Hold ’Em Hostage

by Jackie Chance

  The WSOP officials huddled, shooed away the TV cameras and called in reinforcements. Blackie’s attention was on me through her black lenses. Creepy. The TV guys came over and hung out with me. We chatted awhile, then one of them was paged. “Mike says he overheard one of the WSOP dudes calling this collusion.”

  I raised my eyebrows. My heart pounded, guilty about something I hadn’t even done. “Really?”

  “Will you give us a sound bite on that, Miss Cooley, before they run us out of here?”

  “Sure.”

  One of them held the mic and both started up their cameras—CNN and a local news station. I remembered my shades and that I better slide them down over my eyes to give my sponsors a boost. “How do you feel about collusion?” one of the cameramen asked.

  “First of all, I have so much trouble keeping track of pot odds and counting cards that I don’t know how anyone would have room in their head for one more thing to keep straight. Secondly, why would you think you could cheat Lady Luck? It seems like one way or another she’ll get even.”

  “That was awesome.” They disappeared as the WSOP officials reappeared and asked Moaner if he’d touched the chips.

  “No, they were there, right in the middle under the table.”

  “They could be anyone’s. Who’s going to claim them?” the official asked, obviously not expecting an answer.

  A staff member walking by pointed at me and said, “They’re hers.”

  Everyone looked at me again. I dug deep for two cells’ worth of dishonest genes, remembering Grandpa bragging that one of our Confederate relatives was a bootlegger during the Civil War. I’d have to rely on that to give me confidence to get me through this. Thank goodness I was wearing my shades when I said, “I apologize, gentlemen, I can’t enlighten you.”

  “Miss, you sit next to her,” he addressed Blackie, who was wringing her hands under the oversize sleeves of her black swaddling clothes. “Perhaps you can tell us if you know these are Miss Cooley’s chips?”

  She went mute. The officials looked at the dealer, who shrugged. “I didn’t notice anything and this gal lost a big pot to Bee Cool just a couple of hands ago. So if anyone would have a grudge it would be her.”

  Blackie spun on him and shot him her lens-shielded glare. It still hit home. He recoiled. I felt sorry for him.

  About a half dozen more WSOP officials had descended on the table and were checking all the chips. “What I don’t understand is why a marked chip would be a big deal anyway? A marked card, I get, not a chip,” remarked the TV commentator.

  “Any way that you can communicate with another player that can’t be understood by the rest of the table is against the rules. It’s cheating.” With that they gathered for an official powwow. All us players at the table stood awkwardly, trying to ignore the curious stares of the rest of the players pushing chips across the felt. Blackie was back to sending bad vibes my way. I made a mental note to ask Moon how to deflect a witch’s power.

  The powwow broke up after a few minutes. “We’ll be monitoring this table carefully,” the head honcho said as he and all but two of his ducklings departed. They stationed themselves at opposite ends of the table.

  “Good,” I said, and meant it. Someone had to keep an eye on Blackie and I didn’t want to be the only one.

  Everyone was tight when the dealer resumed play. I tried to use this to my advantage and did on the first hand when all but two of us folded at the pocket peek. Unsuited King/ten usually isn’t playable with a nine-player round, but heads-up it could go. I read body language relatively well one-on-one. I guessed by the flexing of the biceps through the too tight polo shirt and the cocked eyebrow that the small-town high school football coach had just stayed in to show everyone else men were superior and he couldn’t be taken by a mere female. I drew him out—I wasn’t so intent on winning chips as winning a psychological advantage over the rest of the table, aka audience. The Flop didn’t help with a pair of fives and an unsuited nine. Still, I had a straight draw to his likely midlevel pair, even odds. When he didn’t go for the jugular at the pair of fives on The Flop, I knew I might get lucky. The Turn brought a Queen for me. He raised, but only to scare me off. I called and a Jack fell on The River. When I called, he thought he was in. He raised. I called. He reraised. I called.

  The look on his face was priceless when I flipped over my straight to his dealer-turned two pair. “I think she is cheating,” he muttered.

