Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2)

by Alan Lee

  Nothing else made sense. Such a simple system could only convey small bits of info, and those were the two most important cards.

  So if Benjamin had an Ace, and the dealer tapped the table twice…he knew he’d have at least a pair. Or if he had an Ace and she made a fist, he could anticipate no help.

  Same thing with Kings.

  These were guesses; he couldn’t know for sure. Manny needed to test the theory when the next corrupt dealer arrived.

  The game was afoot, the tournament truly beginning.

  14

  An hour later, Benjamin Curtis’s posture changed. From indifference to attentive. A new dealer had arrived.

  Ten minutes into the dealer’s shift, Manny’s chance came.

  His two cards slid across the table.

  Ace 10.

  His eyes shifted to the dealer. A man this time, shaved head, goatee. His left hand shifted the cards, inquisitive fingers searching the edges. Then a single pat.

  Manny’s guess…an Ace was coming.

  He tossed in fifty thousand, the current price to play. Soon the blinds would be so high he’d become irrelevant.

  Across the table, the Ukrainian raised. Made it $150,000.

  If Manny was wrong about his guess, his stack would be crippled. He matched the Ukrainian’s bet.

  The dealer laid the flop. Ace 7 2.

  No sigh of relief. No smile. Manny stayed calm. But he had a pair of Aces.

  He had $600,000 left.

  Maksym Bagan had over two million.

  Manny drummed his fingers and tossed in $100,000. Immediately he regretted it. A stupid bet. It wasn’t enough. Bagan raised him another $150,000.

  “Little boy playing cards,” said the arms dealer. He saw Manny’s hesitation, the fear. “Let me guess. You have…pocket Jacks? Maybe Queens? But then the Ace arrives and now…you are lost! Quit playing games with big boys.”

  Manny was out of time and money. Either he was right or wrong and it was too late for other options. He pushed all his money into the middle. He’d double his money or be broke. The tension at the table thickened.

  Bagan’s eyebrows pumped and he muttered in his native tongue.

  Benjamin Curtis leaned back in his chair and chuckled, and Mr. Wright made a whistling sound. “It appears the little boy has had enough of your mouth, Ukraine.”

  “Quiet, English. I am thinking,” said Bagan.

  Manny knew he’d won. The Ukrainian had been trying to push him around, but Manny had Aces and he’d been smart enough to bet big.

  A moment later, Bagan folded. The dealer shoveled a small mountain of chips to Manny—he had over a million.

  Pulse racing, he stacked his winnings with trembling fingers.

  Benjamin’s system wasn’t perfect, but clearly it could be used for an advantage. But only irregularly, and Manny was learning quickly enough to spot that the governor was bad. Without help, Curtis chased when he shouldn’t and lost more money than necessary. As the clock pounded against them, Curtis began sweating and cursing under his breath. If luck didn’t deliver him an Ace or King, then the dealer was no help.

  Hour six neared. Six players remained.

  Phil Ivey had two and a half million.

  Oliver Wright had two.

  Maksym Bagan one and a half million.

  Tom Dwan one million.

  Manny one million.

  Benjamin Curtis one million.

  The blinds were high enough that Manny, Curtis, and Tom would be incinerated within the next hour.

  The event manager called for dinner break.

  Manny grabbed the governor by the arm and hauled him from the room. Varvara and Curtis’s security detail followed but Manny brought him outside into the fading twilight, surreptitiously slipping his earpiece back in. The first stars twinkled in the east and smokers released fumes at the balcony. The air felt cool and wet.

  “Talk to me, amigo. You’re a mess. What’s wrong?”

  Curtis put his head down. “I can’t be seen out here, Sinatra.” Manny thought he might be crying.

  “Why not?”

  The governor glanced around and led him deeper into the shadows. Out of view, he gripped Manny’s arm with fingers that quaked. “I’m a damn mess, Sinatra.”

  “I see. Why?”

  “I need to win this tournament.”

  “Of course.”

  “No. I need it.”

