Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3

by Jeffery Deaver

  “Let’s do it. I need a drink. Man, do I need a drink.”

  * * *

  SAMMY RALSTON FELT THE PISTOL, hot and heavy, in his back waistband. He was standing in the bushes in dark coveralls spearing trash and slipping it into a garbage bag.

  On the other side of the walkway, behind other bushes, waited big Jake. The plan was that when the guards wheeling the money from the ballroom to the motel safe were halfway down the walkway, Ralston would hit the switch and flash the powerful photographer’s light, which was set up at eye level. They’d tried it earlier. The flash was so bright it had blinded him, even in the well-lit hotel room, for a good ten, twenty seconds.

  After the burst of light, Ralston and Jake would race up behind them, cuff the guards, then wrap duct tape around their mouths. With the suitcases of money, the men would return to the stolen van, parked thirty feet away, around the corner of the banquet facility. They’d drive a few miles away to Ralston’s window-washing truck, then head back to California.

  Ralston looked at his watch. The show was over and the guards would be packing up the money now.

  But where were they? It seemed to be taking a lot of time. Were they coming this way, after all?

  He glanced toward the door, then he saw it open.

  Except that, no, it wasn’t the guards at all. It was just a couple of men. A younger one in a striped shirt and an older one in a T-shirt, jeans and sports coat. They were walking along the path slowly, talking and laughing.

  What the fuck were they doing here?

  Oh, no. Behind them the door opened again and the guards—two of them, big and armed, of course—were wheeling the cart containing the cash suitcases along the path.

  Shit. The two men in front were screwing everything up.

  How was he going to handle it?

  He crouched in the bushes, pulling the pistol from his pocket.

  * * *

  “GOTTA SAY, MAN. I loved your show.”

  “Homicide Detail? Thanks.”

  “Classic TV. Righteous.”

  “We had fun making it. That’s the important thing. You interested in television?”

  “Probably features for now.”

  Meaning, O’Connor supposed, after a successful career he could “retire” to the small screen. Well, some people had done it. Others, like O’Connor, thought TV was a medium totally separate from feature films, but just as valid.

  “I saw Town House,” O’Connor offered.

  “That piece of crap?”

  O’Connor shrugged. He said sincerely, “You did a good job. It was a tough role. The writing wasn’t so hot.”

  McKennah laughed. “Most of the script was like: ‘SFX: Groaning as if the house itself is trying to cry for help.’ And ‘FX: blood pouring down the stairs, slippery mess. Stacey falls and is swept away.’ I thought it would be more like traditional horror. The Exorcist. The Omen. Don’t Look Now. Or Howard Hawks’ The Thing. Nineteen fifty-one and it still scares the piss out of me. Brilliant.”

  They both agreed the recent British zombie movie, 28 Days Later, was one of the creepiest things ever filmed.

  “You mentioned a new project. What’s it about?” O’Connor asked.

  “A caper. Sort of The Italian Job meets Ocean’s Eleven. Wahlberg kind of thing. Pulling the money together now. You know how that goes…How ’bout you?”

  “TV probably. A new series.”

  If I get my bump, O’Connor thought.

  McKennah nodded behind him. “That was pretty bizarre. Celebrity poker.”

  “Beats Survivor. I don’t dive off any platforms or eat anything too low on the food chain.”

  “That Sandy, she’s one hot chick. I’m glad she’s still with us.”

  McKennah wore no wedding ring; nor did Sandra Glickman. O’Connor wished them the best, though he knew that two-career relationships in Hollywood were sort of like the hammer at Texas Hold ’Em—not impossible to win with; you needed luck and lots of careful forethought.

  “Oh, watch it there.” McKennah pointed to a thick wire on the sidewalk. It was curled and O’Connor had nearly caught his foot. The young actor paused and squinted at it.

  O’Connor glanced at him.

  McKennah explained that he was concerned about paparazzi. How they’d stalk you, even lay booby traps to catch you in embarrassing situations.

  O’Connor laughed. “Not a problem I’ve had for a while.”

