by Robin Spano
Joe’s eyes widened. “You want a prop bet on who gets Tiffany into bed?”
“Yeah,” Noah said. It was a long shot, but if this worked, it was his easy ticket into the in crowd. He wished he could send tips back to his thirteen-year-old self, which was the last time he could remember giving two shits about the in crowd.
Joe wrinkled his forehead in the same way Noah had seen him do when he was pretending to think about a big hand on TV. “You’d have an advantage from the get-go. With Lizzie around, it will be a challenge finding time to nail Tiffany.”
“Fair enough,” Noah said. “But you’re famous. I’m not. So you’ll get her attention faster.”
“I guess that’s a wash.” Joe glanced around the room. He smiled and waved when he made eye contact with Elizabeth, safely out of earshot.
“Are you willing to call my being handsome a wash with your charm?”
Joe laughed. “Yeah, that’s fair. Although I do have a cult following on the gay scene.”
“Seriously?”
“Someone started a Facebook page called ‘I Want to Blow Joe Mangan.’ Sixteen hundred fans; twelve hundred are men.”
Noah wasn’t surprised. “Might be the frosted tips.”
“You think?” Joe patted his short, spiky hair. “What’s the bet for? Five grand? Ten?”
Noah shrugged. “I could go higher. Make it twenty.”
“Twenty, huh?” Joe pursed his lips and nodded. “You’re on. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Nate Wilkes,” Noah said, shaking hands on the bet.
SEVEN
ELIZABETH
Fiona Gallagher twirled a strand of red hair around her index finger as she scanned the party — presumably for someone more important to talk to. “I like the new girl. Too bad we can’t keep her.”
“Tiffany? Why can’t we keep her?” Elizabeth asked. She’d like to be talking to someone other than Fiona and Loni, too, but she wasn’t rude enough to show it. “Joe thinks she’s here for a while.”
Loni Mills tapped her cigarette holder over the black plastic ashtray. Elizabeth wanted to tell her that the cigarette holder made her look old, not glamorous. “She’s a real polite thing,” Loni said. “Comes up to me, ‘Excuse me, Miss, can you please tell me how the waiting list for the poker game works?’”
Elizabeth snorted. “I’d love to see Tiffany play at these stakes. She’ll drain that trust fund in no time.”
“I can’t play poker,” Loni said. “Doesn’t stop me from sticking like glue to this scene.”
Fiona tossed her glance down the bar so Loni could follow it. “And look — Tiffany seems to be coming onto this scene just like you did. Notice how she’s hanging all over your ex-husband, bringing him beers like some dog who’s just learned how to fetch.”
“Hey, I never fetched anything for Mickey.” Loni pushed her chest out and glanced down as if saying, With a rack like this, it was Mickey who did all the fetching. But Loni’s smile faded. Her gaze remained on Tiffany and Mickey.
Fiona sipped her white wine. “What do you think she wants from him?”
Elizabeth had had enough of Fiona. But she had nowhere else to go except home to bed. “I seriously doubt Tiffany James — How old is she? Twelve? — wants anything from Mickey Mills except to learn how to play poker.”
“I like her dress,” Fiona said. “It looks like new Dolce and Gabbana. You think it’s real?”
“Who cares?” Elizabeth thought Tiffany looked like a bridesmaid at a legion hall wedding. All she needed was a stick of bubble gum to complete the image.
“I hate that about tournament poker,” Fiona said. “None of the women look like women.” She paused and corrected herself, badly. “Um, present company excepted.” Fiona laughed slightly. “But you know what I mean. Most go around in old jeans and men’s T-shirts. It sucks for the ratings.”
Because it was all about Fiona being a superstar. She was a backwater poker anchor and she walked around like she was hosting the Oscars.
Loni took a long sip of beer and said, “Why not ask Poker Stars and Full Tilt to vamp up their women’s clothes. Might not be Versace, but least the sponsored girls will look sexier on TV.”
“Good plan.” Fiona pulled a pen from her purse and made a note. “Thanks, ‘Miss.’”
Elizabeth groaned. “Oh my god. Please can we not all talk like Tiffany?” And really, when Elizabeth thought about it, was “Miss” a word a little aristocrat would use? It sounded more like trailer trash to her ear.
“Loosen up, Lizzie.” Fiona reached over and undid the top button on Elizabeth’s blouse. She appraised it, and undid one more. “Much better. Now you’d never even guess about that pickle in your ass.”
Elizabeth looked down and did one of the buttons back up. She met Joe’s eye — he was standing with some dark-haired guy she didn’t recognize — and he gave her a thumbs-up.
“See,” Fiona said. “Joe likes it better undone.”
Elizabeth winced. She didn’t know why she was at this party when she was in no mood to gamble. She’d never understood the point of socializing for its own sake. There were so many valid reasons to interact, like work or family obligations; to arbitrarily invent one seemed bizarre.
“At least you’re actually with Joe,” Fiona said. “Poor old George looks at me like I’m only being single for now, and I’ll eventually find my way home to him.”
“You’re both lucky,” Loni said, her eyes still fixed firmly on Tiffany. “Mickey looks at me like I’m the devil.”
