The Picasso Flop

by Vince Van Patten

  Jimmy grabbed Cooper’s arm. “He’ll snap her neck.”

  “Shut up!” he hissed.

  Jimmy let go. His heart was racing, but he had to let the man do his job.

  “I can’t let you walk, Lenny,” Cooper said, “and even if I did, there are more cops outside.”

  “I’ll kill her! I swear I will!”

  “Then all these cops will draw their weapons and kill you. Is that what you want?”

  Krieger had sweat running down into his eyes. He tried to blink it away, rather than release his hold on Kat. It just made him look even more crazed.

  “You’ve got to let her go, man,” Cooper said. “It’s the only way you get out of this alive.”

  “You’ll put me in jail.”

  “Maybe,” Cooper said, “maybe not. That’s not up to any of us here. That’ll be up to a judge and a jury. You get yourself a lawyer and take your chances—but you live.”

  Jimmy thought Lenny Krieger was actually considering it.

  “Come on, Lenny,” Cooper said. “Calm down and think, man.”

  The black detective never raised his voice. Even Jimmy found it strangely soothing.

  “I can’t—I can’t think— Don’t rush me—”

  “Nobody’s rushing you,” Cooper said. “Take your time. If you take your time, you’ll make the right decision.”

  Jimmy looked around at the cops. If anyone was going to make a wrong move, he thought it would be Devine. He decided to keep his eyes on the detective, and if he looked like he was going to do something stupid, he’d tackle him. He owed him for a cut chin anyway.

  “Nobody’s gonna shoot me?” Krieger asked.

  “No,” Cooper said. “Nobody’s going to shoot. Right now all the guns are put away. Just let the girl go, Lenny. You don’t want to hurt her.”

  “I didn’t . . .” Krieger said, releasing his hold on Kat’s neck. She immediately sank to the floor, as if her legs wouldn’t hold her. “I didn’t kill—”

  There was immediate movement. Jimmy ran forward and grabbed Kat, pulled her out of the way, just as the uniformed cops closed on Krieger and took him to the floor, cutting off what he was trying to say. They got him on his stomach, pulled his arms behind him roughly, and cuffed him.

  “Jimmy . . .” Kat gasped, as he held her tightly. “Jimmy . . .”

  “Take it easy with him!” Cooper shouted to the cops. “Damn it, easy!”

  Jimmy looked up just as Cooper reached them.

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine,” Jimmy said. “You’re pretty good at that.”

  “I used to be a hostage negotiator,” Cooper said. “I’m better at that than I am at being a detective. Doped-up bastard. He’s obviously insane. I think we got our killer.”

  But Jimmy wasn’t completely sure. Something just wasn’t right—call it a poker sixth sense, intuition, or maybe just a gambler’s hunch. Then again, why should he overthink it? Right now he was going to have to focus on reality—that reality being the WPT final table. Life-changing money was at stake. He didn’t want to blow his chance.

  FORTY-THREE

  The Final Table . . .

  The final table was under way. The gallery was full of spectators, both fans and professionals. The WPT desk was set up with Mike Sexton and Vince Van Patten seated to observe and comment on the action.

  Starting from the left of the dealer, the players were Antonio Esfandiari; the HollywoodPoker.com amateur Jason Read; Scooter Thompson and his dummy, Skippy; Gus Hansen; Mike “the Grinder” Mizrachi; and Jimmy Spain in seat six.

  Leonard Krieger had been taken away, arrested and charged with four counts of murder. Cooper was satisfied that he had the killer in custody. Jimmy was persuaded enough, and he finally called the room where Belton and Flanagan were still being guarded and gave them their release. Go back to their own rooms, come watch the game, leave town—whatever they wanted to do. He was surprised to see them in the gallery. He’d thought their first reaction would have been to leave town.

  Kat had made a very nice recovery from her scare and was also in the gallery, ready to cheer Jimmy on. And to his surprise, Vic was there as well. He assumed Margaret was continuing her assault on the slots.

  Mike Sexton had formally introduced Jimmy to Steve Lips-comb, the creator and CEO of the WPT, who had thanked him for all his help and assured him that he had, indeed, earned his way into the Bad Boy tournament. Everything was coming out just perfect or so it seemed.

