by Robin Spano
The air still smelled fresh in the middle of the city — that made a change from Toronto. When they came to a stoplight, Clare looked down the cross street and saw water.
“That’s False Creek,” Amanda said. “Nice, huh? You’re going to love it here.”
How could she possibly know that?
They arrived at a modern-looking building. A doorman let them into a trendy lobby. Clare supposed it was meant to be artistic, but she felt like the hotel had been designed to intimidate her. Or maybe it was the staff who were designed that way.
She got her room card from the front desk and she and Amanda rode up in the elevator.
“Thanks for coming with me.” Clare slid her card into the door and let them both into her new room. It was small, but that was fine. There was a desk with an Internet connection and a window from which she could see False Creek, a million moored boats, and several more of those glass condo buildings.
Amanda set the suitcase against a wall. She frowned, pushed blond hair from her face, like she wasn’t sure what to do next. “Should I leave you alone? You must be exhausted.”
“Thanks.” Clare hadn’t slept much, but she wasn’t tired.
“Do you have plans for the evening?”
“Um. Yeah. I mean, nothing official.” Clare wanted to get her bearings on her own, maybe grab a coffee and walk around the neighborhood for an hour, then get to work. “I thought I’d head out to the casino, see if some of the players are around.”
“Good idea,” Amanda said. Her tiny nose and ears made her look twelve years old. No wonder she had to dress for success, wearing three-inch heels even in daytime. People would probably be more inclined to give her candy than respect otherwise.
“Is the River Rock Casino far from here?” Clare asked.
“Maybe a twenty-minute cab ride.”
“Does Tiffany take cabs? I thought maybe she’d rent an Aston Martin for her stay in Vancouver.”
Amanda laughed. “She takes cabs. It’s also twenty minutes by SkyTrain, so count yourself lucky.”
Clare fingered her clingy pink shirt. The cotton and silk blend felt great against her skin, and it made her breasts look at least one size larger. She just didn’t like the divide it represented — like she was supposed to feel superior somehow for wearing a more expensive shirt. “Why am I staying downtown? Is that to be close to you, or is the casino hotel too grubby for Tiffany?”
“You’re staying downtown for protection.”
Clare was surprised. “Mine?”
Amanda nodded. “At the casino, there’s too much action. Too many of the suspects are moving around legitimately. Here, we can monitor who’s coming and going. If someone from the poker scene goes into your hotel, it’s a red flag.”
“This is Canada, not some international spy game.”
“So we want the criminals to believe.”
Clare rolled her eyes. “Am I being followed?”
“Not so far. I’ll let my boss know where you’re going today. The guys at the casino can look out for you.”
“The guys?”
“RCMP has extra security on this. Plainclothes — they should blend in as background players.”
Clare didn’t know why this rubbed her wrong. Of course she wanted the killer found, and maybe it was a job for more than one person. But having other undercovers there made her feel like the RCMP didn’t trust her to do good work. “Are these other guys playing in the tournament?”
Amanda shook her head. “You’re the only one in the game.”
That, at least, was something.
“This is your first case, right?” Amanda sat down in the armchair, which the room didn’t quite have the space for.
“Second,” Clare said.
“But it’s your first with the RCMP.” Why was Amanda asking if she already knew the answer?
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’m not being rotten, but working with us is different than working with a small-town police force.”
“I worked in Toronto.” Clare wished there was a balcony where she could smoke. “I figured out who killed the mayor.”
“Okay.” What was Amanda smiling about? “I thought there must be a good reason we took on someone so young.”
We. Like hiring Clare had been partly Amanda’s decision.
“But there’s a difference to how the RCMP runs a case. We’re set up for undercover operations in a way the police departments aren’t. We don’t throw you into the field and say ‘Go.’ We have teams, working together to cover each other’s backs.”
Clare didn’t like to hear the Toronto Police maligned. She’d only been with them for not quite a year, but they were still technically her employer. She hoped her displeasure was apparent from the scowl on her face.
“There’s nothing sinister here, Clare. We trust your instincts, which is why you have this job. But a hotel room isn’t a safe place right now. Anyone from the RCMP who’s watching you is only watching over you.”
“Fine,” Clare said. “And by the way, I need a pair of sunglasses.”
“You can buy sunglasses. Just keep the receipt.”
“Okay. It’s just . . . I don’t want to buy the wrong thing. They have to be heavily tinted so you can’t see my eyes. And they should be, you know, blingy. Something Tiffany would wear.”
Amanda grinned. “You’re starting to like your new wardrobe.”
“No, I still hate it.”
“Don’t worry,” Amanda said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
TWENTY-NINE
GEORGE
“Were you fucking Joe Mangan last night?” George knew there was probably a more tactful way to phrase the question. He didn’t care. The sun was setting on their first day in Vancouver. The new leg of the tournament would begin the next morning, and Loni would be Fiona’s co-anchor, not George.