  I’d earned the respect of the audience, which I would need the next hand.

  I got a ballerina (deuce pair) in my pocket. Ouch. Smiling to hide the pain, I tried to envision how I could justify a non-committed bet with 20 percent odds on a 2 of hearts, 2 of spades. It might be time to fold, but I didn’t. Blackie did. She was shook. Good. It looked like she might sacrifice her blinds the rest of the night. I rode out the pair conservatively and chose to fold before The River. Right decision, since a bicycle (Ace, 2, 3, 4, 5) would have beat me in the end. I would’ve hated that—beat by the lowest possible straight. Ugh. Luck was with the Whiner that hand.

  At the next break, I visited the registration desk. “I wanted to check on the name of a player.”

  “We can’t give out that information. The identities of our players are protected.” The brush pursed her lips disapprovingly.

  Maybe I should ask the kidnappers. They seemed to know everything about everyone.

  “Bee!” I turned and saw Carey waving wildly and jumping up and down behind the barrier. To save the rest of the gallery, I rushed to stop her. A six foot three inch man in a bodacious miniskirt and triple-D halter top is not necessarily something you want to bouncing around three feet from you. “I’m taking you to dinner, girlfrien’.”

  Women in “poker babes” shirts behind the rail waved and displayed a sign or two debunking Paul and praising me as I returned to the tournament. I gave them a thumbs up as Ben eased up beside me. “Where’ve you been?” I asked as I searched the crowd milling behind me for my police tail.

  “Around.”

  “I wish you would quit sulking about busting out of the tournament. Everybody has a bad game sometimes, although I don’t know how you went from chip leader to nada so fast.”

  Ben ignored my unspoken question. “Shana’s psychic wants to talk to her. I’m going to go with her.”

  “Why would you want to, after the character flogging she gave you earlier?”

  Ben shrugged. It wasn’t like him to be a martyr. This stranger in my twin’s body was continuing to get on my nerves.

  “What about Ingrid?”

  “I’m leaving her here with you.”

  “Frank’s not going to like that,” I said.

  “Frank’s not here,” Ben said.

  I studied him as he walked off, through the casino, collecting Shana from a blackjack table. Ingrid drifted in my direction until she caught sight of me, then she freight-trained over. I was in trouble.

  She shook her finger at me. “What happened to your day-two fashion?”

  “I decided to wear this instead.”

  “You have no solitary say. You are part of a whole, like the arm of the body. The rest of the body that is Bee Cool decided you wear the hot green number, not this black sack.” Oh, Ingrid of the odd analogy. Sometimes I think she was too smart for everyone’s own good. She shook her head. “I am going to have to fix this.”

  “Whatever, as long as I don’t have to wear that algae-looking outfit.”

  Still disgusted, but distracted by the possible fashion damage control options knocking around in her head, she handed me a money envelope. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “I sold your day-one fashion on eBay with PayPal.”

  “What?”

  “Look, Bee, someone has to have some business sense around here. You are a hot property today and you might be dog meat tomorrow. You need to save for your retirement and this is the way.”

  “It’s kind of creepy, that someone would want it.”


  “It’s called commerce. Somebody wanted it. They paid for it. You provided it.”

  “No, technically, you provided it. Without my permission.”

  She glared and snatched the money out of my hand.

  Arguing with Ingrid was like fighting with a brick wall. I’m hardheaded, however. “What if I wanted to wear that particular fashion again?”

  She waved the money. “Buy another one.”

  Argh. I gave up and walked back into the ballroom to finish up the night’s play. Before I got to the table, my phone vibrated. “Honey Bee Bee,” Frank purred over the wireless. “No matter whaaaat. I luuuuv you.”

  The line went dead.

  The call had come from an unidentified number. The only thing I could identify was Frank was drunk.

