Panic flooded over me when I got out of the car. I felt like I was walking into an ambush, or into a meeting of local crime lords. Either way, I understand why the owner, one Alfred Jacobs, wired ten thousand dollars into my account before I made the trip. Whatever he was into, the missing people must've been affecting business.
I walked up an asphalt ramp, the yellow paint barely visible underneath the layers of dirt and grass growing from the cracks. The conditions of the pavement deteriorated the closer I got to the building though the area around the door was in slightly better shape. I looked around for a way inside the building. The only thing resembling an entrance I saw was an outline of a man door in the middle of one of the plates. Not seeing any other options, I knocked on the door hard, hoping someone answered.
"This can't be the entrance," I said, looking around one last time. "Where'd they put the handles?"
The door creaked open slowly, a man stuck his tattooed bald head around the corner. His body was unassuming for the role I expected him to have at the building. He had a small frame, not one ounce of fat on his head, unless it was hiding under his thick leather coat. There certainly wasn't any to be seen through his tight blue jeans. "Can I help you?" he barked, looking me over.
"I'm here to see Alfred Jacobs," I said.
He looked me over one last time before laughing. "He must be getting desperate if he is inviting people like you here."
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
He pointed out to the parking lot, specifically to the one car that didn't fit in the sea of expensive cars. My blue Ford Edge wouldn't have fit in much better, even with it being a dozen years newer. Stacy was using that car for now, having taken the train from Omaha back to Denver to pick it up for me. She left me with the keys to her Honda so we could make the trip to the meeting. I half expected the car to break down a dozen times on the way, but it chugged along, never skipping a beat. If I wasn't against buying a foreign car, I would consider buying one of them. I certainly wouldn't talk anyone else out of getting one though.
"He's expecting me," I said, handing him my business card. My real business card, the one that has me titled as a paranormal investigator. A fact he must have found funny because he was on the ground, balled up laughing shortly after reading it.
After a minute of his rudeness, I decided it was time to take drastic measures. Usually I want to be discreet with my magic unless I don't have another choice. After narrowly escaped a run-in with the council with my powers once this week, I really didn't want to jeopardize myself this early, but there wasn't another choice. If he wasn't going to let me in, I had to do it the hard way.
With the bouncer still doubled over laughing, I breathed in deep, filling my reserves. Guys like him may be touch, but it isn't always necessary to take them down in a barroom style fist fight. In fact, the best solution I have is one that relies on one move. A simple hand to his forehead.
"You can go through," I said, doing a magical push.
The moment my hand touched his head, it jerked up to start at me. He lowered his eyebrows and balled his fists, telling me he didn't like my touch. But after a few seconds his expression faded and he gave me the response I was looking for.
"You can go through," he said, pushing himself up. "Just don't expect me to give you a hug when they clean out your bank account."
"I'll try not to cry too loud," I said, walking inside.
The first room I walked into was the type of room you would've expected in a place like this. It was a moderate sided rectangular room that I imagined doubled over as a break room when the place was operational. On the wall in the corner you could almost make out a brown stain that looked like it may have been caused by someone overflowing the coffee pot a few dozen times.
Two steps into the next room, however, the difference became clear.
I walked through a dozen strands of beads hanging in the doorway, the only barrier to the room beyond. The moment I saw them I half expected to see a stage full of strippers though the lack of music left that in question. What I did see, surprised me just as much.
From one wall to the others there were nearly a hundred poker tables lined across the abandoned warehouse, all full of people. Not all of the tables were full, but there were enough people at each to keep things moving. From here I could tell they weren't playing your standard five-card stud. No sir, they were playing the game I play any time I know I can get away with it.
Texas Hold'em.
I walked to the closest table to watch the action as it heated up. I strolled casually behind a guy wearing a large white cowboy hat, brown vest over a blue buttoned up shirt and a pair of blue jeans smoking a rather pungent cigar. He slapped the table vigorously, obviously excited with the flop. Part of me wanted to use essence to see what cards he has, but I pushed back the thought. I just find it hard to get excited with a two, six, and jack on the table. Especially with none of them suited. Either he was sitting on pocket aces and loved not seeing much that could murder him out, or he was the boisterous type. He didn't make me wait for my answer as he cheered when the dealer played the turn.
The card was a five of hearts, suiting up with the two on the table.
I looked across the table at the only man left in the pot. He was an older gentleman, easily in his sixties wearing a long sleeve flannel shirt and a pair of khakis. Out of all the men at the table, he looked to be the odd man out by the way he dressed, but his stack of chips was second only to Tex and his cigar. I could tell by looking at the man, he got in way too deep early in the hand and had no other choice than to sit and wait on the river. A surefire sign he wasn't good at playing the game.
"I should've milked you for more," Tex said, rubbing his hands together in excitement.
"Ace of hearts," the dealer said, placing the river card on the table.