“You did kind of take him for more than he’s worth,” Fiona said with a grin.
“I had a good lawyer.” Loni patted her big blond hair into place.
“Also, Fiona, you still sleep with George,” Elizabeth said. “So maybe that’s a factor in his so-called self-delusion.”
Fiona looked at Elizabeth sharply. “How do you know about that?”
“What’s the big secret? You’re both single; you’re allowed.”
“No, it’s just — I didn’t know anyone cared who I slept with.”
“What else do we have to do, honey?” Loni stubbed out her cigarette and set the holder on the bar beside the ashtray. “We’re with each other day and night; we’re going to know each other’s business.”
“True,” Fiona said. “Like earlier tonight — maybe I shouldn’t say anything, but it’s better you know, Elizabeth, rather than everyone talking behind your back —”
Loni sputtered on a mouthful of beer. “Fiona, some things are better not said. There’s a reason people protect their friends from the truth.”
“Tell me.” Elizabeth glared at them both.
Fiona shrugged. “Don’t shoot me because I’m the messenger, but I overheard Joe and that guy he’s talking to . . . I’m pretty sure they made a bet.”
Elizabeth glanced at Joe with the dark-haired stranger. “A bet about what?”
“Don’t get mad,” Fiona said. “I might be wrong about what I heard.”
“Fiona, cut the dramatic build-up and say what you have to say.”
“I think they have a bet about which one of them can get Tiffany into bed first.”
Elizabeth felt poison creep into her veins. Fiona liked to stir shit up, but why would she invent this?
“Tiffany might think she’s here to stay.” Fiona sipped her white wine. “But I think the three of us can convince her she’s better off back in the real world.”
EIGHT
CLARE
Clare looked around and felt like laughing. She was standing at a bar with a stocky middle-aged gambler, wearing an electric blue dress that was almost certainly over-the-top even given her cover role, trying to find a killer in a haystack. If this was law enforcement, Clare wondered how anyone slept at night.
Of course Cloutier was right: Clare wasn’t qualified to b
e there. But she didn’t know what else she’d do for a career. She could take cars apart in her sleep, and she enjoyed it, but she didn’t get any thrill from the idea of spending her life as an auto mechanic. Undercover work made Clare feel alive. It used all her skills and senses. Her cover costume — in tonight’s case, the cocktail dress — was her superhero cloak. Wearing it, Clare wasn’t the angry kid from the trailer park, but a confident woman who could save the world from bad guys.
“You want another beer?” Mickey pointed to her empty bottle.
“Sure,” Clare said. “This round’s on me.”
“Keep your money.” She had picked up her purse, but he waved her off. “It don’t look right if people see you buying me drinks.”
“On the contrary.” Clare unfastened her glittery clutch. “It looks like I actually want to spend time with you.”
A grin spread across Mickey’s round face, making him look like a happy old monkey. “You sure you don’t want to date for real?”
“Positive.” Clare ordered a Bud for Mickey and a Heineken for herself.
“You ever change your mind, kid, I’m not half as bad as they say.”
“Tell you what.” Clare handed Mickey the Budweiser, wishing she could keep it and pass off the Heineken. “If all the men my age die or get herpes, I won’t totally discount the possibility.”
“You make an old man blush.”
From behind Clare, a female voice said, “You’re really splashing onto the scene, huh?”
“Hi, Elizabeth,” Mickey said. “Have you met Tiffany?”
“We met this morning. She donked me out of the tournament.” Elizabeth’s gaze moved up and down Clare, making her feel like she probably did look ridiculous.
“Rough luck,” Mickey said.
“At least I played my cards right. Anyway, congratulations . . . Tiffany. You’re sure making an impression your first day.”
“What do you mean?” Clare toyed with her beer label. That was one habit no cover role could cure her of.
“I mean all the guys have noticed you. Which is a real feat, considering most of them are only fascinated with their bank accounts and the cards in their hands.”
“I’m sure you don’t have trouble getting men to notice you.” Clare smiled benignly.
“I never said I did.” Elizabeth frowned. “I have a boyfriend, anyway. He’s over there in the striped shirt.”
“His mother pick that out for him?” Clare said, then wished she hadn’t.
“The shirt? I did.”
“Oh. It’s nice.”
“You don’t have to like the shirt,” Elizabeth said, “but you don’t have to patronize me either. I’m not a dumb little debutante like the rest of your friends.”
“What?” Clare didn’t think there was such a thing as a debutante in this day and age. Maybe in the Deep South, but not in Canada.
Mickey snorted. “Elizabeth, where do you come from that you think speaking like that is okay? You think the kid doesn’t have feelings? Sorry you lost today — but fucking get over it.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows lifted. “Etiquette lessons from Mickey Mills? What’s next, poker lessons from Tiffany?” Elizabeth walked a few steps away, then pivoted on her two-inch heel and returned to the bar. “Listen, I want to apologize. I’m tense tonight. I don’t like losing. But it’s not your fault.”
“No?” Mickey glowered at Liz. “So why the Jekyll and Hyde act?”
Elizabeth clenched her teeth so hard that Clare could see her cheeks tighten. “Tiffany played well today. I came back to say good job, congratulations, maybe we can be friends.”
