Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2)

by Alan Lee

  “We are outfitted for success, señorita. The only thing missing…” He lifted the foam in the case; underneath were plasticuffs, two boxes of ammunition, and four empty magazines. He issued a cathartic and happy sigh. “Let’s go play some cards.”

  4

  Even in a sea of glitz and glamour, they made a striking pair entering the casino. Three guards at the security checkpoint nodded and told them to enjoy their evening and ogled as they passed.

  Beck wore the pinstripe slacks and wondered what reaction she’d get tomorrow when she donned the form fitting dress. Manny had talked her into blush and mascara. Annie Doyle, the vixen.

  Quickly the riot subsumed them—the chaotic colors and the chatter and the bouncing noise. A world of frenzy. They passed solemn blackjack tables, rampant cheering at craps, and clanging slot machines.

  “We’ll start low,” Beck was saying. “To learn the game. You sit at the 1-3 table and buy in for two hundred.”

  “1-3,” he said. “The blinds. One dollar and three dollars.”

  “That’s right. Low stakes. If you aren’t broke in an hour, we count it as a success.”

  “I’m taking every chip on that table, Beck.”

  “You can’t bully and fight your way through a poker game, Sinatra. It requires patience and tact. The best players fold the most.”

  “I’m not folding until hour three.”

  “Then you won’t last ten minutes.” Beck possessed a sinking feeling about the evening.

  They rode an escalator up to the private poker room. Forty-five tables, nearly full. Up here there were no screaming craps players, very few slot machines. Silent televisions hung in every direction. A quiet pervasive concentration thickened the air. Players hunched in groups of ten around a dealer—battlefields.

  Beck broke away. She activated her eyeglasses and Manny’s point of view jumped into her vision.

  Her voice whispered in his ear, “Head for the counter and ask to play 1-3.”

  He did and a floor manager replied, “Certainly, sir. Table eleven. Third row, fourth down.”

  Manny slid his way to number eleven. Nine players circled a table of green felt, clacking their chips. A single open chair. No one gave him a second glance, nor even a first. Unexpectedly he felt a shiver of anxiety and a single bead of sweat slipped down his spine.

  Combat. And he’d never been in the arena before.

  In his ear. “Throw two hundred dollars on the table and sit.”

  Manny dropped a pair of hundred-dollar bills onto the felt and announced, “Two hundred, dealer.”

  The dealer wore the customary black vest and striped shirt and he didn’t glance at Manny. He was busy counting chips for the current hand. “One moment sir.”

  “Sit down, Sinatra,” said Beck.

  He sat. Strangely humbled.

  The hand ended. The dealer collected the cards and inserted them into an automated shuffler. Manny’s money was whisked away and replaced by an array of white, red, and green chips.

  What the hell did the colors mean?

  Beck observed his confusion, both across the room and through the camera, and she smiled. “Look at the numbers on the chips. Whites are one dollar, I think. You need to act like you know what the denominations are or they’ll peg you as a fish.”

  Manny picked up the colors and found numbers in the center of the small disc. One dollar, five dollar, and twenty-five dollar denominations. “What’s a fish?” he asked.

  The guy next to Manny glanced at him.

  In his ear, “A fish is a bad player. I looked up some terminology. The good players will pick on you if they detect you’re new.”

  “I don’t get picked on, Beck.”

  Another suspicious glance from his neighbor.

  “Remember, you get two cards. Each player gets his or her own. Keep them a secret. Then the dealer will gradually place five cards on the board that everyone gets to use. It’s you versus the other nine, so statistically you should plan on winning no more than eleven percent of the hands.” She said this earlier but repetition would be his friend.

  Though Manny wouldn’t admit it to her, he enjoyed the voice in his ear. She was whispering and the syllables were intimate and full of steam. He glanced her direction; was she imparting the extra sex appeal intentionally?

  She noted his peek and bit her lip to prevent a smile.

  She was doing it intentionally.

  Smooth as silk, the dealer dealt the next hand. Every player got two cards. Manny’s arrived without sound. A trill of excitement. He picked them up.

