by Alan Lee
Rickard, bewildered, “You know him?”
“I do. Though he might not know me. I was in Naples recently.”
Rickard chuckled, a rich and infectious sound. “At the Gabbia Cremisi? You’re full of surprises, Señor Sinatra.”
“Me too, I was there too,” said Varvara, bouncing and delighted to be of relevance. “Our fighter died. So beautiful.”
“Gabbia Cremisi? The Crimson Cage?” asked Beck.
“A tournament in Naples. Bloodsport,” said Rickard, still holding her hand. “The Prince has won it before. He’s a legend.”
Manny said, “Governor, you piss off the Italians too?”
A tiny smile. “Not that I know of. The Prince and I should get along fine. Good hell, a miracle.”
The limousine turned north on Interstate 95, revving up to seventy-eight mph and leading a strange caravan— following close behind the limo, two luxury SUVs populated with Rocky Rickard’s colleagues; following them, a driverless Tesla obeying its programming and shadowing Manny’s phone.
And above it all, Weaver watching her agents through airborne cameras, wondering how she would explain this to the JFIC board of supervisors.
21
The limousine neared Baltimore and abandoned the interstate, navigating its way toward shipyards.
Manny asked, “Who are you, Rickard? Within the Kings, I mean. Got a title?”
“The District Kings are the syndicate of the future. A wide-flung network of connections, diversified and aggressive. I am merely one component.”
“You sit on the Board?”
“Are you familiar with the term consigliere?”
Manny nodded. “A consigliere is the powerful consultant to a crime boss in the Italian mob.”
“Think of me as an American version. I do not sit on the Board. I do not wish to—too many responsibilities, not enough creativity. But I often attend the meetings to provide counsel.”
“Who does Curtis owe money to?”
“Mmmm, think of them as a group of capos overseeing money lending on the East Coast.”
Capo. A minor boss, essentially, in charge of ‘soldiers.’ Not men Benjamin Curtis should be associating with.
Rocky Rickard cleared his throat and said, “Noelle Beck and Señor Martinez, we need to address the elephant in the car. You are federal agents. And I’m escorting you into a venue that does not welcome federal agents. You understand the consternation this is causing certain parties.”
“We aren’t here to bust an underground poker ring,” said Beck.
“I’ve vouched for you and guaranteed exactly that. In fact, according to our sources, you two shouldn’t be here. A marshal from Roanoke and a computer technician? On this particular mission which is breaking every conceivable governmental protocol imaginable? The only possibility that makes sense to me and to others is that you are part of a clandestine group which does not exist. It’s comforting to us that, should we kill you, the government will either deny your involvement or claim you went rogue.”
Benjamin Curtis inspected Manny and Beck with new appreciation. Varvara looked lost.
Rickard continued, “Another thing in your favor—the word of Mr. Hubert, the owner and operator of the Appalachian Palace, an illicit retreat in southern Virginia. He had Sinatra as his guest, and Sinatra has kept his word about not causing more problems than necessary for him. You two have the reputation of being reasonable. And yet…the consternation remains.”
Manny remained calm but the fact was he reveled in causing consternation in the hearts of the wicked. Might get that put on his tombstone.
“So here’s the solution, federal agents. Your identities must remain a secret. Those of us who know the truth will not reveal it, because it would put your life in danger and cause panic. Oliver Wright, if he recognized you last night, might correctly guess who you are, but hopefully not. You remain the owner and employee of World On A String. And finally…” Rickard dropped his gaze to his phone and read out two addresses. Beck recognized the first—it belonged to her parents in Utah. Manny knew the second—his house in Roanoke, home to the only people he loved. “If you betray our confidence, certain persons will be forced to break the rule of never involving family. That is the deal. Do you wish to continue?”
Beck’s face had lost color. “You’re threatening my mother and father.”
