Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2)

by Alan Lee

  “You run in the unsavory circles?”

  “Me? No. God no, Sinatra. This is my final game of poker, this weekend, and then I’m done. One way or another. I shouldn’t even be in it. Word gets out, I’m in hot water.”

  Word’s already out, pal, Manny thought.

  “Dios mio, I want to play in this game. You say you cheated to get in?”

  “Cheated? No no, I don’t cheat. And if I did, I wouldn’t admit it to you.” They walked out of the restroom.

  A woman stood there. Manny recognized her from the bar. She’d sat there as long as they’d been playing. She wore a sharp suit and dark running shoes—had to be the governor’s protection detail, provided by the Maryland state police.

  They returned to the bar and a ruckus arose outside the high stakes realm. Through the divided partitions they saw an amorphous crowd flow by, centered around…Manny caught his breath. Centered around Steven Tyler, looking every inch the rockstar, wearing sunglasses indoors, walking with Joe Perry, the famous guitarist of Aerosmith. Surrounded by women and onlookers with camera phones. Rock royalty.

  “Ah, it’s ten already.” Curtis checked his watch. “Time for the concert. You going?”

  “Skipping it. Maybe tomorrow. You’ll check on the tournament for me, amigo.”

  “Sure, pal, sure. If you’re positive you want to blow a million.” They shook hands and the governor walked off, followed by the woman in the suit. She had a gun on her hip Manny hadn’t noticed before.

  He watched them go, feeling hollow and drained from the conversations and the poker, and his phone buzzed.

  A message from Beck.

  >> I’m going to the concert with some guy named Rocky, who seems interested in Sinatra and also in BC. He has box seats. Will research and report soon.

  Research.

  Manny went to the bar. He needed that gin.

  8

  In his mind, Sinatra kept peeking at cards. Couldn’t stop. The dealer slid a continuous barrage at him, forcing him to look in-between stacking his chips, which were always a mess. Guy in the hoodie laughing at him, televisions glaring silently, the woman patting his arm.

  Four hours after his final hand, Sinatra couldn’t shake the sensation of a poker table.

  His cell was on the nightstand and Weaver’s voice buzzed from the speakerphone. “Are you listening? It’s two in the morning. You’re exhausted, Sinatra, and I need the JFIC agents sharp. Get some sleep.”

  He undid his belt to ease the pressure on his sore kidney, leaned against the wall near the door, and rubbed at his eyes. The lights inside his hotel room were set to low.

  “Concert was over an hour ago. Where is she?”

  “Beck’s fine. Her phone’s still inside the MGM. Pop a melatonin and lay down. That’s an order.”

  “There’s chickens awry and Beck’s out partying? Doesn’t sound like her. Something’s wrong.”

  “I think you mean chicanery.”

  Manny shoved away from the wall, moving to the nightstand for his phone, wallet, and gun. “Going to look for her.”

  “Sinatra, no.”

  The hotel room’s door beeped and opened. Beck tiptoed in, quietly closed it behind, and tensed as she saw Manny standing beside the bed.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “The hell have you been?”

  “I told you. The concert.”

  “That was over an hour ago,” he said.

  “So? Don’t glare at me.”

  “You could call or text, you know. Were you trapped under something heavy? Or someone?”

  Wow, thought Beck. Manny Martinez was jealous! Should she feel pleased? Probably. Most women would. Yet instead she experienced only irritation. “Sinatra, be professional. Rocky took me backstage to meet the band.”

  Manny’s eyes widened. “Shut up, you’re joking.”

  “I’m not. He won’t tell me what he does, but he’s quite rich. I wasn’t able to gather much more information, other than he’s very interested in you two. The music was absurdly loud.”

  “You met Steven Tyler?”

  “I met several elderly and sweaty men, yes. Why aren’t you asleep?”

  Weaver’s voice on the speaker, “Because he’s paranoid.”