  King 6

  “A king and a six, unsuited. Bad hand. Fold when it’s your turn,” she said. “And you’re showing everyone your cards, Sinatra. Keep them on the table.”

  Manny watched as the players before him acted, mostly folding. The player in front of him tossed in a red chip. Manny did too, choosing to play. The dealer took his red chip (five dollars) and returned two whites.

  Beck said, “You should have folded.”

  Three others opted to play.

  The dealer laid three cards on the table, face up.

  Ace 8 3

  Beck. “You have no pair. When it’s your turn, check. That means you decline to bet. If the players in front of you bet, you fold. Do not raise, Sinatra.”

  The player to Manny’s right tapped the table.

  “That means he checks,” said Beck. “Announce that you check.”

  “I check.” He said it a little loud.

  “Good.” A sigh of relief.

  A player across the table raised. He bet twenty-five dollars. One green chip.

  Beck. “You’re beat, Sinatra. That man is signaling he has a good hand. Fold when it’s your turn to act.”

  The other players folded. Manny tossed in a green, choosing to play.

  In his ear, he heard her groan. She said, “Okay, fine. You want to lose, go ahead. This will be a good learning experience for you. Now the dealer will turn over the fourth card, and give the players a chance to bet. Then the dealer will reveal the fifth card and there’s another round of betting. You’re going to lose.”

  The next card came. A Queen.

  “You have nothing, Sinatra. Fold.”

  “He’s bluffing,” Manny said.

  “So? You can’t beat anything.”

  The guy across the table, wearing a hoodie, pointed at himself. “Me? Jerk-off, you think I’m bluffing?” He tossed in two green chips. Fifty dollars. “How about that bluff?”

  “Fold. Fold. Fold,” said Beck.

  Manny also tossed in two green chips. He started with two hundred and was down to one hundred twenty-two.

  The dealer dealt the final card. Another 3. No more cards coming and Manny had zilch.

  The guy across the table bet another fifty.

  Manny matched him. He didn’t know why, other than a innate sense that he should win preternaturally.

  Showdown. The guy revealed he held an Ace. He had a pair.

  “You’re beat. Muck your cards. That means tossing them into the middle,” said Beck.

  Manny ground his teeth but did as he was told. Admitting failure to the table. He felt his cheeks flush. His sturdy stack of chips had dwindled by over half.

  The dealer swept away the cards to begin the next hand. No one commented on Manny’s loss. Like it didn’t matter.

  He felt a flash of anger. He’d lost to a guy wearing a hoodie. A hoodie.

  More cards came. Instead of picking the cards up, Manny bent up the corners to peek.

  3 3

  He had a pair of threes. He sat up a little straighter and said, “I bet it all.”

  Beck groaned in his ear.

  The dealer waved his comment aside. “It’s not your turn, sir. Wait to act.”

  The players folded around to him. He pushed all his chips into the middle. Less than seventy-five.

  The same guy across the table matched Manny’s bet.

  Only two players.

&nb
sp; Manny said, “I bet it all. You should have folded, amigo.”

  “Amigo?” The guy in the hoodie turned over Ace Queen. “You only have a pair of threes. We’re about even, amigo. First time playing cards, amigo?”

  Because Manny was out of money, there could be no more betting, and the dealer quickly placed the five cards out.

  5 10 Ace 8 Queen

  Manny had only a pair of threes.

  The guy in the hoodie had a pair of Aces and a pair of Queens. Manny was crushed and the dealer took away his money.

  “Better luck next time, jerk-off,” said Hoodie and the table chuckled.

  Beck. “I’m at the bar, Sinatra. Meet me and we’ll regroup.”

  Instead Manny tossed two hundred dollars more onto the table and the dealer quickly exchanged it for chips. More ammunition, a fresh start.

  Three hands later, Manny was broke. This time a quiet lady to his left took his chips, and she said, “Sorry, kid. Better luck next time.”

  In his ear, “Sinatra…come talk.”