  Manny nodded, watching Varvara and Kristen Terry mingle near the door. All of the smokers gaped at the Russian woman, and the men puffed their chests out of some ancient hunting and gathering instinct. Varvara decided the smoking balcony wasn’t worthy of her and she went inside with a scoff.

  But a scoff that could launch a thousand ships.

  “You’re in financial trouble, cabrón?”

  “You don’t know who I am, Sinatra. So I’ll tell you. I’m the governor of Maryland.”

  Manny faked mild shock. “A joke?”

  “No. I’m truly the governor. But…I’m also an asshole. I’m a prick who’s in a lot of debt, and this is basically my last chance, pal.”

  Manny nodded. “Before public humiliation.”

  “No. Before they kill me.”

  “Kill you?” He didn’t need to fake the shock this time. “Who?”

  Beck was listening. He heard her sharp inhalation in his ear.

  “Bigger assholes. I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s almost funny, you might be my best friend. All the others…they took off.”

  “Who are they?”

  Curtis said, “The worst of the worst. That’s why I’m stressed. My life’s on the line. Not that it’s worth a damn. I need to make the top three, pal.”

  “How much do you owe?”

  Curtis bent over at the waist, hands on his knees. Like talking about it hurt. “A lot. Millions. I borrowed money from the wrong people, made stupid investments, and lost money at the wrong games. I love poker. But maybe I’m no good at it. I swear, Sinatra, I swear this would be my last game. If I win. Or if I lose.”

  “You’re an American governor. The country won’t let loan sharks kill you, Curtis.”

  “My title doesn’t matter.”

  “America matters.”

  “Not to them.”

  Manny sniffed. “Then they haven’t met the right American.”

  “These aren’t simple loan sharks. These are the most powerful men in the world.”

  A muscle flexed in Manny’s jaw. “You in hock to the Kings?”

  “Yeah, District Kings. You’ve heard of them in Argentina or wherever the hell you said you’re from?”

  “I heard of them.”

  “My time was up a couple weeks ago. They said if they kill me, it sends a big time message to everyone. Kill me and humiliate by brother, the Vice President. Then everyone around the world would know, don’t mess with the Kings. I asked for time, told them if I win this tournament, or even get second, I’d have enough to pay the debts.” He raised up and fixed his jacket. Forced a smile. “They’re watching my car. Watching the exits. Waiting.”

  “Does your security know?”

  “Kristen? No. Well, some of it. She’s too good of a person to get caught up in this. I won’t tell her everything. Are you a praying man, Sinatra? Cause I could use some. Otherwise, later tonight, barring a miracle, I’ll be executed.”

  15

  Strange how quickly it changed for Manny.

  A moment ago, Benjamin Curtis had been Manny’s target; he had intended to arrest him that evening. Now? The governor was his responsibility. Keep the man safe.

  He didn’t care how corrupt Curtis was; thugs didn’t get to kill governors. This was America. His America.

  Beck in his ear, “I’m relaying the information to Weaver. Will report back soon. This is huge.”

  The two men walked to the poker room, whispering.

  “You win tonight. That buys you time. Right? And if you lose, you hide in my room. 707. Understand?”


  “You’re a pal, Sinatra. But they’ll kill you too.”

  “No they won’t.”

  “I’m a governor. I know how the system should work. And I’m telling you, there’s no hiding from these men.” Curtis’s voice came close to steady, but not quite. “Trust me. It’s bad.”

  “Trust me—you’ll get through this. Win the tournament. If you don’t? We’ll figure it out.”

  “Sinatra, you’re just a businessman from overseas. You can’t—”

  “Shut the hell up. I’m angry with you, señor.”

  In his ear, “I bet this casino and hotel is crawling with hired men for the Kings. The governor is a big time asset for them. Killing or extorting the brother of the Vice President is monumentally enterprising.”

  Manny set his jaw. Not if he killed them all.

  The six combatants returned to the battlefield and the poker game began again. Three more hours would decide the matter.

  Beck sat in the corner, erect and watchful, the game taking on an entirely different texture.

  Varvara reclined nearby, bored.

