by Robin Spano
“Hold on.” Cloutier put his hand in the air like a stop sign. Clare was impressed that he could do this and not look like a choreographer. “Brought into the murders, or the cheating?”
“Cheating,” Clare said. “Because the way Mickey thinks the scam is working, it needs at least two people to operate. My guess is the killer is only one person.”
Cloutier nodded.
“Loni’s on the sidelines, Loni knows the winning players . . . and according to Mickey —”
“Who might be lying.”
“Sure. Might be. But according to him, the scam needs someone who isn’t playing to coordinate it. And who better than the woman who walks around the Players Only zones like she was born there? Security doesn’t blink if she crosses the little red rope.”
“You always ramble when you talk, or did that actually make sense in your mind?”
“It makes sense in yours, too. Stop pretending you’re obtuse.”
They drove in silence for the next several minutes. They turned north on Highway 427 and east onto the 401. Clare was trying to figure out Loni’s connection, and presumably Cloutier was off in his own thoughts as well. She’d barely noticed they’d come into the city when Cloutier pulled to a stop on Dundas West in front of the antique store she lived above.
“So are you letting me go on?” Clare chewed at her lower lip.
“Yeah, kid. I think I am.”
“Will the RCMP be fine with that?” Clare couldn’t stop her mouth from widening across her face.
“Should be. I haven’t said anything to them about pulling you yet.”
“Because you thought I’d come through?”
“Because I thought you deserved the chance.”
“What do I do now?”
“Lay low for today. Grab a cab to the airport in the morning. A Town Car, in case anyone sees you arrive.”
TWENTY-THREE
ELIZABETH
Elizabeth picked at some fluff from the seam of the leather couch. She squeezed Joe’s hand. Neither of them wanted to be at this viewing, but she thought it was important, and Joe, for once, had listened.
They were gathered in the players’ lounge — the one where the players really hung out, not the fake VIP room where players put in appearances so fans would think they were partying with the stars. Everyone’s attention was glued to the giant flat-screen.
Normally Elizabeth couldn’t be bothered to watch tournament footage. There was always a better way to spend the last night in a new city than sitting around rehashing every play through the lens of Fiona Gallagher’s narcissism. Even the Criminals Hall of Fame wax museum would be more entertaining. But tonight, Elizabeth was convinced that she and Joe could learn something.
“Okay, guys, you know this is rough still.” Fiona said. “Feel free to give commentary — what you like, what you don’t think we should air. I don’t get final say, but the producers listen to my feedback.”
“I think you should wear a lower cut dress,” T-Bone said from his armchair.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “Maybe you could get them to CGI the neckline. And you know, fill it in with Loni’s rack.”
Elizabeth punched Joe’s arm lightly.
“Come on, guys. This is serious.” Fiona pretended to pout. “I really value your input. Okay, play it, Oliver.”
Oliver, Fiona’s goateed teenage assistant, pressed a button and the show came to life.
Elizabeth swirled the ice around her iced tea and focused on the TV.
Onscreen, Fiona brushed a flyaway hair from her face and gave the camera her best serious journalist smile. “We have eight players left. T-Bone Jones has the big stack, but the way this game’s been playing, anyone could still be crowned the champion.”
Elizabeth cringed at the rhetoric but knew the fans gobbled it up. They wanted to be spoon-fed so they wouldn’t have to think too hard.
Back onscreen, Fiona was saying, “Nate Wilkes has a pair of sevens in first position. He’s new on the scene, but he’s a savvy New Yorker — these old pros can’t push him around. He’s cute, too — the shaggy dark hair and deep brown eyes make him look intense and brooding. I wouldn’t mind seeing more of him. He wisely limps.”
Loni Mills, Fiona’s guest host for the Niagara game, chimed in with her own opinion: “Now, honey, I agree that this newcomer’s a looker — and he looks about your age; you should find out if he has a lady friend back in New York — but why is limping wise? I don’t claim to be no professional, but I always thought the rule was when you’re first in a pot, you raise.”
“A rule a lot of players swear by, Loni. And it’s not without merit. But the unique thing about small and middle pairs is you can only afford to commit about 5% of your stack preflop, which means you can call a raise profitably, but it’s a mistake to call a reraise. So you limp, and hope to catch a set.”
“Ah, math.” Loni waved a heavily braceleted hand in dismissal. “I knew there was a reason I couldn’t stand this game.”
Fiona grinned and looked straight into the camera. “Pretty Boy Mangan looks down in third position and sees ace-queen. He makes a standard raise, with one limper, to four big blinds.”
Elizabeth hated Joe’s nickname. “Pretty Boy” made him sound gay, when in fact he was flamboyantly heterosexual.
Back onscreen: “Action folds around to T-Bone, who calls on the button with king-ten suited. A loose play for an amateur, but T-Bone’s no rookie. He’s counting on a combination of position and skill to guide him after the flop.”
“He’s got some skilled positions, all right,” said Loni.
Elizabeth could picture Fiona coaching Loni about coyly playing up her relationship with T-Bone. When Elizabeth had guest hosted in Halifax, her instructions had been to talk about Joe in a “lovingly competitive” way. Fans loved to think they were seeing inside the lives of their stars.