  Manny bought in again. Two hundred.

  This time he lasted ten hands before busting. Down six hundred total.

  He stood and glared.

  Hoodie laughed. “Leaving so soon? Your money’s still good here. We’re all gonna eat well tonight because of you, amigo.”

  “I was you, I’d use the money to buy a decent shirt,” said Manny. “Save my seat.”

  “Gladly.”

  Manny stalked away from his table. Into fresher air, leaving humiliation behind. He saw Beck at the bar who wisely kept quiet. He avoided her and went to the restroom, shoving his glasses and ear pieces into his pocket first.

  A minute later he went to the bar, taking a seat two away from Beck. She had sparkling water.

  He glared at the television, an Orioles baseball game, and he ordered a bourbon—classic drink made in America. Drank half, set it down heavy, and said, “I should have folded.”

  Without looking at him, she replied, “Yes. Almost every hand.”

  “We pretending we don’t know each other?”

  “It’s for the best, I think, at the moment. If the table finds out you’re being coached, you’ll lose even more. And the way things are going, the governor will never believe you’re a real card player.”

  He drained the rest of his bourbon. It hurt a little but he deserved it. “You see the inbred pigs at my table? I’m losing to people wearing Walmart.”

  “You’re fitter than them, Sinatra. Stronger. Potentially more intelligent. Better trained. Better dressed. And it all means nothing. What matters is how wisely you use what’s given to you. And most of the time, the wise thing is to retreat. You can’t beat math. Probabilities cannot be battered to the side. Your machismo is working against you. If you’re beat, you’re beat.”

  “Are you enjoying this?”

  “So much. It’s frustrating to watch. But lecturing you is how much fun I imagine sex is.”

  He waved for another drink. “You need to get laid, Beck.”

  “As in poker, it’s better to wait for the perfect moment, Sinatra.”

  “Fine.” Said it with a growl. “I’ll go play like a virgin.”

  “Good idea. You’ll be less heartbroken and probably have more money.”

  He paid for both drinks and walked back to the table. Hoodie applauded and the quiet woman smiled kindly at him. Manny set his drink down. Took off his jacket. Rolled up his sleeves. Sat and donned his special eyeglasses.

  In his ear. “Play defensively. Judge your success by how much you don’t lose, not by how much you win. At least for a couple hours.”

  Manny folded ten hands in a row, bored and mad.

  Hoodie jabbed him. “What’s wrong, amigo? Scared? Out of money? Need a loan?”

  Under his breath, “Need to get your ass kicked?”

  “Sinatra…”

  Beck enjoyed watching him play. In a room full of men and woman, he stuck out as something else. Something more, something separate. The brewing thunderstorm in a doldrum. The other players hunched; they wore hats and hoodies; they listened to their iPhones and ate pizza at the table. Manny’s posture was perfect, his chin up, his shoulders back. His hair and his eyes caught the glint of light in ways they shouldn’t. The other players covertly watched him, marveling at his broad shoulders and thin waist. He wasn’t good yet. But he would be; he cared too much to stay awful. She knew he would soon scrutinize everything, recording and learning and improving. The intrinsic patience required taxed him, robbing him of his natural response to charge and fight, but he was willing to adapt if it meant winning.

  She alternated between watching him across the room, watching his point of view using her glasses, and reading about poker online.

  An hour later, Manny still retained a hundred and fifty of his two hundred dollars. He felt somber and raw, and his left hipped throbbed.

  He looked down at his cards.

  Ace Ace.

  A pair of Aces.

  He nearly blurted, “All in!” but refrained. He needed an ambush.

  In his ear. “Good cards. Finally. Do not go all-in. Everyone will fold most likely, because you’ve been playing cautious. Make a raise to get the weaker hands out. You don’t want to play against too many because the odds will be against you.”

  The player to his right raised before Manny could. Instead of betting three dollars, the player bet twenty.

  Perfect. Manny casually tossed in four red chips, calling the twenty.

  Everyone folded except Hoodie, who also called. Three players total.

