Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2)

by Alan Lee

  Manny did a quick inventory of the room, trying to remember the nine players.

  Rocky Rickard—owner of the MGM.

  Oliver Wright—British. Better yet, English.

  Sparks—Texan oil magnate.

  Ms. Waters—foxy older woman, liked holding hands.

  Phil Ivey—best poker player in the world.

  Tom Dwan—online poker prodigy.

  Sinatra—himself.

  That left Benjamin Curtis—not arrived yet.

  And…

  “Finally, this is Maksym Bagan, from the Ukraine. Last year’s winner,” said Rickard.

  Ah, a true underworld mob boss. Manny’d heard of Bagan, a weapons dealer. Major league.

  Petrov and Bagan. What was Benjamin Curtis into?

  Bagan refused to shake Sinatra’s hand. “This is not Petrov. Blin! Yakoho bisa? Where is Anatoly?”

  “My husband is delayed. He will not be joining us,” replied Varvara.

  “Delayed? This is bullshit, Rickard. Durnya! Where is Petrov?” demanded Bagan, an ugly pit bull of a man. Spittle flew as he shouted. His accent was heavy enough that Manny had trouble deciphering.

  “Arrested,” said Varvara. “American agents woke us and took him away.”

  “Arrested?” Bagan’s face paled. “Oho! For what?”

  “Do not be fool, Maksym Bagan. For everything.”

  “American bastards. We should incinerate Washington once and for all.”

  Manny’s eyebrows rose. “Incinerate? The Ukraine incinerate Washington? Better you try to blow up the moon, amigo.”

  Bagan made a spitting motion at Manny’s feet. “I object to this Hispanic garbage, Rickard. He cannot play! Against the rules.”

  “I have two tickets,” replied Varvara, a frost in her voice. “And I give one to Sinatra.”

  “Pan Bagan, Sinatra only learned the game recently. He’s no ringer,” said Rickard. “He will lose quickly against professionals such as yourself, and then leave. Be at peace.”

  “Peace? Bullshit! Durnya!”

  Bagan stormed to the event manager, a tall and severe man helping dealers organize the table. Bagan protested while his bodyguard glared malevolently at Manny.

  What a mess.

  Manny loved it.

  Into the fray entered Benjamin Curtis, Mr. All American, walking with Kristen Terry, his security detail, the cop from Annapolis.

  Benjamin Curtis laughed and smacked Manny on the back, congratulating him on entrance into the game.

  Laugh while you can, amigo. I’m here for you.

  Against Bagan’s furious objections, Manny was awarded Petrov’s chair. “Bullshit,” he said again. “The Hispanic wins, I will never play this game again. You do not want an enemy of me, you sonsofbitches.”

  The event manager called for the nine players to take their seats. Each of the nine players had a guest, most of them bodyguards, and the guests helped themselves to aperitifs and hors d’oeuvres and took chairs with a view of the televisions and table.

  Other than the nine players and their nine guests, there was a rotating dealer, the event manager, a cocktail waitress, and two security personnel.

  A healthy stack of bright chips was slid to Manny.

  A thrill ran through him. Combat. Civilized and ruthless. He’d never been happier.

  The game began.

  Cards whisked across the felt like hissing snakes. The event manager solemnized the occasion by activating their clock. Manny hung back, folding again and again, letting the veteran players test one another. Dancing and jabbing early. He examined the tournament statistics on the television, counting down from thirty minutes.

  He had a million dollars in front of him. (Dios mio!) The blinds were $1,000-$2,000. It appeared after thirty minutes they’d escalate to $1,500-$3,000.

  By luck of the draw, Benjamin Curtis had been seated next to him. Manny leaned over, “The levels keep getting higher, forcing the game to end tonight. Sí?”

  “That’s right. Damn, Sinatra, have you really never played in a tournament?”

  “Only cash games until now.”

  “The blinds get high enough to force out the smaller stacks. We’ll have our three before midnight,” said the governor.

  “Have our three? What do you mean?”

  “Three winners for tomorrow’s game.”

  “Tomorrow’s game?”