“Um. Thanks.” Clare tried to keep the skepticism from her voice. “I know I didn’t play well. I hope to soon, but I’m still learning the game. Today I got lucky.”
“Whatever happened,” Elizabeth said, “I’m sorry I was a bad sport.”
“Yeah, that isn’t like you.” This from Mickey.
“Remind me never to apologize to you.” Elizabeth scowled as Mickey made a retreat in the direction of the men’s room. “Listen, whatever he’s told you about me, I swear I’m harmless.”
“I’m sure that’s not true either,” Clare said. “I’ve seen you on TV. You’re ruthless.”
“Thanks.” Elizabeth smiled, this time from her eyes. “Are you on the waiting list for tonight’s game?”
“Yeah.” Clare felt her breathing constrict as she said it. It didn’t matter whose money was on the line; she was nervous as hell to play in a cash game with these people.
Elizabeth said, “I could help you. T-Bone’s steaming. You can use that.”
“Maybe some other time.” Why was everyone so concerned with helping her? At least Mickey had been up front about what he wanted from Clare — or from Tiffany, because the real Clare on his arm might not be such a trophy — in return.
“Mickey already offered to help you.”
“Um.”
“You don’t have to answer, if it’s supposed to be some secret.”
“It’s not a secret.” Clare glanced in the direction of the washroom, where Mickey was chatting with someone. “I don’t know what it is. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed.”
“By the poker scene?”
Clare nodded.
“Not the same world you read about in Harrington on Hold’em?”
“Right,” Clare said genuinely. She wasn’t sure if she was reacting right now as Clare or as Tiffany. “This is nothing like I pictured it would be.”
“It gets easier.” Was Elizabeth being kind?
“It does?”
“Yeah,” Elizabeth said. “You learn who your friends aren’t.”
NINE
GEORGE
George cupped his hands around his mug as he watched his MacBook boot up. The hotel was quiet — most people were out at the gambling party. He had the evening to himself to work on his secret project.
He took a sip of the coffee he’d made from the so-called espresso machine in the room. It was as bland as any motel room percolator’s, but at least someone was trying to make a change in the right direction. He reread his first scene, about Willard Oppal’s death, and he began to type the next scene.
June 2010
Halifax, Nova Scotia
Flash back to the beginning. The poker scene is normal — not a hotbed of murder; just a bunch of selfish people trying to make a living off of other people’s mistakes. Peter Pan would be proud: every night’s a party, every day’s a photo op. The real world is as far away as Mars.
Josie Carter.
You’re alone in your hotel room. You’ve had a good day at the tables and you’ve poured yourself a drink. You have a date tonight, but you’re not going to make it.
You don’t know this, though, so you slide into a cocktail dress, some slinky thing that shows off your 26-year-old curves, and you bring your drink into the bathroom to apply your makeup.
The TV’s on — an Entourage rerun. You like the raunchy humor, the au courant cultural references. It makes you feel hip, in the game.
You light a smoke. You know this shit is killing you — but wait — smoke away, Josie. You’re one of the few people who can enjoy the privilege with impunity.
If George ever learned his date of death, he would start smoking again immediately. He had quit smoking often, each time deciding that a long life was worth more than the delicious pleasure, the romantic satisfaction, the perfect vile taste of cigarettes.
You exhale into the mirror. You smile as you catch your own eye. You wonder if this is how the TV cameras see you, while you crack jokes with your opponents at the tables, while you slowly amass all our chips.
There’s a knock on the door. You don’t want to answer. You’re enjoying your alone time. As much as you love the spotlight, you’re an introvert at heart.
George had no idea if Josie
was an introvert or an extrovert or a pervert. But this was his book, and he could dream away. He’d change the names at the end — he’d make it look like fiction. He could even change the victims’ genders — Josie could become Jose.
“Just a minute,” you call.
You toss a brush through your hair and look through the peephole. It’s someone you recognize, so you open the door.
Should George identify the someone? Give the killer a name? Not for now.
“Do you want to come in?” You say this reluctantly; you hope the caller doesn’t take you up on the invitation.
George hesitated. Should he at least give the killer a gender? It was better, he thought, to give readers something they could sink their teeth into. And a male killer — at least to George — felt more menacing than a female.
He dried the sweat from his palms on his rumpled dress shirt and kept typing.
Your friend comes in. He accepts the drink you offer; he makes himself comfortable on your bed.
“I’m about to leave for dinner,” you say. “Mind if I keep getting ready?”
“Nah,” he says. “Just came to hang.”
“Fine.” You’re irritated. “You like Entourage?”
“You kidding? It’s my favorite show. Is this the one where Vince is banging the vegan?”
“Yeah,” you say. Less irritated for the common ground.
You top up your own drink.
George got up for more coffee. It took three cups of this shit to give him the same kick as a real cup of caffeine. He should have grabbed a large from Starbucks — sorry, a Venti — on the way up to his room.
Maybe one day George would take the plunge and buy the writing space he craved, in New York or New England. Old, and real, and his. Or maybe he’d pack his things into storage and move to Paris for a year, like the old-school alcoholic writers had done.