  The first man fell within minutes. Bagan was drunk and Oliver Wright needled him, pestering and insulting, doing so with manners and class, and Manny’s heart warmed to the Englishman. But Bagan fought back, playing foolishly, betting when he shouldn’t and suddenly he didn’t have enough chips to call the big blind. His cards came, the players called, he lost weakly, and his tournament ended.

  Bagan stood, eyes bleary. “Bastards. American scum. You cannot play the cards well. Without bad luck, I would win them all. Bastards.”

  “Excuse me?” said Mr. Wright. “I am English scum, thank you, sir.”

  The Ukrainian stormed out, unsteady on his feet.

  Five remained.

  Phil Ivey and Oliver Wright knew they’d won. They were so far in front, they could cruise to the top three without risk. Their tickets were punched to tomorrow’s final table.

  That left Manny, Benjamin Curtis, and Tom Dwan fighting for the third and final spot.

  Manny’s priorities had shifted—he needed to help the governor win. If the Kings were already here, waiting, the simplest solution was to buy him a twenty-four hour reprieve. Once his safety was guaranteed another day, Manny could coordinate with Weaver and her resources to find a solution.

  In his ear, “This is madness. Could the Kings really kill Benjamin Curtis? Why would they want to make themselves a target?”

  Manny knew why. Killing politicians happened all the time in other countries. The Kings were making a run at the big time. Maybe they even had dirt on the Vice President.

  Rocky Rickard returned to the poker room, walking around the table and congratulating the players making it this far. He squeezed Curtis’s shoulder and moved to sit with Beck, halting her nervous whispers.

  This deep in the tournament, the shorter stacks walked on tightropes. The blinds were big enough that the players didn’t want to expose their money unnecessarily. Only Tom Dwan was brave enough to make stabs, his calloused experience obvious.

  Benjamin Curtis was actively sweating.

  And Manny felt a drop roll down his ribs. He marveled at the governor’s composure for so many hours.

  The next dealer arrived. The governor hid a smile and righted his posture, ready to gamble. The woman from before, the unethical dealer. Vaguely Manny wondered how Benjamin Curtis had arranged the con beforehand; the dealers were taking terrible risks—they would go to jail if caught.

  Could Manny use the hidden signals to take out Tom Dwan? With Dwan out of the way, Manny could lose intentionally, gifting Benjamin Curtis the victory.

  First hand, the dealer made a fist—no help coming. A good thing because Manny didn’t hold Aces or Kings. He rivered a flush and took a modest sum off Dwan and Ivey.

  Eyeballing stacks, he calculated he was in third place, now barely ahead of Dwan and Curtis.

  New cards arrived.

  Manny peaked…

  9 9.

  A pair, a good starting hand. He called a hundred thousand. So did Dwan, so did the governor. Three players.

  The dealer belatedly patted the table once—an Ace was coming. Did the governor have one?

  The flop came. 9 Ace 9.

  Despite his outward calm, Manny was floored. He had quads. Four 9s. During Beck’s tutelage, she told him he would probably never have four of a kind. He’d played for hours and never seen it. It meant certain victory for him. Somehow this made him even more nervous. As he wondered how to get Dwan’s money, the professional raised. Dwan bet $200,000.

  Manny’s head spun. There was $500,000 in the middle and it was his turn to act. He wasn’t worried about losing——the poker gods had delivered him quads. How could he get the rest of Tom Dwan’s chips? That was the question.

  Relax, Manny. Calm down, amigo. Mantén la calma.

  By betting first, Dwan was signaling to the table that he was strong. Did Dwan have an Ace? Or was he bluffing? It was too late in the tournament to bluff.

  Manny couldn’t fold. His options were, he could simply match Dwan’s bet or he could raise. If Dwan was strong, he’d call Manny’s raise. If he was bluffing, Manny probably wouldn’t get much more out of him anyway.

  He glanced at his opponent. The man was casually shuffling his chips, looking bored. Playing it cool. Intuition told Manny that Tom had an Ace. If Manny bet big, Tom Dwan would call and lose and then Manny could help the governor win. Perfect. Easy, he could do that.

  Mind made up, Manny pushed all his chips in the middle. “I’m all-in,” he announced. He was coming for Tom Dwan.