“Of course not. Not me, at least. It’s a warning from some truly disgusting people, whom I have the unfortunate privilege of working with. Play by their rules and you never have to worry. Of course, if you’d like to release the governor into my custody you can walk away and none of this ever happened…”
“Maybe it’s a good idea, Beck,” said Manny. “Maybe we drop you off and you come pick me up tonight. As you said, you joined NSA, not the Marshals.”
“And you’ll go into the lion’s den alone?”
“Not alone. He has me,” said Varvara, indicating herself with the champagne flute. “We are rich soon.”
Beck didn’t bother responding to the Russian. She said, “You go, I go, Sinatra.”
Sinatra pointed a finger at Rickard. “Tell your lions I’ll kill them if they blink.”
“Yes, you know how lions are—reasonable and easily swayed by threats, Señor Sinatra.” The limousine stopped and Rickard opened the door. “We are here.”
They stepped onto the gravel parking lot surrounding a large green warehouse. A newer structure, but just another ugly rectangle in the swarm of industry lining the Fort McHenry Channel. Salt, diesel, and sea bass hung in the air and the Patapsco River glimmered with brilliant sunlight beyond the channel. Ship bells clanged and forklifts howled in adjacent yards. Their warehouse was unique because no work was being done inside or out, and the lot was populated with luxury cars.
“Welcome to McHenry Casino,” said Rickard with a trace of pride. “Hidden in plain sight, its secrecy secured with frequent and substantial bribes. Significantly smaller than the MGM, yet more elite with almost as much money in play. Obey the rules and stay as long as you like. Any and all vices can be indulged if you bring enough gold.”
“Or win enough.”
“That’s the spirit, Sinatra! What a damned fine day this is shaping up to be. Wouldn’t you say, Governor Curtis? Come on, darling, adventure awaits.” He offered his arm and Beck took it. She wore her black cocktail dress and heels, pleased with her ability to walk steadily, and she had already slipped on her special glasses so they wouldn’t draw suspicion later at the poker table. They walked out from under the infinite blue, into the shadow of the warehouse, growing more gargantuan as they neared. Hydraulic doors parted, monitored by four armed guards, and they entered another world.
The warehouse rose three stories around a central open atrium. They stood inside a roofless and perfumed salon with views of the upper balconies. From his vantage, Manny saw active blackjack tables, roulette wheels, bars set up for horse race gambling, massage parlors, a cigar lounge…
Rickard patted him gently on the back. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? It’s heaven or hell, depending on your version of God.”
Attendants met them with warm towels—Manny’s had been embroidered with Sinatra. They were each given a lock box for their cellphone and handed a replacement phone in return, one that could make calls and send messages but was unable to take photographs or make recordings.
High above, the ceiling was translucent and the casino glowed with clean luminous daylight. The main level was open and crisscrossed with bridges and decorative streams and bright ornamental plants. Rickard led them out of the salon and across a gilded bridge that spanned a channel of running water, the stream’s dancing voice augmented with hidden speakers. They were watched by spectators sitting inside lounges in the corners, drinking wine and smoking something in elaborate hookahs. Fresh light spilled from the far side of the warehouse, where a magnificent yacht bobbed at anchor in a sheltered berth. A poker table was situated in the middle of the level, surrounded on all sides
by a moat.
A lavish and preposterously grand den of iniquity, hidden in plain sight. Manny’s mind reeled at the cost. The security alone…everywhere he looked he saw men in suits with radios and a firearm.
Rickard led them to the second level and showed them a billiards hall, a bar, an apothecary that provided any narcotic imaginable, rooms and showers which could be reserved for an hour at a time. Varvara tugged at Manny’s arm and said, “Yes. We take room. You need relax.”
He patted her hand and said, “Later, señorita,” and the Russian sniffed in frustration.
As they walked past busy poker tables on the third floor, Manny’s footsteps faltered. He took a second glance.
Rickard noted his curiosity. “You’re not seeing things, Señor Sinatra.”
“That Kevin Hart, the comedian? And…the guy from the television show?”
