by Robin Spano
“Maybe you haven’t been listening to me. Which is sad, George. I thought writers were supposed to be good listeners. I want your name on the cover.”
“I have too much on the go right now.”
Mickey cast his glance around the diner like he was trying to find the secret angle, the one that would finally convince George. “Think of all the books we could sell if we do this together. You know how hot Suicide Kings is?”
Of course George knew. He tracked sales statistics for his poker strategy book obsessively. It wasn’t exactly falling off the shelves, but it was holding its own, close to the top in its category.
“People are going to buy something right now just ’cause it’s by you. Add my name into the mix and we got an instant bestseller.”
“Thanks for the praise, Mick. I’m gonna take a pass.”
George could only imagine what his family in Boston would say if he started writing biographies of poker players. He might as well get a tattoo saying Charlatan in big red letters on his forehead and wear it home for Christmas.
Mickey was scowling. “What does that mean, ‘take a pass’? What a stupid expression. Just say, ‘No, Mickey. Fuck you. I’m not writing your goddamn biography.’”
“I said exactly that.” George took a sip of the tepid black coffee. “Minus the fuck you.”
“This is nuts!” Mickey’s coffee splashed over into its saucer as he slammed it down. “You guys should be banging down my door. Fucking snobs, all you writers.”
“I’m sorry, man. I’m really busy,” George said. “I have my blog, I’m guest hosting Fiona’s show for the Vancouver leg, I’m pitching 2+2 Publishing about a sequel to Suicide Kings. Not to mention I’m playing in a tournament.”
“You call that playing?” Mickey snorted. “More like blinding off until you fade away. You have to actually play a hand sometimes.”
“I choose my spots carefully.” George knew Mickey was right about his game. Although Mickey had busted out in the second round of the tournament, he had gone out with gusto, and had probably already made his entry fee back from the cash games he’d been playing all afternoon. George’s poker game, though technically competent, was too peppered with fear to ever make him a star.
“Let’s hope you choose your writing projects less selectively than your poker hands, or you’ll be out of work until you’re a hundred.”
“Thanks for the offer, Mickey.” George pulled out enough money for both coffees and set it in the middle of the table. “I’m sure you’ll find the right fit for your project.”
“Take your fucking money.” Mickey grabbed the ten-dollar bill and thrust it into George’s hand. “You think I’m such a degenerate gambler, I can’t pay for a coffee when I invite someone out for one?”
“No. I didn’t think that.” George replaced the money in his wallet and stood up. “I’ll see you around.”
As George rode the elevator up to his room, he felt anticipation tingle in his veins. Tonight, he was continuing his real writing project — the one he hadn’t told a soul about.
FIVE
CLARE
Clare was walking through the hotel lobby after dinner with Cloutier when she practically collided with Mickey Mills.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going.”
“Sorry.” Clare looked up to see an unshaven face scowling at her. “I guess I was lost in thought.”
“You’re the kid who pissed off T-Bone.” Mickey’s hostility vanished as quickly as it had come. “Good for you.”
“How did I piss off T-Bone?” Clare found that dramatic. “I called down one hand. He was bullying me all day.”
“Well, you’re under his skin,” Mickey gestured with his hands, sliding two fingers under his other palm, “which is a piece of very good luck. You can use that if you’re at the same table again.”
“I can?” Clare wondered if this stocky little man was about to give her some tips. She hoped he would, but quickly. She wanted to go upstairs and phone Kevin, her boyfriend, at home. And change into some sweats — even if they had some designer logo on the ass. And fall asleep.
Mickey’s dark eyes flitted around the lobby. He ticked his pointer finger in her direction. “I can help you make T-Bone’s temper work in your favor, but you gotta do something for me in return.”
Naturally. “Thanks. I’ll be all right.”
“You mental?” Mickey furrowed his brow. “I said I’ll help you take down T-Bone Jones. Most newbies would jump at that chance. Hell, most newbies wouldn’t get that chance.”
