Unlucky

by Jana DeLeon

  Jake blinked once and stared at the man, obviously unsure how to proceed. He glanced over at Mallory and she shrugged. She'd tried to warn him.

  "I assure you, gentlemen," Jake offered, "that I am well versed in poker and you will find nothing lacking in my dealing capabilities."

  The mobster glared at him. "Ain't nobody worried about your `capabilities,' stiff shirt. The fact is, this tournament is full of important men. We got our reputations to protect."

  "I was born in Oklahoma City," Jake offered. "Does that help?"

  The mobster shook his head. "If it's north of Interstate 10, you're still a Yankee."

  Mallory bit her lip to hold in a laugh. Although she was enjoying Jake's discomfort more than she should, it was time to reel the situation back in or Reginald would let her have it. "C'mon, guys," she said. "His chips play like everyone else's. Besides, Reginald's the only one who needs to worry about looking foolish here. He's the one who put up his own money for a Yankee to play with. Why should you care who you take it from?"

  There was dead silence for a moment, and all the men continued to stare. Finally, the banker shrugged. "Whatever.”

  The mobster studied Jake a minute longer. "I guess I'll live with it." He pointed one finger at Jake. "But you're not allowed to start any topic of conversation, understand? I know what y'all do up in those big cities - ballet, theater-bunch of girly stuff. If it doesn't involve a racing engine or killing something, I don't want to hear a word out of you except cards."

  The beginning of a flush started at the base of Jake's neck, and Mallory could tell he was losing patience fast. His jaw set in a hard line and she couldn't stop herself from thinking that he looked sexy when he was mad.

  Unfortunately, a fight, verbal or physical, was not going to move either of them toward their goals. It was time to wrap this up and get on to the business of playing cards. "Mr. Hebert," she finished roll call, "you in or out?"

  She tensed a bit, waiting for his response, but Silas surprised her by giving Jake an amused look and waving one hand for him to proceed. "See," Mallory said. "That wasn't so hard. Now if you'd like to give me your drink orders, I'll get those started for you."

  There was a momentary pause, apparently none of the buffoons wanting to be the first to speak, but finally the banker barked out his order and the rest followed suit. All coffee, all black. Mallory shoved her pad back into her jacket pocket. Didn't take a genius to remember four black coffees.

  "Mr. McMillan?" She turned to Jake before leaving. "Can I bring you anything?"

  He continued to stare at the players and for a moment, Mallory wondered if he was going to answer at all. The expression on his face was an interesting mixture of aggravation and disbelief. Apparently Jake McMillan had run into far more than he bargained for in southeast Louisiana, and he was having a bit of difficulty adjusting.

  Finally, he turned his gaze to her and his expression shifted to one of mild appreciation. "A bottled water would be great," he said, and gave her a nod, apparently his way of admitting that she'd been right about the whole Yankee thing.

  Mallory smiled at him and couldn't help wondering how much that tiny acknowledgement had hurt Jake McMillan's ego. She turned to leave when the double doors to the casino opened and Father Thomas walked through. Kind of. It was a bit more of a stagger, but it managed to propel him into the casino.

  "Blessed are the poor in wallet, for theirs is the King of Hearts," Father Thomas shouted, and Mallory stifled a groan. A quick look at the other tables, all filled with their requisite four players plus dealer, let her know in a heartbeat that the drunken priest was their latecomer.

  She shot a look over at Amy, who was trying, quite unsuccessfully to hide a smile as she watched Father Thomas make his way to Mallory's table. Laugh it up, underage girl, Mallory thought and turned her attention back to the priest. It could have been worse, she decided. He was wearing his ceremonial robes in black, collar and all, which was enough to stand out, but the camouflage sweat pants, purple and gold socks and red sandals completing the bottom of his outfit were a bit of a worry. Not to mention where he'd gotten the cash for this kind of tournament in the first place.

  How drunk is he? She pondered for a moment over whether she should speak to her uncle before the priest managed to get all the way across the casino and take a seat. Why in the world would Reginald put a local, someone who knew everything about her, at her table?

