd been searching for so that he and Mark's family could face the truth, then get on with the rest of their lives.
He held his breath as he pulled the card Reginald dealt him across the table. Had he misread the other man? Had his card-counting ability lapsed and he'd taken a chance he shouldn't have on the straight? He didn't think so, but there was only one way to find out. Gripping the edge of the card, he turned up the corner, all the while maintaining the blank look he wore so well.
Bingo!
He tossed in a couple of chips, careful not to look St. Claire in the eyes or show any change in expression or body language. A real poker player never gave away his hand.
He could feel Reginald's stare and knew the man was studying him, knowing that a one-card pick usually implied a straight or a flush, and right now, St. Claire was using his considerable people-reading ability to try and determine if Jake had hit his intended mark.
The casino owner must have bought his charade because he upped the bet by over half of his chips and stared at Jake, his calculating eyes taking in every nuance of Jake's expression. Jake pretended to consider the up for a moment, trying to decide if he could increase the stakes one more time but ultimately deciding against it.
He let out a bit of a sigh. Not overly theatrical, because then St. Claire would know for sure he was shamming, but just enough for the man to think it had slipped by unintentionally. Finally, he picked up the chips from the stack in front of him, shook them in his hand for a moment, and tossed them onto the pile in front of them. "Call," he said, knowing this hand was played out and upping the bet any further would be an amateur's mistake.
St. Claire smiled and lowered his cards to the table-a pair of kings and a pair of twos.
"Not bad," Jake said, and returned the smile, "but not enough to beat a straight." He fanned the cards across the table and had the luxury of watching St. Claire scowl at his hand. After a moment, the casino owner looked up at him with begrudging admiration.
"That was smooth," St. Claire said. "I was sure you hadn't pulled the straight."
Jake nodded. "Good. That's what you were supposed to think."
St. Claire narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side, studying Jake with an intensity that made him worry for a moment that he'd taken things a bit too far with his last comment. The casino owner was the kind of man who would appreciate confident but probably not cocky.
With any luck, St. Claire would let his suspicions ride long enough to take advantage of Jake as a dealer, because there was no doubt in Jake's mind that St. Claire was in desperate need of some professional-level card handlers. Jake had no earthly idea what had possessed a man like St. Claire to put up his own money for a tournament of thieves, but he didn't care, either. This was the golden opportunity Jake had been waiting for.
"You said you deal in Atlantic City, right?" St. Claire asked finally.
Jake nodded. He lived there, anyway, so at least the geography wasn't likely to trip him up. "I'm visiting a friend in New Orleans who works at a casino downtown. He turned me on to this game. Thought it sounded like a good chance for me to pick up some quick cash."
"Why didn't he come himself?"
"He runs a craps table. Cards aren't his skill set."
St. Claire nodded and sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "If you have the buy-in amount, I can offer you the lead position. But I'm warning you now, you'll be up against some of the best Louisiana has to offer."
Jake smiled, trying to keep a calm, collected appearance, which was hard with so much riding on this poker tournament. "Ten grand?"
"Yeah. Ten, all up front. I'll spot you another forty on the first day. You better make it last-or more importantly, you better make more."
Jake pulled the wrapped set of hundreds from his backpack and handed it across the table to St. Claire. "Oh, I'll make more," he said with conviction. "You can bet on that."
St. Claire studied him a moment more. "I thought I just did."
"I don't want to hear it, Mallory," Harry Breaux said before she could even get out of her truck. He shot a dirty look at Scooter, who was perched on the passenger seat, then continued toward the dilapidated building at the far end of the parking lot.
"Aw, hell," Mallory said as she jumped out of her truck and hurried after Harry. She'd wrestled with Harry's plight and how she could fix it all day Friday until finally making that all-important call to her uncle late that evening. And as much as she would liked to have called in sick or claimed to be taking an impromptu vacation, Mallory knew there was no way she could carry out her plan without telling Harry first. Still, knowing good and well what Harry's reaction was going to be, she'd been in no big hurry to speak to the man and had put the entire conversation off until Monday morning at the last minute possible.
Since she hadn't even gotten a word in before Harry had stalked across the parking lot, obviously someone had tattled on her before she had gotten around to talking to her friend. Probably J.T., since Scooter had been uncommonly quiet after the thrashing he'd taken from the bar owner for blabbing about the tournament in the first place.
With a sigh, she grabbed her hard hat and hurried across the parking lot, falling in step next to Harry, who was systematically checking dynamite wiring surrounding the building. "I'm not here to argue, Harry," she said as she followed him through the inside of the structure. "This is something I want to do. Don't ask me to back out. You would do the same thing if the situation were reversed and it was my business at stake."
Harry stopped and turned to face her, looking her straight in the eyes. "I always intended to sell you my business, Mallory. And if it hadn't been for Thelma's cancer, I would have retired years ago, but the fact is, we needed more income for the doctors than retirement would bring." He shook his head and frowned. "But I will not take money from you this way. It's not worth the risk, and you're too important to me and Thelma."
Mallory sighed. "I don't have a choice, Harry. The reality is, no one else will ever take the chance on me that you did. Not with my reputation. Without your company, I have no future."
Harry lowered his eyes. "Damn it, that's not fair."
"I wasn't aiming to be fair, just honest."
Harry shook his head and waved her outside, away from the building. "You can always start your own business."
"With forty thousand dollars, no equipment and no business credit? I don't think so."
"There are other ways." Harry handed her a headset, then put one on himself, making further discussion impossible.
Reaching down with both hands, he pushed the lever to set off the dynamite, and the ground underneath them shook with the blast. It took several seconds for the dust to clear well enough for them to see a huge section of the building still standing.
"Shit!" Harry threw off his headset and walked into the dust storm toward the building, Mallory close behind.
"Let
me handle this." Mallory said as she surveyed the remains of the building. "You'll be way into overtime hours if you have the guys re-rig it."
Harry looked at her and shook his head. "You've got to stop taking these kind of risks, Mallory. One of these days, it's going to come back and bite you."
"Maybe. But we all take chances. Mine are just different than most."
She put on her hard hat and motioned to Harry to step back. Once he was clear, she entered the building, hurrying through the half-fallen structure as quickly as the debris allowed. She'd barely made it three steps out of the building when what was remaining collapsed behind her.
Harry watched as the rest of the building crumbled, unable to hide the pride and amazement he always felt when watching Mallory in action. "You're as stubborn as they come, Mallory Devereaux."
"I learned from the best."
Harry stared at her for a moment, the hint of a smile hovering on his lips. Finally, he nodded. "Go ahead then with the poker tournament, but there is one thing that is not negotiable."
Mallory felt relief wash over her. "Whatever you want."
"If you win the money and bail me out of trouble with the IRS, I'm transferring controlling interest of the business to you. No arguments, no discussion. That was always my plan and by God, I'm going to get one thing my way before I die."
Mallory smiled. "I guess this one time is all right." She stood there for a couple of seconds just looking at Harry, not wanting to ask the next thing on her list.
"What now?" Harry said, and narrowed his eyes at her. "I know that look, Mallory. You want something from me, and I'd say you're about maxed out on favors."
Mallory felt her face flush and for a moment, she felt like a kid all over again. "It's T.W.," she began, and Harry started shaking his head before she could finish her sentence.
