Wild Card

by Alan Lee

  The buzzer sounded as the Englishman left.

  Manny fought desperately to get command over his functions but the jolt repeated.

  He stuttered through every curse word he knew in English and Spanish, pausing while his back arched against his will. Soon it would stop his heart.

  That British bastard wouldn’t be the end of him. No way, not a Brit. Not like this. At last his fingers obeyed, a little, jerking motions curling under the band…

  No use. Another blast of energy. The ceiling dimmed and came back. Joints aching, teeth grinding.

  He lost count at the eighth iteration. Acutely aware he neared loss of bladder control, his scorched skin beginning to smell.

  25

  Rocky arrived at the second floor lounge bearing two virgin pear cocktails. He presented one to Beck, who took it without comment.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “About your illegal and violent poker game?”

  A cagey grin. “About us.”

  Beck, despite the tension in her shoulders and the stress headache rumbling behind her eyes, laughed. “You’re surprising, I’ll give you that.”

  “Is tax evasion enough to prevent a second date? I thought our first was magnificent.”

  “Tax evasion.” She snorted as ladylike as she could manage. “You’re into a lot more than that, Rocky.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  She held out her hand to the lavish warehouse casino, like, This!

  “What part of this do you object to? Other than tax evasion. There’s no violence. No prostitution. There’s—”

  “Illegal narcotics.”

  “I don’t partake. Don’t judge me for those who do,” said Rocky.

  “You provide them.”

  “Nature provides them. I simply bring them here. Actually, not even me, really. Others handle that. Not my purview. We should discuss this later. Over dinner. A second date.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “You know why,” said Beck.

  “The Mormon thing? Whatever happened to missionary dating? You could save me. I’m willing.”

  “There might not be enough grace in the world. And why me, anyway? You live in another world with access to anything. The women in here are—”

  “Are fake and plastic. It’s easy to spot something genuine in a world of copycat illusion.”

  Beck had no immediate response. She sipped the mocktail.

  “Besides,” he said. “Do you know how hard it is to find an engaging companion who doesn’t get drunk?”

  “In fact I do.”

  “You see.”

  Beck had been half listening to Manny through her earpiece; she’d surreptitiously lowered the volume when they began firing their pistols. Stupid boys. Rocky paused for a drink of his pear punch and the device in her ear sizzled and went dead.

  Silence from Manny.

  Oh no…

  She stood and said, “Excuse me. I need to check on our poker champion.”

  “Of course. Advise him to hurry. The game resumes in six minutes.”

  The players were returning. The Prince came to the table, swirling a drink.

  She hurried down the staircase to the basement and located the shooting range. She hauled opened the heavy doors and gasped.

  “Oh cripes, Sinatra!” Beck rushed in and knelt at his side. Manny was wincing and twitching on the floor. “What’s wrong? Are you injured? What’s the…” She noticed the arm band and yanked it off. The device landed in the corner. The buzzer sounded and the two metal prongs issued an arc of crackling blue.

  “Th-th-thanks, B-Beck,” he chattered. “J-just in time.”

  She grabbed his arm and examined the burn. “What happened? Who put that on you?”

  “I p-p-put it on.”

  “Of course you did. You went into a cave with professional assassins and they talked you into wearing an electroshock device. Makes perfect sense, you idiot.”

  “How’d you know to l-look for me?”

  “Your earpiece. A malfunction, much like your power of reasoning.”

  Manny sat up with a groan. “I won, though. The shooting competition.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “He cheated.”

  “You’re kidding. The mob hitman didn’t play fair?”

  “Has the poker tournament started again?” he asked.

  “Very soon.”

  “Help me up. We have to protect Benjamin Curtis.”

  “The governor is very well protected at the moment. The Kings aren’t letting him get away.”

  It took Manny three times to stand because his legs kept giving out. He leaned against the wall and wiped sweat from his face, and then switched off the shooting program. Glared hatefully at the arm band in the corner.