  She scanned the room for Reginald, who was at a table in the far corner of the casino. Just as she was about to cross the room and confront him, Father Thomas caught sight of her.

  "Mallory, my child," his voice boomed across the casino. "I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you got me Jack Daniel's."

  "What in God's name," Jake said, and stared at Father Thomas, a confused expression on his face.

  "I believe that's our final player," the Mafia guy said, and smirked. "This ought to be fun."

  "Surely not," Jake said, and looked over at Mallory, apparently hoping she would explain away the nightmare crossing the casino.

  Mallory shrugged, not about to let her own doubts show. "Father Thomas likes his card games. I guess he was invited."

  Jake stared at Mallory, then looked back at Father Thomas. "But he's clearly drunk, and it's not even ten A.M." He stared at the priest, dumbfounded. "It will be a miracle if he stays awake for the game."

  Mallory gave the priest a quick assessment and shook her head, his drunkenness actually a plus for her given the situation. "Nah, he's really not that bad considering everything he drank this weekend. The miracle will be if he spends one day sober."

  And if he doesn't give away my cooling ability by lunch.

  Chapter Four

  By the time Mallory managed to get the swaggering priest onto the bar stool and facing the poker table, she'd lost sight of Reginald and needed to get the drinks. She wanted to spread her ill will as soon as possible, and the appearance of the priest at her table made expediency even more important.

  Damn it, what had Reginald been thinking?

  Pushing through the doors to the kitchen, she almost ran headfirst into Scooter.

  "What's the hurry, Mal?" Scooter asked as he grabbed the door before it could slam into him. "People can't want a drink that bad. It's not even ten o'clock yet."

  Mallory pointed to the beer in Scooter's shirt pocket. "Then what's that for? The fish?"

  Scooter grinned. "Hell, I'm not most people. Besides, Reginald told me I could have all the free food and drink I want if I would stay on the boat for the whole thing. It's just like one of those all-inclusive vacations to Cancun. 'Cept no one's naked and I ain't gotta speak Mexican. Anyways, I plan on getting my money's worth on the drinking part since I'm sorta missing out on the whole naked thing."

  Mallory took one look at the grinning Scooter and held in a sigh. She wasn't about to explain that he could hardly get his money's worth since not only wasn't he paying - he was being paid to take the ride. And since most of the poker players were men - unattractive, older men-she didn't think he was really missing much on the naked end of things, either. "That's great, Scooter. Listen, I need to find Reginald and I'm kind of in a hurry. Did you see which way he went?"

  Scooter nodded. "He said he was going back to his suite for a shower. He'll be back after that."

  Crap. They were right back to the old, unattractive, naked man thing. The bathroom was probably the only place Reginald could go that Mallory wouldn't follow, but she didn't have the time to wait on Reginald to finish showering.

  Mallory motioned Scooter over to a corner of the kitchen and glanced around to make sure no one would hear. "Something's not right here, Scooter. This list of players is all wrong. My uncle is so mad about some of them being here, and that doesn't make sense. It's almost like he didn't make up the invitation list. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Scooter scrunched his brow for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I guess it's kinda weird that he would put Fat
her T at your table. Heck, Father T blabs everything people say in confession, and he's supposed to have a contract with God on keeping that a secret. He's probably already told everyone you're a cooler."

  Mallory nodded. "That's what I'm afraid of. I figure I can pass most of it off as him being drunk, but I don't know that it can last for a week."

  "So what are you going to do about it now? It's too late to change everything."

  "For now, I'm going to keep him drunk, which shouldn't be difficult. But if I knew what my uncle was up to, I'd have a much better idea of how to play this out long-term." She thought a moment more, then looked Scooter directly in the eyes before she could change her mind. "I need you to do something for me."

  "Anything for you, Mal, you know that."

  "Good. I need you to stay as close to my uncle as you can without him noticing. Remember everything he says, even if it doesn't sound important. Whatever he's up to is bound to be a huge problem, and I have no intention of being caught in the middle."