  Across the table, the Ukrainian arms dealer had been listening, and he blurted, “The Hispanic piece of shit! The piece of layno doesn’t know the tournament! He should not be here.”

  “I played with him last night,” said Benjamin Curtis. “He won’t be for long. No offense, Sinatra. I think you and I are both punching out of our weight class.”

  “None taken. You say three players continue tomorrow? The format confuses me.”

  “This poker tournament is bigger than us nine players, Sinatra. There are twenty-seven players total. Three tables. Each table will produce three winners, and the tournament continues tomorrow with the nine finalists.”

  “Where are the other two tables?”

  Rocky Rickard answered the question. “One table here. A second at the Taj in Atlantic City. The other is underground in New York. Tomorrow’s game is held in Baltimore. But none of us amateurs will make it. It’ll be the two pros and the Ukrainian, I bet.”

  Oliver Wright cleared his throat and said, “Very possible, sir. And yet, perhaps the English will have a say before the day is done.”

  “So the total prize is twenty-seven million,” said Manny.

  Benjamin smacked him on the back again. “You got it. Now you see why I wanted to play.”

  He did.

  And if Curtis smacked him on the back again, he might forgo the investigation and arrest him on the spot.

  Beck sat by herself. She whispered, “Recognize anyone?”

  Manny heard the faint syllables through his ear piece and he nodded toward the Ukrainian.

  An hour into the game, he stood to stretch. He intended to speak with Beck privately but Ms. Waters intercepted him. The foxy and elderly woman took his hand and led him to the corner.

  Quietly she said, “Let them think we’re conspiring together. What delicious fun. But really, young man, we need to talk about serious matters a moment.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Varvara Petrov, the Russian girl.”

  “Yes?”

  “She says her husband was arrested this morning by an American agent. And this morning, in my bedroom, what did I see? You arresting Anatoly Petrov.”

  Manny made a ‘hmm’ sound. In his ear, he heard Beck grunt in surprise. Ms. Waters had a clear view under his alias.

  “Let’s be honest, love,” said the older woman, so soft. “Are you an American agent?”

  “If I am, you’re in trouble.” He said it with a smile and a wink. He’d been caught, and he knew charm often worked better than a lie.

  She squeezed his hand. “Maybe. If you are, you’re in trouble too, gorgeous.”

  In his ear, “Wow. The woman has something to hide. Strike a deal with her.”

  “I’m not an agent, mi amore,” Manny said, and he kissed Ms. Waters’s hand. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t be interested in you. Sí? Let’s only play poker.”

  “You’re not here for me? Keep my secrets and I’ll keep yours?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well. Good luck, my dear.” She patted his hand and returned to the table.

  A whisper in his ear. “I bet she’s the madam of a prostitution brothel. Nice evasion, Sinatra.”

  At the table of delicacies, he helped himself to slices of Kobe beef and a spread of caviar. Turning for the table, another woman intercepted him—Varvara Petrov.

  She used her thumb to wipe the corner of his mouth and she leaned close to whisper. How was her dress staying on? “The Ukrainian—Bagan. Make him mad enough and he will play poor. My husband, that was his plan. Da?”

  “Make him angry.�
��

  “Should not be hard. For you.”

  “Thank you.” Varvara stood close enough that Manny’s lips brushed her hair as he spoke. “I’ll take advantage.”

  “I hope you do. Play well, Sinatra.”

  He returned to the table, head spinning from keeping track of secrets.

  An hour into the tournament, the oil magnate lost. He played aggressively against Phil Ivey and fell into a trap. Ivey’s stack doubled and Sparks nodded to the table and left without a word. Minus a million dollars.

  Then there were eight.

  Two hours into the tournament, Manny was down. He was outclassed and he knew it. When his hand was good, the more skilled players bet him out. When his hand was great, they surrendered none of their stack. Bagan in particular reveled in pushing him around. He began with a million and dwindled to nine hundred thousand.

  He wasn’t there to win a poker tournament, however. He was there to investigate Benjamin Curtis, and the man remained an enigma. The governor vacillated between loquaciousness and silence, between commentary and concentration. His money swelled to a million and a half, dodging bad beats and swooping in for surprise victories. He glared at the table, betting confidently and getting his way, and then followed with a period of rest and passivity.