“I’m not most newbies.” Clare studied the tips of her pointy pink boots. She wasn’t used to wearing heels with jeans, but there was something cool about it. She liked feeling taller as Tiffany. “I don’t like to owe people favors.”
Mickey’s eyes relaxed. “Is that all? You can do the favor up front. Then I’ll owe you.”
Clare thought about this. “What if your advice doesn’t work?”
Mickey laughed. “Then I’ll coach you for free. Hell, I’ll do that regardless — I like the spirit in you. You following the tour to Vancouver?”
Clare wished she knew the answer to that. “Probably. I’ll think about your offer.” She started to walk toward the elevator and stopped. “Anyway, what’s the favor you want from me?”
A grin spread across Mickey’s face. “Promise you won’t get creeped out?”
“No.”
“I need a date for tonight.”
“Creepy.” But Clare stayed where she was.
“Don’t take it the wrong way. You don’t gotta have sex with me or nothing. I just need a date for this party.”
“You don’t have one yet?” Clare looked at her watch. “It’s almost nine.”
“It’s not the kind of thing you normally bring a date to. It’s just . . . okay, my ex-wife is hosting it.”
“Your ex-wife lives in Niagara Falls?” Clare was surprised.
“Loni? No. She lives in L.A. She’s hosting the party in the back room of a bar and grill.”
“Why the back room?”
“It’s a poker game. Nosebleed stakes. You know how much a casino robs you for, playing for that kind of money?”
“No.” Clare assumed it must be a lot, or the RCMP wouldn’t have such a liberal budget to ensure that poker stayed safe in the public eye.
“They rake as much as you can win, if you’re playing half-decent players.” Mickey shook his head with scorn. “I feel like I’m working for the government half the time, and the other half I’m earning for the goombas running the casinos.”
“I still don’t see why you need a date. If you’re going to gamble all night, what’s my job?”
“Your job is to cheer me on. Bring me drinks. I’ll buy them — I don’t want you to be out any cash for this — but a sweet girl on my arm will do wonders for my game.”
“How?”
“My ex’s new boyfriend is T-Bone Jones.”
Clare laughed. It sounded a bit like a snort, so she quickly pitched her voice higher and turned it into a Tiffany-style titter. “I should have known your motivation for helping me beat T-Bone wasn’t pure.”
“No one’s motivation ever is.”
Mickey shifted his weight from one foot to the next like a kid who had to use the bathroom. “So not only will you beef up my self-esteem — which is more fragile than people think — but if you play it right, T-Bone’s gonna frustrate himself into giving me all his money. Then he’ll hate you even more, and it’s gonna be that much easier for you to get him to lose his cool at the table.”
Clare wasn’t sure if Mickey’s logic worked, but she had to take him up on his offer. Getting in with Mickey Mills might be just the way to show Cloutier she was the right person for this case.
“How will a fake date beef up your self-esteem?” Clare didn’t wa
nt to seem too eager to accept the invitation.
“Because my ex-wife is a total fucking cunt — pardon my language — and I would love to see the look on Loni’s face when I walk in with the hottest new broad on the scene.”
Clare wasn’t used to being thought of as hot — not by so many people in one day. She knew she shouldn’t like the feeling too much — it was only her cover character inspiring the attention — still . . . “Two conditions,” she said.
Mickey’s eyes widened.
“No PDAs.”
“What the fuck’s a PDA?”
“No cuddling, no hand-holding. Nothing.”
“Fine, I wasn’t gonna be all over you. You just have to come up to me the odd time, maybe rub my shoulders —”
“I’m not rubbing your shoulders.”
“You don’t gotta be so cold about it.” Mickey brushed his arms and shivered as if it was forty below.
Clare put a hand on her hip. “Condition two: if anyone asks, we’re there as friends.”
“Ah, come on. Why can’t we say we’re on a date?”