  Now all Jimmy had to do was concentrate on playing the final table—so what was nagging at him? There was something still rattling around in the back of his mind that he could not isolate or put to rest. It was robbing him of giving the game 100 percent.

  Nevertheless, the game was about to get started. The cards were being smoothly shuffled, destiny in the hands of the dealer.

  The chip leader at this point was Michael “the Grinder” Mizrachi with 1.8 million dollars. The short stack was the amateur online player Jason Read, only twenty-two and decked out with HollywoodPoker apparel to the max. Seated fifteen feet behind him in the first row was movie star James Woods, also decked out in a matching HollywoodPoker.com outfit, rooting for him.

  The kid looked nervous, as well he should be. He only had three hundred thousand in chips. He would have to play fast.

  Jimmy was second short stack with about six hundred and fifty thousand. Blinds were five and ten thousand, at this point, with three-thousand-dollar antes.

  The winner was going to take home 1.8 million dollars and become a bona fide poker superstar. This was Jimmy’s opportunity of a lifetime.

  What a final table this was. The flashy WPT light show went off. Twelve cameras spinning in all directions went to work. The packed crowd erupted in applause, and the first hand was in the air. Gus Hansen was the small blind, and the Grinder the big blind. So action right off the bat would be on Jimmy. He squeezed his cards and looked down at them one at a time. First a four of hearts, then a four of clubs. Lo and behold, a low-wired pair in early position. Six-handed game. Did he want to take a shot? No, patience, he thought. Don’t try to be a hero. Then quickly mucked it.

  Next was Antonio Esfandiari. He went out. Now on to Mr. HollywoodPoker, Jason Reed. A pair of tens—solid starting hand. The online kid popped it up a bit like he should, making it forty thousand to go. Scooter and Skippy got out of the way, and Gus wanted no part of it. The last one to beat was the Grinder, who caught Big Slick—ace, king—and quickly came over the top an additional raise of one hundred thousand. The crowd went crazy, especially after the kid reluctantly pushed in his last one hundred and sixty grand.

  The Grinder quickly called, and both players turned up their hands. James Woods let out the biggest scream when the flop turned up king, six, deuce. Grinder had flopped kings. The last two cards didn’t help the kid, and just like that on the very first hand they were down to five players. The kid picked up ninety-nine-thousand dollars and got to chat on camera with beautiful Courtney Freel.

  Jimmy Spain had just gone up to at least fifth place prize money. That number was one hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars! He smiled as he thought to himself he had come a long way since practicing his shuffle rack in his prison cell.

  The game continued for the next hour with nothing much happening. Jimmy managed to win a couple of small pots and was hanging in there. These guys were the biggest names in the game, and one thing you could tell was they had respect for Jimmy. They marked him as solid, tight. And unless they were strong, didn’t want to mess with him. Except one man, Gus Hansen. That’s right, the maniac of poker, thought to play with almost anything and win with it, was up to his old tricks, stealing pots and busting players. He played with reckless abandon, and you couldn’t put him on a hand. He was the chip leader now and taking questionable pots from Jimmy and the whole table. Jimmy’s strategy was simply to survive. Wait for Gus to get out of line, trap, then punish. Revenge would be sweet. After all, one good double u
p and he’d be in serious contention to become WPT’s newest millionaire.

  And then it happened. With blinds of ten and twenty thousand and Jimmy in the big blind, Antonio and Scooter got out, and now Gus, with the button in front of him, raised it up, making it a hundred thousand dollars to go. The Grinder got out, and Jimmy stared down at the mother of all poker hands, two aces. Dream time. Jimmy decided to slow play them, disguise his strength, and, after some skillful acting, finally made a reluctant call.

  Flop came up queen, five, four, different suits, and Jimmy quickly checked, knowing that no matter what Gus had, he would bet. He did. The poker bully bet two hundred thousand to go. Jimmy had him slow-played perfectly, liked his overpair, and now wanted to get paid off, going over the top, going all in for his additional four hundred thousand. The great Gus Hansen deliberated, thought and thought, finally shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I guess I call.”

