High Stakes

by Fern Michaels

  “Satisfied? Everything is in place, so stop following me around and tell me when I’m going to get my money,” she said.

  “I don’t trust you. You don’t do what you’re told. Is that why your husband left you?”

  “Stay out of my personal business. Now you need to get out of here, so we can hold our auditions. This is important. We have to keep things moving and not make waves. You keep wanting to do things your way, and your way is going to bring trouble. I am not going to tell you again. Now, when do I get my money?”

  “When the prizes are handed out. Your money will be in a basket of flowers. At the bottom. And I hope I never lay eyes on you again.”

  Pilar laughed just as the doors opened to admit the horde of young men who wanted to be the next Mr. December. Harry and Jack led the pack but took seats in the back because they had no intention of trying out a dance routine. They watched as Delgado slunk out of the room.

  An hour into the rehearsal was all Jack and the others needed. He signaled that they were to leave. Outside, in the great hallway, he groaned. “That was too painful to watch one minute longer.”

  “My stomach is in a knot,” Dennis said.

  “Cyrus can dance better than most of those guys,” Ted observed.

  “I don’t know how I kept from laughing out loud,” Abner added.

  They were outside the five-star hotel, looking at one another. “What now?” Jack asked, looking over at Charles.

  “I guess this is what one calls free time. We do whatever we want and count down the hours till tomorrow. An early dinner would work wonders for me. I say we go back to the Pink Pelican and check out what they call fine dining around here. Avery has it all covered, so we’re good for the evening.”

  * * *

  Morning rolled around soon enough for the gang. They met up for breakfast, chatting with one another as they watched the numbers on their watches. The banks opened at eight, as opposed to nine up north. Toby would be at the bank promptly at eight. From there, he and Mia would head to the airport for the first leg of their trip. None of them knew where any of the dancers were going, not even Avery. All he would say was that Mia had resigned, had thanked him for the opportunity to work for him, but she was staying with Toby, who was happier than a pig in a mudslide, according to Dennis.

  The Ritz-Carlton was just coming alive when Pilar Sanders stepped out of the elevator, dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and a bright pink T-shirt that said THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS. She carried an oversize straw beach bag with a bright bold sunflower embroidered on both sides. The bag had a zipper. She wore no makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Under her arm, she carried a straw hat that matched the beach bag. She stopped at one of the seating areas and leaned over to speak to Zuma Delgado.

  “Don’t you get tired following me around? I’m going shopping. I’ll be back in two hours to get ready for tonight. I do this at each pageant, so it is nothing new. It’s how I unwind. In wild anticipation of the money you’re going to be paying me. Can I bring anything back for you? Chocolate, some of that shitty aftershave that you bathe in? Well, what’s it going to be?”

  “Two hours. If you aren’t back, I’ll send my people after you.”

  “Of course you will. Good-bye, Mr. Delgado. You have a nice day now, you hear?”

  “Bitch!”

  “I heard that. Bastard,” Pilar called over her shoulder.

  Pilar walked away from the hotel and hailed a cab. “The airport, please. The private part.”

  Seventy-two minutes later, Pilar leaned back in her seat and looked around the plane’s interior. She was the only passenger, and she had been promised eggs Benedict when she hired the private plane to fly her to San Francisco.

  “Here I come, Gabe, like it or not. I’ll find you. I know I will,” she whispered.

  What Pilar Sanders didn’t know was that when the plane landed in San Francisco, one of Avery Snowden’s associates would be waiting for her. And where she was going, she would never again see Gabriel.

  Zuma Delgado was a bundle of nerves as one text message after another pinged on his phone. His people were wired up, and his supplier was about to have a stroke in anticipation of what was going to go down in just a few hours. With nothing to do but answer the text messages and incoming calls, he set out to walk to the Mandarin Oriental. Watching the last rehearsal was better than sitting around here, stewing and worrying. The Sanders woman had said that the rehearsal was scheduled for ten and would run three hours. It was a little past nine thirty now. “So, I’ll walk slow,” he muttered to himself.

