Smith's Monthly #22

by Smith, Dean Wesley

So most of the night I just lay there, thinking, staring at the ornate ceiling, the overdone Italian décor, and the television’s blank screen.

  Nothing made sense. By the time of my graduation from college, with my poker playing and Fleet’s fantastic ability to invest my winnings soundly, he and I were fairly rich. I had moved up to playing in some of the bigger tournaments around the country. I knew what Carson looked like, had played cards in the same room with him. Why hadn’t I seen him there at the ceremony?

  Because I never once expected to see him there, that was why. I had always just assumed he didn’t care.

  That day, after the ceremony, my mother had encouraged me to go off and have fun with Fleet and my friends. “I’ve got more than enough to keep me busy,” she had said.

  Carson more than likely kept her busy. She had somehow kept the secret of their relationship for decades, and I hadn’t noticed. So much for being an observant professional poker player. For twenty-seven years, they had kept me in the dark.

  Now he was dead and I was so angry at my mother, I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to talk to her again.

  Why had they done that? Did it have something to do with his murder?

  Was my mother in danger now as well?

  That thought sent me pacing through the suite for a while around three a.m. before I decided I needed to find out more before I did anything, including yelling at my mother in the middle of the night.

  Not that she didn’t deserve it.

  I finally must have dozed off around four and somehow managed to crawl out of bed at ten with a plan. Not much of a plan, but considering how little information I had to go on, at least it was a plan.

  I met Fleet at ten-thirty for breakfast in the Café Bellagio just off the main lobby, the twenty-four-hour restaurant that served just about anything at any time, with some pretty fine quality. Everything in the Bellagio was opulent Mediterranean style and richly textured. The Café was no exception, with large tables, comfortable cloth booths, and staff that actually smiled at any time of the day or night.

  The thing you noticed most about the Bellagio was the openness, fantastically high ceilings, and light. Light seemed to flow in from everywhere, and the arch patterns helped that feeling. The second thing was the smell. There were always food odors wafting about from all the restaurants. The place didn’t smell like a casino. And the Café always smelled like baking bread.

  I couldn’t even begin to remember how many meals I’d eaten in the Café Bellagio. I had even dated one of the waitresses, a wonderful woman named Traci, who worked there. We had gone out for a few months when I was in town. As with all my relationships, it had gone nowhere.

  Fleet’s plan for the day was to go back to Carson’s house to start the inventory. He asked me if I wanted to go with him and I told him I had an appointment to put my head in a vise and twist it until the pain made me pass out, so I was sorry, but I just couldn’t go enjoy any time in Carson’s home.

  He laughed. “So what are you really planning to do?”

  “Didn’t buy the vise excuse?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not your style. You’re more the crushing-yourself-between-large-rocks kind of guy. A vise would be just too pedestrian.”

  “True,” I said, laughing. “Actually, I was thinking I’d play some poker, talk to some of my father’s old friends, find out what I can about him. Later this afternoon, I might play in one of the satellites for the upcoming tournaments that start tomorrow, to get my feet back under me after the time on the river.”

  “And all the turmoil,” Fleet said.

  “Yeah, that too. It never hurts to spend a little money getting warmed up before paying the big money.”

  Like I said, it wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was a plan. And it kept me the hell out of Carson’s house for most of the day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Las Vegas, Nevada. August 23

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, after a quick stop at the cage to get some cash from my deposit box, I walked into the poker room to friendly welcomes from friends and a bunch of sideways stares from other people. Everyone knew I was Carson’s son, and that he had died in a plane crash. And everyone knew we didn’t talk. So that made for some strange looks.

  During normal times, the Bellagio poker room was a big, contained corner of the larger casino floor, with comfortable padded chairs, perfect lighting, and excellent dealers. It was divided off by arches that were open, but gave the room its own closed feeling of privacy. But during bigger tournaments, they removed a massive area of slot machines near the entrance to the poker room and expanded the poker area by five or six times, depending on the size of the tournament.

  There were already a few tournament satellites going on in one corner of the sea of empty tables.

  Even with the strange stares, it felt great being back in a poker room. I loved the river, but I loved poker rooms even more. And the Bellagio room was about as good as rooms came.

  I checked in, asked the room manager a few questions about who was around, and decided to join the $100-200 limit hold’em game in the back corner that had an open chair and three of the old-timers who had known Carson.

  This looked like a pretty good table for me, both to get information and win some money. Verne Adkins, a top live-game player, held the center five seat, with Hank Danning in the third chair and Loren Peoples beside him in four. All three of them had been close friends with Carson, and all three played a tight game.

  They played the same time every day, like poker was their jobs, and went home for dinner with their wives no matter what was happening. I admired their skills and planned on staying out of their way while we played.

  The others at the table looked like tourists, and at a glance I could tell the guy in the first chair was playing well over his bankroll, since he was sweating like it was a hundred degrees in the room. These three must be taking turns plucking him like a dead chicken.

  I took the open chair beside Verne, stacked my chips, then reached into my pocket and pulled out a heavy rook-like piece and sat it beside my chips.