  Manny slid on his glasses with the special lens but he spied no marked cards. He took several photographs with the mini camera in the frame; he would sneak the data chip to Beck at the first opportunity.

  They finished hour three and the manager announced their final hand before a break.

  Ms. Waters, looking weary, bet half her stack.

  Maksym Bagan lazily counted out money and called her bet. He leered at her and said, “If I beat you? I get freebie.”

  “You beat me, dear, and I’ll have my girls poison you slowly.”

  The Ukrainian cackled.

  The next card came. Ms. Waters bet it all; Maksym Bagan pushed his money in the middle and turned over a full house—Ms. Waters was ruined. Her tournament was over.

  She stood slowly and pointed a finger at Maksym. “Don’t show your face at my door for at least a month.”

  The Ukrainian, drunk on victory, whistled and said, “I will pay triple the usual prices! I will pay your girls with your own money!”

  The table stood for a break, and the players complimented Ms. Waters on her play, salt in a fresh wound. She kissed Manny’s cheek on the way out. “Cut their throats, Sinatra,” she said.

  And then there were seven.

  13

  Manny turned for the restroom; Varvara caught his hand.

  “You must win,” she said, with as much of a purr as a Russian could manage. “Card game.”

  “I plan on it.”

  “I want to be wealthy. If you win, I will. Sex would help? Help relax and concentrate? We have time.”

  Manny cocked an eyebrow. Debated half an instant. Obviously the answer was no, but it’d be easier to verbalize if she was wearing a rain jacket.

  “Ask me again, señorita, after I win.”

  He bolted before she could protest. He was on the losing side of that argument—her offer overwhelmingly persuasive.

  The crowded men’s room was hushed, each player inside his own thoughts. He emerged and strolled to Beck.“You’re playing well, Sinatra,” she said.

  He slid the tiny microchip into her palm, the chip with photos taken from his eyeglasses. “Obviously. But they’re better than me.”

  She pocketed it and would upload the photos with her cellphone soon. “Spot anything unusual? With the governor?”

  “Yes.” He glanced around. They had little privacy. “Bursts of confidence and superior play. But I don’t know why. Or how.”

  “Neither do I. Maybe we should bust him and get out of here?”

  “I’ll forget you said that. We have a target-rich environment, Beck. Only lazy cowards would flee.”

  “I didn’t say flee…”

  Oliver Wright returned to the poker room and paused, fixing his cuffs. He nodded to them.

  “What business are you in, Señor Wright?” Sinatra indicated the bodyguard. “Amigos like your big bodyguard don’t come cheap.”

  “I kill people. Professionally,” said Mr. Wright. “Now and then, a second set of hands is helpful.”

  Manny ignored the hairs on his arm raising. “You must not be good at it.”

  “In fact it’s my precautions, sir, that put me at the top, I believe.”

  “Here on business?”

  “I am. Playing cards to pass the time before my…appointment.” He smiled beguilingly at Beck. “Of course I’m only jesting, madam.”

  “Hilarious,” she responded.

  Wright asked, “Did you venture outside to smoke?”

  “Smoke?”

  “Cigarettes, I mean.”

  Sinatra mystified. “You still jest. Look at these teeth, amigo. I don’t even allow them wine, much less a cigarette.”

  “Forgive me. You Americans and your tobacco. I assumed. But I see now, you are in possession of perfect smiles, beautiful creatures, the both of you.”

  “And your teeth? Don’t the English neglect dental hygiene?”

  “Not all of us, my friend.”

  “Forgive me. I assumed.”

  “Touché, Mr. Sinatra. I won’t underestimate you again.”

  “Perhaps you should be nice to the Englishman,” said Beck. “After all, he’s a professional assassin.”

  “Fret not. I’m not here for you. And if I kill Mr. Sinatra, it won’t be for harmless jokes. Good luck, sir.” Mr. Wright strolled back to his seat.

  Play resumed.

  Manny eyed the clock, calculating his stack. He was in second to last and he would need chips soon, else the blinds would raise high enough to absorb him.

