Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2)

by Alan Lee

  He stood and drained his beer. “Doesn’t matter if I’m ready. When liberty calls, I answer the bell.”

  “Only you, Sinatra, say these things.”

  “Only I care enough to.” He dropped money on the table and pulled her chair.

  “But I’m not done.”

  “Order at the bar. Something patriotic, grown in the fields of the midwest or caught in one of our oceans.”

  “Our? America doesn’t have oceans.”

  He took her arm and hauled her up. “Everyone knows they belong to us. Let’s go.”

  6

  Governor Benjamin Curtis didn’t sit at normal tables with the hoi polloi. The table he visited was kept in the high stakes area behind partitions on the main level. Anyone could wander into this elevated and raised realm, but only the fearless dared. The lights sparkled brighter, the drinks swirled a deeper shade of liquor, the waitresses were curated, the bartenders extra reverent, the action more breathtaking. You could sneeze and lose a grand. A sneezing fit might cost you a Cadillac.

  Manny entered the high stakes room like Clint Eastwood enters a saloon, announcing his arrival with a steely stare, jutting jaw, thumbs tucked behind his belt. The men and women here wore suits, tuxedos, stiletto heels, glittering dresses one step up from lingerie, and he felt at home. Lunatics with class. People who understood that even going broke should be done with style.

  Most of the action centered around black jack tables—a passive hobby, in Manny’s opinion, not even a sport. No combat, just speculative investing. But there was one shining battlefield—one table for poker, where players faced off and losers limped away. It called him.

  Beck moved to the bar.

  At the no-limit Texas Hold’em table, there were seven players and three empty chairs. He took a seat to the right of Benjamin Curtis, and he dropped ten thousand dollars onto the table, stacks of hundreds crisp and hot from the ATM. Instead of being ignored, the players smiled and welcomed him.

  He sat and counted the poker ammunition slid his way. He had fifty, hundred, and five-hundred dollar denominations.

  The game continued. The player in front of Manny raised, making it a thousand dollars to play.

  Dios mio, these people were wealthy. He folded, making the decision to only watch the first found.

  Benjamin Curtis was there to play and to win. He didn’t make small talk with the others; he was focused on his cards, his chips, his opponents’ actions, and the dealer. All-American guy, thick brown hair, cleft in his chin, looked like he played outfield in college. His eyes were sharp and hungry, but he kept his face friendly, despite the concentration, like he knew his photo would be taken candidly and posted online. In front of him, twenty thousand dollars. The other players, by tacit agreement, agreed to let the celebrity governor play in peace.

  He raised his drink in welcome and smiled sideways at Manny but said nothing.

  The woman adjacent to Manny, in her sixties, chin-length gray hair, wearing the dress of a women in her forties and wearing it well, patted Manny’s arm. “Welcome to the table, doll.”

  Manny winked. “Glad to be here.”

  “What business are you in?”

  “Men’s accessories,” he replied. “I own World On A String, designing, manufacturing and selling high end products to the rich and attractive, such as yourself. If you were a man.”

  Manny’s alias company, World On A String, checked out online.

  She laughed and rubbed his arm again, beguiled. “I like proprietors. A man who doesn’t own his own business? For the birds. I bet you do very well.”

  “I’m here alone. So I could be doing better.”

  In his ear, Beck groaned.

  The woman laughed more and moved her hand to his. “If I was ten years younger, you wouldn’t be. You’re from Spain?”

  “Argentina. Where age doesn’t matter.”

  “You’re very sweet. But you shouldn’t tease so, young man.”

  “Only softening you up so you’ll let me into your chips.”

  Across the table, a well-dressed gentleman with a thin brown beard asked, “World On A String, you say? You make wallets? I think I have one.”

  “The finest wallets, sir. And you look man enough to handle it.”

  He laughed in response, as did the woman on his arm.

  There were no such wallets.

  Manny declined to play for half an hour, even folding pocket 10s. The amount of money pushed around the table took some adjustment.

  After enough time had passed, he entered and lost a few pots, dropping to eight thousand. By then he’d been accepted as one of them, one of the elite.

