“Francisco, one last time. Can you walk, yes or no?”
Francisco violently shook his head. You could hear the muffled words coming from under the duct tape.
It sounded to Jimmy like he said, “Of course not, you crazy son of a bitch. I will drown!”
Jimmy stuck a finger in his face. “I know you, Francisco. You can fucking walk. You’re the king of the hustle. Just goddamn admit it.”
But Francisco just kept shaking his head in complete panic.
Jimmy pushed. Francisco’s wheelchair went into the pool and quickly sank to the bottom. Francisco, his hair floating about his head, struggled against the duct tape, but even in the pool the tape held. Jimmy found himself hoping he was right, otherwise he was going to be in a shitload of trouble.
“Come on, come on,” he said to himself, “stand up . . .”
Francisco continued to struggle, and then suddenly—just when Jimmy was thinking he might have to jump in after him—Francisco stood up. His head and shoulders broke the surface of the water. Jimmy had made sure to dump him into the five-foot-deep area.
Jimmy shook his head.
“You son of a bitch!” Then he leaned over and ripped the duct tape off Francisco’s mouth. Without a beat Francisco exclaimed, “It is a miracle. My legs, they are back. Perhaps the chlorine, my friend, stimulated—”
But Jimmy grabbed him violently by the collar and pulled him close.
“Cut the shit, Francisco. This thing is over. You better start talking or I swear to God I’ll fucking drown you myself.”
Francisco knew he was in trouble. He nodded in defeat and walked toward the steps, dragging his clunky wheelchair behind him. He was muttering in Spanish, his left leg bleeding from the debacle, but his ex-soccer legs got the job done.
When he got himself and the chair out of the pool, he fell back into the chair, the wheels hitting the ground with a thud. He was safe now—sopping wet and defeated.
“All right,” he gasped. “So I can walk.”
“How many years has it been?”
“Six,” Francisco said.
“And what was the bet for?”
“Seven.”
“You bet someone that you could stay in a wheelchair for seven years?”
Francisco stared at Jimmy a few moments, catching his breath before he spoke. His black hair was matted to his head; water dripped from his chin.
“The bet was,” he said, “that I could convince people for seven years that I was paralyzed. That did not mean that I could not get up and walk in my own home or have a lady visit me from time to time.”
“Still, that’s a lot of time to spend in a wheelchair when you don’t have to. How much was this bet for?” Jimmy asked.
“A half-million dollars. And now if anybody finds out about this, I will lose this bet,” he said angrily.
Jimmy whistled. “A half a mil. That’s a good one, all right.”
“Not really,” Francisco said, “not when you divide half a million by seven years. It is actually a bet I am sorry I made.”
“And is there another bet you’re not sorry about?” Jimmy asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw where you live, Francisco,” Jimmy said. “I saw your face when you lost that last race. How long has this losing streak been going on?”
“It is . . . interminable,” the man said. “I do not believe I have cashed a significant bet in . . . oh, ten years.”
“Ten years? You are running bad.”
“Yes, it is terrible, my friend,” Francisco said, “and now . . .”
“Now, what?”
“I am living where I do because there is no more money coming from my family,” Francisco said. “They have cut me off.” He tried to bring one hand up, wanting to slam it down on the arm of the chair. But the duct tape still held. “It is not fair!” His eyes blazed. “I only needed a little more time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to wait out the streak,” he said. “All losing streaks come to an end—you know that.”
“So let me get this straight, Francisco,” Jimmy said. “You’re running bad, and you can certainly walk—”
Francisco got indignant, totally frustrated. “Of course I can walk. I am the Great Francisco. I am strong and masculine . . . and I can perform sexually.” He wagged his index finger at Jimmy. It was an odd gesture with his arms taped down the way they were. “Do not forget that!”
Jimmy felt relieved that he had been right about this part. Now he could go on to the next—and hope that he was wrong.
He stepped around behind Francisco, took out the tape and quickly wound it around and around the man’s torso, taping him to the back of the chair.
FORTY-FIVE
What the hell are you doing now?” Francisco demanded.
