by Alan Lee
Manny leaned forward to inspect the rotating images of Benjamin Curtis more closely. Photographs from Time Magazine, People, the Washington Post, and USA Today.
“Trouble, however, is brewing,” said Weaver. “Benjamin Curtis has begun spending a considerable amount of time playing poker at the MGM casino in Maryland’s National Harbor. It’s unwise but not illegal for a politician.”
“Is he winning?” asked Manny.
“He is. A lot. And that’s strange because he’s not a good player. We know he’s winning because the FBI has a source inside the casino, and we know he’s bad because Mr. Curtis also plays poker online during his off nights—his losses on the poker website are staggering. He thinks he’s playing incognito on the website but we tagged him. Anyone can observe the game. I had an expert inside our Criminal Enterprise group analyze the game several nights in a row, and Benjamin Curtis has bad instincts and bad math. During the past thirty days, he’s lost over two hundred grand.”
Beck whistled and Manny nodded with appreciation. He admired a determined man.
“Do his wins at the MGM casino make up for the online losses?”
“They do, but not by much. His gambling could sink his career, but that’s not our concern. Two things worry us.”
“He must be cheating at the casino” said Beck. “That’s the first thing.”
“Correct. From what I’ve been told, he’s not savvy enough interpersonally to overcome his deficiency in game theory. We don’t know conclusively that he’s cheating, but that’s the most plausible scenario. Suddenly he’s not a politician with bad judgment, he’s an inchoate criminal. And secondly, we recently discovered the governor has cleared three days in his schedule, beginning tomorrow evening. Our source at the MGM informed me there’s a high stakes Texas Hold’em poker tournament being played this weekend. That’s where he’ll be.”
Manny’s expression was hard, glaring at the screen, wondering at the definition of inchoate.
“I’m surprised this meets JFIC’s criteria,” said Beck.
“Normally it wouldn’t. We let politicians get away with worse. But arresting the governor and brother of the VP could have a destabilizing effect we tend to avoid. This family has rabid partisan support. Plus, my instincts tell me this might be worse than it appears on the surface. Our job is to protect the realm and quietly bring down high profile criminals. Therefore I have reserved you a room at the MGM. You two discover how murky the water is Governor Curtis is wading into. If it’s simply bad judgment, we warn him quietly and get out. If it’s worse, JFIC’s supervisory board will make some hard decisions—you could potentially be arresting him later this weekend.”
“If he’s guilty of defacing our great nation, it’d be an honor,” said Manny. “The easiest way to get what we need is to befriend him at the poker table.”
“I agree,” said Weaver. “I have aliases for you both, along with a sizable bankroll. Sit next to him, play poker, earn his trust, and keep your eyes peeled.”
“Easy,” said Manny. “Beck, you play cards?”
“Texas Hold’em? Sure. I played for pennies with my college roommates. And I played online when no one was looking, five dollars at a time. If my church found out, they might have me excommunicated.”
“Perfecto. Teach me how.”
“You don’t play? You’re kidding.”
“Never have. Can’t be that hard.” He closed his eyes and leaned back to ease the pressure on his abdomen. “I used to shoot street dice. It’s like that?”
“Miss Beck, you better begin the lessons immediately.”
“Yes ma’am. Also, did you say you booked us a room? Singular?”
“The MGM is slammed. Only one vacancy. Shouldn’t be a problem; you’re professionals,” said Weaver.
3
The National Harbor is a playground for those who want a quiet spot just outside Washington D.C. A small city existing to attract the affluent and remove them from their money. All major construction is new and gleaming and without soul, the transient denizens staying only days at a time.
Maryland legalized poker rooms in 2012 and casinos bloomed immediately. The MGM at the National Harbor opened in 2016, a grandiose and shining beacon for the gamblers and degenerates in Washington, less than ten miles distant. The MGM is long and flat, constructed with white marble to evoke comparisons to the architecture within D.C. Flat except for the guest quarters; three hundred rooms housed inside a crystal shard twenty-five stories tall.