  Then, disaster. With a grin, the governor said, “Me too. I’m all-in.”

  16

  Manny’s mind thundered.

  Idiot governor! Fool of a man. Manny ought to shoot Curtis himself, save the Kings the trouble. Manny meant to trap Tom Dwan but it was the governor who fell victim.

  Tom Dwan mumbled, “I got an Ace, but one of you has the nine. I fold.” And he tossed in his cards.

  Curtis, delirious with relief, said, “Sorry about this, Sinatra! I got lucky.” He revealed his hand—Ace Ace.

  The governor had TWO Aces, giving him a full house. An enormously good hand. But still not strong enough.

  Manny looked at his pocket 9s. Was it too late for him to fold? To grant the victory to Curtis?

  Manny wasn’t being careful with his cards and Benjamin Curtis saw them. The blood drained from his face. He whispered, “Holy shit, Sinatra. You have quads.”

  Tom Dwan chuckled. “Four nines? Damn.”

  Reluctantly Manny turned them over. The dealer finished the hand and pushed the mountain of money to Manny. The table in front of the governor was empty of chips. He’d lost.

  Manny ground his teeth. That had not gone according to plan. He was too angry to stack his chips.

  Face white, Benjamin stood. He remained at the table, wobbling, while the other players commiserated with his bad luck. For him, time was lurching in painful bursts, tearing loose from reality.

  Tom Dwan’s chip count was disastrously low. The next hand, he moved all-in and Oliver Wright finished him off. The tournament was concluded.

  The event manager declared Manny, Oliver Wright, and Phil Ivey the victors. They’d play again tomorrow.

  Rocky Rickard stood to congratulate them. Oliver and Phil made jokes.

  Manny was moving. He pulled Benjamin Curtis by the jacket collar through the rear door, down the hallway the waitress and dealers had been using, eschewing the main entrance, into the unseen utilitarian part of the hotel.

  “Sinatra, I—”

  “Keep your mouth shut, Governor.”

  “It’s no use.” A low moan. “I’m dead.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What about Kristen?”

  Manny produced his Glock.

  “If your bodyguard didn’t notice me kidnap you, amigo, she’s not worth her badge.”

  “Why do you have a gun?” asked Curtis.r />
  They moved down stark white passages, past off-duty dealers watching television in the cafeteria, past kitchens and storage closets, past churning laundry machines and gurgling water tanks. Manny navigated to the guest stairwell and shoved Benjamin Curtis ahead of him. Curtis stumbled forward like a zombie.

  “We’re going up the stairs,” said Manny, for the benefit of Beck. “To my room.”

  He heard her grunt of acknowledgement. She was still with Rocky.

  “Doesn’t matter,” groaned Curtis.

  Manny pushed and prodded the man to the seventh floor. Curtis arrived gasping and sweaty. Manny checked the hallway. Empty. Grabbed Curtis by the lapel and hauled him to 707. Opened the door with his keycard, pulled him inside, and closed it.

  “What now?” The governor flopped onto the bed like a corpse.

  “Now I’m in charge. And you remember you’re an American.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Everything. Means I’m on your side.”

  17

  Midnight.

  Manny and Beck stood on one side of guest room 707, arms crossed. Benjamin Curtis and Kristen Terry sat on the bed like guilty teenagers. Varvara preened in the bathroom in a towel. Her shower had lasted forty-five minutes. Her routine in front of the mirror had already eclipsed that number.

  The air conditioner hummed quietly and the television was tuned to a full screen aquarium.

  “Easiest thing to do would be send up the HRT guys.” Weaver’s voice emanated from the speakerphone set on the nightstand. “We have a squad at Quantico, thirty minutes away. They knock on your door and escort Governor Benjamin Curtis out. I don’t give a damn how many gunman the Kings have in the hotel, they wouldn’t risk that.”

  “No,” said Curtis, somewhere between firm conviction and a moan. “The Kings have assassins everywhere. Including the FBI. Government custody is not an option. Besides, the hotel is full of camera phones. I don’t care about me anymore, but my brother would be ruined if I’m escorted out and it becomes a public scandal.”