by Robin Spano
“Fucking hell. Sorry I tried to apologize.”
“That was an apology? Asking how come I’m not dead? And I’m the one people consider uncouth . . .”
The elevator bounced to a stop at George’s floor. George stepped out, held the door open, and used his arm to block Mickey from following him. “Was there something you wanted?”
“I told you.” Mickey furrowed his brow. “I want to know if you’ve come to your senses.”
“I have,” George said. “Next time you invite me for coffee, I plan to say no.”
“Would it help if I had information about some players who may or may not be cheating?”
Of course it would help. But George couldn’t jump on that too quickly. “Information the rest of us don’t have?” George asked. “Names, details, a method maybe. Or is this the same speculation we’ve all heard too many times to count?”
“This is brand new. Thing is, I don’t know for absolute certain that what I saw is what I saw.”
“Of course you don’t.” George’s arm was getting tired.
“You going to let me off this elevator?” Mickey moved closer and George could smell peanuts on his breath. “At least hear what I have to say.”
“Why should I?” George was anxious to get back to his writing before his good mood got spoiled. But he also wanted Mickey’s information.
“Stop blocking the door and I’ll tell you. I have beans to spill. Information that might help with your oh-so-secret pet project.”
How did Mickey know about his writing project?
“Don’t give me that look. I read faces for a living. I can see your ears perk up when anyone talks about hole card cameras, cheating, and your precious friend Fiona. You’re like a dog who hears the word ‘food.’ What else would you be working on?”
George glared at Mickey. “What does Fiona have to do with this?”
“Let me come in for a coffee.”
George unbarred Mickey’s exit route. “I can’t guarantee you’ll like the coffee.”
“I can’t guarantee you’ll like what you hear.” Mickey scrambled after George down the hallway. “But if you do, can we talk about my book?”
Motherfucker. George used his key card to open the door. “Of course we can.”
SEVENTEEN
NOAH
The sports bar was noisy with happy hour drinkers. Noah had to speak more loudly than he was comfortable with, but Bert was comfortable, so that was the main thing.
“Twenty players left and I’m still in the game.”
“So you can play poker,” Bert said, shrugging his shoulders.
Noah leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “I know how the scam is going down.”
Bert twirled a finger, meaning, Get to the fucking point.
“You know Fiona Gallagher? The slutty redhead who anchors the tournament on TV?”
Bert arched his eyebrows — were they getting some gray in them? — which Noah took as an invitation to continue.
“Fiona has a techie — this British kid, Oliver Doakes. He sits in a booth and he can see the players’ hole cards while the hands are being played. I think Oliver is sending hole card info to select players through a wireless broadcast — or encrypted podcast — or some other electronic way, during the game.”
“How would that work?” Bert leaned in too, so his elbows almost touched Noah’s.
Noah inched back a bit. “The cheating players would pick up the signal on a wireless device, say a phone or a pocket computer. Maybe an iPod Touch. They’d have a code to access the broadcast, so not just any random clown could find it. They’d transmit the signal to an earpiece — probably via Bluetooth, but it could be as simple as iPhone earbuds — and they’d know what everyone else at their table was holding.”
Bert drummed his fingers on the wood laminate table. “I don’t see why iPods are even legal in these games. Is this just a Canadian thing?”
Noah smiled patiently. “No. Walkmans and iPods are legal in games around the world. They minimize distraction from guys like Joe Mangan, who make a project of turning their opponents’ minds away from cards.”
“Yeah, well, they scream cheating opportunity to me, and I barely play the game, so you don’t get any brownie points for ingenuity. And what do you suggest we do with your theory? I don’t get what’s new about it. We already knew people were cheating. We already figured it had something to do with the hole card cameras. We already knew who had access to that — maybe not by name, but yay, the kid’s called Oliver. Not like we can walk up to Oliver and tell him to give us what he knows.”
“No?” Noah said. “I thought that was exactly our style. We tie him down, we search his room, we scare him into saying what he knows. Maybe hold a gun to his head if he refuses to cooperate. Then we go home heroes.”
Bert leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Walker, what are you doing here?”
Noah met Bert’s eye, surprised.
“You act like you’re thirteen, like this is all beneath you. I’m starting to feel like I’m in this game alone.”
“What the fuck?” Noah said. “You’re not even in the game. I’m winning money, and I think I’ve just figured out how I can win even more. If either of us is useless here, it’s you.”
Bert sipped his Scotch. Who drank neat Scotch at a sports bar? “I know this isn’t brain surgery, like your family had preciously hoped for you, but you’re going to find this job much easier when you can accept yourself for doing it.”
Noah was tempted to ask if he looked like he wanted a shrink or a life coach. But he opted away from sarcasm and said, “You want to hear the rest?”
“Sure.” Bert nodded slowly. “Especially if you have a plan to (a) identify the cheaters, and (b) get the signal so you can listen in.”