  He ordered a gin and when it arrived he raised it to Benjamin Curtis. “I believe, sir, that I’ve had your gin before.”

  The comment shook Benjamin out of his reverie. He leaned back and apprised Manny anew. Impressed by what he saw. “You did? The American Gintleman?”

  “Must be ten years ago, I ordered bottles at an expo in Saint Louis.”

  “Ginworld! Sure, I was there.” His face brightened and Manny felt shields lowering. “Despite the doubters, I still claim we ushered in the new era of gin. Our juniper was organic before it came en vogue. Sure we charged more but we were one-shot.”

  “Plus,” said Manny, pointing at him with the hand holding his glass. “The Gintleman had a nice botanical taste.”

  Listening through her ear piece, Beck was surprised. When had Manny done the homework?

  Benjamin said, “That’s right! Everyone else was stuck in the heavy dries, but not us. Gin’s dramatically different now than fifteen years ago.”

  “Still in the business?”

  “No, damn it.” Shook his head, a man chagrined. “We sold to Bombay. Jumped at the first good offer, eager bastards that we were. Had we stayed the course, we could’ve sold for a billion. We got one twentieth that.”

  “Aye, but still, amigo, that’s good profit.”

  “Too many damn hands in the pot, though, you know what I mean? And money doesn’t last as long as it should somehow.”

  “Not at this table.”

  “I’m doing okay here,” said Benjamin Curtis. “This table’s my lucky charm.”

  Manny stuck out his hand. “Sinatra.”

  “Sinatra? Good hell, that’s a great name. Benjamin Curtis.”

  “Cheers to you, Curtis. Thanks for advancing gin.”

  They talked companionably for the next sixty minutes, Manny an engaging ear and Benjamin relaxed in the company of a poker player who apparently didn’t know he was the governor. Manny carefully danced around the topic of careers, asking instead about Curtis’s further investments. He found common ground in baseball and alcohol and fitness, staying vigilant for indications of cheating.

  Curtis’s behavior shifted at the top of the hour. He still chatted with Manny but his entire body repositioned itself toward the table. His eyes returned to the sharp and alert glare, watching the cards and his opponents. Under his scrutiny and aggressive betting, his stack, which had dwindled, swelled to thirty thousand over the next half hour.

  Manny saw nothing sinister. Curtis kept his losses small and maximized his victories. He seemed to find the cards he needed on the turn or river, if he was behind. Some of it appeared to be luck and some of it bravura and confident play. Perhaps the guy was more skilled than they thought, but he could only muster concentration in bursts?

  In his ear. “From my point of view, he’s playing better.” Beck sat at the round bar in the middle of the room, twenty feet from Manny with a good view of the table. She had finished her sushi and now whispered for his benefit. “No obvious signs of chicanery. But he was lackluster and indifferent until half an hour ago. Now he’s the lion of the table. Something changed.”

  Chicanery. Needed to look that one up.

  Manny made a minute noise of agreement. His own stack had shrunk to six thousand. He took off his video glasses and slipped them into his jacket. A moment later he withdrew th
e set with special lenses, intended to spot marked cards. The world took on a lurid tint, a shade off color.

  He scrutinized the deck of cards as the dealer gathered them into the automated shuffler and retrieved the second deck. Neither set of cards showed anything amiss under the power of his spectacles. He pressed his index finger against the hinge, activating a tiny trigger. He took five photographs of each deck, trusting the silent machinery to do its job. He’d give the glasses to Beck and she’d work her voodoo with the…

  In his ear, “Oh, thank you, but I don’t drink.”

  Manny glanced up. A man at the bar was offering Beck a glass. He could hear his voice—barely. “I noticed you upstairs in the poker room with a sparkling water. I don’t drink either. This cocktail is a virgin pear punch. I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Thank you again, but I’m set.” Her voice was polite but firm.