“Because you’re thirty years older than me, and if I meet someone I do want to date, it won’t be worth any poker lessons if I have to turn down real romance.”
“Fine,” Mickey said, glancing down as if she’d hurt his feelings. “We’ll say we’re friends. But only if we’re asked directly.”
“Deal. So why is your ex such a . . .” Clare wasn’t prudish, but Tiffany wouldn’t repeat Mickey’s epithet. “. . . bitch?”
“You mean besides the million bucks she convinced the judge to award her in our divorce, which I’m still fucking paying in installments?” Mickey scowled at the lobby carpet. “I’m not worth a million bucks. Don’t know why she should be.”
“Maybe the judge went by income instead of net worth,” Clare said.
“Fucking hell. You on her side already?”
“Would I have to change clothes for the party?” By her own standards, Clare was dressed up already, but she had a whole new wardrobe in her hotel room, courtesy of the RCMP.
“Up to you,” Mickey said. He was in dress pants and a pressed shirt, which seemed to be his everyday attire. “You’d be sexier than Loni if you wore a paper sack.”
“I have this blue D&G dress I’ve been dying for an excuse to wear.” Clare might as well do this wholeheartedly. She had to show Cloutier she was serious. “I’ll meet you back in the lobby in ten minutes.”
SIX
NOAH
Noah Walker frowned as he glanced around the bar. The room was filled with loud, ugly white trash, and he was supposed to make these people think he was their new fucking best friend. Good thing he liked challenges.
It was an odd room, with cheap wood paneling and swanky new lighting, like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be rustic or modern. Maybe ownership had changed recently. Maybe ownership just didn’t give a shit.
The two poker tables were already full and the rest of the room was filling fast. Great White North — yeah, right. More than half the people there were American, like Noah. Hoping to cash in on what they thought was weak play, given the Canadians’ reputation for reticence and politeness. Please. The Canadians were a savvy crowd. They might smile and act polite, but they knew how to hold onto their money.
Noah had crashed the party. It hadn’t been hard to find, with all those players yammering about seeing each other later in the back room at MacCauley’s. Wink wink, bring money for gambling. Like the cops cared about busting up their stupid side games. And like that should be the players’ biggest fear, with a killer basically picking them off, one by one, with some rope around their throats as they lay sleeping in their hotel rooms.
Noah willed a smile onto his face. You didn’t get anywhere good being negative. He only needed to think of his mother to remember that. She’d spent most of his childhood brooding around in depression, nursing her moods like she was a martyr to so much affliction.
Joe Mangan set his Coke on the bar rail beside Noah.
“Hey,” Noah said, seizing the chance to talk to one of the few people there who didn’t look like he’d just rolled in from a long shift in the scrapyard. Joe, though he had a small scar on his otherwise baby-smooth face that indicated he’d likely fare just fine in the scrapyard, at least took the time to gel up his hair and wear decent shoes. Most of the other clowns wore discount store jeans and old sneakers.
“Hey back,” Joe said. “Doesn’t look like this is your scene.”
Noah shrugged. “Why not? I like to win money.”
“Against this crowd?” Joe’s eyebrows lifted. “How good are you?”
“Good enough.” Noah knew he wasn’t as good as Joe and the other pros, but he had cash to throw around. His instructions were to infiltrate this scene, and he could afford to lose a bit up front, because soon he was only going to win. “You know how to get on the waiting list?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “You give your name to Loni.”
Noah glanced toward the bar where Joe was indicating. “Big blond with the rack?”
Joe nodded. “Looks good from a distance, huh? You can only tell her age when you get up close.”
“How old is she?” Noah’s mom would be off in a rant about women like Loni — fake breasts, probably fake lips, too — making women who didn’t artificially enhance their appearance feel inferior. His father would defend a woman’s right to plastic surgery. His mother would get insecure, and the conversation — if there had been a conversation — would degenerate.