  Beck felt like the world was tilting sideways. Like she couldn’t get her bearing and nothing made sense. “Sinatra, this is crazy. But I’m not sure what else to do. They threatened our families if we call in a raid. If we try to sneak the governor out, the Kings will kill him. I can’t believe this, but I think our best bet is to stay the course and you win the tournament.”

  Manny nodded. At the corner bar, he poured a splash of scotch into a glass and threw it back. Poured another. Held it in his fist. He took a few deep breaths and regained control over his body while Beck talked about breaking protocol and getting fired or shipped to Antarctica or worse Hawaii because she burned easily and she blamed herself for this disaster but no she blamed Manny because his ideas never worked.

  The heavy doors leading into the shooting range opened and closed. A towering member of Black Jacket stood there. His arms tattooed and his hair buzzed and a scar began at his chin and went under his jaw. Like the others, he wore a ballistic vest. His thick hand rested on his sidearm. Beck thought he smelled like gun oil and steroids.

  “Game starting,” he said.

  “Yes. We’re on the way now, thank you,” Beck replied.

  “Everything okay?”

  Manny didn’t respond. The hairs on his neck were raising.

  Black Jacket said, “Something happen in here? You two alone?”

  Beck found out later what tipped Manny off—the Black Jacket guard had subtly placed his foot on top of Manny’s pistol, still on the floor where he’d dropped it. Men like him would never step on another man’s gun unless…

  Manny hurled the highball glass in his fist like a shortstop, a snap throw catching the Black Jacket guy off guard. A hard crash against the man’s forehead, a shatter of scotch. He staggered backwards and pulled at his pistol but Manny got there.

  The Black Jacket guard was dangerous, Beck knew, but Sinatra was lethal. She’d never seen him in a fight like this and the sight startled her; he was fury uncoiled. The guard was taller and better equipped and heavier by far, but Manny overwhelmed him.

  Manny pushed the guy’s gun hand straight up and delivered a punishing staccato of jabs into his teeth and nose. A savage elbow to the throat, and they wrestled for the gun. The weapon fired three times and tore loose and flew into the range.

  A desperate wrestling match. The bigger man outclassed but not dropping. Manny evading big punches and grabs, responding with short lefts and a hard right, hammering the man’s nose and teeth and throat. Cartilage breaking, blood spattering.

  The big guy was a war machine, refusing to go down, soaking punishment. He landed a sideways swipe, throwing Manny into the controls of the firing range.

  Manny pressing a button and the system activated.

  “Enough of this shit,” growled the Black Jacket and he reached for his secondary pistol, strapped to his left thigh. He still stood between Manny and his Glock.

  Manny leaping and sliding into the corner; he grabbed something Beck couldn’t see and popped up. A buzzer sounded and lights flashed inside the firing range.

  Black Jacket swung the pistol around but Manny moved like a nightmare, too fast. He shoved a black device
into the man’s mouth just as it delivered an electrical payload. The metal prongs of Manny’s armband connected with his tongue and the guy screamed.

  Black Jacket spasmed and dropped, a slow fall like a tree. Manny plucked the pistol out of the guy’s hand as he did. Manny turned off the range’s controls and shot the man in the head.

  Beck winced at the loud blast from her position next to the bar. She looked at Black Jacket with disgust, and at Manny with renewed awe. The echoes of the fight faded.

  “Sinatra! You can’t shoot a man who’s lying on the floor unconscious!”

  “Better now than a few minutes from now.” He was panting and he took a hand towel from the bar to wipe his forehead. “What’re you gonna do with that?” He indicated the glass liquor bottle Beck held.

  Her hands shook a little. She’d never witnessed an execution. “I-I was going to hit him with it. In the head.”

  “Where’s your gun?”

  “I left it upstairs. Sorry.”

  “Ay dios mio, Beck.”

  “I said I was sorry. I thought Black Jacket was here to protect the players.”