  “Damn, look.” McKennah gave a sour laugh. He walked to what the wire was attached to, a photographer’s light, set up on a short tripod halfway along the path. Angrily he unplugged it and looked around. “Some goddamn photog’s around here somewhere.”

  “Maybe it’s part of the show.”

  “Then Aaron should’ve told us.”

  “True.”

  “Oh, there’re some guards.” He nodded at the security detail with the money, behind them. “I’ll tell them. Sometimes I get a little paranoid, I have to admit. But there are some crazy fucking people out there, you know.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  * * *

  RALSTON HAD TO DO SOMETHING FAST.

  The two men had spotted the photoflash and, it seemed, had unplugged it.

  And the guards were only about fifty feet behind.

  What the hell could he do?

  Without the flash there was no way they’d surprise the guards.

  He glanced toward Jake but the biker was hiding behind thick bushes and seemed not to have seen. And the two men were just standing beside the light, talking and now—fuck it—waiting for the guards. Assholes.

  This was their last chance. Only seconds remained. Then an idea occurred to Ralston.

  Hostage.

  He’d grab one of the men at gunpoint and draw the guards’ attention while Jake came up behind them.

  No, better than that, he’d grab one and wound the other—leg or shoulder. That would show he meant business. The security guards’d drop their guns. Jake could cuff and tape them and the two men would flee. Everybody would be so busy caring for the wounded man, he and Jake could get to their truck before anybody realized which way they’d gone.

  He pulled on the ski mask and, taking a deep breath, stepped fast out of the bushes, lifting the barrel toward the older of the two men, the one in the T-shirt and jacket, who gazed at him in astonishment. He aimed at the man’s knee and started to pull the trigger.

  * * *

  O’CONNOR GASPED, seeing the small man materialize from the bushes and aim a gun at him.

  He’d never had a real gun pointed toward him—only fake ones on the set of the TV shows—and his initial reaction was to cringe and raise a protective hand.

  As if that would do any good.

  “No, wait!” he shouted involuntarily.

  But just as the man was about to shoot, there came a flash of motion from his right, accompanied by a grunting gasp.

  Dillon McKennah leapt forward and, with his left hand, expertly twisted away the pistol. With his right he delivered a stunning blow to the assailant, sending him staggering back, cradling his wrist. McKennah then moved in again and flipped the man to his belly and knelt on his back, calling for the guards. The gesture seemed a perfect karate move from an action-adventure film.

  O’Connor, still too stunned to feel afraid, glanced back at the sound of footsteps running toward the parking lot. “There’s another one, too! That way!”

  But the guards remained on the sidewalk, drawing their guns. One stayed with the money, looking around. The other ran forward, calling into his microphone. In less than ten seconds the walkway was filled with security guards and Las Vegas cops, too, who were apparently stationed in the hotel for the show.

  Two officers jogged in the direction O’Connor indicated he’d heard fleeing footsteps.

  The assailant’s ski mask was off, revealing an emaciated little man in his forties, eyes wide with fear and dismay.

  O’Connor watched a phalanx of guards, surroundi
ng the money from Go For Broke, wheeling the cart fast into the hotel. Yet more guards arrived.

  The officers who’d gone after the footsteps reported that they’d seen no one, though a couple reported a big man had jumped into a van and sped off. “Dark, that’s about all they could tell. You gentlemen all right?”

  O’Connor nodded. McKennah was ashen faced. “Fine, yeah. But oh, man, I can’t believe that. I just reacted.”

  “You’ve got your moves down,” O’Connor told him.

  “Tae kwon do. I just do it for a sport. I never thought I’d actually use it.”

  “I’m glad you did. All I could see was that guy’s eyes and I think he was about to pull the trigger.”

  Diane came running out—word had spread quickly—and she hugged her husband and asked how he was.

  “Fine. I’m fine. Just…I’m not even shaken. Not yet. It all happened so fast.”