  Scooter's eyes widened and he gave her a big grin. "You want me to play Sherlock Holmes? That's the coolest thing ever."

  Mallory stared at Scooter in surprise. "You read Sherlock Holmes?" Surely not. In the seven years she'd lived next to him, Mallory had never seen Scooter read anything but road signs or advertisements for a sale on beer. Well, and that one time she'd caught him in his bass boat with a copy of Penthouse, but neither of them spoke of the matter and she did her best to keep it in the far back reaches of her mind.

  "Of course, I read Sherlock Holmes," Scooter said. "Spent most of junior high with a book under my desk instead of listening in history-I mean, who cares about dead people? Heck, Mallory, every boy wanted to be Sherlock Holmes - or Dale Earnhardt."

  "That's great, Scooter. You play Sherlock Holmes, then. We'll save Dale Earnhardt for a car chase, if it comes to that."

  Scooter scratched his head. "Um, Mal, I don't know how to tell you this, but Senior ain't driving anymore since the accident and all. If you want a car-chase person, then I might have to be Junior."

  "Junior, it is."

  Scooter rose to his full height and stiffened his posture. "`My name is Sherlock Holmes,"' he said, in the worst British accent Mallory had ever heard. "'It is my business to know what other people don't know."'

  With a nod, Scooter flattened his back against the casino wall, glanced both directions, then slowly crept toward the hall. When he reached the end of the wall, he pulled his pocketknife from his jeans, opened it and stuck the blade into the open walkway, apparently attempting to use it as a mirror.

  Mallory gave a silent prayer of thanks that no one had been entering the kitchen when Scooter had decided to stab at the open doorway and watched in dismay as he gave her a thumbs-up and inched sideways through the opening.

  Mallory hesitated a second or two but finally strode off toward the coffeepot, already regretting having put Scooter up to anything requiring stealth and finesse. It didn't take a genius to know this was going to be a disaster.

  Jake shuffled the cards again while stealing glances at Mallory as she served the drinks to the players. The woman was a complete anomaly - clearly smart enough to rein in the Redneck Lynch Mob that the players had formed against him this morning, but not smart enough to figure out that all that incidental touching she managed to do while serving was a complete waste of time.

  And Reginald St. Claire was only making the situation worse by encouraging her ridiculous beliefs. Jake noticed that Mallory was the only attendant not carrying her own tray. A kitchen worker had trailed behind her with the drinks and placed them on the serving table, then reminded her to call him for pickup before dismissing himself. Jake surmised Mallory was encouraged not to carry anything breakable. At least not in mass quantity.

  Why in God's name she'd brought the drunken priest more alcohol, Jake didn't even want to know. At this point, the priest was the least of his worries. Based on the players' lack of reaction to Mallory, women were obviously not going to be a distraction and that clearly put all the responsibility on Jake. They had barely even looked at the mound of partially exposed breasts as she leaned in to place drinks in front of them. They were too focused on the game, which was a real shame. Breasts that stood at attention with no bra, if she'd been telling the truth, were worth at least a glance.

  He was just trying to decide if there was a tan line buried somewhere in that shirt when he felt someone's eyes on him. He lifted his gaze to the table beside them and saw Brad smiling at him. The other dealer gave him a thumbs-up and grinned. Jake held in a sigh and turned back to his table. His only objective at this tournament was to fly below the radar until he was ready to bust Silas, and twice already Brad had caught him acting like a horny sixteen-year-old.

  If he didn't get his act together, Brad might want to hang out or something equally as painful. Drinking beer, entertaining loose women and watching NASCAR. Or, even worse, one of those fishing shows. If it was hunting season, he'd probably be expected to kill something and wear a funny hat.

  He waited until Mallory had taken her seat at the end of the table to start dealing. The first hand had gone well. Silas had won a bit of money, and Jake had been smart enough to bow out early. If he continued to play smart, he might have a chance. All he needed was one exchange of cash.

  At least he hoped that would be enough.