  He turned up queen, six of hearts, and Gus knew he was in trouble. On the turn there was a deuce and on the river Gus spiked a three, giving him the winning straight. The crowd went crazy. Jimmy Spain was numb. What immediately flashed was the pain he felt and then, just like that, he imagined the pain and horror that poor online player must have felt when he hit the water after being stabbed and thrown from thirty stories up. Jimmy thought they might be similar. The rest was a blur. Shaking hands all around, the talk with Courtney, the crowd congratulating him. He got out of there fast.

  Jimmy accepted the handshakes from the other players and hurried to the sidelines. He grabbed Vic and pulled him away from the others.

  “Aw, too bad you didn’t win, man,” Vic said, “but how’d you do moneywise?”

  “A hundred and sixty-five thou, I think,” Jimmy said. “Listen—”

  “You pissed you came in fifth?”

  “No, I’m not pissed, Vic,” Jimmy said. “I got my money in with the best. That’s poker luck. Something was bothering me the whole time we were playing, though, and now I know what it was.”

  “What?”

  “The arrogance.”

  “What?”

  “Remember the profile? Big, powerful, arrogant? Well, the first two fit Lenny Krieger, but not the third. There’s no arrogance in him—he’s too filled with self-doubt.”

  “So you’re sayin’ the cops got the wrong man? Jimmy, he was gonna break your girl’s neck.”

  “But when he went down,” Jimmy said, “he was saying he didn’t kill them. The cops cut him off.”

  “Jimmy, they all say they’re innocent. Besides, if he didn’t do it, who did?”

  “Francisco.”

  “The wheelchair guy again? I thought you were satisfied that even if he was faking, he didn’t kill anybody?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I remember now what’s been bothering me,” Jimmy said. “The last time I saw him he didn’t tell me to stop playing detective, he said that my policeman friend and I should stop.”

  “So?”

  “So I didn’t know what he meant. I thought he meant Cooper, but that didn’t make any sense. He meant you.”

  “Me? How would he know I was a policeman?”

  “He’d know if he went through your pockets after he hit you.” Then Jimmy remembered something. “Crap, that was after he mentioned my police friend to me.” Jimmy thought a minute. “He must have done some nosing around the Bellagio—or had someone do it for him—found out I had someone from the job helping me, but didn’t know who you were until later.”

  Vic thought a moment, then his eyes widened and he said, “My wallet was on the floor next to me when I came to.”

  “And your badge holder?”

  “Same thing. Son of a bitch. He went through my pockets, saw that I was a cop, and that’s why he didn’t kill me, too.”

  “Right.”

  “He did it,” Vic said. “The guy in the wheelchair did it—and he was arrogant enough to make that comment to you.”

  “It makes me sick, but we’ve got to prove it. God knows why the hell he did it, but we’ve got to figure that out, too.”

  “Give it to Cooper, Jimmy,” Vic said. “Let him prove it.”

  “Cooper has his man,” Jimmy said. “He’s satisfied. No, we have to do this, you and me.”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve come this far with me.”

  Vic thought a moment, then said, “Okay, okay, but . . . how?”

  “We’ve got to figure out a way, and we have to do it tonight.”

  Jimmy turned in time to catch Kat, who leaped into his arms. Waiting behind her to congratulate him, as well, was Sabine and with her—to his surprise—Dallas Jack.

  FORTY-FOUR

  When Jimmy entered the Mandalay Sports Book, Francisco was right where he knew he’d be, surrounded by his cronies. They all had their eyes on one of the screens, where a stretch duel was being run at Los Alamitos between two horses. When they crossed the finish line, one a nose ahead of the other, it was clear Francisco was the loser.

  Jimmy was able to see the man’s face as the horses crossed the finish line. Just for the moment there was a look of pure anguish, and Jimmy knew that what he and Vic had posited as a possible explanation was correct. Francisco was on a terrible losing streak, the kind that squeezed the breath out of a man with every loss, the kind that seemed to last forever.

  At that moment Francisco saw Jimmy and suddenly the Great Francisco was back.

