Confidence Tricks

by Tamara Morgan

  She rapped the secret knock, Morse code for booty, on the back door, another of Asprey’s many ideas for making the night feel more authentic. A rough-looking cook with a greasy apron and even greasier face opened the door. As she stepped through, his gaze wandered over every inch of her like she was a rack of lamb he was about to hack into tiny pieces and roast.

  The cook thumbed over his shoulder to a door near the far end of the kitchen. It was shut, but there was a hole punched at about face level. “It’s through there. You sure you ain’t here to take a turn on the stage, honey?”

  Poppy smiled sweetly and tugged on Todd, moving in the direction of the poker game. “Isn’t that nice, doll? He thinks I could be a dancer.”

  They picked their way carefully past fallen, slimy pieces of lettuce. While the cleaning left a little to be desired, the total effect worked. In fact, the closer they got to the door, the less interested in her Todd got. He was like a kid dragging an unwilling parent to see Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny—eager and excited and clueless that none of it was real.

  This time, he took the reins, tapping on the door in the same ridiculously long and drawn out booty beat from before.

  “Enter.”

  They did.

  The space they’d rented for the evening was little more than a pantry off the kitchen. Windowless and small, it had been cleared of the metal shelves and food, but the unmistakable scent of rotting produce still filled the air. If they were going for authentic backroom gaming according to every bad movie ever made, which seemed about right, they’d definitely hit their mark.

  The room swirled with a smoky haze that made it difficult to draw a deep breath and obscured the already dim lighting from a single overhead bulb. A banged-up poker table stood in one corner; the other held an old meat counter covered with a broken television set, a handful of gold jewelry, and various dusty knickknacks that might have come from either a 1960s kitchen or a modern-day torture chamber.

  About ten bottles of alcohol sat in a red crate near the door, and there were also a few cardboard boxes clearly labeled with a biohazard sign. Overall, the effect was one of absolute depravity—the kind of place only the bravest soul would take a black light to. Poppy almost felt home again.

  “Rufio!” she cried warmly, offering Asprey her arms. He rose smoothly, taking her hands and planting a kiss on either cheek. She saw his eyes flick quickly over her—she wore a tiny silver dress this time—before settling on her face. Good boy.

  “Thank you for squeezing us into your game. It means a lot to us.”

  “There is always a place for you.” Asprey ignored the us part of the comment and zeroed in entirely on her. She’d have been lying if she said the words didn’t make her feel surprisingly buoyant and tingly.

  She forced herself to look away and examine the room’s inhabitants. The mobster persona wasn’t that much of a stretch for Graff, who pretty much played his normal surly self, though with a slightly more sinister air.

  There were two other men there, and Poppy instantly approved. Asprey had promised he had a few friends from college who would unquestioningly follow him through the pits of hell and into any illicit activity in which breaking the law played a primary part. If Poppy had her doubts, she released them now. The two men he’d recruited were youngish, average guys who looked like they lived off trust funds, the kind of guys sinister gangsters might invite to a friendly game of poker in order to fleece the wool from off their backs.

  She met Asprey’s eye, nodding just once to note her approval. This might actually work.

  Then she saw Todd, and doubt settled firmly in the pit of her stomach.

  She knew quite a bit about this man—much more than she cared to, really. He seemed to lack the basic understanding of how lips could be put together to share a kiss that curled a woman’s toes. He rarely talked about work but loved to mention money—especially how much he had of it and what famous people he’d encountered along the path to riches. His huge house reeked of ecologically destructive hardwoods, and mirrors seemed to appear on every other wall, but there were no indications that his house was anything approaching a home. And unless you knew what he’d done to people like her grandmother, he seemed like every other bland, middle aged man who knew finance but lacked intelligence or skills of any other kind.

  But Todd at a poker table with two supposedly notorious mobsters? He looked like he knew more about this than the rest of them combined.

  “Thank you,” he said coolly, taking Asprey’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “As Natalie says, it was generous of you to allow me in. I take it you men are regulars here?”