  A police captain arrived and supervised the arrest. When he was apprised of the circumstances the somber man shook his head. “Gives a new meaning to the term ‘reality TV,’ wouldn’t you say? Now, let’s get your statements taken.”

  * * *

  SHAKEN, AARON FELTER walked into the bar and found O’Connor and Diane, McKennah and Glickman. He ordered a club soda.

  “Jesus. How are you all?”

  For a man who’d almost been shot, O’Connor admitted he was doing pretty well.

  “It was my idea to use cash. I thought it’d play better. Man, this’s my fault.”

  “You can hardly blame yourself for some wacko, Aaron. Who was he?”

  “Some punk from L.A., apparently. Got a history of petty theft, the captain tells me. He had a partner but he got away.”

  They talked about the incident and O’Connor recounted McKennah’s martial arts skills. The young actor seemed embarrassed. He repeated, “I just reacted.”

  Felter said, “I’ve got to say. I’m sure this fucked you up some, pardon my French,” he said, glancing at the women.

  “I’m so offended,” Sandra Glickman said, frowning, “you motherfucking cocksucker.”

  They all laughed.

  Felter continued, “Are you cool going ahead with the show?”

  McKennah and Glickman said they were. O’Connor said, “Of course,” but then he caught something in the producer’s eyes. “That’s not really what you’re asking, is it, Aaron?”

  A laugh. “Okay. What I want to know is: If we go ahead with the show tomorrow, how are people going to react? I want your honest opinions. Should we give it some time to calm down? The dust to settle?”

  “Which people?” McKennah asked. “The audience?”

  “Exactly. Are they going to think it’s in bad taste. I mean somebody could’ve gotten hurt bad.”

  O’Connor laughed. “Excuse me, Aaron, but when have you ever known a TV show to fail because it’s in poor taste?”

  Aaron Felter pointed his finger at the man.

  “Score one for the old guy” was the message in his eyes.

  * * *

  THE THURSDAY FINALE of Go For Broke began with a description of the events of last night. But since Entertainment Tonight and every other quasi news program in the universe had covered the story, it made little sense to rehash the facts.

  Besides, there was poker to be played.

  With the same fanfare as yesterday—and five sunglass-clad guards nearby—the play among the last three contestants began.

  They played for some time without any significant changes in their positions. Then O’Connor got his first good hole cards of the night. An ace and jack, both spades.

  The betting began. O’Connor played it cautious, though, checking at first then matching the other bets or raising slightly.

  The flop cards were another ace, a jack and a two, all varied suits.

  Not bad, he thought…

  Betting continued, with both Glickman and McKennah now raising significantly. Though he was uneasy, O’Connor kept a faint smile on his face as he matched the hundred thousand bet by McKennah.

  The fourth card, the turn, went faceup smoothly onto the table under the dealer’s skillful hands. It was another two.

  Glickman eyed both of her opponents’ piles of cash. But then she held back, checking. Which could mean a weak hand or was a brilliant strategy if she had a really strong one.

  When the bet came to McKennah he slid out fifty thousand.

  O’Connor raised another fifty. Glickman hesitated and then matched the hundred with a brassy laugh.

  The final card went down, the river. It was an eight. This meant nothing to O’Connor. His hand was set. Two pair, aces and jacks. It was a fair hand for Texas Hold ’Em, but hardly a guaranteed winner.

  But they’d be thinking he had a full house, aces and twos, or maybe even a four of a kind—in twos.

  They, of course, could have powerful hands as well.

  Then Glickman made her move. She pushed everything she had left into the middle of the table.

  After a moment of debate McKennah folded.

  O’Connor glanced into the brash comedian’s eyes, took a deep breath and called her, counting out the money to match the bet.

  If he lost he’d have about fifty thousand to call his own and his time on Go For Broke would be over.

  Sandy Glickman gave a wry smile. She slid her cards facedown into the mush—the pile of discards. She said, for the microphone, “Not many people know when I’m bluffing. You’ve got a good eye.” The brassy woman delivered another message to him when she leaned forward to embrace him, whispering: “You fucked me and you didn’t even buy me dinner.”