“Tell me, Loni,” Fiona said, on camera, “in your private life, what would you say is T-Bone’s greatest skill?”
Loni batted her eyelashes — definitely rehearsed. “I thought you said this was prime time, dear.”
Fiona laughed indulgently. “Nate Wilkes calls the raise.”
The odds shot up on the screen.
“These three players are as even as you can get before the flop. And here it is: the flop comes queen-jack-seven rainbow.
“First to act is Nate, who has soared into the lead with trip sevens. He makes a rookie move and checks — you never want to slow-play trips against multiple opponents. But maybe he’s counting on a bet: both Joe and T-Bone are known to be aggressive.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about Joe,” Loni said. This woman was made for TV. “But are you saying three of a kind isn’t a strong enough hand to trap with? Hell, when I get trips, I’m coy as a cucumber.”
Elizabeth cringed at the mixed simile. Viewers would forgive it.
Fiona grinned. “Luckily for Nate Wilkes, Joe Mangan loves this flop — poor guy doesn’t realize he’s only 3% to win. He bets out three-quarters of the pot.”
“Motherfucker,” Joe muttered from his seat beside Elizabeth. “Why are we watching this shit?”
Elizabeth put a finger to her lips.
Back on Fiona’s show: “T-Bone makes the call, and here’s where Nate should make his move. He’s a 70% favorite on this hand, but he doesn’t want to give away any free cards. There’s only one good move: he should go all in.”
“That’s my favorite move when T-Bone makes it.”
“Prime time, Loni. Prime time.”
“Right. Sorry about that.”
Fiona smiled. “Instead Nate goes for a minimum raise. He’s hoping to lure in someone like Joe, whose odds are too low to even call that. And it works. Joe makes the call easily. But so does T-Bone, who has exactly the hand Nate should fear.
“The turn is
the deuce of spades. Now Nate makes his all-in move. But it’s too late. The pot is huge, and while Joe correctly tosses his top pair, top kicker, T-Bone calls in a flash. He has a straight draw, a flush draw, and easy odds to call it.
“The cards are turned over. Nate’s grin takes over his face, because even though he’s messed this hand up royally, he’s more than a 70% favorite to double through T-Bone. But luck plays its role, too, because the river is the eight of spades, and T-Bone’s flush beats Nate’s trips.”
“That’s my baby.” Loni clapped her hands. “Go, T-Bone, go.”
“Our eighth place finisher, Nate Wilkes. Played a great game, but ultimately wasn’t ready to take on the pros. We’ll be interviewing him after this break.”
Back in the screening room, the real-life Fiona told her techie, “Okay, you can cut it here, Oliver. We’ll get feedback on this first segment before moving on.”
Fiona’s sullen little helper pressed a switch and paused the feed. Oliver was one of those kids — maybe nineteen or twenty — who dressed in baggy clothes and had ten thousand piercings that made it impossible to know what his real face looked like.
“You’re doing great!” Fiona said to Loni, who off-camera was perched on the thick arm of T-Bone’s chair. “Full of life, the right amount of innuendo; fans will devour you.”
“I’m having fun,” Loni said.
“Hey, I’m not officially allowed to ask you this, because it’s the network’s decision who to hire . . . but it’s a pain in the ass to constantly search for a guest host — more than half the time I end up with some player who falls flat on camera. No offence to anyone in this room.”
No? Then why was Fiona staring straight at Elizabeth?
“If I could convince the network to make your spot permanent, would you be interested?”
“Me? Working for a living?” Loni patted her big blond hair. “I’d love to.”
Elizabeth felt Joe’s hand touch hers.
“You saw that, right?” Joe said quietly enough so only Elizabeth could hear.
Elizabeth pursed her mouth. “Saw what?”
“That hand. The way Nate played it.”
“Like a novice?”
“No.” Joe shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Like a guy who knew what everyone else held.”
TWENTY-FOUR
CLARE
“Vancouver, huh? That’s exciting.” Roberta stood up from her crouched position beside a motorcycle. She shook her head so hard that some dark red hair came loose from its ponytail. “Stupid bike isn’t making any sense.”
Clare bent down to peer at the motorcycle. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but the first step was to get acquainted with the machine. Clare didn’t work here anymore, but she loved hanging out in Roberta’s shop. From the sweet smell of gasoline to the double-wide workbench with tools scattered logically across it, it was like being at home — back when home was a place Clare had liked to spend time.
“Have you ever been out West?” Clare asked.
“Waaay back when.” Roberta’s eyes glassed over.
“Before Lance was born?” Clare figured she was making progress — it wasn’t painful to say Lance’s name anymore.
“Before I’d even met his father,” Roberta said.
Clare nodded at the motorcycle. “Mind if I take a crack at this?”
“Be my guest.”
Clare undid the screws that were holding the headlight onto the Virago. It was an old bike, from the late eighties, and Clare found the lines on it beautiful. Not quite as nice as her Triumph, of course. But it had character. Too bad for its owner that it didn’t want to start.
“What’s Vancouver like?” Clare took the headlight from its casing and set it, together with its screws, onto a corner of the workbench.