“Did you kill Tim Bennett and the other posse members?”
Francisco looked stunned, obviously never expecting the question to come straight at him.
“You are crazy,” he said. “Why would I—”
“How’d you like to go back into the pool the way you are now, Francisco? Take another dunk.”
“You would not . . .” Francisco said, then stopped and eyed Jimmy intently. “I did not kill anyone. I am a pathetic, gambling hustler, yes, but not a killer. Go ahead—throw me in the water.”
“No,” Jimmy said, “no, we already did that. I’ve got something else in mind.”
He got behind Francisco’s chair and started pushing. Here came the part that cost him two thousand bucks.
“Where are we going now?” Francisco demanded. “Come on, my friend, do not get crazy. Yes, I can walk. Another bet I will not win.”
“This is worse, Francisco,” Jimmy said. “Murder is worse.”
Francisco scoffed. “But I did not— Why would you think—”
“We found cards in your room, Francisco, lots of decks. Funny thing, lots of the paint cards were gone.”
“But what are you saying now? Paint cards? I don’t know what you are saying.”
“And since when were you so fascinated by Pablo Picasso?” Jimmy asked, referring to the art books he’d seen in Francisco’s apartment. “Are you starting a library?”
“You are not making sense. Picasso, he is an artist. I appreciate true art.”
“You appreciate the Picasso flop, don’t you. What was it? Some sick bet you got lucky on? Or was it a sick beat?”
“You are a madman!”
Jimmy continued to push, past the pools now, farther back to where the sign marked shark reef was.
Francisco saw the sign and asked, “W-where are we going, my friend?”
“You’ll see.”
The Shark Reef was an aquarium, the kind where people could walk through glass tunnels and see the sharks and other fish swim around them. But Jimmy had the key to a door no one but employees normally had access to. A key and a spot . . .
He pushed Francisco behind some tropical trees. Then they reached a closed door that said: DANGER—DO NOT ENTER. Jimmy used the key to unlock it, and he pushed Francisco through.
“This is enough, Jimmy,” he said as they went down a tiny, damp, cavelike hall. “Enough is enough.”
“Don’t make me gag you again. Now, why did you kill those men, Francisco?”
“I did not—”
“Here we are,” Jimmy said, and stopped.
It was dark and quiet, except for the sound of trickling water. They were near a pool.
“This is where they feed the sharks, Francisco. They got twenty-foot great whites in there that get pretty hungry.” Actually, Jimmy didn’t know that there were no great whites in captivity, but then neither did Francisco.
“Jimmy, why are we here? You know it is against the law to be back here,” said Francisco nervously.
“Because,” Jimmy said, pushing Francisco to the edge of the water, “my friends here are going to help you tell the truth.”
“Your . . . friends?”
/> “The sharks.”
Jimmy pointed to the open end of the pool where three or four white dorsal fins swam ominously, sensing a feeding session.
“You . . . you wouldn’t.”
Jimmy shoved the chair so that the front wheels were over the edge. He held tightly to the handles.
“Murder, Francisco,” he said. “Tell me about murder.”
Francisco craned his neck to look back at Jimmy with pleading eyes.
“Jimmy, you would not. Come on, this is madness.”
Jimmy pushed a little more, holding the handles tightly and leaning back.
“Come on, Francisco. This chair is getting heavy. Tell me now or you’re going in.”
The shark fins started to cruise closer, feeling a late-night snack could be in the offing.
“Damn it, Jimmy. I am not a murderer,” Francisco said angrily. He began to jerk side to side, back and forth, trying to break the tape that held him.
Splash! Jimmy dropped the wheelchair and the bleeding Francisco into the pool. Francisco quickly began screaming.
“Have you lost your mind? Who is murdering who?”
“Shut up!”
Francisco dangled clumsily with his chair, up to his neck in deep water. Jimmy continued to grip the handles tightly, the huge shark fins getting closer and closer.
“Jimmy, my God. The sharks are coming. Pull me out now! I insist!”
