by Cassie Cole
Go backstage. Curtain underneath stage right.
I obeyed, following the wall of the casino as the sound of Xander’s voice and guitar rose in volume. He really did sound better since he’d begun doing the voice exercises. I made a mental note to tell him so later.
If there is a later.
Stage right meant the left side of the stage from the audience’s perspective, so I hugged the wall until I reached the curtain there. A security guard—the standard kind, like what Eddie used to be—blocked the way but gestured for me to go ahead. I ducked under the stage and came out backstage where the music was more bass and less treble.
I flinched as I came face to face with a familiar object. A hand cart with two crates stacked on top. A white sheet was folded on top, not yet covering it.
The fake cart. The one that would be swapped with the real thing. It was right next to the door to the special hallway, ready to go.
This is really happening. Almost everything was in place for our heist. Almost everything.
A guy in a wheelchair rolled up to me. “Sage?”
“Yeah?” I whirled, pretending like I hadn’t been looking at the crates.
He handed me another envelope. “From the boss.”
“Thanks,” I said. He lingered, eying me up and down. “What?”
“You’re not what I expected.”
I gave a start. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The way Xander talks about you, a big up-and-coming singer with more talent than Jesus, I thought you’d look a little more confident.”
I stiffened. “I’m plenty confident.”
“If you say so.”
I waited until he wheeled back over to his station before turning toward the stage. I’d watched bits of Xander’s show a few dozen times but it was neat seeing it from back here. He sat on his stool with the guitar across his lap, and the crowd beyond was huge. Bigger than any crowd I’d sung for. I closed my eyes and imagined that I was on the stage before them, carrying the microphone stand back and forth while I sung at the top of my lungs.
It was a quick reminder of what I wanted. My goal. The reason all of this was important.
The way Xander talks about you. I liked that he talked about me at all, let alone that he said I had more talent than Jesus. It filled me with warmth as I left the way I’d come, sticking my ear piece back in and putting on my ring before emerging from the curtain.
“Hello?” I said into my hand.
“There you are,” Bryce said. I waited for the scolding, for him to berate me for forgetting my ear piece like an idiot. “You did the right thing buying time. I’m impressed you held out for two hours.”
“Thanks,” I said as I walked back. “But we’re in a hole now.”
“True, especially since Ellersby is up to $105,000. But I think I’ve got her beat. You ready to get to work?”
“You know it.”
He went through what he thought the opponents’ tells were as I returned to the poker room, and their separate strategies. I nodded along, grateful to have him back in my ear.
When I sat back down at the table I felt like a new woman.
For the next hour, everything was different. Bryce had me bluff with weak hands, and since I’d played so conservatively to start it actually worked. Soon we were buying the pot several hands in a row, everyone else too cautious—and shocked—to try to mount an opposition.
I hit a full house sometime later, Nines over Sixes. That took a huge bite out of Chubby’s stack and raised me back up above my starting amount. A dozen hands later I nailed a flush on the flop, and with Bryce’s help slow playing the hand I was able to squeeze as much out of the other players are possible.
Skinny was eliminated when his pair of Kings lost to Conductor Hat’s straight. Chubby lost a big hand and was down below $10,000, barely hanging on. Football Player was good at poker but didn’t have much luck with deals tonight.
Soon it became apparent it would come down to Conductor Hat and me. “She’s itching to throw her weight around,” Bryce told me. “When she does, we’ll be ready to strike.”
I smiled at the other woman while we played the hidden mind game underneath the cards.
40
Eddie
Listening to Bryce and Sage in my ear piece was fascinating. The way they strategized over their wagers, not just calling and raising bets based on their own hand but based on what information they wanted to coax out of their opponents. “Call if you have anything good—I want to see if she has anything,” Bryce would say. And once he had the information he would say, “Good, now we know in case she tries that again.”
I’d played poker before, but this was another layer to the game I’d never imagined.
And it worked. Slowly but surely Sage was crawling back into the game. It reminded me of a guerrilla warrior fighting hard for every inch, never relenting against their opponent. Sage leaped into third place, then second. Soon she and the leader were tied.
The crowd went nuts for it. Everyone loved an underdog, and Sage’s turnaround was the perfect Cinderella story. A small mid-major school upsetting Duke in college basketball. An hour ago Sage barely looked like she knew what she was doing, but now she was dominating the table.
At 7:15, right when I was beginning to wonder if four drops of ethylene glycol wasn’t enough, Rob excused himself to take a break. I noted the time on my watch and tried not to count down the minutes he was gone.
I did anyway. Four minutes passed, then five. Then 10.
When 15 minutes had passed I pulled out my walkie talkie. “Hey Rob, how you doing?”
His response came back immediately. “Fine! I’m totally fine—” The last word was more of a groan before cutting off.
Jackpot.
“Take your time, buddy,” I said. “Nothing going on up here.”
It was 7:32. The money usually arrived sometime after 8:00. We had half an hour before I needed to make my move. I had to time that perfectly or it wouldn’t work.