“Yup. Both. I’ll break into Oliver’s and Fiona’s hotel rooms. I think between them, I should find the info I need — ideally the encryption code, but if not that, then something — to figure out where to go next. Once I’m cheating, it’s easy to spot the other cheaters. They’re the guys who make decisions that seem a bit too savvy.”
Bert took a long, slow sip of whiskey. He looked like he thought he was at a speakeasy, except booze had been legal for all of his fifty-six years. “And if Fiona and Oliver aren’t dumb enough to leave incriminating evidence lying around?”
Noah sighed. “Then I break into players’ rooms.”
“Looking for . . .”
“Earpieces?” Noah shrugged. “Trouble is, I don’t think the earpieces will be obvious. It’s a bit 1980s spy game, but an eyeglass arm or an earring — or even a tiny stick-on tab — could do the job easily. And I doubt I’ll find encryption codes, because those would probably be on the smartphones or pocket computers, which would be on the players at all times. But like I said, I think Fiona’s and Oliver’s rooms will yield something.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Bert said. “Think you can get into either room tonight?”
“I think I should wait until Vancouver.”
Bert shook his head. “We don’t have that much time.”
“What?” Noah was confused. Bert was normally allergic to haste; it felt strange that he would recommend it all of a sudden. “Since when was speed an issue? I’m making money for you. Even if I’m the next guy eliminated from the tournament, I’ve already made back everything I lost last night and enough to pay Joe if I lose the bet about Tiffany.”
“This isn’t about job sustainability. I got orders from above to get in and get out. With three murders already, Canadian cops should be all over this thing, whether or not they know about the cheating. Fact that they’re not means the scene is probably infested with undercovers.”
“But . . .” Noah cast his eyes down onto his beer bottle to keep himself from laughing as he pictured undercover
cops scuttling around a poker room like cockroaches.
“You’re not here to make money for the cause and come home. The money’s a perk, but you know what we’re after.”
Noah nodded. “The method.”
EIGHTEEN
CLARE
“Sorry I’m late, kid.” Mickey slipped his stocky body past Clare, who had been waiting outside his hotel room for nearly fifteen minutes. “George Bigelow is writing a book about me. Our conversation dragged on longer than it should have.”
“That’s exciting.” Clare followed Mickey into the room, feeling both defeated and determined. She didn’t need poker lessons if she wasn’t moving on to the Vancouver game. But maybe she’d learn something else from Mickey — something murder-related — that would force Cloutier to keep her on the job.
Mickey took off his jacket and hung it carefully in the closet. “Let’s hope the book’s exciting, or it won’t sell. And now I’m gonna turn you into a little poker genius. You want some peanuts?” He grabbed a large jar from the dresser and handed it to Clare. “I got three more of these in my suitcase, so eat up.”
Despite the image of jars of peanuts hanging out in a suitcase full of dirty clothes, Clare poured some nuts into her hand. She didn’t really give a shit if Tiffany would or wouldn’t eat them. Tiffany might not exist by morning.
“I’m going to set up the cards like a full table of poker.” Mickey cleared the phone and other items from the desk. There wasn’t much to clear — the room was immaculate. Clare could picture Mickey’s sweaters folded perfectly in drawers, pressed pants hung carefully behind closed closet doors. “Only you’re going to be all the players. You want a Coke or something? Help yourself to the minibar.”
Clare took a Coke from the fridge.
“And hand me a Bud. But Rule Number One: never fucking drink while you’re gambling.”
“Weren’t you doing both last night?”
“When you’re winning thirty grand a night you can allow yourself the privilege. But hell, I probably would have made fifty if I’d been sober.”
Mickey dealt nine pairs of cards face-down onto the small desk. He placed a dealer button on top of one pair and big and little blind buttons on two others. He gave each set of cards a little chip stack. “Pick up the first hand after the blinds.”
Clare looked at an ace and a jack, and showed Mickey.
“What do you do?” Mickey asked.
“Raise.”
“In first position? I thought you’d read some poker books.”
Clare was having trouble caring. “What would you do? Call?”
“Fold it faster than a housewife in a laundry race. The hand may look pretty, but it’s more likely to get you in trouble by being second best. You’re out of position and you don’t want no part of it. Fold.”
Clare mucked the cards.
“Pick up the second hand.”
She showed Mickey a pair of threes. She didn’t think too hard before saying, “Fold.”
“You kidding? In an unraised pot with healthy stack sizes?” Mickey clicked his teeth, like this was going to be harder than he’d thought.
“But threes are so low,” Clare said. “The book I just finished said not to play low pairs in early position. Someone’s bound to flop a higher pair if they’re not already starting with one. The odds of flopping a set are seven point five to one.”
“At least you know some math.”
“I think I’d rather be psychic.” Clare threw her hands in the air in her best spoiled princess style. “Can’t I just figure out a way to know what other people have?”
Mickey’s brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t joke about that.”
Clare set down the threes. This might actually be something. She tried to keep her voice playful as she said, “Why so sensitive?”