“No.” Fiona gave him a small smile as she looked up from her veal marsala. It was early for dinner. Six p.m. But it was three hours later in the time zone they’d just come from, and they both wanted to crash early. “Were you?”
George watched her chew. Her lips stayed together and her eyes were thoughtful, as if she wanted to fully experience the flavors of the meat and the sauce and their pairing. He hadn’t seen this sensual side of her for a while. She normally kept it hidden behind makeup and microphones.
“Why did we break up again?” he asked.
Fiona swallowed. “Because you took issue with me screwing other people.”
“I still do.”
The light from the candle brought out gold highlights in Fiona’s red hair.
“But that’s not going to work for you, is it?” George asked.
“No.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?”
“No one special. But listen, George, let’s not do this.”
“I know. I promised I wouldn’t ask about your sex life. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not that.” Fiona set her fork down and gestured around the half-full room. They were the only two without gray hair. “It’s this. What are we doing at a romantic Italian restaurant in a quaint Canadian fishing village?”
“You don’t want to stay friends?” George reached for the bottle. It was good wine — a Sangiovese from the middle of the list. George had contemplated Amarone, but as he was pretty sure he wasn’t getting laid the ninety bucks didn’t seem worth it.
“This is what lovers do,” Fiona said.
George frowned. “I like that we have history. It makes the mood that much more potent.”
“That’s because you’re a writer.” Fiona laughed sharply. “You think that if you torture your soul enough, your true brilliance will emerge.”
George topped up Fiona’s wine and his own. “I’m working on a fiction project.”
“You are?
” Fiona’s eyes crinkled as she smiled this time. She was getting tiny crow’s feet in the corners. George thought they made her look wise. “George, that’s great. Can you talk about it, or is it all top secret intelligence until you’re finished?”
“I’ll say that it’s a murder mystery. Not the great American novel, but it’s a start, right?”
“It’s more than a start,” Fiona said. “You’re doing what you love.”
George thought about saying that he’d rather be doing who he loved, but they’d just left that topic. “What about you? Isn’t it about time you got back on track and went to law school?”
“Yeah, that. I’m not going.”
“Never?”
Fiona shook her head. “I’ve deferred acceptance too many times. I’d have to reapply, and I’m not sure how forgiving Harvard would be about my lack of commitment when there are hundreds of qualified applicants dying to go there.”
“So you’re giving up? Tossing it in? Who cares about other law schools — if Harvard won’t have you, what’s the point?” George wasn’t sure why he was being aggressive.
“I wanted to go into law so I could change the world. But that’s not what would happen. I’d be stuck in an office while my life passed by outside.”
“It’s passing you by now.”
“I know,” Fiona said. “But this way I have fun while it’s passing.”
George studied Fiona’s face. She wasn’t even thirty and she looked tired, like she’d lived an entire lifetime. He said, “What would you do if you could be catapulted into whatever career you chose? No school required, no cut to your salary. You wake up tomorrow and you’re doing it.”
Fiona didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’d be a kindergarten teacher.”
George pictured Fiona dashing around a roomful of five-year-olds, smiling at their finger paintings, helping them sound out words in picture books.
“Kids that age haven’t lost sight of what matters,” she said. “I could help make them strong, make them want to make a difference.”
“They’ll have forgotten it all by the time they’re angry teenagers.”
“So maybe I’d be a high school teacher. Arrange fun volunteering assignments, show kids how they can keep the world good going forward — and learn to like themselves in the process.”
“Come on, Fiona. You’re more than a teacher.”
“What does that mean: ‘more than’? Why are you such a snob?”
George ignored the second question and answered the first. “You love the spotlight. You want to live in it, not help other people find it.”
Fiona grabbed her wine glass with both hands and traced her index finger forcefully along the stem. “You have no idea what I want. And why do you care so much?” She took a long sip.
“Because you’re not happy.”
“I’m not your problem.”
George shook his head. “Have you never been in love? It doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh my god. Please don’t be morose.”
“How should I be, then?” George should shut up, but he’d had one glass of wine too many for that. “I sit here with you, and everything would be perfect if you didn’t want to sleep with other people, date them, maybe even marry one of them. If I was designing a torture chamber for myself, I’d put your image on the wall.”
“Why do you do this?” Fiona’s eyes grew watery. “We’re having a lovely time, and as soon as you realize it doesn’t mean we’re getting back together, you go in for the attack.”
“Why do I do this?” George pushed his plate to the side of the table. There was food left, but he was finished eating. “You’re the one who comes to my hotel room, all innocent and lonely, wanting to cuddle all night. When you reach for my cock — so casual, like you could take it or leave it, which is probably exactly how you feel — it’s like all my emotions get thrown into some flaming caustic substance. I can’t tell you to stop, because it’s all I want to feel, but when it’s over, the elation deflates into a pathetic puddle at the base of my stomach. It’s worse than coming down from ecstasy. I’m depressed for days.”