An excited buzz went through the crowd. Down on the poker floor Sage was pushing her chips forward. All of her chips.
She was going all in against her opponent.
The big screen across the room switched to her table but I didn’t look. I couldn’t even hear the announcer’s excited flurry of words as he explained what was happening. All I could do was stare at Sage. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she stood and put her hands on her hips, nervously shifting her weight from one leg to the other. The emerald pendant Bryce had given her was nestled perfectly between her breasts.
My partner. My lover. My… I don’t know what. I wanted her to win for the big obvious reason: it was critical to our plan that she reach the final table. But I also wanted her to win because deep down, I wanted her to be happy. She deserved to win things like this, to have a few moments of excited jubilation. She hadn’t had enough wins in life.
I certainly knew how that went.
The result was obvious from their body language. The opponent woman slumped. Sage jumped off the ground. The crowd simultaneously groaned and cheered and laughed.
“YES!” I shouted, pumping my fist hard enough to knock someone unconscious. A woman to my left glanced over at me. I straightened my jacket and adjusted my tie.
“Yes,” I said in a calmer, quieter tone.
“That’s it,” Bryce said in my ear. “We’re being called up to the major league.”
I grinned down at Sage while people clapped and congratulated her.
41
Sage
Everything was sort of a blur once I saw the river come out. My three Fives beat her three Twos. It was over.
I’d won.
“Congratulations,” Conductor Hat said, reaching across the table to shake my hand. “Well played.”
“You too,” I said.
The others were all there shaking my hand too: Chubby, Skinny, and Football Player. They had a shocked look in their eyes, like soldiers walking
away from the front line after too long awake. Shell shocked. Like they didn’t know what had hit them.
I’m what hit them.
The crowd cheered for a few seconds and then everything began dying down. The announcer and the main television screen switched over to table six, which was the only other one still playing. I didn’t see Yegorovich anywhere, but we still had time until the money arrival.
“Right this way,” the tournament hander said as he took me by the arm. “You don’t need a break, right?”
“Umm, I guess not.”
“We have a camera crew up here ready to do an interview,” he said.
“Interview?”
“Of course. Makes for good TV. Who you are, how’d you get here. That sort of thing.”
“I don’t know if I want to do an interview…”
“Just be yourself. Answer the questions honestly. You’ll be fine.”
We climbed the handful of steps onto the raised dais which held the final table. The lights seemed twice as bright here, the green fabric of the poker table especially vibrant. Two other players were here, standing in opposite corners with bottles of water. Yegorovich wasn’t here yet.
“Here she is,” the handler said to a man with a camera on his shoulder. “How’s the lighting? Good? And the glare? Perfect. Ready in three, two, one…”
He turned to me.
“Sage Parker. You’ve made it to the final table of the inaugural Volga Diamond Poker Classic. Did you ever imagine you’d make it this far?”
“Lie to them,” Bryce hastily said. “Act cocky. Arrogant.”
If Bryce could see me that meant the interview was live on the internet. I tried not to think about that and gave the man a big smile.
“Umm, absolutely,” I said. “I’ve been, you know, practicing, so I expected to do well here.”
“Sure, everyone hopes to do well, but the final table? Could you honestly imagine yourself here?”
I gestured. “Well I’m here, aren’t I? So I guess my expectations were right. Now I just need to win.”
The interview lasted no more than two minutes, but it felt like 20. After that a drink girl came over to take my order. I asked for a bottle of water and wished I had a tip to give her.
“Okay everyone, let’s get ready,” the handler said. “We’re on in 60 seconds.”
I sat where they told me to, down at the far left side of the table. Three of my opponents sat down, and then the fourth who had won over at table six. The seat on the far right, directly across from me, was still empty.
I glanced at my opponents. There was no point in thinking much about them. Now that I was here I had one goal: distract the man who was coming out of the curtain.
“And here’s our host,” the announcer said on the speakers, “Vladimir Yegorovich!”
He smiled at the applause and patted the air as he took his seat at the table. Chips were divided out among everyone. And then, with more music and some flashing lights, the final table of the Volga Diamond Poker Classic began.
“You’ve got this,” Bryce said.
Yegorovich was like the host of a dinner party. He shook the dealer’s hand even though players weren’t supposed to touch him, and asked how long he had worked here. He waved and complimented the guards around us—special guards like Eddie wearing dark suits and with grim, focused expressions.
“With $1.2 million dollars on the line, these six players have their work cut out for them!” the announcer was saying. “Who will take home the prize?”
I looked at my chips. Everyone began with $200,000 now.
Holy moly.
Yegorovich chatted with the other players while the dealer shuffled the cards. An African American man next to him wearing a designer T-shirt, which Yegorovich claimed would look right at home in Saint Petersburg. Yegorovich then complimented the next player on his baseball cap, asking if the B was for Boston or Brooklyn. He went around the table like that making chit chat, friendly and smiling. It was easy to forget he was a ruthless mafia boss responsible for killing innocent journalists.