  Sixteen

  There was no telling how long the phone had been ringing. Despite being exhausted, I’d slept only fleetingly overnight—thinking I was hearing Frank come in about twenty times, waiting for him to open the door to check on us, then going to check his bedroom when he didn’t. Ben still slept in the room alone at last check. At daybreak, finally sleep hit me like a sledgehammer. It was now 10:11. The buzz I’d assumed was the alarm was coming from the living room phone.

  I scrambled up, fell out the door and snatched the receiver to my ear. “Frank?”

  “Your bodyguard boyfriend is busy,” the voice said flatly.

  “Joe?”

  “Today is your day off the tournament,” the voice continued. The kidnappers. I fought the chill that slid up my spine with the knowledge that these guys seemed to know everything. “After lunch, wait for the rear corner table in the Mellagio’s high-stakes room. Collude with the player wearing a Redskins jersey. You two will wipe everyone else out. He will let you win the third or fourth hand after that—go all in and take it home. Wait for the cash. Don’t accept a check or house credit even though they will try to squeeze you into it. You will bring the money to the corner of Feil and Rickshaw within thirty minutes of the cashout. Do this if you want your goddaughter to have another day.”

  “I’m not doing this unless I know she’s not hurt.” I surprised myself with my boldness, but the request made me cranky. I hate it when people ask me to lie, cheat or steal. As I’ve said, I have guilt issues.

  I heard a click, then “Aunt Bee?”

  Another click then, “So, you heard her.”

  “Yeah, on a tape recorder.”

  He swore under his breath. “Ask her any question this time. Then we are hanging up, and you do as you are told.”

  Click. “Aunt Bee?”

  “Aph, where are you?” Well, he said any question.

  I could hear swearing in the background. Someone ordered her to answer. At least I knew it was the real thing, that Affie was okay for now. I allowed myself a measure of relief as I held my breath for her answer. I could get a miracle—like latitude and longitude of her location. I was due a bit of luck, wasn’t I? She sniffed back a tear. “God only knows,” she said. Click.

  Super. Maybe I could look up Reverend Paul and he could help me out with a landline to heaven. I was being set up and blackmailed while my goddaughter was kidnapped. My boyfriend had fallen off the wagon at exactly the worst time. I had to find out who Blackie was because she might just be the closest person I could find who might have an answer.

  “It’s not like Aphrodite to use God’s name in vain. My mother would kill her,” Shana mused after I woke her up to tell her Affie was alive. “She’d have to spend the rest of her life saying Hail Marys.”

  “I know. It was like Aph was giving me another clue, but like the red and yellow thing, I’m not catching on as well as she probably hopes. I know it’s the best she could do, with the bad guys breathing down her neck. They aren’t catching on either, which is the only thing we have going for us right now. So maybe she can keep sending them until something clicks.”

  Shana held my hands in hers and looked into my eyes with her liquid dark ones, still not ready to let herself believe. “You’re sure it was her?”

  I nodded.

  She sagged against the wall in relief.

  “What did Moon have to say last night?”

  “She keeps insisting Affie is at a camp full of teenagers.” She rolled her eyes. “And, that they go to a circus tent every day. I think you might have been right, I might have wasted my money. But I had to try. At least she’s nice.”

  “To you, she is. Any more digs at Ben?” I asked, light-heartedly.

  Shana turned away from me. “Listen, Bee, Ben’s been a good strong shoulder these last couple of days.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” I muttered. “He doesn’t want to be counted on. I know you’ve had off and on stud crushes on him through the years, but he’s not good for you long-term.”

  “I realize that. I go through periods where I think he’s what I want, hot and fun and driven, but then I know he’s probably impossible to live with. The older Affie gets the more I feel compelled to set a proper example for her.”

  I didn’t want to tell Shana that all her wild carrying on when Aph was a child had done the damage it was going to do. Fortunately Aph had been smarter and stronger than to let her mother’s partying do anything but positively influence her—she was turning out to be the exact opposite. But I wasn’t going to give Shana this lecture. Not now, when she was so vulnerable. Besides, I should be pleased that my wild, but good-hearted, friend was considering settling down. No matter what the reason and no matter how fleeting.