Mickey shook his head. “Forget about it.”
Clare met his eye with what she hoped was a cajoling grin. “Come on. I touched a nerve. What was it?”
“You should stop fucking smiling, too. There are people playing like they’re psychic, and not because they’ve been gifted with any ESP.”
“Um . . . ?” Clare felt her eyes bug. Cloutier was going to love this. “You mean they’re cheating?”
Mickey snorted. “Yeah, kid. That’s what I mean.”
“Call me thick,” Clare said slowly, as if it was just occurring to her that the whole world might not be honest. “But if everyone knows people are cheating, why is anyone playing in the tournament?”
“Because ‘everyone’ doesn’t know. And those of us netting profits are still netting profits, so there’s money to be made. Just not as much.”
Mickey lit a cigarette. Clare fished her pack from her purse and followed suit.
“Is it only the Canadian Classic?” Clare asked. “Or are they cheating in other tournaments, too?”
“Shit, I’ve already said too much. Listen, kid, people are dying on this scene. Have you heard about that?”
Clare wasn’t sure how to answer that. The deaths had been publicized, but not widely. “I heard about a woman in Halifax,” she said. “Have there been more?”
Mickey nodded. “Two more. I think it’s safe to say it’s a serial killer.”
“So why is anyone still here? Is poker so alluring that it’s worth risking your life to lose your money to a cheater?”
Mickey snorted. “When you put it that way, you mind helping me pack my bag?” But he didn’t pull his suitcase open. “There’s a few reasons people stick around. For the common guy off the street — take you, for example — you didn’t know none of this was going on, or you wouldn’t have signed up. Am I right?”
Clare nodded.
“So you got the innocents. Then you got the predators — the few of us who know our win rate is gonna stay high no matter if a couple extra guys are suddenly poker geniuses and they’re in the money with us because they’re cheating.”
Clare nodded again.
“And the middling pros — they play okay, they net profit long-term, but they’ll never be world class — they get the hell off the scene and go south to the American games. So with the middle knocked out, you got two classes of players — the champs who you know to play cautious against, and the weekenders who can’t play worth shit, they’re just here because their wife bought them an entry for their fiftieth birthday, or whatever. Playing suddenly gets way easier, it’s like taking lollipops from babies. Yeah, I busted out of the Niagara game early, but that’s poker — luck is always gonna be a factor. Overall, since the cheating started, I’m making more than before. And not from cheating.”
“That sounds so cold.” Clare shivered for real.
“Life is cold,” Mickey said. “This game gets coated in Disneyland colors — every Friday night poker player thinks they’re the next success story waiting to break out from the pack — but the reality is most people, if they play the game long enough, are gonna lose their shirt first and their house last.”
Clare wondered if Willard Oppal, before he died, had stumbled onto the cheating scam as well. She should ask Cloutier if he’d said something to any of his handlers.
“So,” Clare said, feeling like she was jumping into an icy swimming pool with no bottom, “is the cheating related to the murders?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. That’s what I’d like to know.”
For the first time, Clare wondered if Cloutier might be doing her a favor by pulling her from the case. But the thought was fleeting — she wanted to stay.
“And another thing, kid: you need to get yourself some shades.”
“Sunglasses?”
Mickey nodded. “You got these great eyes. Everyone loves to look at ’em. But we can read your emotion loud and clear. And when you got a great hand, we know right off we can fold.”
NINETEEN<
br />
GEORGE
George’s fingers trembled on the keys of his computer. If Mickey had been telling the truth about Fiona, the whole game had just changed.
But he’d get to that soon enough. First, he had one more death to write.
September 2010
Calgary, Alberta
Jimmy Streets.
You’re alone in your hotel room. It’s midnight and you’ve had a few. The lights are on. You’re watching Bound on cable and jerking off.
Your performance at the tables today was stellar as always. You’re a seventy-year-old card-playing machine, and you’ve been on the scene since it was dangerous.
But you don’t care about poker now. You’re about to get off, and Jennifer Tilly is the image in your head.
There’s a knock at your door. You try to ignore it — you’re so close to coming, Jen can practically taste it. But the knock becomes insistent.
“Who the fuck is there?” you shout.
“It’s me.” A familiar voice. A man’s. You have to answer.
“Gimme a minute!” you yell.
You wish you could go back to Jennifer — a particular shame, since you’ll never get to see her again.
You pull up your jeans. You open the door for your killer.
The cops write you off quicker than Josie. Like doctors write off lung cancer patients with little emotion, you’re seen as a victim of the world you chose to play in. And you’re old — the public doesn’t weep for a man in his seventies. No connection is drawn between your death and Josie’s. Why would it be?
George frowned at his page. Maybe the line about age was harsh. Jimmy was dead, but there were other people in their seventies who might not like to feel disposable. Could George afford to offend an entire demographic of potential book buyers in one go? He highlighted the line; his finger hovered above the Delete key. In the end he left it in; this first draft was supposed to be edit-free.