"Well, been nice knowing you Winston," Tex said, laughing. "Tell your lovely wife she can come to my place for vacation this year since you can't afford it now." He bent over and pushed the rest of his chips in the pot. An amount nearly double what Winston had left on the table.
When the big man reached down to turn his cards, ole Winston's face lit up like a chimney as he pushed the rest of his chips into the pile.
"You've got to be kidding me," Tex said, laughing hard. "How can you call on that?" He turned his card over revealing the hand I expected all along. Pocket aces, giving him trips. A solid hand that wins its fair share of games. Usually long before now though. If Winston called, he had to have something big.
"Thanks for the new beach house, Tom," Winston said, clapping and dancing. After a few seconds he bent down to turn his cards. My jaw nearly hit the floor when I saw his hole cards. The three and four of hearts. The old bastard hid a straight flush on the river, something I've never seen happen in my life. Even after logging a few hundred hours at the tables. The dealer's eyes widened when he noticed the results of the hand. He stood up with the others nearby, joining in the applause when Winston raked his winnings.
"I've had enough of this place," Tom said, taking what was left of his chips before storming away. I would've been upset if I lost to that trash too. Winston should've folded that hand the moment it was dealt.
"Lucky draw," I said, taking Tom's seat. "You always play that hand?"
"First time," he said. "I had a hunch."
"You risked everything you had on a hunch?"
He nodded as he placed his chips into three plastic trays. "I knew I would catch him one day."
I shook my head thinking about testing that theory with such a junk hand. By all rights, Tom should have picked him clean. There are times when I love the game, but after a draw like that, this wasn't one of them.
"Fifty thousand buy-in," the dealer said, waiting to see my chips or my cash.
"Oh," I said, standing up. "I'm here for an appointment. Was supposed to meet an Alfred Jacobs out front."
"Thought that might be you," I heard when I felt the hand touch my shoulder. "
You a player?"
I turned around to regard Mr. Jacobs for the first time. He was a well dressed man, wearing a bright red suit with a matching tie, over a pink shirt. He wore a pair of circular bifocals on his face and an oval bowler hat on his head.
"When I can," I said. "Nothing this real though."
Alfred smiled. "To these people, this is nothing but play money." By that, I assumed he meant it felt the same as me playing a game of penny-ante poker with the college kids. Anything more than about fifty bucks would hardly be play money to me.
"I don't get it though. Why would they play here?"
"All the benefits of a high stakes game of poker without having to walk into a busy casino. Not to mention, I don't send them calls or mail either."
I looked around the room one more time, not seeing many empty chairs. "Place always this busy?"
"The right clientele makes all the difference," he said.
"I see," I said, getting to my feet. "You have someplace quiet to talk?"
He nodded. "Follow me."
- 5 -
He led me through the mass of tables spread across the room to a narrow corridor in the back of the warehouse. We went down the hall and through another wall of beads hiding an office door. His, judging from the name plate hanging on the front of the dark brown door.
"So, tell me, what's been going on?" I asked as we walked through the door.
The office was decorated similar to the one I had back home. There was a desk in the middle of the room with a large, wooden executive table close behind it. On my side of the desk was a pair of padded chairs that were perfect for consulting with his clients. Behind him was a bookcase that had every shelf loaded with various business and self-help books. One shelf stood out amongst the others as it was empty, except for a small glass of water. The walls were decorated with paintings, easily three on each wall, none of them drew me personally. On the east wall there was a singular window well covered by a damaged set of mini-blinds that were easily six inches too wide. Through the cracks I could tell the glass was painted though I couldn't figure out why.
"Two weeks ago, one of my clients came up missing not long after leaving here," he said, taking a seat in his black executive chair.
"Did he draw any attention?" I asked. "Like Winston did earlier?"
"Not that I saw." He opened the middle drawer in his desk and pulled out a single yellow piece of paper and handed it across the desk. Across the top there was a large image of a poker table complete with a smiling dealer. The bottom was more direct having images of a royal flush in spades. In the center of the flier there were only a few words to tell what it was for. They were simply:
Backstreet Gentleman's Club - High Stakes Poker for High Stakes Players
"It's not uncommon for someone to drop, or win, a few million a night in here."
My mind tried to process the information, but I couldn't believe it. I would go ballistic if I dropped a hundred in a night, and he was telling me it was normal for people to lose ten thousand times that. Different strokes, I guess, but it still blew my mind.
"How long have you been in business?"
"I've had this place open for nearly six years now," he said, putting a finger to his lower lip. "Why do you ask?"
"Standard question," I said. "In order to come up with a list of suspects, I need to know how long the place has been around. As of now, I have to consider the possibility that someone is using your business to target these people. Do you keep a detailed list of the people that frequent the club?"
He nodded. "Every person who walks through that door has to pay a yearly fee. That is how this place remains in business." That made sense. Out in the club he would profit primarily on alcohol sales at the bar, but the list would allow him to send off other advertisements off in case there was something special going on.
