“Hey, guys,” Jimmy said, spreading his hands. “I’m trying to help you, remember?”
“Take a walk, Andy.”
“What?”
“Better yet, go home,” Cooper said. “I’ll finish up here and see you tomorrow morning.”
Devine stared at Cooper, glared at Jimmy, then said to his partner, “This is bullshit.”
He slammed the door on the way out.
“I’m disappointed, Jimmy,” Cooper said. “I was square with you.”
“I was square with you, too, Detective,” Jimmy said. “And I’ve been helpful.”
“Yeah, you have. That’s why I haven’t thrown your ass in jail.”
“Along with the fact that I didn’t do it,” Jimmy said. “Either murder.”
Cooper pointed a finger at him.
“You still should have told me, and you know it.”
Jimmy opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and snapped it shut.
“Okay,” he said after a moment, “you’re right. I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”
Cooper spread his hands.
“That’s all I wanted.”
“I’m still new at being an ex-con, Detective,” Jimmy said, “but I’ll get the hang of it.”
“Look, just stay away from Devine. He’ll haul you in if he gets the chance just to break your balls.”
“That would do more than break my balls, it would bust me out of the tournament.”
“Yeah, well, don’t let him know that.”
“Thanks for the warning. Do you have a regular partner?”
“I did,” Cooper said but didn’t elaborate. Jimmy figured the issue was as much his business as his plea was Cooper’s.
“By the way, do the tournament people know about your record?”
“Don’t know if they do or not,” Jimmy said, “but it doesn’t matter.”
“That wouldn’t get you disqualified?”
“No,” Jimmy said. “There are other players with records.”
“What about the casinos?”
“I didn’t do time for anything related to gaming,” Jimmy said. “I’m in the clear.”
“Okay,” the black detective said, “you can go. I’ll walk out with you in case Andy’s waiting in the hall.”
The hall was clear. Devine was nowhere in sight. True to his word, however, Cooper walked Jimmy out to the casino floor.
“An odd thing happened today,” the detective said.
“What’s that?”
“I met a cop from Philadelphia who’s vacationing here,” Cooper said. “Turns out he’s a homicide specialist. Took an interest in these two cases.”
“Is that a fact?”
Jimmy realized that in checking him out Cooper would have found out that he was originally from Philadelphia. If he dug a little deeper, he’d find out that Jimmy’s father was a cop. Perhaps he was putting two and two together and wanted to see what Jimmy would say.
“Yep,” Cooper said.
“And you talked to him?”
“Why not?” Cooper said. “He’s got a lot more experience than I do. Figured I’d pick his brain a little.”
“Did it help?”
“Some.”
The two of them stood there for a moment, on the edge of the casino floor, and then Cooper said, “Well, I better get going. My wife’s gonna wonder what the hell happened to me.”
“Thanks for the help with Devine,” Jimmy said. “I guess you kept me out of the slammer tonight.”
“Sure,” Cooper said. “See you around.”
As the detective started to walk away, Jimmy called out, “Can I ask you something?”
The man turned and looked back.
“Sure.”
“The tape from the cameras on the high-roller floor, did they tell you the size of the killer?”
“Luckily,” Cooper said, “we have the victim standing right in front of him on the tape, so we can tell he was a tall man. Not necessarily a big man, but the fact that he lifted the victim makes him pretty strong.”
“So that definitely rules out a woman.”
“As far as the second victim is concerned, yeah,” said Cooper. “But it’s not out of the question that there could be two separate killers, the first one being a woman. It’s unlikely, though.”
“So you’re working on the premise that the murders are connected?”
“Yes,” Cooper said. “Even though one was killed in his room and the other stabbed and thrown out a window, the presence of the cards in both cases supports that.”
“So why’d he toss him out the window?”
“This is just my opinion,” Cooper said, “but I think he did it for fun.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Jimmy had told the truth to the detectives about one thing: he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten much at the Buffet because they’d been talking so much. Also, watching Vic shovel in his food had really killed his appetite. But he didn’t want to go to any of the restaurants that were open late. Chances were, they’d be full of poker players. He decided to go to his room and order room service.
He raided the honor bar for a small bottle of bourbon and a five-dollar bottle of soda, made himself a drink, then studied the room service menu. There was a knock on his door just ten minutes after he had ordered a prime rib sandwich and French fries. He was impressed with the speed of room service until he opened the door and saw Sabine standing there, holding a bottle of wine.
“I want a drink,” she said. “But I do not want to drink alone.”
“Lots of people in the bar.”
She made a face.
“Too many tourists. I would rather share it here with you. That way I will not drink the whole zing.”
He swung his door wide.
“Come on in.”
She entered and he closed the door behind her. As far as he could tell she had already started drinking.
“Is zere a corkscrew in zat honor bar?” she asked, waving the bottle of what looked like white.
“I think there is.” He checked. “Yup.”
“You do the honors.”
She handed him the wine and then sat down on the king-size bed and kicked off her shoes. He decided she had sexy feet.
“What are we drinking to,” he asked, applying the corkscrew to the bottle, “or because of?”