Watching the approaching resort through her window, Beck noted, “Somehow the MGM is classier than I envision Las Vegas. It’s a casino, but for dignitaries. Is that it?”
“Not much dignified about going broke,” said Manny.
The Tesla waited in line at the entrance as cars ejected their passengers. As other vehicles departed, it pulsed forward nearer the door.
“Spooky,” said Manny, watching the autonomous steering wheel. “Car smarter than most people.”
“I bet this car uses advanced Lidar systems and sensors. But patiently waiting in line indicates an intelligence beyond what modern processors can handle. During more delicate operations like this passenger queue, I imagine Weaver has a technician guiding it remotely.”
“Whatever you say, Beck. American exceptionalism at its finest.”
They got out at the door, feeling awkward without luggage. A man waited for them inside the towering lobby; Manny pegged him as a government agent immediately because his suit wasn’t good enough. He handed them each a duffle bag and walked away without comment—their aliases. Manny withdrew the Sinatra credentials: driver’s license, credit cards, cell phone, and passport. Beck glanced at her license. She was Annie Doyle for the next several days.
At the reception counter, she told the clerk, “I’d like to book a second room for the evening.”
Liza, the beaming receptionist, apologized. “We’re completely full, Ms. Doyle. For all three Aerosmith nights.”
“Aerosmith?” Manny’s ears perked. “ America’s biggest rock band? What about them?”
“They’re performing the next three nights. Didn’t you know?” Liza was quite taken with Manny and she took the opportunity to pat his hand. “Already sold out, I’m afraid. But tickets are being exchanged second hand on StubHub.”
“Surely you can find a single room, Liza. Maybe a cancellation?” Beck said.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Liza lost the warmth she reserved for Manny. “Our standby list is already full. Is there something wrong with your current room?”
“No. The situation is regrettable but I suppose the room is fine. Two queen beds?”
“No ma’am, one king.” She glanced back and forth between them. “You two aren’t…? I can send up a cot.”
“Not needed. Beck will sleep on the floor as penance for hiding her gambling from God. Errr, I mean, Annie Doyle will.”
“Yes, please, a cot,” said Beck.
“No, I’ll take the floor, I’m used to it. Is there a place to shop for clothes at the MGM?”
“Of course sir. I noticed your excellent blazer has seen better days.” She cut her eyes at Beck and took in her drab uniform. “You’re looking for finer apparel? Everything you need is one floor below.” She slid keys across for room 707 and quickly scribbled a number on the envelope. “I hope you enjoy your stay, and here’s my personal number if you need anything. No one should sleep on the floor at the MGM, sir.”
They stepped away from the desk and Manny indicated the lobby bar. “Need a drink, Beck? You look tense.”
“I’m not tense and I don’t drink. Let’s inspect our preposterous room with only one bed. I need to order some things from the local field office.”
He took the duffle bag from her and walked deeper into the hotel. “First we shop.”
“Shop? For what? I’ll get this suit laundered overnight.”
“You cannot wear that.”
“What’s wrong with it?” she snapped. “It’s comfo
rtable. I wear it nearly every day.”
“You’re not an NSA agent, Beck. You’re Annie Doyle, party animal and irredeemable gambler. And she doesn’t wear a threadbare comfortable blue pant suit.”
“This suit isn’t threadbare, but I concede the point.” Beck inspected the crowd through which they moved. The women were dressed for ritzy nightlife, though it wasn’t dinnertime yet. She stuck out like a drab penny. “But I won’t be gambling. I’ll be observing and reconnoitering while you handle the poker table. I think khakis and a long-sleeved blouse should—”
“I’m selecting your outfits, mamita.” He dragged her toward the escalator. “Because we are professionals and also to make you happy, we’ll do glamorous but modest. You don’t mind exposing your stomach though.”