  “This isn’t a social event, Beck. We have work.”

  “On our first mission, Sinatra, you slept with the target. So cool the righteousness.”

  “I knew it,” the phone mumbled.

  “That was…different. And you knew where I was.”

  “The only difference, Sinatra, is that I retained my clothes and my professionalism.”

  “You were on a date with a criminal.”

  “We don’t know that,” Weaver interjected. “I’ve done some digging into Rocky Rickard. He’s wealthy and well connected but we have no reason to believe he’s involved in criminal activity.”

  “Benjamin Curtis said he’s part of the mob. Or he hinted at it.”

  Weaver said, “Rickard’s a member of the MGM ownership group, and he’s the proprietor of various other businesses around the D.C. area, including a large shipping company. Men like this have power and they rarely wield it with golden intentions, but that doesn’t make him our concern. I’ll continue my research, but our focus needs to remain on Benjamin Curtis.”

  “Rocky owns the hotel and casino? That explains things,” said Beck.

  “Don’t call him by his first name.”

  “You two need to make a decision. Go with your intuition and instincts here. We have enough to scare the hell out of the governor. That million dollar poker game is under the table and probably illegal. We can assume a portion of his finances are unreported to the IRS. We can grab him tomorrow and convince him to walk away, threaten him with tax evasion and public humiliation, and your job is done. Or we can continue the operation.”

  “Continue,” they announced together.

  “Why?”

  “So she can grope Rocky,” said Manny.

  “Grow up.”

  “He’s a hombre guapo, mama.”

  “Are you threatened?”

  “Are you in heat?”

  “Both of you, quiet. An illegal poker game falls outside our operational parameters. Our job is to arrest high profile criminals and do it quietly. Why should we continue the operation?” said Weaver. “Convince me.”

  “The governor hinted at the mob. He warned me about Rocky. He's into something more than a gambling addiction. I can prove it with just one more day.”

  “I agree,” said Beck.

  “Besides, if this tournament’s as hot as Benjamin claims, I want to see who arrives. He indicated the international major leagues.”

  “You believe it could attract other criminals on our wanted lists? Fine, we investigate for one more day. At least. I’ll keep digging into Rickard.”

  “How much money do I have at my disposal?” asked Sinatra.

  “Plenty. Why?”

  “A million?”

  The phone buzzed louder. “For buying into a poker tournament? Absolutely not. You only learned the game yesterday.”

  “Then how much?” he asked.

  “Enough for necessities.”

  “What do you know about Benjamin’s security detail?”

  “He has one primary personal escort, a police officer out of Annapolis. She’s assigned to him full-time. Her name’s Kristen Terry. You met her?”

  “Cute lady, brown hair?”

  “She’s a brunette, yes. Clean evaluations. Before Curtis she worked highway patrol.”

  Beck asked, “Is Kristen one of your informants?”

  “No. I have no proof, but I’ve wondered if those two have more going on than a professional arrangement. Benjamin Curtis isn’t known for his decorum.”

  “Fancy word means he fools around when he shouldn’t?”

  “Correct.”

  Beck said, “Thank you, Ms. Weaver. We’ll contact you in the morning when events warrant.”

  “Good nigh
t, agents.” The phone clicked dead.

  Beck yawned and moved into the bathroom to wash her face. The hotel room had an open concept, which meant no door separated the bedroom from the sinks.

  Manny pointed at the bed. “Pick a side.”

  “You’re sleeping on the floor. You said you would.”

  “That was before you went on a date with Danny Ocean and kept me awake all night. Now I’m tired and I want a bed.”

  “Sinatra, we’re partners in law enforcement. We do not share a mattress.” She turned off the hot water and set down the washcloth.

  “It’s a king size, Beck. We won’t be within five feet of each other.”

  “Who is Danny Ocean?”