  At 10:20 p.m., the fine hairs on the back of Delgado’s neck started to twang. Where were the dancers? Did he make a mistake on the time? He never made mistakes. He called his people at the Pink Pelican and was told the dancers left the hotel a little before eight and had not returned.

  “Who followed them?” he asked.

  “No one. You did not give the order to do that. You said to wait here.”

  Yes, he did make mistakes. “Check their rooms.” Delgado knew even as the words left his mouth that the dancers were gone. He felt the blood freeze in his veins. Sanders was gone, too. While he didn’t know all that much about women, he did know enough to know they didn’t go out in public without makeup, and the Sanders woman wore enough to warrant a car wash to remove it.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  All it took was an hour to bribe the housekeeping staff and gain entrance to the dancers’ rooms, as well as Pilar Sanders’s at the Ritz-Carlton. To the naked eye, it appeared that all of them would be returning. But Delgado knew otherwise.

  If he hadn’t been standing outside the rehearsal room, he would have missed the gang of men who shouldered him out of the way.

  “Move it, buddy,” Jack said. “We have a rehearsal to get under way. Hey, weren’t you here yesterday for the auditions? We won! We’re going to be the opening act for the real dancers. What a break, huh? Okay, one of you guys turn up the music and let’s go to town. We want to make that nice lady proud of us. She said we’re all going to get a prize.”

  “Wait a minute here. You men are dancing tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Jack drawled. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m the guy that hands out the prizes. You okay with that?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so. Are you the guy who also pays us the thousand bucks? That’s, like, each, dude.”

  “No, I’m not that guy. I just do the gifts.”

  “We gotta start practicing, dude.”

  “Um, yes. All right. I guess I’ll see you this evening.”

  Charles scurried over to where Jack and the others were standing, all flustered. “I just got a text message from one of those dancers. He said all the dancers are in the hospital because they got food poisoning early this morning. He said to tell all of you that Ms. Sanders said you will be dancing in prime time tonight. In other words, you guys are it.”

  Zuma Delgado took a deep breath and wanted to howl his rage. Instead, he backed away and bumped into Charles. Now what the hell am I supposed to do? “Who are you, old man?”

  Charles bristled with indignation. He straightened his portly body and let loose with his best British-accented dialogue. “My partner and I represent these young men in their theatrical endeavors. Ms. Sanders has promised the contract before this evening’s performance.”

  Delgado absorbed what he was hearing. Maybe he was wrong. He looked around. It certainly looked to him like the show was going forward. Women were crazy when it came to spending money and shopping. Every man in the world knew that. So the dancers got food poisoning. It happened. It had happened to him once, and he’d never forgotten it. To this day, he would not eat clams. He felt more upbeat as he stomped from the rehearsal hall.

  “I don’t think the guy is going to kill anyone just yet. We need to play some music for a few minutes, then get out of here, so they can set up the seats for tonight’s show,” Ted said, looking around at the stacks
and stacks of chairs waiting to be set up.

  “Screw the music. The guy is gone. Let’s get out of here. Where is Avery?” Jack said.

  “He said he was on his way to San Francisco, California, but he got a call and sent someone else. I don’t know where he is right now,” Fergus said.

  “Uh-oh, company,” Dennis said when the huge double doors opened.

  A young, harried woman pushing a dolly stopped in her tracks and looked around. “Who are you people? What are you doing here?”

  Jack knew immediately who she was—Pilar Sanders’s right hand. And the right hand didn’t appear to have a clue as to what was going on. “You must be Carlie Fisher, Ms. Sanders’s assistant. We’re tonight’s lineup. These two gentlemen,” he said, pointing to Fergus and Charles, “are our agents. I don’t suppose you have our contracts and our checks, do you?”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” She motioned to the men behind her to move forward with their piled-high dollies. “Take them to the dressing room and set it up. It’s behind the stage, on the right.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Your dancers are all in the hospital with food poisoning, and Ms. Sanders is temporarily unavailable. In other words, we’re dancing tonight. We were under the impression we were to do just one performance, but now with your men in the hospital, it looks like three performances. We want to be paid for three, not one. We need to see it in writing, like, now, or we’re outta here. We know how show business works,” Jack smirked.

