by Jana DeLeon
Now he was sitting in a bar in the middle of Hicksville, slowly dying of lung cancer, and his manhood had been put into question based on the selection of his drink. And he'd fallen for it. But if he'd have thrown out "light beer" like he'd been tempted to do, he was afraid the bartender would have removed him right then or just shot him where he sat.
He was thirty-five years old, with a college education and a good pension some years down the line, and he'd just succumbed to peer pressure from a redneck.
Maybe he did need that drink.
The bartender slid the glass in front of him and stood there staring, probably waiting to make sure he was really going to drink it and not pour it under the bar like a five-year-old. Jake reached for the glass and took a strong swig, careful to keep from wincing at the bitterness of the liquor. He sat the glass back on the counter, but kept his hand wrapped around it, just so the bartender would know he wasn't done.
"Name's J.T," the bartender said. "You're sitting in my bar."
Jake extended his hand across the counter. "I'm Jake McMillan."
J.T. stared at his hand for a moment, then finally shook it. The bartender's grip was as strong as Scooter's, and Jake fought the urge to shake some blood back into his fingers when the man released his hand. The men in this town had grips that would take the jaws of life to pry them loose and just for a moment, Jake wondered what the heck they did in their spare time.
J.T. twisted the top off two beers and slid them down the counter, then placed his elbows on the bar, leaning toward Jake. "So how did a Yankee hear about a private poker tournament all the way in Royal Flush? The town ain't even on a map. Hell, most of Louisiana don't even know we're here."
Jake shrugged. "I've got a buddy who runs a craps table in New Orleans. I'm visiting him for a bit, so he gave me the tip."
J.T. smiled. "And you thought you'd dash down here and make some quick money off a bunch of hicks, right? How's that working out for you?"
"Not bad. I had some good hands today. Hopefully, I'll come out okay by the end of the week."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Those are no lightweights you're playing against, but then I guess it didn't take you long to figure that one out. Who's your main competition?"
Jake took another swig of his drink, not really wanting to answer the question, but not seeing any way out of it if he wanted to turn the conversation around to Mallory. "There's a man named Silas who seems pretty good."
The bartender shook his head in dismay. "Silas Hebert is playing in the tournament? I should have known Reginald wouldn't leave well enough alone." He paused for a moment, seeming deep in thought, then finally continued. "Well, if you're thinking of winning any money off Silas Hebert, you might want to stick around for a while, order up another drink, and let me give you a reality check."
"Ah, shoot," Scooter broke in as he hopped back on his stool, "he ain't got nothing to worry about. Mallory's cooling his table."
The bartender stared at Scooter for a moment, in obvious disbelief. Then his face flushed red and when he spoke, his tone was barely controlled anger. "God damn it, Scooter. You're telling me Reginald put Mallory on Silas Hebert? That son of a bitch. I knew this whole mess would come to nothing but trouble, but you had to go and tell her about it." He banged a fist on the bar, causing Scooter to jump. "Damn it, Scooter. Sometimes you don't have the sense God gave a goose."
Jake studied the men with interest. J.T. was mad as a hornet, and Scooter had dropped his gaze down to the bar, not looking the other man in the eye, the guilt on his face clear as day. Scooter was going to be picking up his own six-pack for a while after this tournament was over.
"What's wrong with Silas Hebert?" Jake asked. "Is there something I need to know?"
J.T. turned back to Jake and threw his arms up in exasperation. "Hell, yeah, there's something you ought to know. But telling you would take all night." He leaned over the bar toward Jake and lowered his voice. "Let me give you the short run."
Jake nodded and leaned in toward J.T., who looked both ways, apparently making sure he wasn't overheard. "Silas Hebert is a plague on Louisiana. Hell, on humanity is more accurate. What he can't buy, he takes. What he can't earn legitimately, he steals. More than one holdout from a Silas Hebert offer has turned up at the bottom of the bayou and lo and behold, their heirs are always eager to sell."