  Phil Ivey remained comfortably in first. He sat next to Tom Dwan, and the two poker professionals maintained a constant mumble back and forth. Manny read their lips enough to know their discussion centered around friends and online poker site investments.

  An hour later, late in the afternoon, Rocky Rickard made a fatal error, bluffing at Oliver Wright. Mr. Wright put Rocky all in and scooped the chips.

  Rocky’s tournament was over. Clearly the table favorite, the players stood to shake his hand.

  He stopped by Manny last and said, “I’ll remain to watch. My date is hoping Mr. Sinatra doesn’t go broke and mortgage the company.”

  Polite laughter.

  In Manny’s ear, Beck whispered. “I sent the images to Weaver. She says poker cards are clean. No tinting or juice marking. If Curtis is cheating, he’s doing it some other way. And you’re running out of time.”

  Now that Rocky was out, Manny held the smallest stack. He was chum, bobbing helplessly in a pool with sharks. They knew it, he knew it.

  And then the winds of fortune shifted his way. He caught a flush on the turn, rising from five hundred thousand to six. Two hands later, he flopped a set and stole two hundred from Maksym Bagan. He remained in last, but now battled from a much more respectable position.

  Benjamin Curtis chattered on about luck and poker probabilities, and Manny was about to rise for a drink just to get free from the prattle when the governor’s mood changed—he swung his knees forward and tilted his head down and focused on the table.

  A new dealer arrived and spun them cards and Benjamin’s eyes danced about like a predator’s.

  What? What had changed? What did Manny miss?

  The bastard was cheating. But how?

  Manny propped his elbow on the table’s cushioned rim and leaned his cheek into his hand. A position of laziness but it allowed a natural view of Benjamin Curtis and his antics.

  In his periphery he scrutinized everything the governor did. Some hands Curtis glanced at and immediately tossed aside. Others he held onto longer as if waiting for some cue. The cheating was directly in front of him, yet Manny couldn’t spot it.

  Maddening.

  Slowly, over
the course of ten minutes, a fact coalesced in Manny’s mind, taking shape from a hundred unknown sources. The final hint was when Manny noted Benjamin Curtis never looked at the dealer. Or spoke to her. He kept his gaze fixated on the table…

  Manny shifted to stare at the point on the green felt the governor was fixated on. A blank spot not far from the automatic shuffler and the dealer’s hands.

  Then Manny knew.

  A revelation surfacing from the deep—he knew.

  The dealer was tipping the governor. Giving him hints about cards to come.

  That’s why Benjamin Curtis concentrated in thirty minute bursts, because the dealers rotated on half hour shifts. Not all of the dealers were in on the con.

  The dealer, a woman, gathered the cards and inserted them into the automated shuffler and received in return the fresh deck. She went around the table and sent two cards spinning to each of the six remaining players. Players looked at their cards and bet, and she directed the action, keeping the deck in her left hand.

  She clutched the deck actively, fingertips giving the cards minor massages. Subtle motions along the edges with her thumb and forefinger. What was she doing? It’d been going on for hours and Manny’d never noticed.

  In his ear, Beck and Rocky were whispering. Too much laughter out of Beck, in his opinion, making it hard for him to focus. He nonchalantly removed the earpiece and shoved it in his pocket, freeing his concentration.

  He wanted to shout at her, the pendejo is getting hints from the dealer! But he’d wait to tell her later.

  Somehow the dealer could discern which cards were coming, possibly by feeling the edges, and she relayed the information…

  There.

  She dealt fresh cards; she settled the deck in her palm; she carefully felt the edges like a blind woman reading braille; and lastly she patted the table. Such a natural motion no one would ever question it.

  Patting, that’s what Benjamin was focused on. Watching for the dealer to tap the table. The taps relayed information the governor could use. It could only help him so much, but any little advantage could swing the tides of a war.

  Fifteen minutes later, the dealer changed. A man sat down and Benjamin Curtis relaxed. By that time, Manny knew enough. Each hand, the woman had either made a fist, patted the table once, or patted the table twice. Intuition told Manny the signals meant: 1) nothing is coming, or 2) an Ace is coming, or 3) a King is coming.