“George, you have to stop this.” Fiona folded her cloth napkin and set it on the table. “I think we should go back to the hotel.”
George stood up. He gave the waiter his credit card and asked him to call them a cab.
“One of us needs to leave this scene,” he said. “It’s ridiculous, what we’re doing to each other.”
Fiona shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Do you?”
“I’m looking.”
THIRTY
CLARE
“Mickey! What’s wrong?” Clare had just gotten out of her second taxi of the day and was walking toward the casino entrance where Mickey was flicking a lighter at his cigarette as if he couldn’t connect them fast enough. The evening had grown overcast, which was fine with her. Compared with the mirrored blandness of downtown, this ugly industrial neighborhood made Clare feel instantly at home.
“I’m livid is what’s wrong.” Mickey tossed the cigarette he’d just lit to the pavement. “I can’t even smoke, I’m so angry.”
“Why?” Clare lit a cigarette of her own and had no trouble smoking it. It felt like this whole city took pains to be smug about nicotine.
“No comment.” Mickey stalked a few steps away, pivoted, and walked back toward Clare. “You’re better off not knowing.”
Clare leaned against a trash bin, trying not to show interest. She realized that Tiffany would never lean against a trash bin, and straightened up. “I guess you’re in no mood to give me round two of those lessons.”
“I don’t know what I’m in the mood for.” Mickey fumbled in his pocket. “What did I throw my smoke away for? Now I gotta light another one.” He lit a new cigarette and moved closer to Clare so he could lean on the bin she’d abandoned. “You staying at the casino?”
Clare shook her head. “Downtown.”
“Smart kid. I’m staying here, and I just blew twenty-four grand as something to do between lunch and dinner.”
“No shit?” Did Tiffany swear? She did now. “No wonder you’re so angry.”
“Huh? No, the money doesn’t upset me. It’s the other way around: it’s because I was pissed off I lost it. Rule Number One: never gamble when you’re negative. Angry, sad, nervous. Doesn’t fucking matter how the cards fall. You’re gonna lose.”
“I thought Rule Number One was ‘Don’t drink when you’re gambling.’”
“So this is Rule Fucking Two, then. You gotta be so concerned about particulars?” Mickey squinted at her, inhaling.
Clare shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Good. Anyway, this is why it’s a stroke of fucking genius that you’re under T-Bone’s skin. You can knock him off his game just by talking shit to him.”
Clare frowned. “That sounds like a lousy way to win.”
“You’ll never be a better card player than he is. You gotta find your edge where you can catch it. Don’t think there’s anyone here — including me — who wouldn’t push your buttons if they knew how to find them.”
“That’s so cold. How can you justify making your living that way?”
“So cold my ass. Don’t give me that judgment crap.” Mickey stared at the sidewalk. “Maybe you got your education in fancier schools than the rest of us, but you want to join this game, you’re no better or worse than any of us.”
“I don’t think anyone’s better than anyone else. Still . . . can’t I try to win by playing the cards well?”
“Sure,” Mickey said. “Play how you want; it’s your entry fee. But you’ll never know cards better than T-Bone as long as he’s still breathing on his own, and you’re leaving money on the table if you don’t at least consider what I’m saying.”
“Leaving money on the table?”
&
nbsp; “Not winning everything you could.”
Clare tossed her cigarette into the road but made no move to leave. She felt like her head was swimming in poker. “So what has you so angry?”
“Forget about it.” Mickey tossed his own smoke away — this time because it was finished. “Rule Number Three: there are some things you’re safer not knowing.”
THIRTY-ONE
ELIZABETH
“This boat is gorgeous.” Elizabeth looked at Joe, lounging on the deck in the rising moonlight. “You sure we can afford it?”
“Nice, huh? Don’t worry about the money; this one’s mine.”
Elizabeth took a can of chickpeas from her cloth shopping bag and reached up to place it in a cupboard. She felt disoriented. She’d spent the afternoon shopping at what used to be her local grocery store, and she’d been terrified that she’d run into someone she knew. At the same time, she felt let down that she hadn’t. “Fine: can you afford this?”
“It’s only for a week. Should I be saving my money until I’m too old to enjoy it?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I like to live sustainably. You’d have to guarantee a final table finish to make this leg break even.”
“Don’t tell me you’re turning into a hippie.” Joe groaned. “Last week it was shade-grown coffee. This week it’s sustainability. What’s next week? Living off the land?”
“We could buy fishing rods,” Elizabeth said with a smile.
“Yeah. The two fish we’ll catch this week will make up for all the fuel we’ll need to find them. I bet it’s not even fish season. Come sit down. You want a drink?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
She was glad she’d run into George the night before, glad he’d been able to talk her away from beating down Fiona’s door and either finding Joe or not. George was nice — the kind of guy she wished she was attracted to, but wasn’t. Joe was nice too — too bad he was nice to so many people.