  The little castle was made of some sort of silver alloy, stood about three inches tall, and was smooth and polished from so much handling. Carson, for years, had always used it as a card capper, and it had been on him when he died. The sheriff had given it to me with his possessions. I figured using it in this game would start a few conversations about Carson, if nothing else.

  Verne stared at the castle, then glanced at me with a sad smile on his face.

  “Figured I’d honor Carson a little in these tournaments,” I said, picking up the castle.

  All three of Carson’s friends nodded, but said nothing. It was an uncomfortable silence, but just what I wanted at the moment, to get them relaxing a little around me and talking. For the first time in my life, I actually wanted information about Carson. It felt weird, damned weird.

  For twenty minutes or so after I sat down, it was only basic chatter, like how was the river, how was my mother doing, that sort of thing. I was dealt one hand worth playing. A pair of jacks one off the button. Everyone folded to me and I raised, making it two hundred to go. The sweater in chair one, who was the big blind, called me, shaking his head as he did.

  I put him on a bad ace, the kind of hand a weak player would chase with one hundred already in the pot.

  Flop came ace, four, jack. I had a set of jacks. Sweater stared at the flop for a moment, like he couldn’t believe what he saw, then fumbled one hundred out as a bet. I raised him to two, he reraised to three and I called.

  His reraise told me that he had hit his bad kicker as well as his ace. He was sitting on two pair. Or maybe a set of fours. I was going to take most of his chips unless he hit another ace or a four.

  Next card was a seven, he bet two hundred, I raised, he called. Next card was a nine and Sweater actually smiled. He clearly had fallen in love with his two pair and was going to go down swinging with them. He bet out two hundred, I rai
sed, he reraised, and I capped it, forcing him to push in his last few chips. He flipped over his ace-four and I showed him my set of jacks.

  As he stormed off and I raked in his chips, Verne shook his head and laughed. “It’s going to be a lot tougher to get those from you than it would have been from him.”

  “I sure hope so,” I said.

  That was the first pot I pulled since leaving the river. It felt good, and helped shove back the lack of sleep.

  After a time, I got the conversation going on Carson, as his three old friends relaxed and realized I really did want to hear what they had to say. And, more importantly, that I wasn’t sitting there to take their chips.

  Another tourist filled the empty seat and the game went on, with the four of us talking about Carson.

  “You know,” Hank said at one point, “Carson was one of the most generous players out here.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, not really believing Hank.

  Verne laughed. “Can’t tell you how many times your father paid a player’s mortgage payment.”

  “You’re kidding?” I asked, surprised. In all my hatred of the man, it would have never occurred to me he did things like that. I just always assumed he was a monster in all aspects of his life.

  “They’re not kidding at all,” Loren said. “Hell, he paid for my kid’s dental surgery and braces when I was tapped out. Took me a year to repay him.”

  I sat there, stunned, as story after story of Carson’s generosity came from the three. I just couldn’t understand how a man who could ignore his own child for more than two decades could be the same man these players were talking about. And the poker world was a small world.

  Why hadn’t I heard about any of this?

  Oh, yeah, now I remember. I had made it clear that when I was around, Carson wasn’t to be spoken of. Maybe that had something to do with it.

  I sat there holding Carson’s chess piece and listening to the stories. Then, as the dealer was shuffling, one of my fingers found a slight edge on the bottom of the castle and I pushed it.

  The bottom moved aside and a key fell onto the table in front of me.

  “Another surprise from Carson,” I said, holding the key up and looking at it, then looking at the hole it had fallen out of in the castle.

  The key looked like a regular bank deposit key, and the hole in the metal rook looked like it was made specially to fit the key.

  “Put that away,” Verne whispered to me, his voice firm and almost angry.

  I glanced at him and could see the intensity in his eyes.

  “You have no idea what you are holding.” Verne’s voice was a harsh whisper now, aimed only at me.

  I slid the key back into the castle and then put the entire thing back into my front pants pocket. Only the other two friends of Carson noticed, but both looked puzzled. They clearly had no more idea than I did what that key was.

  I started to ask Verne what he meant, but he shook his head and focused with unusual intensity on his new cards. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it. So I changed the subject, got them talking about Carson again, and the game went on.

  About forty minutes later, Verne got up and headed in the direction of the men’s room. I mucked my next hand and followed, finding him washing his hands and splashing some water on his face. He actually looked upset. And it clearly wasn’t because of the poker game. He was a thousand or so up at the table.

  “So,” I said, coming in and standing beside him at the long, ornate marble counter with a dozen sinks under a massive gold-trimmed mirror. “You want to tell me what that key is for? You clearly know.”

  “For keeping secrets,” he said.

  He splashed more water on his face, then used a hand towel to dry off.

  “What kind of secrets?”

  “Deadly secrets.”

  “At least tell me something about it. Ace wants to know as well.”

  I figured using Ace’s name might break Verne a little. Ace was a legend in poker circles, and he and Verne went back a long ways into the days when poker was a lot wilder and a lot more dangerous to play.