“Not unless you admit it, you sick degenerate! Why’d you kill them, Francisco? Why’d you murder those kids? Don’t make me turn you into chum.”
Francisco was in a complete panic.
“Please. I did not. I did not!” He continued to kick and splash, the blood from his knee now gushing. A blue shark zeroed in on him. He had his target and was only seconds away when Francisco screamed out, “Okay, I did it! I murdered them. I am a killer. Now get me out of here.”
Jimmy quickly pulled him up. The fin just three feet away from them, brushed against the side wall. Francisco was in complete meltdown. Jimmy spun the chair around and grabbed Francisco by the throat.
“Talk!”
“One million dollars. That was the bet,” Francisco said in a deranged way.
“Keep talking.” Jimmy cut Francisco loose from the duct tape with a knife. Francisco dropped to the ground, exhausted.
“I thought you said the bet was a half a million,” Jimmy said.
“The wheelchair bet was half a million,” the man said. “The posse bet, that was a million.”
“What’d you do, Francisco?”
The drenched, maniacal man was now gasping. His eyes looked deranged. He looked up.
“The Great Francisco bet a million dollars that no posse member would make it to the final table.” Francisco spread his arms, looking proud of himself. “As you know, I won. The streak is broken.”
“That’s it? And you expect to collect your money?”
“Not yet, but soon. Dallas Jack always pays his debts,” Francisco said.
“You made that bet with Dallas Jack?”
“Of course,” Francisco said. “It was he who gave me the idea.”
“I see.”
“You see, my friend, Jack and I were sitting in the Sports Book one day, lamenting the state of the poker world today, thanks to those Internet idiots. He told me his Web site, once as popular as even Doyle Brunson’s, was suffering because of them. He told me he thought they were going to push old-timers like him and me out. That was when I got the idea for the bet. With this Bellagio tournament coming up I told Dallas Jack I thought he had a better chance of getting to the final table than any of those pendejos did. My friend Jack told me his day had passed and that the younger men would probably prevail, both at the tournament and Web site.” Francisco shook his head. “I did not like seeing my friend in such a state.”
“And the bet?”
“I told him I would bet him one million dollars that none of the posse members would make it to the final table. And more, I bet him a million dollars more that their Web site would be dead within a year.”
“Two million dollars total?”
“Yes. I have already earned half. And a year from now, I will have earned the other half, and the Great Francisco will be back.”
Jimmy stared at the man incredulously.
“You killed four men because of a bet?” he asked.
“It was not only to win,” Francisco explained. “They were ruining the game—they were driving my friend Dallas Jack away from the game. I did it for him and for all the other players”—he looked at Jimmy in a sick yet compassionate way—“like you, my friend.”
“Not for me,” Jimmy said. “You didn’t do this for me. And you didn’t do it for Jack. You’re taking his two million dollars.”
Francisco waved a hand. “Ah, that is only money,” he said. “It was a bet between friends. He will pay happily.”
“Will he?” Jimmy asked. “When he learns what you’ve done to win?”
“I explained that to you,” Francisco said. “I will explain it to him. He will understand. After all, a bet is a bet.” He said it as if it all made perfect sense.
Jimmy studied his old friend’s face. Was he that far gone? Had he lost his grip on reality so totally that he could justify four murders?
“Francisco,” Jimmy said, “you did a bad thing.”
“Oh no, Jimmy,” Francisco said. “It is a good thing for everyone.”
“Maybe you,” Jimmy said. “You were going to get two million dollars.”
“The losing streak is over!” Francisco announced. “That is what is important. I tell you”—he lowered his voice, as if they were coconspirators now—“I am even going to win my weight bet with Dallas Jack.”
“And the wheelchair bet? Was that with Jack, too?”
“No,” Francisco said, “that was with someone else, but it is not important. What is important is that you understand—”
At that point Detective Cooper, Vic Porcelli, and three cops entered the pool area unobserved by Francisco. They hung back, listening.
“Francisco,” Jimmy said, “you killed those men. You have to pay.”
“Pay?” Francisco’s voice rose. “Pay? I have been paying for years! Now it is time for Francisco to be paid!” He pounded his chest. “I earned the money!”