Joe shrugged. “Late forties? Why, you want to hit that?”
Noah struggled to keep the slice of pizza he’d just eaten in his stomach. “No.”
“Don’t knock the powers of a woman with experience. Never had her myself, but I’ve heard good things.”
Noah studied Joe, whose eyes seemed to be on both poker tables at once. The tables were half a level below them on the other side of the rail, like a boxing ring for everyone to gawk at. Did Joe know that his game — his careful hand-reading, his assessment of odds, his strategic bullying — was being compromised by a ring of cheaters?
But hang on — here came someone interesting. Noah’s gaze shifted toward the entrance to the private room, where a young woman was walking in with Mickey Mills. All right, so she was wearing a bright blue dress that was a bit fashioned-up for this crowd — Noah didn’t have time for high-maintenance bullshit. But this girl had intelligent eyes which, unlike the rest of the players he’d met, looked like they could see beyond her own selfish interests.
“You know that girl?” he asked Joe.
Joe stopped watching the game and followed Noah’s gaze. “The brunette with Mickey? Why? You like her?”
Noah shrugged.
“That’s Tiffany. She’s the bane of my girlfriend’s existence.”
Noah felt a corner of his mouth lift in amusement. “Why do they hate each other?”
“It’s one-sided,” Joe said. “Liz hates Tiffany. She donked out and cost Liz her tournament.”
“What’s Tiffany doing with Mickey Mills?” Noah asked. “Are they dating? He looks like he’s twice her age and then some.”
“More likely he’s coaching her.” Joe turned his gaze back toward the poker tables. “She’s hot. I can see why you like her.”
“She’s not that good-looking.” Noah set down his beer and leaned into the bar rail. The rail wobbled a bit, so Noah stopped leaning — he didn’t think the players at the poker tables on the other side would like him to come crashing into their game. “But when you compare her to the rest of the women here, she stands out by a mile. You know what her story is?”
“She’s a trust fund kid,” Joe said. “She’s read a few poker books and she thinks this poker tour is a better investment than the stock market.”
Noah laughed. “She any good
?”
“At poker? No. But she’s smart. I saw a couple of moves that would make Sklansky proud. Too bad her eyes give her game away. Still, with Mickey coaching her — and maybe a pair of dark glasses — she might pick it up in time to do okay in Vancouver.”
“Is she going to Vancouver?” Noah was surprised to feel his hopes rise.
“I think so.”
Noah took a smoke from his pack. The nice thing about an illegal side game was the bar bent the idiotic bylaws about smoking. The nice thing about hanging with white trash was that most of them smoked. “You don’t think she’ll cash in Niagara?”
“Not a chance,” Joe said. “She might get a few more flukes, but the odds are she’ll give her chips away as quickly as she got them. I’d lay, like, six to one she doesn’t cash.”
Noah smirked. “Is everything an odds game to you?”
“Pretty much.”
“What would you give my chances of getting Tiffany out on a date?”
“Depends if I ask her first.” Joe tilted his head to one side as if he was contemplating it.
“You just said you have a girlfriend.”
“Yeah?”
“Tiffany’s not going to date a guy who’s taken.”
“How do you know? I thought you’d never met her.” Joe slurped at his nearly empty Coke can.
“I can see it in her eyes,” Noah said. “She has integrity.”
“You’re a funny guy. All right, I’ll give her to you,” Joe said.
“You don’t have to give me anything. How about a prop bet?” Noah felt pretty clever for thinking of this. If he could get a long-term bet going with Joe — especially a secret one, that no one could know about — it would be an indefinite in.
“What?” Joe shook his head, as if trying to understand what Noah had proposed. “No way. My girlfriend would have a fit if she found out I made a bet about dating someone else.”
Noah felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was probably Bert, wanting to arrange the next day’s meeting. “I was thinking more than a date. And you’re the one who basically told me you’re willing to cheat on your girlfriend . . .”