  Manny slid the pistol under his belt at the small of his back. Retrieved his fallen Glock with a grunt—his sore ribs hurt worse now. “Black Jacket is serving more than one master. Or at least this guy was.”

  Beck nodded at the corpse on the floor. “Someone hired him to kill us?”

  “Gotta be, the pendejo.”

  “The Englishman, you think?”

  “No. He had a chance. Didn’t take it. Someone else. Your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, and I doubt it. Rocky knew I was coming to check on you and I don’t get the feeling he wants me dead.”

  “You get a private moment with him, tell him what happened down here. Gauge his reaction. Someone’s trying to kill us. Maybe Rocky knows who.” He took his jacket from the wall hook. “Let’s go. I have a poker tournament to win.”

  “What will you do about Oliver Wright?”

  Manny shrugged and examined himself in the door’s reflection. “We’re even. I do nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Act like nothing happened. That’s what men do.”

  “Men who are idiots.”

  “Men with honor. But maybe the same thing.”

  26

  Manny emerged from the underground lair as polite applause sounded in the upper levels. The enormous Japanese pro, Hinata, had busted to Phil Ivey and the onlookers cheered.

  Manny crossed the bridge and the small circulating sharks and he paused next to Frank the Tank, the Black Jacket guard he knew. The players and the audience were still focused on Hinata and Phil Ivey shaking hands.

  Manny said, “You got a man dead in the basement.”

  “The hell you talking about, Sinatra,” said Frank the Tank. Both men kept their eyes forward.

  “You send a man to ace me, Frank?”

  “Not my style. You should know.”

  In his periphery, Manny noted Frank casually taking inventory of his crew. Looking for the missing member, someone out of position. Hinata the giant poker pro was slowly lumbering away from the table.

  “Your team is compromised, amigo.”

  “Not me,” said Frank. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll kill you. And I’ll smile doing it. But only professionally.”

  “Gracias, good to know.”

  Frank’s eyes fixated on an empty corner of the third floor. “Guy dead in the basement, you say. Beefy with tattoos? Buzzcut?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.” Manny left him, walking for the table and taking his seat. Hoping none of the other Black Jackets were compromised.

  Seven players remained…

  Manny.

  Phil Ivey, the best player in the world.

  Jen Harmon, blonde poker professional.

  Oliver Wright, English twat.

  The Prince, Italian mercenary.

  Louis, French Butcher.

  Rich Guy, Manny couldn’t remember his name.

  Oliver Wright made a slight bow to Manny before returning to his chair. “Good to see you, ol’ boy. I worried you might not make it. You’re feeling well, I hope.”

  Manny’s mint julep still had ice and he took a drink. “I feel like twenty-seven million, Ollie.”

  “Ollie.” The Prince chuckled, casually stacking his poker chips. “I like it. Sinatra, you have blood on your shirt, my friend.”

  “Yes, I noticed that. Didn’t shoot yourself, did you?” said Oliver Wright.

  “The blood isn’t mine.”

  The Englishman’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? More trouble for the wallet salesman?”

  “Of all the problems I’m handling at the moment, Ollie, you are the least worrisome.”

  Play resumed. Manny scrutinized the statistics and found himself middle of the pack, ahead of the Rich Guy (ah-hah, the screen said his name was Melvin) and the Prince.

  The players dug themselves in, betting aggressively and clearly picking on Manny and Melvin, the two weakest. Somehow the professionals knew, they knew, when the lesser players could be pushed around. They understood when to express strength and when to back down, surrendering very little of their stack. Manny marveled at the skill and intuition involved in such a simple game. He retained no illusions about his place at the table—he remained only because of his patience and small bursts of luck.

  An hour later, he fell backwards into a full house and took a decent pot off Louis the butcher. The dealer pushed a pile of colorful chips his way, a sight he was growing to cherish above all else.

  The Frenchman pulled a knife from his pocket. A cord grip Gil Hibben—a throwing knife. He twirled it effortlessly between his fingers. “Ah yes. The Argentinian wins. The lover of the United States gets richer, no? Good. Good for you. Making America great again?”