  “Do they know why your father’s plane went down yet?”

  In all the papers they were still calling it an accident, and the sheriff had asked me, as a favor, to keep what I had overheard about the explosion quiet for the moment, to help them in the investigation. So I didn’t know what to say.

  But Verne read me like I read that sweater earlier. He nodded. “He was murdered, wasn’t he?”

  “Why would you think that?” I asked.

  Verne waved the question away like I was a beginning player missing the most obvious piece of instruction. “He was murdered for that key. Put it away and tell no one you have it, including Ace. You don’t know what you have, or how dangerous it is.”

  Then, Verne turned his back on me and walked out of the restroom.

  I stood there for a moment, trying to make any kind of sense out of any of what I had just heard, then shook my head and went back to the game. I apologized that I had to leave so soon, racked up my chips and headed for the cashier.

  I had no idea what to make of Verne’s comments about the hidden key, but one thing was for certain, I didn’t want to hear any more stories about Carson right now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Las Vegas, Nevada. August 23

  DETECTIVE ANNIE LOTT stood, leaning against the side of a row of slot machines, just over the rail from the tournament area, and watched a number of the satellite tables. She had to take the time to let herself calm down, chase out the mass of butterflies swirling around in her stomach. She loved the excitement of tournament poker, and in these big events, she loved how they made her feel as well. Excited, alive, and scared to death.

  Everywhere she looked around the Bellagio poker room and tournament area, there were major professionals, some recognizable across the country from their tournament wins, others because she was starting to learn who the great cash game players were.

  She felt at home here, but not as much as her favorite poker room at the MGM Grand. That room seemed to seldom attract the big names, and she could play and work on her game and build up her bankroll without worrying about being taken that often by a stronger player.

  But here, in the Bellagio, today and the next two weeks, she would have to play at the top of her game to even have a chance of breaking into the money in one of these tournaments, let alone winning one.

  After almost forty minutes of watching, she figured she had her nerves under enough control to actually play some cards. She moved over and sat down in a forming satellite at a table along the edge of the tournament area. She took the number six chair, facing away from most of the other tables. The rows of slot machines in front of her wouldn’t distract her as much as watching the big names come and go.

  She put the entry fee, two hundred and fifteen dollars in cash, in front of her. Two hundred of it went into the prize pool, the rest was the rake the casino took. Ten players at the table, winner take all. The first tournament tomorrow had a two-thousand-dollar buy-in, thus the reason for the structure of this satellite. Win this and you won your entry into the first big event.

  She had just gotten comfortable when Doc Hill sat down beside her.

  “Oh, my,” she said under her breath. Every butterfly she had gotten rid of suddenly returned, bringing a few thousand more of their friends and family with them.

  She couldn’t believe he was sitting beside her. She smiled and nodded and he did the same.

  He was even more handsome up close than his pictures in the poker magazines. He had an incredible tan, and his dark hair was lightly streaked by the sun. For heaven’s sake, he even smelled wonderful, as if he had brought the freshness of the summer in the Idaho mountains along with him.

  She had read a lot of articles about him, followed his wins and his life. She knew he guided rafters off and on all summer on the River of No Return in Idaho, even though he clearly didn
’t need the money. She had read another article about how he got his nickname from stopping just a few credits short of a doctorate in mathematics. She even knew who he had dated a few times.

  He was the grandson of Ace Hill, one of the most famous old-timers, and the son of Carson Hill, who used to be a top high-stakes player before he died. She had no chance at all in this satellite if Doc Hill was in it. He was one of the best players playing currently, and was even leading the Card Player points list coming out of the World Series of Poker. He had won two bracelets this summer alone.

  She tried to take a deep breath, but it sort of shuddered into her lungs instead. She felt frozen, feeling as if she were back in junior high and the cool kid had just sat down beside her. She should be past this sort of thing at her age.

  “This is stupid,” she said to herself.

  “Excuse me?” Doc Hill asked, turning to smile at her.

  She could feel herself blushing, her face growing hot. “I said that out loud, huh?”

  He laughed, and she instantly loved his laugh, sort of low and real sounding.

  “Yes, I’m afraid you did.” He stuck out his hand. “Doc Hill,” he said. “I watched you play a few times last spring, at the tournament here. And another time in a satellite at the World Series. It’s good to finally meet you.”

  She couldn’t believe he had actually watched her play. And remembered her. Somehow, that scared her even more. She liked the idea that no one knew who she was yet. It made her feel safe.

  Somehow, she managed to shake his hand and say “Annie. Annie Lott.”

  His grip was firm and callused, and just his touch sent a jolt through her spine. His dark eyes held her gaze for a fraction of a second longer than any normal introduction.

  Finally, he took his hand back.

  “I don’t remember you playing in satellites before,” she said, hoping to somehow keep the conversation from going silent and uncomfortable.

  “It’s been a long few weeks,” he said. “I figured I could use one or two of these to work a few of the kinks out.”