  “But I . . . I can’t. . . . I have to talk . . . no authority. . .” Carlie Fisher sputtered.

  “Well, young lady, you better get it in a hurry or else shut down tonight’s performance,” Charles said.

  “But I . . . all right, all right. I can write checks on the business account, but I do not have any contracts. This show has to go on,” Fisher said, in full panic mode.

  “I can draw something up that will cover the situation temporarily. I’m sure the front desk will be glad to help us out. While I’m doing that, you can write out six checks for three thousand dollars each. To expedite things, just leave the names blank. We can fill them in ourselves,” Charles said.

  “Fine, fine. I do not believe this. I absolutely do not believe this. Talk about a cluster . . . Where is Ms. Sanders?” she all but screamed as she continued to babble, all the while rummaging in her fat briefcase for the business checkbook. She scribbled, turned around, but the room was empty. She shook her head as she tried to make sense out of what was happening. She searched for her phone to call Pilar. She tried three times, and all three times the calls went straight to voice mail. “I should quit,” she wailed. Instead, she sat down on the dolly and cried.

  When Charles returned, waving a sheet of paper in the air, Fisher wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt, reached for the one-page contract, read it, then signed her name. She handed over the checks.

  “Thank you, young lady. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Fisher shook her head. “Just show up tonight with plenty of time. You do know what to do, don’t you? Ms. Sanders likes things to run like clockwork.”

  “Not to worry, Miss Fisher. We’ll see you later.”

  The gang rushed up to Charles the moment he walked through the door, and they peppered him with questions. “We’re dealing with dumb and dumber here, boys. There’s a branch bank one street over. I suggest you all cash these checks now, but be sure to fill in your names. I didn’t see any reason to expound on that. The contract only has first names. She didn’t even notice, or if she did, she doesn’t care. I wager she will be terminating her employment by the end of the evening,” he said.

  Dennis clapped his hands in glee as he fell into line for the trek to the bank. He was being paid to dance on a stage. “How cool is that?” he muttered to himself.

  Their banking business finished, Charles signaled they should all split up and head back to the Pink Pelican to rest up for their performance. Dennis was the only one who was excited. Even Cyrus was glum.

  On their arrival, it was obvious that happy hour was in full swing. It was wall-to-wall tourists, laughing and drinking. The scent of suntan lotion was everywhere and so intense that Jack broke away, saying he was going to take Cyrus for a run on the beach. Harry joined them. The run on the beach turned into Cyrus running off by himself while Jack and Harry plopped down on the sand.

  “It’s a hot mess, Harry.”

  Harry grinned. “What was your first clue, Jack?”

  “Do you think we can pull this off? The truth, Harry.”

  “The truth, Jack? Too many variables.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s my thinking, too. I hate saying this, but I’d feel a lot better if Snowden was here. He definitely has a feel for this kind of caper. Look around. His people could be anywhere, and we don’t even know it. He keeps saying he has our backs. I hope so. By the way, what do you think about Toby and Mia going off together?”

  Harry laughed. “I saw that one coming. Riding off into the sunset, or in this case the sunrise, is for the young.”

  “Wow, Harry. That was profound.”

  Harry was on his feet just as Cyrus bounded up the beach, barking his head off.

  The threesome headed back to the Pelican to get ready for their evening’s adventure.

  * * *

  Jack’s watch said it was 6:47 p.m. The great ballroom was filled to capacity. Music was playing, but not loud. That would change soon. A sold-out performance. “I didn’t know that Fisher was the emcee.”