“I think you’re joking but sometimes it’s hard to tell. I would rather die than expose my abdomen to strangers.”
“Why? You’re in good shape. You do sit ups?” said Manny. “Got good abs?”
“I’m in excellent shape, thank you, and I’m very comfortable in this skin, but I will not…you are joking?”
He pulled her into Stitched, a high-end store for men, sophisticated with subtle hints of irreverence. “What’s the max on our cards?”
“There’s probably no credit limit.”
Manny got the attention of the salesman and circuited the store, selecting three button-down shirts, two jackets, two pair of pants, a casual polo, and he wanted them all tailored—he rattled off his measurements down to the quarter inch. The salesman got an earful about ordering wholesale from out of country. Manny also picked up another pair of shoes, two belts, boxers, socks, cologne, two t-shirts, and a watch that would match all outfits. The ordeal took only five minutes, Manny in his element. “Rush it, amigo, and deliver it to my room.” He paid for it with his card, just over six grand.
Beck absently followed him around, punching at the phone with her thumbs. When he inquired, she replied, “You’re shopping for clothes, while I order things which actually might help with our agenda. They’ll be here soon.”
Next, in the posh women’s boutique across the shopping district, he planted her in front of a mirror and said, “Your turn, Beck. You prefer dresses or skirts?”
“Dresses. Sinatra, I can outfit myself.”
He indicated her current costume and scoffed and turned to the attendant. “Hola, mi amore, you see my friend here. Annie Doyle. I want her to shine. But she’s Mormon so we need to cover the important parts.”
Beck’s face reddened—an equivalency of mortification and anger.
“Your friend?” asked the attendant.
“Yes. What do you have in high neck dresses for gambling?”
The woman circled Beck, inspecting and measuring, and she said, “I have high neck dresses, but they are either knee length or cocktail. Is that too immodest?”
“Beck, how’re your calves? You tan during the summer?”
“This is absurd. I’ve been to the beach and my calves are…I don’t mind knee length, but I hate these questions. Let’s get this over with.”
The attendant arched her manicured eyebrow inquiringly at Manny; he responded, “She hates herself. Not you. But her credit is good.”
The attendant brought three garments in size two. Beck shoved Manny out of the dressing room when he followed.
She tried the first and called, “No.”
“Come out. Let me decide.”
“No. Trust me.”
The attendant asked, “Ma’am, did you zip the back? Otherwise it—”
“Not the dress for me. Moving on.” They listened to the rustle of fabric and her displeased grunts until she said again, “No. Not this one either.”
“Beck, get out here this instant.”
“My name is Annie.”
“Whatever. I’m coming in”.
“No! Fine, I’ll come out. Cripes. You’ll see.” She did and she turned in a circle and they agreed she looked like she’d pushed her head through a shapeless brown sack. She retreated into the fitting room for the third dress.
The attendant picked at Manny’s jacket and smiled. “I think it might be ruined but I can try to repair it, Mr…?”
“Sinatra. I just ordered more. This one is destined for the trash.”
“Your shirt too? My my. Must have been quite the accident,” she said, fingering the frayed edges.
“Guy shot me this morning. No fun.”
The attendant laughed at his joke.
Beck came out again in a form-fitting blue dress. Long sleeves, the hem swishing at the knees, embellished below the neck with a darker blue.
Manny whistled and said, “Aye mamí. Now you’re ready to gamble.”
“I like the lace. I’ll take this one.” Beck glowed with pleasure and she played with the frilly cuffs.
“It’s lovely on you. Shows off your strong shoulders. Sandra Bullock wore a similar one to the Golden Globes.” The attendant squinted in thought. “You’ll need some nude heels, I think.”
“Nude?”
“Your calves are good. Enough muscle. A spray-on wouldn’t hurt,” said Manny, tapping his lips.
“Sinatra, I swear—”
“What other high necks do you have?” he asked the attendant.