  Finished with the deal, he pushed the card shoe over to the left and lifted the edge of his cards from the table. No fucking way. The handful of hearts seemed to smile up at him. A royal flush on the deal? The odds of pulling a royal on the deal were less than him actually knowing those NASCAR drivers, like Mallory had suggested. Granted, a royal flush wasn't as bad as drawing five of a kind, but neither hand was believable.

  Before he could stop himself, he glanced over at Mallory. She was staring directly at him, the briefest of smiles on her face. No fucking way. She could not have made this happen. But it was obvious from the amused look on her face that Mallory knew he'd drawn a good hand.

  Disgusted, he glanced around the room, wondering if St. Claire's security people were closely watching the camera that showed his hand. He needed to ditch a card but couldn't afford for one of St. Claire's flunkies to see it happen.

  He raised one hand to stroke his jaw and tried to clear all expression from his face. If he dropped one card, Mallory might think he'd pulled a straight on the draw and was gambling the last card on the royal. What the hell. It was early in the game and he could always defend his choice by saying he had to take the chance. It might not be the most brilliant or conservative of moves, but no one would be able to fault him for trying it.

  If St. Claire's goons were watching the cameras, he could always say they were mistaken. He seriously doubted they were recording everything, so unless he kept tossing away winning hands, he shouldn't have a problem.

  Mind made up, he yanked the ace out of his hand and tossed it on the pile of discards. The worst thing that could happen is she would assume he was a risky gambler. The last thing she should guess is that he was intentionally trying to throw the hand.

  Pulling cards from the shoe, he dealt replacements to all the players and dropped a single card with the rest of his own, praying for anything that didn't make a winning hand. And frustrated at himself for fearing the worst. He had nothing to worry about and that was just reality. The shoe contained six decks to help cut down on the card-counting ability of some of the better players. So even though the card existed in the decks another five times, the odds of him drawing another ace of hearts were incredibly minute.

  Even so, he found himself clenching his jaw as he lifted the edge of the card off the table.

  When the red "A" made its appearance, it was all he could do to hold his blank expression in place. He blinked once to make sure he was seeing clearly. A second glance revealed a red diamond, and he slowly let out the breath that he'd been unaware he'd been holding. It wasn't the loss he'd been hoping for, but it wasn't anothe
r royal flush, either.

  He turned his attention back to the table and waited for his turn to bet. Silas had opened with five thousand, so Jake knew he was holding something worthwhile. The man next to Silas folded and it was on to the drunken priest.

  The priest studied his hand for a moment, then swayed a bit in his chair, studied the cards again, took a drink of Jack Daniel's and cleared his throat to speak. Jake steeled himself for the onslaught of garbled scripture but the priest elected to butcher the shortest verse in the Bible.

  "Father Thomas wept," he said and tossed his cards, facedown, onto the table.

  The man next to Father Thomas gave a sigh of relief, and despite himself, Jake almost smiled. On the previous hand, they'd gotten the entire 23rd Psalm. Sort of.

  The other player folded also, so it was left to Jake to bet. He knew what he should do - what he would do if he were playing for real and for keeps - he'd see the five and raise it another. Hell, if he were playing for keeps, he'd have run the table on the royal, but winning some cash wasn't his primary objective. In fact, it wasn't an objective at all. It was only necessary to win enough to keep him in the game and force more money out of Silas.

  Mallory knew he had drawn a good hand and if he folded, she'd be able to tell something wasn't right. Then she'd run straight to her uncle.

  Damn it.

  Call or raise? It should have been simple, and by God, it was. He grabbed some chips off the stack in front of him and tossed them onto the pile.

  "I'll see your five and raise you five," he said, and lifted his gaze to the hard stare of Silas Hebert.

  Silas studied Jake's face for a moment, then tossed in the required chips. "Call."

  Jake laid his cards on the table and watched Silas carefully for any change in expression. Silas seemed momentarily surprised with the display, but finally nodded and flipped his cards over, displaying his own straight, six through ten, but not the same suit.

  "You almost pulled it," Silas said to Jake.