  “Ben hasn’t been too hot or fun this trip,” I observed drily.

  “No, but he has been solid as a rock.” Shana batted away a tear. “And I’ve needed that.”

  “Humph. Maybe he’s trying a new strategy—strong and sensitive instead of hot to trot. He is over forty now, you know. Maybe that pace is wearing on that aging body.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Ben said through a huge yawn as he came out of the bedroom in just his boxers. His black hair was tousled by the pillow more expertly than Johnny Depp’s was by the movie hairstylist. His green eyes sparkled like he’d already had a pot of coffee, and his abs were tight enough to have endured a million sit-ups I knew they’d never suffered. Shana watched him, despite her lip service, a bit dreamy eyed. Well, I guess it didn’t hurt a girl to fantasize. But this was a bit different. This almost looked like…love?

  “Hey, I have a lot less miles on my speedometer,” I told Ben, still watching Shana. Only other time I’d seen her look like this was when she talked about a boy she’d had a one-night stand with at a college party—Aph’s dad. Shana only told me once. And from what I understood, she’d never seen him again. She didn’t even know his name.

  “And you’re proud to be like Grandma’s Buick that never gets out of the garage—faded and old but ready to be ridden by the next generation?” Ben retorted.

  Shana giggled. Even at my expense, I was glad to hear it. Maybe both brother and friend were getting back to a semblance of normalcy. “Leave it to you to degrade what could only be viewed as a positive.”

  “Leave it to you to walk straight into the opportunity,” Ben shot back with a quick grin.

  There was no winning barb trading with the king of the quick tongue. I hated to give up, though, so it was fortunate for me that a knock sounded at the door.

  The door opened before I could reach it. Joe walked in. “Sorry,” he said when he saw our shocked faces. “Frank gave me his key so I wouldn’t have to wake you to check on you.”

  Hmm. A plausible explanation but it didn’t feel right. Joe got right down to business, accepting the cup of coffee Shana brought to him. Ben ambled over, grabbed her by the elbow and whispered in her ear. They wandered off to the far corner of the living area.

  “Frank confirmed with our source yesterday that it is the Medula gang that you apparently are tangled up with. They run a myriad of criminal organizations—from drugs to prostitution to a variety of urban extortionist activities and appare
ntly are trying to break into gambling—although we can’t figure out how they intend to make money in mainstream poker tournaments or why they’ve targeted you. They do have history of kidnappings and murders. They are active in Vegas right now.”

  “Why wouldn’t they target me?”

  “Well, usually it’s easier and safer for crooks to blackmail someone into crime with a monetary motive. Like if you were deeply in debt, your family was in financial trouble, that kind of thing. Violent personal crimes carry higher penalties, not to mention tend to be messier. Of course, from what we hear, if properly motivated by money, Medulas don’t mind messy.”

  “Tell me about it,” I muttered, remembering all too clearly the gaping wound in Tasser’s neck magnified underwater.

  I told Joe about the kidnappers’ demand this morning. He listened intently, unhappily, tensely. I could sense him wishing for Frank. He dialed him on his cell phone and left a message when Frank didn’t answer. “I don’t know, Bee, it might be a trap.”

  “Why would they trap me? I’m the one doing their bidding. Maybe they are finally going to show why they are using me—I’m expected to make them money. I refuse to collude, but I will try to win. I will take them what they want. All that would be legal.”

  “What will you do if you can’t win without collusion?”

  To save Affie? Good question. I think I knew the answer but I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out for sure. “I guess I’ll have to make that call when the time comes.”

  “Anyway, our source has a couple pals inside of Medula who might be able to find out more. He’ll let Frank know if he gets another lead.”

  “Joe, where is he?”

  Joe swallowed. Marlboro-Man-meets-Rambo suddenly looked much smaller, and lost. “I don’t know.”

  “Joe, this isn’t about protecting him, this is about helping him. He’s drunk, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe.” He admitted woodenly.

  I waited. He didn’t speak.

  I waited.