  The guy smiled at her and Manny was impressed. Genuine warmth and those were good teeth. He was fifteen years Beck’s senior, but as handsome as forty-five got. He wore his five o’clock shadow like a mystery, and his hair was slightly curly, swept back, peppered with gray. His outfit was bespoke and stylishly modern, and Manny recognized Salvatore oxfords when he saw them. He emanated wealth. The guy said, “The punch is a specialty. I know the bartender. Tell you what. You try it and I won’t ask for your name.”

  “I don’t accept drinks from strange men.”

  Strange men? Nothing strange about that man at all, thought Manny. What else was the nun looking for? Accept the drink!

  The bartender roamed to their portion of the circle and said something Manny couldn’t hear. The handsome guy replied, “She thinks I’m spiking her drink,” and he laughed. “Make her another one while she watches, so she’ll trust me. We’ll win her over yet, Josef.”

  “It’s not that—” said Beck.

  “Watch, that’s a real pear Josef’s slicing. Do you not eat pear?”

  “I eat pears. I’m still not accepting it.”

  “I hope the problem isn’t me,” said the guy. He had his charisma on full, and it wasn’t coming across fake. “Because if it’s me, I’ll leave and you’ll need to pay for the drink yourself.”

  Beck laughed.

  Manny laughed. The adjacent woman watched him askance.

  Beck said, “Why is it so important I have this punch?”

  “You’ve had nothing but water for hours. That’s no way to live. Not at the National Harbor.”

  “If I try your virgin drink, you’ll stop bothering me,” said Beck.

  “If you dislike the drink, I’ll leave. If you like it, I’ll do as you ask—stay or go.”

  The bartender set another iced punch in front of her, garnished with a slice of pear.

  “Fine.” She said it with exasperation but Manny knew her tone—she enjoyed this. He heard the tinkle of ice in a glass and the sound of her swallowing. She set the punch back on the bar.

  “Well?” said the guy.

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Of course it is. You’ll enjoy the evening much more now.”

  Another sip. “This drink is truly one of the best I’ve ever had. But I still would rather not be hit on.”

  “Hit on?” The guy smiled, cagey and roguish. “I was being friendly. I don’t hit on women wearing slacks.”

  Beck laughed again.

  Manny laughed again. Good line. Put her on the defensive.

  “I beg your pardon. What’s wrong with slacks?”

  Someone was tapping Manny’s arm. Realization coalesced slowly. The woman next to him. “Sinatra, you’re not paying attention, doll.”

  “Oh?” He blinked, returning his focus to the table. That’s right—poker.

  “Dealer mucked you twice,” said Benjamin Curtis. He cast a dark look at the bar.

  “My apologies, amigos.”

  He inspected his cards and folded them.

  In his ear, Beck was saying, “I’ll finish the drink. Maybe order another. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving you my name.” Her tone was tinged with impishness.

  Manny sat up straighter. She was flirting back now. Okay, too far. Enough with the handsome man. She needed to focus on the job at hand.

  The guy said, “Fine with me. I’ll sit here a while longer, not talking, and it has nothing to do with foreplay.”

  “Good.”

  “Good. Rocky Rickard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name. Rocky Rickard.”

  Governor Benjamin Curtis got Manny’s attention and nodded with his chin toward the bar. “You know that guy?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You seem like you do.”

  Manny shrugged, dropping a line of chips from one hand to the other. “My attention’s wandering. Not enough money at stake.”

  Benjamin Curtis whistled. “You’re down, what, five thousand? Not enough?”

  “I played in Macao last month, cabrón. Won a hundred grand in two nights, and I’m not even very good. Wealthy bastards giving money away.”

  “Macao? Pros flock there for short deck.”

  Manny made a noncommittal grunt, unfamiliar with the term. His alias was on shaky ground. “I heard about a big tournament here soon. At the MGM.”

  In his ear, “I’m still not giving you my name, Rocky.”

  “Big tournament?” said Benjamin Curtis. His eyes held a new gleam, suspicion and surprise. “Who told you that?”

  “Some big shot in Macao. Now here I am on business, and I’d like to play.”

  New cards were dealt. With a perfunctory glance, Curtis tossed them away and leaned closer to Manny. He had the eagerness of someone with a secret to share. Hushed voice. “You heard right. There is a tournament. A big one. Lasts two days. Buy-in is a million dollars.”