“Ray Romano,” said Rickard. “Avid players. They’re tuning up for a World Poker Tour event. Ben Affleck is somewhere around here too, I think.”
Manny shrugged. He’d prefer Matt Damon—Jason Bourne, a great American.
They found a private lounge on the second floor overlooking the central poker table below. Dealers arrived with cases of poker chips and began preparing the table.
A second group caught Manny’s eye as they prepped for the tournament—professional security, ten men. These weren’t guys with guns standing around for three hundred dollars a day; Manny knew Blackwater when he saw it, known now as Academi. The hulking men taking positions in the casino were all former special forces and marshals and SWAT, each the recipient of millions worth of governmental training, retired from service to chase serious money.
Manny recognized one from a stint training in Quantico, guy named Frank the Tank.
He indicated them with a tilt of his head and said, “Those guys are a grand a day, Señor Rickard.”
“Matter fact, I’m paying them five thousand each for twelve hours of service. Former Blackwater employees, dismissed for being too aggressive. A bargain. Call themselves Black Jacket.”
“You’re worried about trouble.”
“Worried? No. Anticipating it? Of course. Last year two players settled their dispute with a duel in our firing range, Maksym Bagan killing a drug lord from Colombia. The year before, two players were knifed at the table during a hand. The culprit earned a twenty-four month ban but he’s back—Louis Bernard, the French butcher I mentioned.”
“This is madness,” noted Beck.
Varvara shrugged. “This is like Russia.”
Soon a gong sounded and Rocky led the way to the main level, across the bridge, and to the poker platform. As they crossed the bridge, Manny noted small sharks curling and sliding through the water.
“Cute,” he said.
“It’s a closed system. Doesn’t let into the channel, of course,” said Rickard. “Purely for decoration.”
Manny paused briefly beside one of the Black Jacket guards, bull of a man with a shaved head. Manny pulled at his cuff, as if fixing it, and murmured, “Good to see you, Frank the Tank.”
Without looking at him or moving his lips, the large man replied, “Surprised you’re here, Maniac Manuel.”
“I’m not. Comprende? Name’s Sinatra.”
“Got it.”
“Gracias.”
“Don’t cause trouble, Sinatra. I’d hate to shoot you in the ass.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“No I wouldn’t.”
Nine players gathered around the table for introductions. Spotlights winked on and golden floor lamps activated. The balconies above lined with spectators, men and women wearing millions worth of fine attire.
To the surprise of Manny and Beck, Rocky Rickard accepted a microphone and welcomed everyone to the eighth annual McHenry Millions Tournament. Clearly the emcee.
He went around the table introducing players, each receiving polite applause.
“Ladies and gentleman, a final word before the cards fly. This year we’ve taken the precaution of bringing extra security. I personally hired a team known as Black Jacket. They’ve been paid by me to do one thing—preserve the game. As you know, each of the last several tournaments has been marred—or augmented, depending on your point of view—with violence. As a result, the game’s taken on a notorious reputation and our entries were down. If you cause trouble in the audience, or if one of the players disturbs the game, that will result in immediate expulsion. With force, if necessary. They obey no one except as the sanctity of the table demands it. The game must be preserved, at all costs. Even if that cost is you.” He finished with a flair and the crowd laughed.
Standing across the table from Manny, staring at him with a minor smirk and icy blue eyes, was Oliver Wright. His right hand was heavily bandaged, purple up to his wrist.
As the players took their seats, Manny said, “You had a rough evening, Englishman?”
“A minor thing, Mr. Sinatra. I was having a bit of fun and got careless. Next time, I won’t make any bloody mistakes.”
“Next time? I’d be careful or next time might be your last, with that busted hand.”
“Easy to work around. Successful men must be resourceful. At the poker table and in life.”
“Maybe the pain relievers are dampening your judgment.”
“No concern there. Thanks to my time in service of Her Majesty, I have sensory neuropathy over much of my body, especially the right side.”