Jake forced a surprised look on his face, hoping like hell J.T. bought it, because so far, the man hadn't told him anything he didn't already know. "Why isn't he in jail?"
J.T. waved a hand in dismissal. "Man's got half of Louisiana on his payroll. Besides, you think he'd actually get caught with his hands dirty? Silas Hebert has enough money to convince most people to strangle their own mothers in their sleep. Two-bit hoods are a dime a dozen. He's not lacking bad guys to carry out his work."
Jake nodded, only too aware of Silas's two-bit hoods. "Then I'm surprised someone hasn't testified against him for immunity. I understand that it's easy for him to find people to do his dirty work, but they can't be all that smart if they're working for hire so easily."
J.T. looked Jake straight in the eye. "They'd have to actually make it to trial before that could happen, now wouldn't they? Dead men don't tell tales."
Jake took another gulp of his drink and processed what J.T. was saying. Apparently, Silas's reputation was no big secret in Louisiana. And while the evidence-or witnesses-might be lacking, no one seemed to have trouble believing that Silas Hebert was capable of the urban legend that surrounded him. "Why in the world would Reginald St. Claire invite someone like that to play? I mean, I got the impression there was some bad blood between them. If this Silas is such a bad guy, why have him there?"
J.T. shook his head in obvious disgust. "I have no earthly idea, but whatever the reason, it can't be good. Reginald St. Claire and Silas Hebert hate each other more than any two human beings on earth. If Reginald has Silas at his tournament, he's up to no good - that I guarantee you.
"And since this idiot here," J.T. continued, waving one hand at Scooter, "went and told Mallory about the tournament, now I have to worry about what the hell she's in the middle of."
"I wondered why she was working there," Jake said. "It said on her truck she's a foreman for a demolition company. Why would someone with a good, legitimate job want to be part of this? I know Reginald is her uncle, he said so himself, but that only means she should know better than to mix up with him."
J.T. nodded. "Mallory knows exactly what her uncle is, and God knows, I tried to talk her out of this tomfoolery, but she had some personal business she needed taken care of, and she saw this as her only way."
What personal business? Jake studied J.T., trying to figure out how to broach the question without looking suspicious. Obviously the man had a close relationship with Mallory-father figure, maybe? Boyfriend seemed a bit odd given the age difference, and J.T. didn't act like a man protecting a lover. He was just about to take a chance and ask outright, when Scooter decided to join the conversation again.
"C'mon, J.T," Scooter said. "You need to cut Mallory a break. If she doesn't get that money for the IRS by next week, Harry's going to lose the business to Walter Royal, and Royal came right out at lunch today and told her to start looking for another job."
Jake stared at J.T., suddenly understanding the reason behind the spaghetti incident. No wonder she'd put the whammy on him. Of course, it sounded like the jackass had it coming, but despite all that, Jake made a mental note not to get on Mallory's bad side.
J.T. cut his eyes at Scooter. "There are worse things to be than unemployed. And keep your discussing of people's personal business to yourself. It's bad enough Father Thomas can't keep his lips zipped. This town doesn't need two drunken fools."
Scooter stared down at the bar again, looking like a chastised child, but he didn't say another word.
J.T. turned back to Jake and studied him for a moment. "I know you don't know me from Adam, but I'm gonna ask something of you anyway." He reached int
o his pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to Jake. "That's my home, business and cell phone numbers. If there's any trouble, any trouble at all, you call me."
Jake took the card and nodded. He was just about to put it in his shirt pocket when J.T. grabbed his arm, preventing him from moving. The bartender looked Jake straight in the eye, his expression serious and deadly. "Mallory is like a daughter to me," he said. "I'll do anything to protect her. Anything. No matter who I have to roll over. Do you understand?"
Jake studied the man in front of him, no doubt in his mind that the last words he'd uttered were the absolute truth. If something happened to Mallory Devereaux, somebody would undoubtedly be posting bail for J.T.
Mallory was obviously a woman who'd earned love and respect from people she wasn't even related to. People she wasn't sleeping with. That said a lot about someone, he thought. It also made using her a little more difficult but certainly not impossible.