  “I don’t think she knew it, either. With no one else to do it, she stepped up to the plate. You see those presents, prizes, if you prefer. Ready to go. And Delgado has a ringside seat, front row center. It’s easy to pick out his goons since the audience is all female. They stick out like tits on a bull,” Ted said.

  “Time to saddle up,” Jack said. “This is where I give you all a pep talk that you don’t need. We’re oiled and bronzed. We’re dancers tonight, boys. We have checks to prove it. Remember, the ninja suits rip off from the crotch, and you need both hands to do it. You fling them behind you. Then you toss that round circle upward, and a cloud of smoke circles overhead. The drumbeat kicks in, and then we . . . dance. Did I miss anything?”

  “Not a thing,” Dennis said. “We just wait for our cue. She goes offstage, the lights go down, and when they come back up, we’re on the stage, under some blinding white lights. This room will feel like an earthquake hit it once the music kicks in.” He paused. “Okay, she’s winding down, get ready, boys. On the count of three, take your places. One. Two. Three! Hit it, guys!”

  The drumbeat was deafening; the women in the audience screamed, shouted, and stomped their feet. Clad in black from head to toe, the line of dancers looked menacing. They stood, legs spread and firmly planted. On cue, they all tossed the circles into the air. Smoke circled upward just as the dancers reached down to release the Velcro. Ninja suits flew upward into the haze.

  Game on.

  The women screamed their delight as Harry moved forward, then leaped in the air. He twisted, he flew, and he gyrated to the throbbing music, showing off every martial-arts move he’d ever learned. His almost naked body shimmered under the bright lights. He did a bump and grind that almost set the room on fire. Jack and the others played backup, their moves, while not as stellar, were still earth-shattering. The women didn’t even bother to wait for the end; they started tossing money onto the stage.

  The following thirty minutes passed in a blur of ear-deafening sound. When the lights went down and the music stopped, the boys rushed back to the dressing room to get ready for the awards part of the pageant.

  “Holy shit, Harry! I didn’t know you had it in you!” Jack roared with laughter as the others clapped Harry on the back, praising his moves.

  “The videos go for a hundred bucks a pop. Cash only. I ordered a dozen,” Dennis chortled.

  The others just stared at him.

  �
�What videos?” Harry asked.

  “The videos of our performance. The women buy them, and then they can play them over and over when they go home. Right now, there is someone out there raking in the cash in a bushel basket. Not to worry. I ordered a whole dozen. When we get old, we can look at them and laugh,” Dennis said.

  Jack watched Harry out of the corner of his eye. He was about to erupt any second now, and he would have, but Carlie Fisher poked her head in the door and said, “Onstage, every-one.”

  Jack pushed Harry forward. They lined up as the women whistled and shouted at Fisher’s little speech assuring them the show would continue after the awards were given out. She again apologized for the absence of the regular dancers and got a few boo hoos from the women when she said they all were suffering from food poisoning. “And I’m sorry that Ms. Sanders isn’t here, but it seems that on her way, there was a car accident, and she’s being held up. But the show must go on, so without further adieu, let me introduce you to Ms. Sanders’s assistant, Mr. Zuma, who will present the prizes for tonight’s brief but electric performance. You understand, of course, that the dancers on the stage are accepting the awards for the dancers who aren’t here.”

  Delgado appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t say anything but reached over to the table and picked up the boot-sized box and handed it to Harry, who was first in line. Drumroll. And on down the line he went until all the gift boxes were off the table and only the basket of flowers remained. Delgado looked uncertain, until Charles walked onto the stage and said he was accepting the flowers for Ms. Sanders.

  Immediately following that declaration, every light in the ballroom came on. Blue-jacketed men and women dressed in windbreakers with the letters DEA or FBI were everywhere. Guns were everywhere. The audience, not understanding what was going on, hooted and clapped and yelled for more, more, more, knowing they were getting their money’s worth from the night’s event.