"Was that the first time someone has come up missing after leaving here?" I asked, pulling out the yellow notepad I keep in my left front pocket.
"Well," he hesitated. "No."
"Then when was the first?" I stared at him intently, looking for obvious signs of hesitation. If he wasn't willing to give me this information, I was going to need to get it on my own. I expected him to give me an answer, but I was preparing for a lie.
He pulls a laptop out of another desk drawer and pulls up a local news story from four years ago.
Local Millionaire, Carl Ludwig Commits Suicide - April 9th, 2011
I didn't take the time to read through the article other than to see they found him with both of his wrists cut open. There wasn't confirmation in the report, but it was said they found him with the knife still in his hand. The story from there was irrelevant. Once news outlets call something a suicide, they don't tend to rebuke the information unless there was solid proof otherwise. Even then, they tend to just move on, leaving the truth hidden behind their false reporting.
"He had a rough night," Alfred said, sitting back in his chair. "Probably dropped close to two million that night. I'd wager he lost close to the same amount each of the previous two."
"You're telling me, he lost over two million dollars in two nights, and came back a third night to lose even more?"
"The people that come here are like that," he said, smiling. "Carl won nearly ten million dollars the week before. When he left here on April 9th, he was in a good mood, stopping at the bar to buy everyone a round."
"I find it hard someone could be in a good mood after a week like that?"
Alfred laughed. "That's why you aren't my preferred customer." I sat there for a moment while my mind wrapped around how anyone could be his preferred customer. When you watch those high stakes poker tournaments, like the World Series of Poker, the only reason the amount of money getting tossed around in the end is so high is because the amount of people that had to lose to get to that point. Everyone in there starts with the same amount of money, so everyone is on the same footing at the beginning. It doesn't stay like that long, however, though the better players are more patient with their money, opting to only play hands they know they can win early on.
In a place like this, however, there is no limit to the amount you start with, or can walk out with. I know on the rare occasion I get out to play a round or two, it's not unrealistic for me to walk out a few thousand dollars a head as long as I came in with a few hundred to start. I couldn't imagine the kind of money these people play with constantly, let alone the amount they could win.
"Off the subject," I said, relaxing my grip on the pen. "This isn't the most friendly looking neighborhood. How do these guys get home in one piece with this kind of money floating around."
Alfred laughed. "We work on wire transfer. Sure, there are a few crazy ones around that refuse to play with anything besides cash, but the rest of the club works on credit. When they come in, they stop off in my office to make a deposit into their personal account. Whenever they are ready to withdraw, all they have to do is stop back by and I'll send the money back. Painless."
"They trust you with that kind of money?" I had trouble trusting people with my car keys, let alone with my bank information.
He smiled. "They trust me with a lot more than their money. If I were the vindictive type, I could wipe their bank accounts out in a matter of minutes." He leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on top of the wooden desk. "But that would be bad business."
I turned the page in my notebook before continuing on. "How often have these disappearances, or suicides happen?"
He shrugged. "Two, maybe three times a year."
I nearly dropped my pen when he said it. "And not once have the cops come in to investigate?"
He shook his head. "Not even once." He grabbed a manila file folder and opened it. Dozens of newspaper clippings flooded the desk between us. "Look at them. Why would the police even bother when they considered them all suicides right off the bat?"
I took the time to look over most of the clippings to check his story. Sure enough, every one I gra
bbed had mention of a suicide. Not in any of the reports was one investigated like a murder, which I found odd. Surely there would have been a conflicting report in the mix, but there wasn't.
"Three this month?" I said, pulling out the last few scraps.
He nodded. "That's why I called. Something has to be going on around here. That's too many just to be coincidence."
I agreed though I would've called a long time before now. I know he isn't a doctor, but I get the feeling he spends more time around these men than their wives did. If there was someone who would've seen any odd behavior, it would have been him.
"I'm going to need everything you have," I said, gathering the newspaper clippings. "Papers, articles, normal drinks. I want everything."
"Easy enough," he said before printing the files.
I looked over the stack of documents that were nearly an inch thick by the time he was done. Right about now I wished I had Stacy around to give me a hand with this one. Even if I did pack my portable fax machine, it was going to get very expensive to send them over. With any luck I can get the hotel concierge to do me a solid. They probably have a way to scan and email the files, which would save a ton of time.
"You need anything else?" he asked, closing his laptop.
"Sure do," I said, trying not to dance. "I need the closest bathroom. It was a long trip."
- 6 -
Three steps into the bathroom and I wished I could've held it a bit longer. Either Alfred's clients didn't know how to clean up after themselves or he needed to hire someone to clean the place. Either way, I knew I wouldn't be using the four foot tall urinals near the door since they didn't leave a canoe to get to them.
In a place this size, even before you consider the amount of money flowing through the place, I found it hard to believe he hadn't fixed it, or just had a new one built. I would be amazed if any of the men playing cards even came in here.
Vampire for Hire: The Nephalem Files (Book 2) Page 3