by Robin Spano
Mickey nodded. “But what I don’t got figured out — and maybe our two brains can work on this together — is why T-Bone would cheat.”
“Yeah,” George said. “I’m not sure either. He’s been a winning player for over fifty years.”
“I’m not saying the man isn’t scum. If he was down and out he’d pimp his grandmother for a ticket to a tournament.”
“But T-Bone’s not down and out, is he?”
Mickey shrugged. “He hasn’t been doing so hot. Since the game exploded into the public eye and the rest of us have been cashing in on these newcomers who like to take chances, T-Bone’s game has been slipping downhill. He hasn’t been able to make the right adjustments to the newer, looser play.”
“Has he been losing money, though? Or just earning a bit less? Cheating seems drastic even for someone you call scum.”
“Put it this way,” Mickey said. “He wouldn’t have a moral opposition. I’ve known the guy a long time. When you were off getting Ivy League educated, I was down in Texas playing cards with the real sharps. You can take notes about that if you like. The Texas years are going to be a great section in my book.”
“Your South Boston friends won’t be upset that you abandoned the neighborhood because you didn’t think it had enough action?”
“I’m not dumb enough to think my Southie friends will read the book.”
“Right. It’s for your father.”
“He loves books. Collects them. He says everything important that ever happened can be found in a book.”
“He doesn’t place a lot of importance on real life.”
“He means big things. The things that change history. If I could come home one Christmas and give him a book, all wrapped up, with my picture on it, I’d think I really made it in this world.”
FORTY-ONE
CLARE
Clare ran her finger along the rim of the aluminum bench. She frowned at a pigeon, who dutifully flew away.
“I’m not sure I made the right decision on that exclusivity clause.” Through the cell phone, Kevin’s voice was heavy.
“You don’t want to be exclusive with me anymore?” Clare felt her phone shake in her hand.
“Of course I do. But I want to be exclusive with all of your many personalities.”
Clare watched a tugboat churn solidly through the river, a massive train of logs gliding behind it. She much preferred this working river by the casino over the yuppies and their yachts near her hotel.
“I’m too late,” Kevin said.
She nodded, though of course he couldn’t see. He wasn’t technically too late — nothing physical had happened with Nate except that kiss a few hours earlier.
“It’s not really up to you.” Clare tried to speak gently, so it didn’t sound like she was dictating terms. “It’s my job to be single — to be open to dating, if necessary.”
“Are you falling for someone?” Kevin’s voice rose in pitch, making him sound about twelve. If nothing else, it succeeded in making Clare feel less attracted to him for the moment.
“Of course I’m not falling for a guy who might be a killer.” Clare wasn’t sure why she wanted Kevin to know there was someone here. It was a horrible breach of security — she shouldn’t be talking about the case at all. She tried to tell herself it was in the name of relationship transparency.
“What?” Kevin’s voice deepened again, became angry. “Why would you take such a stupid risk?”
“It’s my job.”
“It’s your job to catch the killer, not fuck him and then let him shoot you.”
“How do you know I’m not aroused by that kind of thing?”
Kevin snorted. “No one is turned on by being shot.”
Clare lit a cigarette. She decided not to correct Kevin by telling him the killer was a strangler. “How have you been the past couple of days?”
“Worried about you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m too safe for comfort. A million security guys are spying on my every move, and my hotel is nowhere near the danger zone.”
“There’s a danger zone? That doesn’t help me, Clare.”
“Whatever. You know I can’t be more specific.” She should have been a lot less specific. Clare hoped her call wasn’t being monitored. “How’s business? Have you started with the YouTube videos?”
“Yep. So far I’ve made ‘Troubleshooting Fuses’ and ‘Maybe Your TV is Not Really Broken.’ I haven’t gone live with them. I want to do a big launch all at once, with, like six or eight videos to help solve common problems.”
Clare smiled. “Do you care if I tell Roberta, and put the same idea in her head? A mechanic isn’t competition, right?”
“Yeah, of course, tell Roberta. I’m not competitive anyway, even if she was another electrician.”
That was true. But Clare wasn’t hot for Kevin’s non-competitive side. “How’s my Triumph?”
“Sitting quietly in my garage. It’s been lousy weather — rainy and windy. Besides, I wouldn’t feel right riding your bike without you holding on behind me.”
Kevin was the first man Clare had ever allowed to drive her motorcycle. Though she would never say so out loud, she preferred to be a passenger when she was with him.
“My Triumph likes you,” she told him. “You’d be fine on it alone.”
“Thanks.” Kevin sounded surprised. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”
FORTY-TWO
NOAH
Noah watched the strange, goateed kid lug two bags half his size through the lobby. He was muttering as he walked, swearing when one of the bags knocked against his leg. If Noah’s logic was right, this kid was the voice behind the hole card transmission.
“Those bags look heavy.” Noah reached the elevator at the same time as the kid.
“Not heavy. Just full of bloody hard edges that aren’t forgiving when they smash against my skin.” The coarse British voice sounded exactly like the one that had been helping Noah cheat all afternoon. “If I showed the authorities my bruises, my boss would be thrown in jail.”