  “Leader of the Ocean’s Eleven crew. Great American. Played by, what’s his name, George Clooney. Sharp dresser, robs the casino. I’ll keep my pants on, that help?” He fell onto the far side of the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Sinatra, no.” She gripped the washcloth harder and returned her attention to the mirror. Rubbed at a nonexistent spot on her forehead. Tried to ignore his movements in her peripheral.

  “Why would one of us sleep on the floor?”

  “To remain above reproach.”

  Manny yawned. “English, Beck. It’s been a day and I don’t understand your Mormon jargon.”

  “We shouldn’t share a bed because of our scruples. Our morals. Because we set a high standard for ourselves and each other. Because we work well as a team and we must keep it professional, and platonic co-workers do not sleep six inches from each other.” She risked a glimpse. He was under the covers and shirtless. Rubbing absently at his bruised ribs. “You’re ignoring me. At least brush your teeth.”

  “I brush my teeth three times a day, mamita, every day. Have you seen my smile? Brighter than stars on Old Glory.” Another yawn. “Brushed them twice while I waited for you.”

  And then he was snoring, very soft.

  Beck finished getting ready for bed. The silence of the room shouted at her, making her jumpy and tense. She shoved two pillows against him, creating a barrier. Went to the closet for two more, fully separating their sides. Sliding into her half, she held her breath, prayed he wouldn’t wake up.

  On a bed with Manny Martinez. She tried but she couldn’t close her eyes, staring straight up. It had been a day.

  The air conditioning switched on with a hum.

  She was still awake an hour later.

  9

  Manny woke at 4am.

  He often woke at 4am, usually on the floor of a bedroom in Roanoke. He would walk the house, obeying some inner urge to check the door and window locks, and then fall immediately asleep again.

  Tonight he sat up, checked the hotel door, drank a glass of water, and watched Beck sleep. She looked pretty in repose; no gaping mouth, no unflattering slack expression, like she remained prim and proper in her dreams.

  He lowered back to the bed. The same mattress she slept on. Inches away. He debated playing with her hair, see if she’d wake up…

  Nope.

  Like she said, they had to remain on approach.

  Or something like that. It meant no touching.

  He forced himself to look away. Checked his phone.

  He had two notifications.

  The first informed him that his World On A String website was receiving a sudden increase in traffic, plus his Sinatra identity was being investigated through online search engines. In other words, his alias was being heavily scrutinized.

  By whom, he wondered. Benjamin Curtis?

  The second notification was from a buddy in the NSA, sending him a photo with the words, SPOTTED IN LOS ANGELES.

  The photo was of Catalina García. An old flame, on the run from justice. His friend at the NSA promised to keep a lookout and pass along updates without alerting the DEA. This was her second appearance—the first in Miami.

  Manny zoomed in on Catalina’s face. She looked good, obviously, but she’d aged without grace during the previous year. Funny how the loss of millions speeds up time.

  He couldn’t think about her now. Couldn’t lose focus, even if she might be worth it.

  He sniffed and turned off the phone.

  Beside him, Beck made a sigh and turned over. He could smell her deodorant and perfume and he smiled.

  He missed Catalina. But he liked his new life more than he missed the old.

  10

  Martinez and Beck breakfasted at the hotel’s Patisserie, adjacent to a casino entrance. Sunlight poured in from the glass ceiling four stories above, bouncing off white marble floors. Manny sipped the shop’s coffee, wishing he’d brought his own ingredients. He thought about admonishing Beck against the croissant she ate, but the girl could use a few pounds.

  They each wore earpieces and Weaver was updating them, “There was a shooting last night, not far from the casino. Gunshots were heard, police called, near the town of National Harbor. No witnesses. Earlier this morning police discovered a body floating in the Potomac. Victim doesn’t seem to exist. No passport, no visa, no known fingerprints. So far, no one is claiming the body. Based on tattoos, the Maryland police believe he’s a British national but at the moment we don’t know.”