  Manny nearly choked on his gin. Hard to be suave with watering eyes. He set the glass down and cleared his throat. “Didn’t tell me it was a million.”

  Curtis grinned. “A million, big guy.”

  “Qué susto. I’ve never played for half that much.”

  “It’s major league.”

  “You know anyone stupid enough—or skilled enough—to enter?”

  The governor leaned back in his chair, pleased with the question. He jerked a thumb at himself. “I’m one or the other.”

  “You’re playing in it? That’s a joke.”

  “Not a joke, damn it. Starts tomorrow.”

  “A million.”

  “You got it, pal.”

  “You must have more than gin money, eh?”

  “Don’t forget, I might just be stupid,” said the governor. “Or maybe I cheat.”

  7

  Manny didn’t have to fake being a little rattled. Weaver was right; the governor was into something more than casual poker. Manny played several hands from a distance, lost in thought, and happened to catch a flush on the turn to claw his way back to eight thousand.

  He drained the gin and sat up a little straighter. “I’m in.”

  “You’re in?”

  “The tournament. I want to play,” said Manny. “For a million. Tell me more.”

  “So you’re a fool too.” Curtis said it with a laugh—you and me, couple of base degenerates.

  “I lose, I’ll sell the cottage in Minorca. What’s life without some risk?”

  “Hate to tell you, friend, but I think it’s full. Something like thirty entrants maximum and by invitation only. I don’t know a lot about it, though. You’ll be around tomorrow? I’ll ask.”

  “How’d you get invited?”

  “That’s a long and seedy story. We’re still friends in ten years? I’ll spill the details.”

  Manny stood. Picked up his empty glass. “Check for me. I’d very much like to donate a million to these upstanding friends of yours.”

  The governor chuckled. “Where you going?”

  “Men’s room.”

  Manny passed the bar, deposited his glass, asked for another, and made his
way for the restroom. Beck watched him go. She’d moved slightly closer to Rocky Rickard, he noted.

  In the restroom, he punched a short text message to Weaver and Beck.

  BC is playing in tournament tomorrow. Tournament lasts two days. Buy-in is a million dollars. Aye! Says its full. Made a joke about cheating.

  Also, seems we’ll be attending Beck’s wedding in the near future.

  He was drying his hands on a towel when the governor himself walked in.

  “Say, Sinatra, I don’t mean to be a damn creep and follow you into the restroom. But…” He paused and verified they were alone. “That girl at the bar, she’s with you.”

  Gears spun inside Manny’s mind. Were their aliases connected? Probably, but he’d forgotten in what capacity. “Girl at the bar?”

  “Cutie with the glasses. You’re together.”

  “You’re talking about Doyle. We’re not together, amigo.”

  “She works for you, then. World On A String.”

  “Right. My assistant.”

  “Listen, maybe this isn’t my business, but you got a problem on your hands.”

  “Oh?”

  “Guy she’s talking to. His name’s Rocky Rickard. He’s trouble, Sinatra.”

  “Good-looking guy? Great teeth? He a con artist? Beats up women or something?” asked Manny.

  “Worse. He’s one of the owners of the MGM.”

  “No kidding. Owns the casino?”

  “Yep. Part of the damn ownership group. Rich as balls, pal.”

  “The owner of the casino is hitting on Annie. How about that.”

  “Smile all you want, guy, but he’s not someone you want to tangle with.”

  “How’d you know him?”

  Two men came into the restroom, both talking on their cell phones. They went to the urinals and pinched their phones against their shoulders. The room got noisy with echoes.

  Curtis stepped nearer Manny. “This tournament I’m playing in. It’s not advertised. A couple poker writers cover it but they know enough to keep names out, if we request it. It’s under the table, a game for rich assholes. Some pros, some criminals, and idiots like me. Rocky Rickard, he helps organize the thing. Ever see the movie Goodfellas? There’s people in this world who run in unsavory circles and you don’t want the cutie in the glasses getting sucked in.”