“Your boss is that hot redhead, right?”
“Fiona,” Oliver said. “She’s not hot when you work for her.”
“Dragon lady?”
“Perfectionist is a bloody understatement. I’m not even allowed to leave the wires set up overnight.” He patted his giant load. “In case anyone’s poking around trying to sort out our dirty electrical secrets.”
It occurred to Noah that Oliver might be innocent in the hole card scam. He might not be aware that his voice was being broadcast to players live at the tables while he read out their opponents’ cards so matter-of-factly.
Noah smiled. “Is there such thing as a dirty electrical secret?”
“You’d be surprised.”
The elevator came and Noah said, “Here, give me one of those. I’ll carry it up to your room.”
“I can’t let you do that. I’d feel like half a man.” Oliver’s build wasn’t much smaller than average, but he didn’t look like the kind of guy who worked out.
“You are half a man. Maybe not size-wise, but what are you? Sixteen?”
“Nineteen.” Oliver thrust his chin out for a second before handing one of the bags over. Noah wanted to reach over with a razor and relieve him of the stupid triangle of hair on his chin. Goatees always reminded Noah of pussy, and he found men who wore them repulsively effeminate.
They rode up twelve floors. Noah pressed Record on his iPhone and tried to steer the conversation so Oliver was doing most of the talking. When Oliver opened the door to his room, Noah handed him his bag and glanced inside to memorize the layout for later.
“You have plans for tonight?” Noah tried to sound casual asking.
Oliver glanced at him quickly. “Why?”
“No
reason.” Noah laughed. Man, this kid was skittish. “Just thought you might want to grab a beer.”
FORTY-THREE
GEORGE
Fiona stood in front of the camera. She scrutinized George, asked him to shift positions several times before declaring him good to go for his exit interview.
“So George,” Fiona said, in the perky voice she had crafted with the help of her publicist, “can you tell us how this game played out for you?”
George smiled from the corner of his mouth. “It played out as well as it could. I’m just not very good at poker.”
“Oh, come on.” Fiona’s laugh probably sounded natural to viewers at home. “Your book has helped thousands of readers improve their game. You clearly know something about how the game is played.”
“I know something about romance, too.” George glared pointedly. “Doesn’t mean I always win.”
“Whoa, it’s early in the morning for a jab like that.” Grin for the cameras. “Can anyone hook me up with a stronger coffee? Some of you may know that George and I used to date. It was fairly hot and heavy, so naturally he’s not over me.”
Though Fiona had spent the previous two nights in his bed, George couldn’t resist saying, “No. But I’m sure someone else is.”
“Sorry.” Fiona touched George’s shoulder and pressed on her earpiece. She looked at the camera, her perky voice replaced with the serious tone of a news anchor. “I’m afraid we have some breaking news. Loni Mills, ex-wife of Mickey Mills and T-Bone Jones’s girlfriend, has been found dead in her hotel room.”
George stifled his first reaction, which was to laugh: Fiona was talking as if they were live, but this wouldn’t be broadcast until later, at which point Loni’s death would not be breaking news.
Then he remembered what dead meant. The permanence overwhelmed him, and George felt incredibly heavy.
He watched Fiona speak, but he couldn’t hear her words anymore. He needed to get to his writing while this death was still fresh. George left Fiona and went upstairs to work.
FORTY-FOUR
CLARE
Clare looked dumbly at her cards and mucked them. The news that Loni Mills was dead sounded chilling on the loudspeaker. Clare had been sent into this game to stop the killer and instead she’d been living it up, more worried about how she could have sex with Nate and not be cheating on Kevin than about making the Canadian gambling scene safe again.
The local cops weren’t there yet, but they would be soon enough. Even though the RCMP was effectively the police force in Vancouver, Clare’s cover was supposed to be deep enough that the local forces didn’t know who she was. She hoped Tiffany James stood up under their questioning.
And why was the tournament still running? Shouldn’t someone have called a break?
And then someone did call a break, right as twenty uniformed cops poured through the doors. In another mood, Clare might laugh at the overkill SWAT team effect, but she was too consumed with feeling like a failure.
When she stood up, she was relieved to see Nate, who had come over from his table to see her.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” she said. “You?”
“Not fine.” Nate stuck his hands in his pockets and took them out a couple of seconds later. “You want to grab a smoke? The cops are making us stay for questioning, but they’re letting small groups out for smoke breaks.”
“Do you know how long the tournament is breaking for?”
“All day.”
“Cool.” Because Clare was not up for pretending to care about poker.
“You want to go somewhere once they let us out of here? Stanley Park? Grab a coffee and go for a walk?”
“It’s pissing rain.” Clare instantly regretted her word choice. Pouring would have been more like Tiffany.
“I’ll buy you an umbrella.”
The offer was tempting, but Amanda had already sent her a text — news clearly traveled fast when RCMP officers were everywhere. She wanted to meet Clare for lunch.