“Depends who you are.”
Clare picked up a flashlight and looked at the wires inside the plastic casing. “Do you want to answer that any more cryptically?”
Roberta smiled. “I was seventeen. I smoked pot and hung out on the nude beach. Since I don’t think that’s what you’ll be doing, I doubt I can describe the city as you’ll experience it.”
“You did what?” Clare had trouble picturing Roberta as anyone other than the single mother she’d been since Clare was twelve. “You’ve always seemed so serious and hard-working.”
“You’ve only known me when I’ve had responsibilities.”
“Fair enough,” Clare said. “So did you like smoking pot naked?”
“For a while. It got boring quick. Too many days strung into the next. The fantasy dries up and you realize your life has nothing in it.”
“So you came back East.”
“Came home, got pregnant, and that was that.”
The wires behind the headlight all looked fine. Clare reattached the cover. “You’ve checked the fuses, right?”
“Yup. But feel free to check again. So what are you afraid of, kid? You love adventures, and here you are shaking like a leaf at the thought of getting on a plane.”
Clare frowned. “I seem afraid?”
“So maybe you’re not shaking literally. But I’ve known you since you were twelve.”
Clare opened the auxiliary fuse panel. Roberta was right: the fuses looked good. She moved down to the main fuse by the battery. “The wire covers are frayed near the main fuse.”
“I saw that. The wires themselves are fine.”
“Oh.” Clare disconnected and reconnected the fuse. She turned the Virago’s key and the light went on. “I got the headlight on.”
“Try starting it.”
Clare pressed the starter, but nothing. A second later the headlight went out again. “Damn. I can see why this bike’s got you crazy.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
Clare shrugged. “My handler keeps telling me how dangerous this all is — the poker world, the murderer — but that doesn’t scare me.”
“Of course not.” Roberta snorted. “You’re twenty-three. You’re not smart enough to know what danger is yet.”
“I think I’m afraid I might suck at the job. My handler nearly pulled me because he thinks I don’t know enough. What if solving the politicians’ murders was a fluke, like he says it was, and I’m actually a terrible cop?”
“Then you’ll find that out,” Roberta said. “Wouldn’t you rather find out by doing what you love, instead of chasing after burglars on that beat you hated so much?”
“I guess,” Clare said. “But at least on the beat my screw-ups were relatively private. Now I feel like every mistake I make will get magnified. There are so many people watching what I’m doing.”
Roberta tilted her head. “Why are you still thinking about yourself?”
“Oh my god. Am I supposed to be a Buddhist? Because I’m not superhuman, or forty.”
“I’m not asking you to be either.” Roberta sat at her workbench. “I’m trying to help you turn a key, to live your life easier.”
“Maybe you could let me turn my own keys.” Clare didn’t mean to be unkind, but there was something intrusive about someone wanting to see inside your brain.
“Fair enough,” Roberta said. “So what do you think about that Virago?”
Clare stared at the battery, which seemed to have all its fluid levels in order. “I think it’s confusing us on purpose.”
TWENTY-FIVE
ELIZABETH
Where the hell was Joe? It was almost ten p.m. and Elizabeth couldn’t find him anywhere. He was neither answering nor returning calls, and he hadn’t so much as texted her since they’d watched the final table footage. He’d Tweeted an hour ago — some nothing line about how the beer was stronger in Canada. Since Joe didn’t drink beer, Elizabeth was pretty sure it was the lead-in to some new promotional deal he’d signed.
; She’d checked the players’ lounge and the high stakes poker room, but although people in both places had seen Joe, they all thought he’d left a lot earlier. Tiffany James had gone back to Toronto. Allegedly. Or was Joe in her room with his clothes off?
Elizabeth grabbed the phone from its cradle and pressed a button.
“Front desk,” the bored female voice answered.
“I’d like to connect to Tiffany James’ room.”
“James . . .” The sound of typing came through the line. “I have a Tiffany James who checked out this afternoon.”
“Thanks.”
Then who was he with? Elizabeth almost never drank, but at the moment she was tempted to raid the minibar of all its booze. Instead, she picked up the phone again.
“Front desk.”
“I’d like to connect to Fiona Gallagher’s room.”
“One moment, please.”
How many times could a phone ring? Of course Joe was there. Why wouldn’t Fiona pick up, otherwise? After twelve or thirteen rings — or maybe twenty — Elizabeth slammed down the phone. She quickly picked it up once more.
“Front desk.”
“Sorry to keep bugging you. Can you tell me the room number for Fiona Gallagher so I can just dial her directly?”
“Six-o-three,” the bored voice told her.
“Thanks.”
Elizabeth threw on the clothes she’d been wearing before she’d changed into the plush hotel bathrobe, and she headed for the elevator. She patted her pocket to make sure she had her phone. She was going to catch her man.
TWENTY-SIX
CLARE
“How did you swing a night off?” Kevin was caressing Clare’s inner thigh in the tangle of sheets on his bed.
“It was a mistake,” Clare said, “caused by my handler assuming I was too stupid not to die on the job. Are you complaining?”
Kevin’s mouth pursed, making him look like a middle-aged woman. “Is your assignment dangerous?”