“Neuro…what? Like a tattoo?” said Manny.
A smile. “I do not feel pain.”
“That cannot be true.”
“It is.”
“I’d like to put that to the test.”
“I am taking antibiotics to prevent infection, that is all. You should worry more about yourself, I believe, sir, and less about me.”
Two women made it to the final and by luck of the draw Manny was situated between them. Miami Tyler, the New York heiress, a shockingly attractive brunette—one of her parents was Hispanic, thought Manny, maybe Puerto Rican—but she wasn’t his type; too perfect and fake. And Jennifer Harmon, a blonde poker professional who seemed close friends with Phil Ivey.
Beyond her, a man—some businessman from overseas, Manny already forgot his name.
Next to Oliver Wright, a giant. An enormous Japanese man who looked every inch the sumo wrestler. Had to be Hinata, whom Rickard had mentioned played poker professionally.
Next to him, Louis Bernard, the French butcher.
Finally, the Prince. Darkly handsome and swarthy, perfect posture, deliberate motions, brilliant smile. Trim and strong, like a blade.
A den full of lions.
What would happen if Manny told them they were all under arrest?
22
Cards slid across felt.
The game began.
Manny counted chips, his winnings from yesterday. Just over three million, average for the table. Three million dollars and twelve hours to save the governor’s life.
He noted Benjamin Curtis sat with Varvara and Beck in a lounge on the second floor. Nearby, men watched the governor, almost certainly soldiers for the Kings’ financial capos; there would be no jailbreak for him.
The blonde to his right, Jennifer Harmon, was dropping chips from her right hand into her left. She said, “You’re the late entry, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“I talked to Tom and heard about your quads on the flop. Nice catch.”
“Lucky catch, you mean, señorita. Otherwise he’d be here.”
“Oh, he’s here. Playing on the top floor. He’s rooting for you; says you’ve got style. And by the way, often it’s better to be lucky than good.
“I’ll need both today.”
The woman on his other side, Miami, set down her drink and stirred it with a straw. She wore glasses indoors but she lowered them to speak with Manny. “Gorgeous, how are you?”
“I’m in last, I think.”
“We shopped and worked together. Do you rem
ember?”
Manny grinned. “We did?”
“Of course, you animal. I never forget a face like yours, or those shoulders. At Dior Men and Burberry in France. You were with…what’s his name, I can’t recall.”
Manny made up a name. “François.”
“Yes, François. We drank too much. Still modeling?”
“Who has the time.”
“If anything, you’ve gotten even more perfect. Stay sexy and good luck.”
“You too.”
Celebrity debutants. Vapid drunk liars, all of them.
Manny stayed out of the action, watching better players crash into each other. There could only be so many alphas at a table, and Manny knew when it came to cards he wasn’t one. Hinata the sumo wrestler and Louis the French butcher played aggressively, both loudly proclaiming themselves lions through their actions. But winning took more than boisterous aggression, because Phil Ivey was the best and he sat quietly.
Thirty minutes into the game, as dealers rotated, the Prince leaned lazily backwards and called, “Signore Rickard, your scary men with guns. What will they do if, say, I kill a player in the tournament?”
Rocky Rickard was sitting nearby talking with another official. He called, “Signore Principe, the scary men might execute you in return!”
“Ah, I see.” The Prince glanced at the galleries lining balconies above and he grinned, drawing laughter. “And what happens if I kill a player right after he loses?”
“You made enemies already today, O Principe?”
“No no, signore, only curious.”
“After a player has busted from the McHenry Millions, they are no longer under the protection of Black Jacket.”
“Molto buona! Grazie, Signore Rickard. Your scary men, they give me the shivers, no?”
“Then stay on your best behavior.”
“Sì, yes, as you say, of course.”
Manny, shuffling his chips, asked the swarthy Italian, “How are your injuries, Signore Prince?”
“Injuries?” The man arched a thick eyebrow.
“I was in Naples earlier this year.”