“Maybe we can hook up later?” Clare said. “This whole thing’s kind of weird. I don’t know how I’ll feel after questioning, but I think I’ll just want to hang at my hotel for a bit. Maybe listen to some music. Be alone.”
“That’s cool.” Nate’s eyes moved down to his sneakers and stayed there. “Text me when you’re feeling better?”
“Yeah.” Clare grabbed her jacket and started walking toward the door. Nate hung back, so she turned around and said to him, “Aren’t you coming for a smoke?”
“Oh, right.” Nate was clearly distracted by something. Clare wished she knew what.
“Buy me an umbrella in the meantime,” she said as they walked toward the doors. “Then I’ll have to go out with you.”
FORTY-FIVE
ELIZABETH
Elizabeth stared at Fiona. She didn’t try to pull her mouth shut; she left her jaw hanging to show Fiona how appalling her request had been.
“Seriously?” Elizabeth said finally. “You’re conducting interviews about players’ reactions to Loni’s death?”
“Sure,” Fiona said. “Does that offend you?”
Elizabeth didn’t know how to begin answering that. “How could you even want to spend today that way?”
“I know this is hard.” Obviously the camera was on, because Fiona was eying it flirtatiously. She flicked a wavy strand of red hair from her face. “But I think it’s important.”
“Fiona, you’re not some important TV journalist who’s been asked to cover an international tragedy.” The poison was firing inside Elizabeth, shredding her brain; she didn’t care what she said. “You have a shallow show about a shallow game, and you should stick to that.”
“Wow.” Fiona smiled broadly, like Let’s humor this crazy bitch. “Were you and Loni close? Her death seems to have sparked a strong reaction.”
Elizabeth thought she might punch Fiona. She had never been in a fist-fight, but she was up for seeing how one felt. “You know Loni and I weren’t close. You and I have been working and living in the same hotels and casinos for the past three years. You weren’t close with Loni either, as much as you like to think you’re everyone’s best friend.”
“We all have our unique reactions to grief,” Fiona said, entirely to the camera. “It’s what makes times like this so interesting.”
Elizabeth smiled, broad and phony. She urged her arms to stay by her sides, where they would do no harm. “Yes, Fiona. Times like this are fascinating. Grief, like old age and senility, allows us to say what we like. And what I’d like to say is: why were you fucking my boyfriend’s brains out in the Fallsview Casino on Sunday?”
Fiona faltered, which Elizabeth considered a good start. “I did hear banging outside my door.” Fiona faced the cameras. “But since there’s a killer on the loose — four people now have been found dead inside their hotel rooms — I didn’t think it would be prudent to open the door when I was alone at night.”
“Because I look like a killer, don’t I?” Elizabeth kept her face calm. Maybe instead of punching Fiona, she should strangle her with her microphone cord. “They have those inventions on doors now called peepholes. When I’m alone at night — like when my boyfriend is off fucking some red-headed skank — I use the peephole to see if I’d be wise to open the door.”
“Which brings us to another interesting point,” Fiona said. “What does a killer look like? Is it a big, strong man with a menacing look and a rope in his hand? Or could it be a slender, quiet woman with a piece of rope hidden in her purse? We don’t know, do we? And we won’t know, until the Poker Choker has been caught.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Fiona.” Elizabeth knew she should walk away. “Because I don’t smile and nod and give you the exit interview you want, you paint me as some kind of killer?”
“Oh,” Fiona said with a small laugh. “I guess that
did sound a bit like you. It wasn’t meant to. I was only illustrating contrasts. I think it’s important for the poker community that we open our minds and solve this case together.”
“You’re not a community detective. And you’re no fucking martyr. You saved your mother’s house from foreclosure. Big deal. Joe donated three hundred grand to help orphans in Michigan last year. He doesn’t go around telling the public he’s helping the world. He does it.”
Fiona started shaking. Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she’d said, but she’d hit home.
She peered into Fiona’s eyes to gauge specific reactions. “What got you, Fiona? The orphans? Your mom’s house? That’s it. Your mom’s house. Now why — since it’s supposedly a nice thing you did for her — why would that reminder be unpleasant for you?”
Fiona signaled to her cameraman to stop taping. “Elizabeth, you have to stop this.”
“Me?” Elizabeth smiled. “Whatever do you mean?”
FORTY-SIX
NOAH
Noah couldn’t sit still. He paced the length of his hotel room while Bert looked on in annoyance. “I’m meeting Tiffany this afternoon, hopefully.”
“You want me to find out her life history before then?” Bert tapped his Mephisto dress shoes against the cheap hotel carpet. “You don’t ask for much.”
“I don’t need answers right away. But I want to know who she is.”
“You don’t believe her story?”
“A rich kid from Toronto?” Noah shook his head. “Maybe. But there are holes in her supposed education. When we got drunk the other night — well, when she got drunk; I can handle more liquor than she can — she spoke more freely. Unless Canadian private schools are dramatically different from the one I went to in New York, I’m going to go out on a limb and say she never went to one.”
“Are they supposed to have different accents?” Bert asked. “This isn’t England.”