  It was quiet enough that the censors didn’t need to hit their magic button.

  But she gave him a warm kiss and a wink before she headed off down the Walk of Shame.

  * * *

  ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES remained for the confrontation between the last two players, O’Connor with $623,000, McKennah with $877,000.

  The young actor was in the button spot, to the dealer’s left. He slid in the agreed-on small blind, ten thousand, and O’Connor counted out the big, twenty.

  As the dealer shuffled expertly the two men glanced at each other. O’Connor’s eyes conveyed a message. You’re an okay kid and you saved my hide yesterday, but this is poker and I wouldn’t be honest to myself, to you or the game if I pulled back.

  The faint glistening in McKennah’s eyes said that he acknowledged the message. And said much the same in return.

  It’s showdown time.

  Let’s go for the bump.

  The deals continued for a time, with neither of them winning or losing big. McKennah tried a bluff and lost. O’Connor tried a big move with three of a kind and got knocked out by a flush, which he should’ve seen coming.

  A commercial break and then, with minutes enough for only one hand, the game resumed. A new deck of cards was shuffled. McKennah put in the small blind bet. The rules now dictated twenty-five thousand at this point and O’Connor himself put in fifty.

  Then the deal began.

  O’Connor kept his surprise off his face as he glanced at the hole cards—cowboys, a pair of kings.

  Okay, not bad. Let’s see where we go from here.

  McKennah glanced at his own cards without emotion. And his preflop bet was modest under the circumstances, fifty thousand.

  Keeping the great stone face, O’Connor pushed in the same amount. He was tempted to raise, but decided not to. He had a good chance to win but it was still early and he didn’t want to move too fast.

  The dealer burned the top card and dealt the flop. First, a two of hearts, then the four of hearts and then the king of spades.

  Suddenly O’Connor had three of a kind, with the other two board cards yet to come.

  McKennah bet fifty thousand. At this point, because he himself had upped the bet, it wouldn’t frighten the younger player off for O’Connor to raise him. He saw the fifty and raised by another fifty.

  Murmurs from the crowd.


  McKennah hesitated and saw the older actor.

  The turn card, the fourth one, wasn’t helpful to O’Connor, the six of hearts. Perhaps it was useless to McKennah as well. He checked.

  O’Connor noted the hesitation of the man’s betting and concluded he had a fair, but unspectacular hand. Afraid to drive him to fold, he bet only fifty thousand again, which McKennah saw.

  They looked at each other over the sea of money as the fifth card, the river, slid out.

  It was a king.

  As delighted as O’Connor was, he regretted that this amazing hand—four of a kind—hadn’t hit the table when more people were in the game. It was likely that McKennah had a functional hand at best and that there’d be a limit to how much O’Connor could raise before his opponent folded.

  As the next round of betting progressed, they goosed the pot up a bit—another hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  Finally, concerned that McKennah would sense his overconfidence, O’Connor decided to buy time. “Check.” He tapped the table with his knuckles.

  A ripple through the audience. Why was he doing that?

  McKennah looked him over closely. Then said, “Five hundred K.”

  And pushed the bet out.

  The crowd gasped.

  It was a bluff, O’Connor thought instantly. The only thing McKennah could have that would beat O’Connor was a straight flush. But, as Diane had made him learn over the past several weeks, the odds of that were very small.

  And, damn it, he wanted his bump.

  O’Connor said in a matter-of-fact voice, “All in,” pushing every penny of his into the huge pile of cash on the table, nearly a million and a half dollars.

  “Gentlemen, please show your cards.”

  O’Connor turned over his kings. The crowd erupted in applause.

  And they then fell completely silent when McKennah turned over the modest three and five of hearts to reveal his inside straight flush.

  O’Connor let out a slow breath, closed his eyes momentarily and smiled.

  He stood and, before taking the Walk of Shame, shook the hand of the man who’d just won himself one hell of a bump, not to mention more than a million dollars.

  * * *