After a quick change into her usual jeans and T-shirt, it took nothing more than a phone call to J.T's and a quick conversation with Raelynn to find out where Jake was staying. Mallory had left the note under the card shoe because she hadn't wanted to risk talking to him at any length at the casino, and she figured the local gossip had already run the gamut on the new good-looking guy in town and where he was holed up.
Raelynn informed Mallory that Jake had taken a room at the Royal Flush Motel for ten days starting last Thursday and had paid up front in cash. He drank a ton of Dr Pepper, but apparently no liquor - at least not at the motel - and he didn't smoke or order porn on the motel television. His shirts were all recently ironed and hung in the closet according to color.
So far women had hit on him at both Cindy's Cafe and Lucy's Catfish Kitchen, covering everything from breakfast to dinner, but he hadn't bitten so far. In fact, his incredible disinterest had offended several of the women of Royal Flush who were more accustomed to getting their way with men. They'd finally decided that perhaps Jake McMillan didn't prefer women. Based on the kiss they'd shared at the casino, and Jake's subsequent reaction, Mallory knew different but she wasn't about to point out to Raelynn that the other women's grumblings were nothing more than sour grapes.
It was just before 8:00 P.M. when Mallory pulled into the motel parking lot. Jake's rental car was parked in front of the building at the far end. It had been easy to spot because it was the only one on that side of the lot. Unless bass were running hot or it was duck-hunting season, the motel never did a booming business. But apparently Jake McMillan had still gone out of his way to get a room at the very end of the motel and away from any of the few other patrons.
She scanned the cars on the other side of the lot and let out a breath of relief. Definitely none of the banged-up pickups belonged to any of the players. Not that she'd figured any of those men would stay at the Royal Flush Motel. She'd already heard several of them mention getting together for drinks later at a luxury hotel between Royal Flush and New Orleans and figured that was where the vast majority of the out-of-towners had congregated. After all, it put them closer to their creature comforts, easy hustling and even easier women.
She turned to the left and parked her car a couple of spots down from Jake's, next to a pole with a burned-out light. If anyone got close enough, they'd still know it was her truck - the HARRY BREAUX DEMOLITION sign on the side sort of gave that one away. But from a distance, perhaps no one would pay attention.
Once more, she scanned the parking lot, making extra sure it was uninhabited, then pushed open her truck door and stepped outside. She'd no sooner slammed the door shut on her truck than the parking lot light above her flickered on, illuminating a forty-square-foot area and putting her truck directly under a spotlight.
Cussing under her breath, she hopped back in the truck and backed out of the spotlight to the edge of light mingling with the cast from the next lamp post. As she switched off the ignition, the first light went out again. It figured.
Just in case the light was planning on coming to life again, she jumped out of the truck and hurried across the lot and up the rickety stairs to the door in the far corner of the building. So far, no one had seen her arrival, and that's the way she wanted to keep it.
Her mind was racing with the possibilities of Jake's revelation and what it might be, and she was somewhat surprised at just how nervous she was about facing him again.
This is going to be fine. He's just going to tell you what he's up to and you can decide what you want to do about it. He's probably not a serial killer.
At that thought, she stopped short. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What the hell did she really know about Jake McMillan? And here she was at a secluded motel, meeting a man who obviously wanted her out of the way. It was worse than a cheap horror movie. And she was the one who insisted that they meet here. She was also the one who thought it was a good idea to keep their meeting a secret - at least until she found out what Jake had to say.
So the reality was no one knew she was coming here. And if she disappeared, no one would know why.
Apparently that kiss had made her completely lose her sensibilities - and survival instinct. She looked at the door, a mere five feet away, and blew out a breath. Stay or go. It should have been an easy choice. She should spin so fast she broke an ankle, then hobble as fast as possible back to her truck and drive far, far away from Jake McMillan.
But then everyone had always said she was hardheaded.