“Listen carefully,” Bryce said. “I’m leaving soon, but you won’t need me. Remember: all you have to do is keep Yegorovich at the table. But that doesn’t just mean taunting him or whatever when he’s about to leave to check on the money. You need to build up to that. Get under his skin as soon as possible.”
I hoped I could do that.
The first hand was dealt out. I had a King and a Ten, but I folded after the flop showed me nothing good. The antes here started at $5,000, another number that made my eyes bulge. Last night I’d almost had a heart attack losing $10,000 of Bryce’s personal money in online poker, and here I was wagering half that just to play each hand.
Yegorovich chatted and complimented his way around the table and finally reached me at the end. His gaze was impossible to ignore. He had dead grey eyes, which were simultaneously lazy and intense. They were completely unnerving, and I was unable to match his gaze while he examined me. I wondered what he would say to me. What small talk he would try.
“I recognize you,” he said in his thick accent.
A spike of ice stabbed me in the chest. “I have one of those faces.”
“I am good with faces,” he said, cocking his head. “You were in the kitchen. Yes. A waitress.”
I tossed in my ante for the next hand. “I was a waitress here, yep.”
“But no longer?”
I put on my sweetest smile. “The boss didn’t pay us enough.”
Some of the other players chuckled… And a loud laugh went up from the crowd. Did that mean the table was mic’d up? I tried not to think about all the eyes and ears on us right now.
Yegorovich’s smile wavered, but only for an instant. He laughed and said, “Winning this will be quite the raise then, yes?”
“It sure will be.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as he turned his attention elsewhere.
42
Eddie
I don’t know how she does it.
Sage was at the final table of a huge Las Vegas poker tournament, lights and cameras on her. As if that wasn’t enough, she was sitting across from Vladimir Yegorovich. The owner of the casino. One of Putin’s oligarch cronies.
And our target.
I’d seen perps sweat under pressure. Time did that to a person. That was the key to a good interrogation: let the person stew for a while. Alone in their thoughts. A person’s imagination could think of far worse interrogation techniques than what we actually did. If you let them stew long enough their brains would do your job for you.
Sage should be trembling with fear. It was human nature, especially if you weren’t accustomed to a situation. It wasn’t something you could overcome with willpower—sweating, trembling, getting cotton mouth. All of those were physical ticks. Yet Sage sat there, arms on the table, grinning like she knew a secret nobody else did.
Which, I supposed, was sort of the truth.
I glanced at my watch: 8:00 on the nose. Rob still wasn’t back, and it was time to get going. I hoped my timing would work out.
I left the poker room and walked into the casino floor where the smell of cigarette smoke and beer was strong. We had a private bathroom in the security lounge, but I’d bet dollars to donuts Rob never made it that far.
I walked into the nearest bathroom and ducked down to look under the stalls. Someone was on their knees in the last stall, and it wasn’t to give a blowjob.
I knocked gently. “Rob? That you?”
The door latch clicked and then it swung open. Rob was hugging the toilet, face red and sweaty. His jacket and under shirt were so wet it looked like he’d jumped in a pool.
He spoke in short spurts. “Ed. Thank. God. I feel. Like I’m dying. Like. I swallowed. Razor blades. Cutting up. My insides.”
Shit. I felt awfully guilty knowing he was in agony right now, but at least it was superficial pain. He’d be just fine by the end of the night.
I crouch
ed down and patted him on the back. “It’s alright, buddy. You need anything? Want me to get some help?”
“I… I don’t know,” he said. He didn’t want me to get help because the boss might think he was drunk. He didn’t want to get in trouble.
“Here, let’s try to get you on your feet.” I helped him up, using the physical contact to cover how I twisted the knob on his walkie talkie to turn it off.
“Shit, Rob. You do look awful.”
As soon as I let go he folded back down onto the toilet and dry heaved. I winced again.
“You stay right here, buddy. I’ll get some pepto.”
He mumbled something in the affirmative.
A casino patron was washing his hands as I left. “Don’t eat at the Kiev buffet,” I said.
Back out into the casino I went. It was 8:05. Before I reached the security lounge my walkie talkie squawked: “O’Porter. Rob O’Porter. We need you in the office for your task.”
Whew. Perfect timing.
I went through the security lounge and then deeper into the bowels of the casino, weaving down dark hallways until I reached the boss’s office. The head of security was there with his assistant, holding their walkie talkies with a less-than-pleased look on their faces. The security head went by the name Martin, but I was fairly certain his real name was much longer. His accent was thick as he turned to me.
“You are O’Porter’s partner, yes? Have you been seeing him lately?”
I spread my hands. “I was just looking for him, boss. I assumed he was back here.”
Martin clenched his jaw. “O’Porter. Report in, please.”
I said a silent prayer that Rob didn’t turn his walkie talkie back on.
Martin cursed in Russian. Then he asked his assistant, “Is Kristof working?”
“He worked the morning shift. I can call him back in if you want…”
