The game progressed, with Glickman and McKennah up slightly, Kresge, Stone and O'Connor down a bit. Bingham was the big loser so far. On the whole O'Connor was pleased with his performance. He was playing a solid game.
They took a commercial break and Felter walked out, dispensing water and telling everybody how pleased he was--and how favorable the initial responses were. He walked off stage and they heard the voice of God.
"Now, back to the million-dollar action," the commentator said. Then silence. O'Connor and the others couldn't hear anything else from the host or the pros in the control booth; he wondered how they were critiquing the performances.
A new deal. The blinds were now increased: five thousand and ten. The button player pushed out the small blind, the one to his left the big. Then the hole cards were dealt.
Shit.
O'Connor hoped he hadn't muttered that out loud. (His mother was watching.) He had a hammer. These were the worst hole cards dealt anyone could have, an unsuited two and a seven. You can't make a straight--you're allowed only three cards from the board--and there was no chance of a flush. There was a miraculous possibility for a full house but at best it would be sevens and twos. Not terrible, but still a long shot.
He stayed in for one round of betting but Bingham and Glickman started raising each other. Kresge folded, spitting out a word that O'Connor knew the standards and practices people would bleep.
McKennah folded and then O'Connor did, too. He was mentally counting the money he had left--about $220,000--when he realized that something was going on at the table. Bingham, Glickman and Stone were engaged in battle. He sensed that Stone didn't have great cards but was already in for close to a hundred thousand. Glickman was less raucous than earlier, which told him that she might have a solid hand, and Bingham tried to appear neutral. He fondled the lapel of his blazer.
The flop cards were the jack of spades, king of diamonds, three of clubs, seven of clubs, six of hearts.
"Ma'am?" the dealer asked Glickman.
"Seventy-five thousand," she raised, sighing, "Think of all the eyeliner that'd buy."
The audience laughed. In her routines she was known for excessive makeup.
Stone sighed, too. And folded.
Bingham snuck a peek at his cards again. This was a bad tell. It meant that you were double-checking to verify that you had one of the better hands, like a straight or flush. Then he looked over his money. His suitcase was empty and he had only about sixty thousand on the table.
"All in," he said. Under standard rules of poker he could call with less than the raise, but couldn't win more than what he'd put into the pot.
O'Connor saw the older man's hands descend to his slacks; he wiped his sweaty palms. His face was still.
All eyes were on the cards.
O'Connor was sitting forward. Who won? What were the cards?
And the announcer said, "And we'll be right back, folks, for the conclusion of this exciting day in Las Vegas."
Agony. The next five minutes were agony.
The cards remained facedown on the table, the contestants chatted, sipped water. Kresge told a filthy joke to Glickman, who was subdued for a change and she smiled distantly. If she lost this hand she wouldn't go bust but she'd be way behind. If Bingham lost he'd be heading home.
No money, no bump.
Both Glickman and Bingham kept smiles on their faces, but you could see the tension they felt. Their overturned cards sat in front of them. The waiting was torture for O'Connor--and he had nothing to lose.
After an interminable few minutes during which beer, cars and consulting services were hawked to millions of people around the country, the action returned to the table.
The dealer said, "Ma'am, you've been called. Would you please show your cards?"
She turned her two over and revealed the full house.
Bingham smiled stoically. "Ah." He displayed the ace-high flush. She'd beaten him with one hand better than his.
He rose and gave her a kiss. Then shook the others' hands.
The protocol, Aaron Felter had told them, was that anyone who went bust had to rise and leave.
Head off down the Walk of Shame, O'Connor dubbed it.
Departing this way seemed a bit ignominious, but this wasn't just poker, of course; it was the hybrid of poker on television.
I want drama...
The security guard displayed his empty suitcase to the table and the camera--more drama--and then deposited it in a specially built trash can.
The audience applauded furiously as Sandy raked in her cash.
After a commercial break and the ceremonial opening of a fresh deck of cards, the play continued. The remaining players were warmed up now and the betting grew more furious. On the sixth hand of this segment, Glickman, O'Connor and McKennah all folded and Stone T went one-on-one with Kresge.
Then the rapper made a bad mistake. He tried to bluff. O'Connor knew you couldn't bluff against people like Kresge--in poker or in real life. People who trash hotel rooms and smack their girlfriends don't have anything to lose. They kept raising hard and O'Connor could see that Stone was breaking the rule he had been reciting to himself all night: Don't stay in, just because you've already spent money.
Stone pushed in all his remaining stake--nearly eighty thousand--a cool smile on his lips, terror in his eyes, through Da Ali G lenses.
Kresge took his time finishing a light beer and then, with a sour smile, called the rapper.
Stone's two-pair hand was annihilated by an ace-high full house.
One more contestant was gone.
There was time on tonight's show for one more hand and it was during this round that divine retribution, in the form of Mike O'Connor, was visited upon Brad Kresge.
It was really too bad, O'Connor reflected from the vantage point of someone who happened to have the best hand he'd ever had in poker: a straight flush, jack high. As the betting progressed and Glickman and McKennah dropped out, O'Connor assumed the same mannerisms he'd witnessed in Stone T when the rapper was bluffing.
You're an actor, he told himself; so act.
Kresge was buzzed from the beer and kept raising, intent on bankrupting the old guy. The odds were minuscule that Kresge had a better hand than this, so it seemed almost unfair to drive him out of the game so easily. But O'Connor had always treated acting as a serious profession and was offended by Kresge's ego and his childish behavior, which demeaned the business. Especially after seeing the sneer on his face when he knocked Stone T out of the game, O'Connor wanted the punk gone.
Which happened all of ten seconds later.
Kresge went all in and O'Connor turned the hole cards, his eyes boring into Kresge's, as if saying: When I stay in a hotel, kid, I clean it up before I leave.
The audience applauded, as if the good gunslinger had just nailed the bad one.
Kresge grinned, finished his beer and took O'Connor's hand, trying for a vise grip, which didn't work, given O'Connor's workout regimen. The kid then sauntered off, down the Walk of Shame, as if he could actually set fire to a quarter-million dollars and have more fun.
Then the theme music came up and the host announced the winnings for the night: McKennah had $490,000. Glickman had $505,000. Mike O'Connor was the night's big winner with $515,000. Now, the control room mike went live to them and the poker experts took the stage to talk a bit about how the game had gone. The three remaining contestants chatted with them and Lyle for a few minutes.
Then, the theme once again and the red eyes on the cameras went dark.
The show was over for the night.
Exhausted and sweating, O'Connor said good night to the other players, the host and the experts. Aaron Felter joined them. He was excited about the initial ratings, which were apparently even better than he'd hoped. Diane joined them. They all made plans to have dinner together in the resort's dining room. O'Connor suggested that those who'd lost join them, too, but Felter said they were being taken out to the best restaura
nt in the city by an assistant.
O'Connor understood. It was important to keep the buzz going. And losers don't figure in that.
Diane said she'd meet them in the bar in twenty minutes; she wanted to call the girls. She headed off to the room and Felter went to talk to the line producer, while O'Connor and McKennah signed some autographs.
"Hey, buy you a beer?" McKennah asked.
O'Connor said sure and they started through the huge hall as the assistants took care of the equipment. TV and movies are as much about lights and electronics and computers as they are about acting. The two security guards were assembling the suitcases of money.
He didn't have his bump, not yet.
On the other hand, he was a quarter-million dollars richer.
Nothing wrong with that.
"Where's the bar?"
McKennah looked around. "The main building. I think that's a shortcut. There's a walkway there."
"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.
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, surrounding 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."
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