  “It’s no problem,” Asprey returned, not the least bit ruffled. “We love new faces, don’t we, Drago? Please, let’s make the introductions.”

  “I’d rather we didn’t, if you don’t mind.” Todd took the seat offered to him—to the right of Graff, a spot that had been prearranged so Graff could keep an eye on the older man’s movements. “I believe the less we know about one another, the better. Am I right, gentlemen?”

  Asprey’s two friends nodded and murmured noncommittal responses, both of them looking a little wide-eyed at the way Todd appraised the pair of them. Poppy strove to make up for his rudeness, smiling warmly and offering her hand.

  “Are you playing, Natalie, or are you just going to stand there and get in the way?” Todd interrupted.

  Startled, she looked to Graff. Since he was the one rigging the deck to make sure Todd won, it was up to him whether or not she needed to add to the numbers at the table. He shook his head briefly.

  “Little old me?” she asked, adding a throaty laugh and tossing her hair. “You men are far too much for me to handle on my own. I’ll be the good luck charm—and you let me know if one of you gets thirsty.”

  “Why don’t you sit by me, gorgeous,” one of the extra players said, patting the folding chair next to him. The way he waggled his eyebrows at her indicated he meant no harm. “I always appreciate a chance to get lucky.”

  She peeked through lowered eyelashes to see if Todd cared whether or not she abandoned him to the game, but she might as well have ceased to exist, for all he noticed. He’d even pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses and was testing the light.

  “Thanks,” Poppy said gratefully. She took the seat, her back to the wall so she could at least see the door, as Graff gruffly called out the stakes.

  “We’ll keep this simple, yes?” Graff asked, looking to Todd. The latter man was busy arranging the enormous pile of colorful chips that Asprey placed in front of him in exchange for a fat roll of bills. A fat roll of bills that probably equaled a real pearl-and-diamond necklace, thank you very much.

  “Buy-in is ten thousand, minimum bet is set at a hundred. The game is five card stud—no exceptions.”

  The men murmured their consent.

  “This is my game, and we play by my rules. You want to stake against Drago, you keep your mouth shut and your hands up. Got it?”

  Even Poppy found herself nodding in agreement. The only sounds beyond the distant shouts of drunken revelry inside the bar were the clack of the clay chips and the soft rustle of the worn felt-top table. She wasn’t sure where Asprey and Graff had gotten all the props, but now that it was night and the poker chips fell, the room really looked and felt like the kind of place where men lost fortunes and possibly their lives. Goose bumps—the kind that sprang of a spooky awareness that she was nearer her goals than ever before—made an appearance on her arms.

  Graff laughed then, a rough bark that made all five of them jump. “And relax! This is a game for family and friends. Have fun.”

  Asprey moved to sit next to him, clearly flashing his piece as he went. Poppy prayed it was yet another prop. She seriously didn’t trust those men around guns. They’d probably shoot their feet off if given half a chance.

  The message was pretty clear, though—she would at least give them that. Have fun…but not too much. And keep your hands where they co
uld see them.

  Poppy might not have been there, for all she played a role in the proceedings over the next few hours. She watched for a while, but there was only so much a person could take of men swelling up in their own egos. Because that was what they did—all of them. Asprey and Graff barked out orders and insults, while the other two men tried to one-up each other with their bluffs.

  Todd, at least, played it cool. He’d started winning almost from the start, growing quieter and more intent with each chip added to his stack.

  If she hadn’t known Graff was signaling with Asprey through the placement of their chips on the table, there would have been no way to tell the game was rigged. When Graff dealt, his hands moved swift and sure, not once faltering over the cards he pulled from the bottom. From the looks of things, he and Asprey also fell back on soft play every now and then, betting heavy and then letting Todd take the pot.

  She got up a few times to pour drinks and check the exits, and once even got up the courage to explore the main bar area of the club, ironically, for some air. The dank aura of decades of piss and sweat was better than that back room, but once the stripper, who looked to be all of eighteen years old, started flossing with her thong, Poppy gave up. Some things couldn’t be unseen.