“I am about two hands from being eliminated,” she said. “I blame zose stupid posse members for getting themselves killed. I know—zat sounds very cold.”
He wasn’t concerned with it sounding cold. He was listening to her suddenly more-pronounced French accent. She seemed to have lost her th’s.
“Shit,” she said, and managed to get a French accent into that.
“What?” he asked, as the cork popped out of the bottle.
“I am tired,” she said. “When I am tired my accent becomes—how do you say—more pronounced?”
“That’s how you say it.”
He retrieved two glasses from the large breakfront that housed the honor bar and poured wine into both.
“Shall I go and get some ice?” he asked, handing her a glass.
“No, zis is fine.”
“How about food? I ordered something from room service. I could call them again.”
“No,” she said, “but do you mind if I stay while you eat?”
“No, I don’t mind at all.”
She sipped her wine and closed her eyes. Sitting there like that she was like the dream most men have while they’re in prison. At least, the way the dream started. For just a moment he was unsure about where to sit, then thought, the hell with it and sat next to her. She didn’t jump up or even move. Her perfume, which he did not remember having smelled before, was light and fresh. It was obviously not meant to be sexy, but under the circumstances, it was.
The whole damn situation was, and she damn well had to know it.
They sat there silently for a few moments, sipping wine, and then she turned her head towar
d him and put her hand on his thigh. He kissed her and as her mouth opened to him he tasted Sabine and wine, a heady mixture. It might have gone further, but at that moment there was a knock on the door. Had to be room service this time, and they actually were quick.
He considered ignoring it, but she said, “You should probably get that.”
“Yeah,” he said, and grudgingly went to the door to admit the bellman, who was carrying a covered tray.
“Good evening,” the middle-aged man said, and between the “good” and the “evening” it became obvious that he was French. For the next few minutes he and Sabine carried on a rapid-fire conversation that went completely over Jimmy’s head.
“Tip him well,” she told Jimmy. “I haven’t spoken zis much French in many months.”
Jimmy tipped well and the bellman left very happy.
“Oh,” Sabine said then, “zat smells so good.”
“Prime rib sandwich and fries,” Jimmy told her. “I’ll share it with you.”
“Ooh, pomme frites,” she said. “You are very generous.”
They pulled two chairs over to the desk, and Jimmy split his sandwich and handed her half. They got as much ketchup as they could out of the small, silly, sealed jar the hotel supplied and sat there munching and talking about the day’s play.
Sabine felt she had misplayed several hands because her concentration was not what it should have been. Jimmy told her he’d had the same problem, though apparently not to the same extent it had had on her chip supply.
He kept pouring the wine until the bottle was empty, and then set the dead soldier on the table with the empty plate. They had a small amount of wine left in their glasses, and he was wondering if, when that was gone, they would go back to what they were doing before the bellman appeared at the door.
“Tell me about ze—the—girl,” she said.
“What girl?”
“The one you are—how do you—ah, tutoring? Is that correct?”
“Ah, Kat,” Jimmy said. “Yes, I’m coaching her. Tutoring, coaching, it’s about the same thing.”
“Is she good?”
“Very good.”
“And so young,” Sabine said. “Is she your—I mean, are you and she . . .”
“No, no,” he said quickly, “nothing like that. It’s all about the game.”
“Yes, it is zat way with me and Dallas Jack.”
“What? Dallas Jack?”
“Oui. Very few people know that Dallas Jack found me on the streets of Paris, doing—how do you say—con?”
“You were . . . a con woman?”
“Oui,” she said, “only I was more a con child. You see, I come from a family of gypsies and learned when I was very young the different ways to break ze law and live on ze street.”
So what Mike Sexton had told him about her was right.
“Do you now think me . . . horrible?”
“Hey,” he said, with a shrug, “everybody’s got to make a living somehow.”
She smiled lazily. “You are a sweet man.”
She was wearing a burgundy blouse, and somehow the top two buttons had come undone, showing a soft swell of breasts.
“Thank you for sharing your dinner wiz me,” Sabine said. “I did not know how hungry I was.”
“It wasn’t my dinner,” he said, “just a snack.”
They were sitting next to each other on the bed again. He reached out with his right hand and touched a tendril of her brown hair that was lying over her shoulder, unlike the rest which was pinned up.
“Well, you were generous, anyway.”
“You’re welcome.”
He touched her neck, felt her pulse beneath the smooth, warm skin.
“I should go back to my room now,” she said. “I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
She didn’t move. He slid his finger down her throat until it was touching the space between her breasts. She still didn’t move, but her breathing got faster.
“I will need to be well rested if I am going to, uh—”
“I know.” He leaned in and kissed the side of her neck. He felt her shiver. He undid a third button on her blouse and then a fourth. Her bra had lace on it, was cream colored. If she had come there to seduce him, she would have worn a black one—or had that much changed since he’d gone inside?
He’d been with a few women since his release, but no one special. In fact, the first one had been a high-priced call girl. He’d made the call, and she had come to his condo. He’d really done it just to get the first time over with. He’d fumbled and she’d helped him, whispering to him that it would be all right while she removed first his clothes and then hers. She’d been very good. They had sex twice that night, and the second time he’d been more self-assured.