“Now that I’ve tried these on…” said Beck and she cleared her throat. She examined herself in the mirror from all angles and made a little hum of approval. “…I think maybe a halter neckline or the single shoulder would be acceptable.”
“Aye caramba, ella es sexy ahora!”
Beck’s lips bordered on a traitorous smile, one which would’ve exposed her embarrassing satisfaction in Manny’s endorsement, until she noted him in the mirror. “Sinatra! Put your phone away. No photos.”
“What? You got a good neck and shoulders. You can show them off and still be modest.”
“You do have an elegant neck, he’s correct.” The attendant left for more dresses.
“Do I?” Beck said and she tilted her head this way and that for the mirror, wishing the high neck wasn’t quite so high. “Do you think I need a necklace?”
“We’re buying at least three.”
Beck allowed herself to be convinced she needed a little black dress with a halter neckline, the blue dress, three necklaces, three pairs of shoes including heels she promised she couldn’t wear, a pair of black slacks with pinstripes, khakis, two blouses, earrings, a clutch, a bag, a bracelet, and undergarments she refused to let Manny see.
They entered their dark hotel room and the lights slowly brightened, activated by motion sensors. A realistic fish aquarium bubbled happily on the large television and Beck eyed the shower, prominently displayed in the middle of the room with translucent glass. The hotel sent up travel bags with tooth brushes and tooth paste and other forgotten essentials.
Manny was pacing their room two hours later, memorizing poker hand strength, when all of their items were delivered. He hung his clothing in the closet, muttering, “One pair, two pair, three of a kind, a flush, a straight—”
“No, flush beats a straight,” said Beck.
“Why?”
“It just does.”
“A fascist created these rules. Clearly.”
“Hand strength is related to probabilities. The less likely the hand, the greater the strength.”
“Straight, flush, full house, straight flush,” he said. “Right?”
“You forgot four of a kind. Beats anything except a straight flush.”
“Any wild cards in this game?”
“Nothing is wild in Hold’em. Except possibly you, Sinatra.”
“Maybe it should be you playing poker.”
She smoothed her two dresses and set the shoes beneath them. “I joined the NSA. Not the Marshals, nor the FBI. I’m not an 1811, not really. I build computer systems and I collect and analyze data. I do not play poker with criminals nor do I arrest them.”
“You got a gun,” he said.
“Which I’
m never firing again.”
A knock at the door. Beck opened it. The same man as earlier passed her a briefcase and left, no words exchanged. Beck set the briefcase on the king bed and pressed her thumb against the scanner. The case beeped and clicked, and she lifted the top. Nestled securely inside heavy foam packaging were four sets of eyeglasses and two earpieces.
“Two sets of eyeglasses for you, and two for me.” She placed the first into Manny’s hand. “We assume Benjamin Curtis is cheating at his live games. The easiest way to do that is with marked cards. He gets an ace or king and he marks it with a type of luminous paste only he can see, using glasses like these. Or he might be wearing special contacts. By doing this over time, he can tell who has what and it’s enough to give him an edge. Your glasses have lenses that should reveal luminous markings, if he’s using them. You can also snap photos with various filters, then bring me the glasses and I will check for tinting or juice marking.”
“How do you know all this?” said Manny, trying on the spectacles. “About the X-ray glasses and such.”
“While you slept in the car, I researched.” She paused. “You’re checking if the glasses will let you look beneath my clothing.”
“James Bond did it once.”
“They don’t work that way. Next, your second pair of glasses communicate with mine. You wear them and I see what you see. No special lenses or filters, just the video stream. Your point of view will be projected onto the right lens of the pair I wear.”
“What about when I go to the restroom?” asked Manny.
“Take them off or I’ll stream the video directly to the Roanoke Marshal’s office. Don’t get the two confused. Finally, ear pieces. So we can communicate. These aren’t made to bypass scanners because I want longer battery life and the ability to talk back and forth. Understand?”