  Asprey’s friends drank too much and slipped out of their sleaze-bag characters a few times, but the real winning moment of the night occurred when Asprey’s mustache fell into his glass. It was his own stupid fault—one second, he was fondling it like some sort of old-time villain, and the next, it had plunked into a glass of the watered-down scotch she was serving, bobbing there like a drowned caterpillar.

  Asprey clapped a hand over his face, his gaze meeting Poppy’s over the heads of the poker players. Do something, he seemed to say. Save me.

  So she screamed.

  “What?” The two extra men shot up out of their seats, ready to come to her aid. Graff reached for Asprey’s gun. And Todd put his hands over his chips, protecting them from whatever it was that had caused Poppy to release such a bloodcurdling sound. Only Asprey remained unmoved, flashing a grateful smile as he fished the mustache out of his glass and excused himself from the room.

  “A rat!” she cried, jumping onto the nearest chair. “In the corner—he was as big as my head. Kill him. Kill him!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Natalie,” Todd said, not moving from his protective huddle over the table. “Control yourself.”

  “Did you see where he went?” one of the other men asked, preparing to come to her aid.

  “I hate rats,” she wailed, ignoring them both and shuddering dramatically. “Those eyes. Those tails.”

  Her rescuer made a big show of looking for the rat, using the long end of a dirty mop to poke in the corners for any sign of the creature. Poppy was pretty sure he dislodged about ten actual rats in the process, but she allowed herself to be helped down on shaky, feminine legs.

  “You’re sure it’s gone?” she asked, feigning disgust.

  “Sit down,” Todd barked.

  Asprey chose that moment to breeze back into the room, mustache fully attached, if a little askew. “My cousin, she overreacts.” He shrugged and smiled, like a parent apologizing for a temper tantrum in the grocery store. “Shall we continue?”

  “Yes,” Todd said firmly.

  The game didn’t last much longer after that. Poppy worked at becoming Most Annoying Woman ever, dropping wide hints about the Bubonic Plague and fleas and the scientific likelihood of rats acting as carriers for the zombie apocalypse.

  “I once heard the chupacabra is actually a breed of rat that has mutated and grown to be the size of a dog,” Poppy added, rattling off facts that existed only in her imagination. “People sometimes mistake them for pets, and there have been three cases this year alone of owners getting their faces eaten off while they slept.”

  Across the table, Asprey choked on his drink.

  “Todd, doll, do you think a rat would eat a human face? Or are they mostly vegetarian?”

  When he turned to face her, there was a snarl on his lips. “Do you want to go wait in the car? Where it’s safe?”

  She smiled brightly and hugged his arm. “That’s a good idea. I think I’m ready to go home.”

  Taking the cue, Asprey rose from the table, kicking at an empty cage with little white feathers poking out the bottom. “Natalie is right, as always,” he said. “The night grows late, and my luck strikes again. I’m going to walk away with nothing.”

  He whirled on Todd, his eyes narrowed and intense for a beat too long. Then he smiled and stuck out his hand, all icy cool and polite. Even Poppy got a little shiver, watching him. “It was good to play with you. You get to take my luck, my cousin and my money home with you. I think this means you win. For today.”

  Todd made a big show of getting up from the table and thanking each man individually for a great game. When he reached Graff, he nodded once, as if that that motion contained some meaning beyond I’m-a-middle-aged-jerk-who-thinks-he’s-badass.

  “We will meet again soon, I think,” Graff said vaguely, motioning for Todd to join him at the meat counter. Poppy could hear their low murmurs as Todd’s winnings were counted out.

  “How much did you let him take?” Poppy asked under her breath, watching the two men make their transaction.

  Asprey thought for a moment. “Probably close to thirty, by my count. I lost track there at the end, though. You don’t want to know what the stripper out front gave me to hold this mustache on.”