  The dealer placed the first three cards down.

  2 King Ace.

  Manny had three Aces—very strong. His pulse rose but otherwise he didn’t move.

  The player to his right checked.

  Manny debated. Went for his chips. Changed his mind and checked.

  “Good idea,” said Beck. “Laying a trap.”

  Hoodie smirked at him. “What’s wrong, amigo? Don’t have an Ace? Maybe just a sorry King?” He bet seventy-five dollars.

  The player to Manny’s right didn’t have seventy-five remaining. He held about fifty and he bet it all.

  Manny had a little over a hundred. He said, “I’m all-in too.”

  Hoodie’s eyebrows went up. He paused. Inspected the money in the middle and then his own cards again. “You get lucky, bro? You have an Ace and King over there? We splitting this? I call.” He tossed in money.

  No more betting.

  The player to Manny’s right turned over King Queen. He had a pair of Kings.

  Hoodie exposed his cards. Ace King. Two pair. Aces and Kings. Strong.

  Manny tossed his cards onto the table, face up. “I got lucky. Bro.”

  Manny’s three Aces crushed them. The dealer finished the hand and pushed nearly four hundred in chips his way.

  In his ear. “Good. Good, Sinatra. You see? If you play smart, positive things will happen. One step closer to playing with Benjamin Curtis. Remember to tip the dealer.”

  Manny’s fingers trembled as he stacked the chips.

  Somehow that had been more terrifying than being clipped by Donald with a shotgun.

  5

  He played four hours total, quitting when his straight lost to a flush. By that time the table had turned over completely, all new players. He stood, angry because his opponent had gotten lucky at the end, and he was eager for more. But first he needed food. Beck joined him at the bar where he paced, hands on hips.

  “You played well the final two hours, Sinatra. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I do not feel shame, Beck. Let’s eat.”

  They ate at Ginger, an upscale Chinese restaurant. It was only nine at night, but he couldn’t remember the last time he slept. Or anything else before the poker table. The MGM felt as though it was only getting started, a febrile animal hungry for more money.

  “Poker’s more tiring than I expected,” he said, jabbing at his rice.

  “Bec
ause it’s a fight. You just wrestled for hours with your brain—wrestling the odds, wrestling the other players, and wrestling your own impulses. From everything I read, at the end you were playing better than most rookies.”

  “Obviously.” He cut into his braised abalone and tried it. A weird buttery texture; he’d prefer a good hamburger— classic American fare. And a hundred dollars cheaper.

  “Are you done for the evening?”

  “No. The night is en choke, Beck.”

  “You mean inchoate.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What questions do you have?” she asked. “You’re still a little ignorant of the game.”

  “What’s the flop? The players discuss it.”

  “After you get your two cards, the dealer places three on the board. All players can use them. Those three cards are referred to as the flop.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “What’s the fourth card?”

  “After the flop, there’s a round of betting. Then the fourth card is called the turn.”

  “I heard them say that word. Why is it called the turn?”

  “Sinatra, I’m not a poker expert. I’ve played some but I don’t know the etymology of the terms.”

  “What’s the fifth card called?”

  “The river.”

  “Yes, the river. He got lucky on the river. Why do they call—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the pot?”

  “The pot is the amount of money in the middle. A strong bet usually equals the pot, at least.”

  “When someone calls, it means they match the bet?” said Sinatra.

  “Yes. Your first hand, when the guy bet fifty, you called him. Pointlessly.”

  Their phones vibrated. An incoming text from Weaver, their supervisory agent.

  >> Governor Benjamin Curtis is at the casino. The tournament doesn’t begin until tomorrow so he’ll be playing at one of the regular high stakes tables.

  >> Recommend you use the opportunity.

  “He’s here tonight,” said Manny. “I thought we had until tomorrow.”

  Beck scrutinized Manny’s reaction, watching for fear. “Are you ready? You’ve been playing 1-3. This will be 100-200. Instead of $200, you’ll buy in with ten thousand.”