  “Ah, Jimmy, my friend,” he said expansively. “I heard you came in fifth. Congratulations. Not a bad outcome for being away so long.”

  “Thanks, Francisco,” Jimmy said, “but I should have won that tournament. I blame you that I didn’t.”

  “Me?” Francisco said, his eyes wide. “But why? What did the Great Francisco do to deserve such an accusation?”

  The Panamanian’s entourage turned to look at him and Jimmy curiously.

  “Francisco,” Jimmy asked, “can we talk somewhere more . . . private?”

  “How private?”

  “Very.” Jimmy was still not 100 percent sure he was right, and if he wasn’t, he didn’t want anyone else around to see it.

  Francisco seemed slightly annoyed, but he could tell by Jimmy’s eyes that he was serious. “Of course, Jimmy. Let’s go to a private place to talk. I am a little embarrassed, my friend. Usually I have a suite at my disposal but these days—”

  “Just how bad a losing streak are you on, Francisco?”

  The man closed his mouth and stared at Jimmy, then said, “Oof, you don’t want know.”

  “Come with me,” Jimmy said.

  Jimmy got behind the wheelchair and started pushing.

  Prior to taking the cab to the Mandalay Bay, he had found Mike Sexton and once again put the man’s contacts to good use. Armed with a name, he had stopped off to see someone before going to the Sports Book. In his pocket he had a key—a two-thousand-dollar key—that he hoped first he would not have to use, and second would be worth the money.

  It was late, close to midnight. The head-to-head finale of the tournament at the Bellagio was still going strong. Here at Mandalay Bay it was quieter than usual, but Jimmy knew someplace that would be even quieter. He followed the signs hanging from the ceiling as he pushed Francisco along.

  “What is on your mind, my friend?” Francisco asked. His expression serious, no trace of the Great Francisco there, just Francisco the loser.

  “Quite a few things, my friend,” Jimmy said. “For one, this whole wheelchair bit. It’s a bet, isn’t it? Some kind of a pathetic, desperate bet?”

  Francisco began to laugh, a sick, demented laugh.

  “Ah Jimmy, how could you say that? I am a cripple, my friend. They attacked me with baseball bats. I told you this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Francisco, you told me that,” Jimmy said, “but a lot of things don’t add up. Your shoes are scuffed, your hands are not as calloused as they should be for someone in a wheelchair, you have empt
y condom wrappers in your bedroom, and no wheelchair ramps in your building.”

  “Condoms—I thought someone had been in my apartment,” Francisco said. “You are a practicing burglar now, Jimmy?”

  “Francisco, a man in your condition—the condition you claim to suffer from—should not be able to have sex. You should be impotent.”

  Francisco seemed shocked, growing more and more irritated. “Just because I am handicapped doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my sex. If that was the case, my friend, I would want to die.”

  “You’ve made too many mistakes,” Jimmy said. “Whenever this bet is supposed to end, I don’t think you would have collected. I’m sure whoever you have this bet with has noticed a lot of what I noticed. How many years has it been?”

  “You are talking crazy, my friend. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You still won’t admit it?”

  “Admit what? This has gone far enough.” Francisco tried to stop the wheels with his hands, but Jimmy kept pushing.

  He pushed Francisco’s wheelchair through a door and they were outside, in the pool area. Mandalay Bay had three pools, a small lake, and a waterfall, all on eleven acres. This late at night, there was no one around but the two of them.

  “What are you doing?” Francisco asked. “I demand to go back now!”

  Jimmy didn’t answer. Standing behind Francisco he pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket and quickly taped Francisco’s right arm to the wheelchair.

  “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

  With that, another piece of duct tape went over the Panamanian’s mouth and wrapped around his head. Francisco started to squirm, but Jimmy was too fast, wrapping his second arm to the chair. Francisco was completely strapped in and screaming muffled obscenities.

  Jimmy pushed Francisco to the far end of the nearest pool, where they wouldn’t accidentally be seen from inside. Someone might see them from a room above but wouldn’t be able to do anything from there.

  They arrived at the edge of the pool. The depth number 5 was painted on the side.

  Francisco had terror in his eyes.