“By killing people?”
“And by doing it brilliantly. The police would never have caught me. It is only you, my equally brilliant friend, who has figured it out. But you are my friend, no? You would not turn on me. You could not.”
“Cuff him,” Cooper said then, “and take him in.”
“This is not right,” Francisco said, as the uniformed cops led him away.
“Wait a minute,” Jimmy called.
The two policemen turned, Francisco with them, to face Jimmy.
“What about the cards, Francisco? The Picasso flop? What was that about?”
“Picasso is my favorite painter,” Francisco said. “Every painting of his was a work of art.” He shrugged. “My murders? Also works of art.”
Francisco looked at the black detective and shrugged again.
“Take him away,” Cooper said in disgust.
As they walked Francisco down the hall he shouted over his shoulder, “Jimmy, my friend, I will bet you a million dollars I am not convicted!”
FORTY-SIX
Tomorrow, when they heard what the murders were about the whole poker world would go into shock. But in a bizarre way they would understand it. Out here, it was win at all costs. In some sick way, the hustlers, gamblers, the action guys actually admired it. In poker it was kill or be killed. This just took it to a different level.
Cooper had told Jimmy there was no complicity on the part of Dallas Jack. Jimmy was glad. He would have hated to be the one to tell Sabine that Jack was being arrested and that he had had something to do with it. Cooper also told him the murder charges against Lenny Krieger would be dropped. He’d be hit with lesser charges, but they’d try to g
et him some help for his steroid problems.
When Jimmy came back through the lobby at Bellagio nothing seemed to have changed. It still felt as if he had entered a giant pinball machine. People scurried about, totally oblivious to what he had been through. He noticed a commotion as he walked past the lobby bar. There was a pack of poker players and fans celebrating with their new WPT champion, Scooter and his dummy, Skippy. He had upset Gus Hansen to take the title. This was good for the game. This colorful duo had already established their groupies. At least five people were hanging around, holding dummies in their laps. The power of television.
He saw Kat coming toward him with a worried look on her face.
“Dude,” she said, “I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you. What’s goin’ on?”
“Nothing, Kat,” he answered. “It’s all over.” Quickly he told her that Francisco was the murderer and that he was in police custody. He didn’t tell her about almost drowning the man twice to get him to confess. He found that he wasn’t particularly pleased with or proud of those actions.
“Wow,” she said, “I’m glad that’s over.”
“Yep,” Jimmy said, “no more murders.”
“You heard the puppet guy won?”
“Dummy.”
“What?”
“He’s a dummy.”
“Well, maybe he is, but he won.”
“No, I mean the puppet—” He stopped short. “Never mind. I think it’s time for us to check out and get back home.”
“Dude,” she said, “we gotta celebrate. We both made some money— You made a bundle! Can’t we stay one more day? It is my first time in Vegas, ya know.”
She had done really well for her first time in with the big dogs.
“Okay,” he said, “one more day, and then we head home.”
“Okay, dude, but remember one thing,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
He hated that slogan.
Jimmy walked briskly through the casino, trying to avoid being noticed. He wanted nothing more than to go to his room. Exhausted, yet still wired, Jimmy knew it was finally over. He knew he should be proud: he had come out here and beat out more than three hundred players to make a true statement on the international poker circuit. He helped Kat play her best game yet. He even got to solve a few murders. Murders that were unsolvable unless you had the mind of a great poker player. Maybe that’s what was bugging him. He was good, possibly too good at being a detective. His dad would have been proud, and that started to scare him. God forbid that this was really his destiny. Talent should not be thrown away like that, and he knew it. He was in trouble. When was he going to get the chance to check raise Gus Hansen again? Who was going to bluff Mike “the Grinder” Mizrachi for all the chips and then casually flash the audience as they screamed and hollered? No, poker was his life now, and it was his turn to shine. With the WPT tour giving millions away each year, this would be a tough lay down. Because if you really thought about it, there were only two words that meant something in the world of poker—“all in.”
The Picasso Flop Page 22