Her instincts were rarely wrong and her impression of Jake was that she annoyed him, confused him, but in no way had she ever felt threatened by him. Determined not to change her mind, she made the five steps to the door and raised her hand to knock. Before her knuckles made contact, the door was yanked open and she stared directly into the angry face of Jake McMillan.
Chapter Eight
"Are you going to stand out there all night?" he asked. "You're drawing attention."
Mallory glanced over her shoulder at the parking lot. Empty. "Who exactly am I drawing attention from - the mosquitoes?"
"Just get inside," he ordered, and stepped back from the doorway so she could enter.
She'd taken one step inside the door when she saw the gun peeking out of the band of his jeans. Before she could retreat, Jake grabbed her arm, yanked her into the room and slammed the door behind her, positioning himself between her and the only exit.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked.
This is it. I'm going to die and I'm not wearing underwear or a bra. Jesus, she'd be talked about for the next hundred years.
"Hel-lo!" Jake's voice boomed. "I asked what the hell is wrong with you?"
It was too late for caution. Might as well try the truth. "You have a gun," Mallory said, and pointed to his waistband.
Jake threw his hands up in the air in obvious exasperation. "Of course I have a gun. Don't tell me you don't own a gun." He paused for a moment and frowned. "Okay, maybe given your situation you don't own a gun, but a lot of people do."
"I have a gun," Mallory said, irritated that her tone was a bit defensive. "But I don't wear it on me."
"That's because with the clothes you wear, there's no place to put it." Jake reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, then flipped it over and showed her the identification inside. "I'm FBI. I have a license to carry, and short of your uncle's casino and showering, this gun is always on my body."
The unbidden picture of Jake in the shower flashed across Mallory's mind. There was definitely a weapon involved in the visual, but it wasn't the gun in his waistband. Shaking away the thought, she tried to concentrate on what he'd just said because it was the last thing she'd expected to hear.
"FBI? What in the world does the FBI want with my uncle?"
Jake raised one hand in protest. "We don't want anything from your uncle, although given his list of friends, I'm sure there would be plenty to find."
"Reginald's no saint, but he's relatively small-time as far as I know. His crimes don't extend beyond Royal F
lush, well, and probably New Orleans, but the FBI would hardly be interested in my uncle's taste for women of the night."
Jake grimaced. "I don't even want to think about it."
"Then who are you after, and does Reginald know who you are?"
Jake shook his head. "No. Reginald doesn't know and he can't find out. Regardless of your relationship with your uncle, he can't be trusted and I can't afford a leak."
"But you think I can be trusted? Aren't you taking a big chance, Agent McMillan-if that's even your real name?"
His expression shifted ever so slightly at her last statement, and Mallory knew she'd hit on the truth. She didn't know a single thing about the man in front of her, except that he claimed to be FBI and he was using an assumed name.
Jake stared at her for a moment, then sighed. "I'm taking a huge chance. One that could cost me my job and other things far more important, but I'm out of choices. I have to bust Silas Hebert. We both want the same thing - in a manner of speaking - it's just that my way is going to take a little longer. I need your help if this is going to work. And you need me to win if you're going to get the money you need for the tax note."
Mallory blinked in surprise. "How did you know about the tax note?"
"I heard it at J.T's Bar this evening. I figured nothing in this town was a secret for very long and if you were working the tournament, someone at the bar would know why. I had to know where you stood on all this before I could confide in you."
Mallory sighed. "The joys of living in a small town." She shook her head, then focused back on Jake. "What does the FBI want with Silas Hebert? Not that I care, mind you. I'd love to see him arrested for anything, but why now? Why this tournament?"
Jake's expression hardened and his mouth set in a thin line. "I can't tell you everything. Hell, I'm not supposed to tell you anything at all, but I will say this - the FBI wants to bust Silas for money laundering and counterfeiting. We have reason to believe he's been laundering counterfeit cash through casinos for years. Dealing is the only way I have a chance of getting my hands on cash directly from Silas. Once it's put into a casino system, we have no way of proving the funny money came from him."