Now he pulled the tails of Sabine’s blouse out from the waistband of her skirt. She didn’t resist as he kissed her neck again, then the hollow of her throat, and then the slopes of her breasts.
After the call girl, his next time had been with a girl he picked up in a bar. She was the first girl he undressed after getting out, and he had been so clumsy with the hooks on the back of her bra that she’d laughed and undid them for him.
There was no fumbling with Sabine’s bra as she was wearing one that fastened in front. Goose bumps appeared on her flesh as he undid the clasp. Her breasts were small but firm and round, with pink nipples and wide areolas. He kissed her there, first one tip, then the other, and a small moan escaped from her lips.
“I did not . . . plan this . . .” she said softly.
“I know,” he said, “neither did I—but look at it this way. If there’s another murder tonight, we both have alibis.”
He felt her stiffen. He would have taken the words back if he could.
“I mean—”
She sprang up to her feet and hastily redid the clasp of her bra.
“That was a stupid thing to say,” he told her.
“Yes, it was.”
“I didn’t mean—”
She hurriedly did up the buttons of her blouse, but did not tuck it back into her skirt.
“I am sorry,” she said. “This was a mistake. Please forgive me.”
She rushed for the door as he said, “No, you have to forgive—” but she opened it and hastened into the hall.
He sat there with a raging erection, not knowing if he felt more stupid or frustrated.
TWENTY-SIX
Jimmy woke the next morning feeling more foolish than stupid, but still frustrated. It didn’t help that everything in the room seemed to smell of Sabine. But the maids would take care of that once he left.
He showered, shaved, getting ready to go downstairs for some breakfast. His plan when he saw Sabine was to simply smile and greet her. What he’d said last night had been a joke, and he felt her reaction had been a bit excessive. Of course, maybe she had just felt that things had gone too far—or far enough. The wine may have gone to her head. It did that to some people when they were tired. Maybe she’d be embarrassed by what had happened.
She was a beautiful woman. He’d dreamed about her that night, and in the dream that bra had come off and stayed off. The problem was, in the dream as he was sitting at her table, playing in the tournament, she was topless. And everyone in the room knew she had walked out on him. Then Mike Sexton grew irate and flipped over a poker table with one hand. Turned out he had Arnold Schwarzenegger–type strength. Then Skippy the dummy whipped his head around and held up a Picasso flop right in his face, then Tabby, the cheerful Thai man, appeared with his glass of wine and said, “Don’t worry, life short, have good time.”
Jimmy had woken with a start. Rather than analyze the dream, he chose to deal with the problem in real life. Last night may have been a mistake on some level, but he was hoping for an opportunity to make it work.
To get his mind off the fiasco, he picked up the phone and dialed Mike Sexton’s cell.
“Oh, good morning, Jimmy,” Sexton said.
Jimm
y was relieved that Sexton’s voice sounded like the friendly, benign Mike of old.
“What have you got for me, Mike?” Jimmy asked. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Well, my boss, Steve, asked the Vegas police if they could supply bodyguards for the remaining members of the posse.”
“Not gonna happen,” Jimmy predicted.
“You got that right,” Sexton said. “The detective said they don’t have the manpower to do that and suggested the WPT hire bodyguards for them if they’re that concerned.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t they be that concerned?” Jimmy asked. “Two of them are dead.”
“The police suggested we close down the tournament.”
“They don’t really want you to do that,” Jimmy said. “The game is keeping everyone around, including the killer.”
“You think the killer is playin’ in the game?”
“No,” Jimmy said, “but his targets are. Close down the game and he’ll either split or take them out somewhere else if he’s still intent on doing it.”
“Why would he be doin’ this?” Sexton asked. “They’re just kids.”
“That’s something you can ask him after he’s caught, Mike.”
“What about you?” Sexton asked. “You got anything to tell me that I don’t know?”
Unbidden, the sight of Sabine’s bare, lovely, pink-tipped breasts sprang into his head.
“Nothing I want to share right now, Mike. I’ll talk to you later.”
He took the elevator down to the main floor, hoping that no one had been killed during the night and that no one would fall into his morning muffin.
It was 9 A.M. by the time he finished his muffin and coffee at Palio. He’d seen quite a few of the remaining participants but had done nothing but exchange a hello or nod with them. Many of them knew him from seeing him around the past three days, but he was still pretty much an unknown to most of the players. As an older couple, who were poker tourists from the gallery, was leaving he overheard them saying that movie star Tobey Maguire—a world-class poker player himself—had been knocked out late last night. Yeah, Hollywood really had invaded the poker world. It was good for everyone.
He was about to get up and leave the café when three young guys in T-shirts came to the table next to him and sat down with their various versions of breakfast. The thing that interested him was that he recognized them as players. They were the same age as the posse players, but he didn’t know if they were members or not. He decided to nurse the remnants of his coffee and eavesdrop a little.
The Picasso Flop Page 14