  Poppy laughed softly. “And by thirty you mean…”

  “Thirty thousand. Give or take a few g’s.”

  Say what? That couldn’t be right. “Are you kidding me? Not in real money?”

  “No,” Asprey replied. “In Monopoly money. Hopefully he won’t notice that most of it is bright orange.”

  She nudged him with her hip, but she was far from feeling playful. That was way more than she’d expected them to lay out. “You can’t really let him walk out the door with that. What if he bolts?”

  “Then I guess you’re in trouble.” Asprey grinned as he said the words, his eyes flashing. Poppy had the distinct impression that he might be willing to lose that kind of money just to have the upper hand.

  “And Graff is okay with this?”

  “It’s not Graff’s decision to make.” He shrugged. “I can be very convincing when I need to be. Don’t tell anyone—it’s my superpower.”

  That’s one hell of a superpower. Thirty thousand dollars dropped like it was nothing, like he picked it up with his dry cleaning.

  What a luxury that must be.

  “Don’t worry, Poppy,” he added, his hand coming up to brush her cheek. It was a quick movement, almost hidden, a stolen caress in the middle of a dung heap of a room with her mark just a few feet away. “We’ll get it back. It’s just the bait. This is only the beginning.”

  The beginning of what? she wanted to ask, but there wasn’t time. Todd and Graff completed their transaction, the latter moving to stand menacingly by the door, the former taking his place at Poppy’s side. Her conversation with Asprey would have to wait.

  For the first time that evening, a worried look puckered Asprey’s brow. Like all of his facial movements, it was heavily lined and emphasized, a map of emotions he neither attempted nor cared to hide. “Should I walk you out?”

  Her heart sputtered.

  He was worried about her. Asprey Charles, a man she had no doubts she could take out in less than ten seconds, felt concerned she might not be able to handle herself on the way to the parking lot with Todd, a man she had no doubts she could take out in less than five seconds. These men had no idea who they were dealing with.

  She smiled brightly, latching on to Todd’s arm, trying not to notice the bulge in his pocket. She knew that bulge. It was wads of cash. “No need. I’ll see you around, Rufio. If I were you, I’d take care of the rat situation.”

  At her mention of the rats, Todd stiffened, remembering the role
she’d played in bringing the evening to an early end. He didn’t mention it as they moved through the kitchen, though, instead giving her hand an almost paternal pat.

  “I think they liked me. Do you think they liked me?”

  “They don’t like anyone,” Poppy said, waving a cheerful farewell to the surly cook as they left. “Especially when they lose.”

  “The one with the face—that Drago character—said we’d meet again. I think he wants me to play another time. Do you think you could get them to invite me?”

  “I might,” Poppy replied, feigning thoughtfulness as they reached the parking lot. It was probably close to three in the morning, but this part of town was full of outdoor activity—the kind that involved slinking along the streets in search of the darkest alley. “But it’s not a good idea. You don’t know these guys like I do—they don’t take losing lightly. If you play again, it’ll be higher stakes and a lot more competition. It’s not just a game with them.”

  As she expected, Todd practically vibrated with excitement. “Do it for me, Natalie, please? Just drop a casual word when you can.” He paused and offered her a kiss. She accepted it, but it was obvious neither one of them felt anything as lips met lips, so far from a sizzle they might have been shaking hands. It was a comforting sensation. Any sexual promise Poppy contained just hours earlier had been replaced by the high of the poker game and the promise of things to come.

  It was a promise Todd was desperate to cash in on. He lowered his voice and added, “I think we have a good thing going here, you and me.”

  The words carried the kind of meaning every woman dreamed of. A good thing. A future together. Untold riches. Even better, someone to share them with.

  Too bad it was the wrong man—and the wrong woman. Poppy didn’t want any plans for the future beyond her own freedom.

  She smiled and said a vague good night, slipping into her own car, which she’d insisted on driving to the game. She’d have bet the full thirty thousand dollars that she’d have a text from him in the morning, asking her to contact her cousin for the higher-stakes game.