  “America doesn’t need the help, amigo.”

  “Of course, sir. America leads the world in many important categories. Obesity, for example,” said Oliver Wright.

  Manny ground his teeth and said nothing.

  “Yes, it is true,” said the Frenchman. Yez, iz troo. With distaste, Jen Harmon watched him spin the throwing knife. He said, “Also, personal debt, no? Bullshit Americans and their credit cards. Brûle en enfer.”

  “Ah, but the women,” said the Prince. “The women are worth it all. I would kill a million men for a night with certain Americans. So perfect.”

  “And the jails, I believe,” said Oliver Wright. “More men in prison than any other country. The jails, they must be lovely. Right, Sinatra?”

  Like a European bloc, trying to goad him. And it was working, triggering his anger, his dignity, and he played poorly for half an hour, losing money when he shouldn’t. He needed Beck’s soothing voice of reason in his ear, but their method of communication had been fried.

  Eventually Jen Harmon nudged his elbow with a smile. “Relax, Sinatra. They’re getting under your skin. Win the game and you get the last laugh.”

  Manny winked at her. “If I don’t, you need to, mi amor. An American should, my opinion.”

  Harmon turned a little red. “I’m not sure I want to win and anger all these assassins.”

  “Don’t worry. They aren’t good.” Manny stood and went to the bar as the Italian Prince laughed.

  The bar tender asked, “Something American?”

  “Sí. A water. I need to think clearly.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Rocky Rickard appeared half an hour later, circling the table and speaking into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re down to seven players. As is our custom in recent years, the final five will board the yacht to finish the game.” Rocky turned and indicated the massive boat bobbing in the far corner. Manny didn’t know a lot about yachts but he guessed it cost fifty million minimum. “We’ll take as many spectators as possible, so register now. Good luck to our remaining players.”

  This was new in
formation to Manny. He and Oliver Wright shared a knowing look. The yacht was essential to the Englishman’s plans. Snatching the governor would be far easier on the open water. Manny would bet any amount of money the man had an escape boat waiting.

  Manny leaned back in his chair to get a view of Beck. Her jaw was set forward in concentration and she nodded at him. Next to her, Benjamin Curtis’s head was in his hands. Next to him, Varvara looked impossibly beautiful and bored and a little drunk.

  Winning the tournament, or getting second place, would force the Kings to back down. But dealing with the Englishman, for whom he had a mounting respect, was growing trickier.

  “Tell me, Green Card,” said Louis the butcher, knife twirling in his fingers. “What do you think of the pig in the White House?”

  “I think a Frenchman should tread lightly insulting any man or woman in the White House.”

  “Do Green Cards get to vote? Did you vote for the pig?”

  Zee peeg?

  “I don’t vote. And I don’t care who wins.”

  “Either that’s not true, sir, or you are more stupid than you appear,” said Oliver Wright.

  “Called loyalty. Whoever wins, that’s my president. And I serve without complaining. We don’t fawn over mascots, like your royal family. Those in office get there by hard work and the will of the people. They aren’t born lucky.”

  A rush of blood gave Oliver Wright a pink patina. “Mascots.”

  “Mascots. Good for nothing except waving to crowds. Should put them in puppet suits.”

  “I will soon tire of your insolent mouth, Sinatra, and your ignorant opinions.”

  “Aye caramba, Englishman, I’m just getting started."

  “You insult the Queen and honor America’s history of buffoons in the White House?”

  “It is not the man or woman in the office I honor. It’s the office itself.”

  “But the crown—”

  “The crown. Bah. Powerful people giving themselves crowns centuries ago and pretending they’re special. America kicked your ass in the 1700s and then the American victors gave away their power, setting their crown on the people instead of a person. In a fallen and broken world, amigo, the White House is the peak of what mankind can achieve. The pinnacle of our planet.”