  Manny made a humming noise. He half listened and half marveled at his view of the casino, running full bore. It was nine in the morning; people still sat around blackjack tables, still fed coins into slot machines. Around them, a fug of weary despair. Did the place never close? Was there no down time?

  “I’m growing more and more interested in this clandestine millionaires’ poker tournament,” said Weaver. “Full of major league mobsters.”

  “Me too. If only I could buy a seat,” said Manny.

  “For a million dollars? With tax payer money? Not even a supremacy license would save our jobs.”

  “America is worth it,” he grumbled. “But the point is moot, I think. Benjamin said the tournament’s full, and it’s invitation only anyway.”

  “When does the game begin?” asked Beck.

  “No idea. It costs a million and it’s full, that’s what I know. Nothing else—not when, where, who, nada.”

  “My source says it takes place within the casino, but it’s privately run. Not an official MGM event. The whole thing is very need-to-know. The governor is still at his home, so it’s not starting immediately. I'll keep in touch.” She hung up.

  Beck and Sinatra sat without speaking for an hour. Manny got another coffee and Beck a muffin. Tired gamblers staggered out of the casino and fresh victims wandered in, nutrients for the beast. Did these people have 401(k)s? Or were they dependent on the good graces of the United States social security funds?

  Manny pursed his lips with displeasure. Uncle Sam was perhaps too generous at times. But that’s part of what made him great—his ability to withstand fools.

  “You look unhappy.”

  “Called a smolder, Beck. Would Rocky know about the poker tournament?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t ask him without revealing I already knew.”

  “You’re seeing him again today?”

  “I don’t know that either,” she said. A little too quickly and with evasive intent.

  Manny turned his gaze upon her. Slowly and with interrogative intent. “Beck.”

  “Sinatra.”

  “Are you seeing him today?”

  “I already answered that.”

  “Beck.”

  “Yes?”

  “Beck.”

  “What?”

  “Did you give him your number?”

  “Of course. He asked. I’m a federal agent and he’s a source of information.”

  “With a ten million dollar smile and fashion sense.”

  “Maybe you should go out with him,” she said.

  “What did you tell him about me?”

  “What my alias indicates. You own the men’s accessory company and I work for you.”

  “We could use this to our advantage.”

&nb
sp; “Of course. What do you have in mind?”

  Manny tapped his lips in thought. “Rocky has your number. Last night, did he give you his?”

  A pause. “No.”

  “But he’s already texted you this morning.”

  “He offered to send up fruit punch through room service because he knows I won’t drink mimosas.”

  “A damn sweetheart.”

  “He’s quite thoughtful, yes. He doesn’t drink either.”

  “That was just a line, Beck. Trying to get next to a cute señorita.”

  “He truly abstains, I believe. And thank you for the strange compliment.”

  “He knows your room number?”

  Beck shrugged. “I didn’t tell him. But it’d be easy for him to find out.”

  “Text him. Tell him your idiot boss heard about the tournament and wants to play.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.”

  “Not sure why you’re surprised, Beck. I chase down degenerates for a living.”

  “My name is Annie Doyle.” She opened her purse and withdrew a cellphone. She traced the screen a moment before Manny held up his hand.

  “Don’t send the text. Wait.”

  “Why?”

  “I maybe found another way into the tournament.” He indicated the reception desk, which was across the atrium and up one level but plainly visible. “The group just came in. I know that guy.”

  “Which? There’s several.”

  “Anatoly Petrov. Member of the Solntevskaya Bratva. He brought an entourage with him.”

  Anatoly stood at the reception desk looking bored, someone else checking his group in. Anatoly was a young guy, mid-thirties, dressed too warmly for the heat, already going bald, he had the dour expression and dead eyes common to Russia, Manny thought.

  “Bratva—the Russian mob? How do you know Anatoly Petrov?”

  “We’ve tangled before. The Russians don’t have much influence south of New York, other than Florida, but he controls what they have,” said Manny. “Part of the Solntevskaya crew.”