Hold ’Em Hostage

by Jackie Chance

  He fell into step with me, going, where? I wasn’t at all sure. “Can I take you to dinner?” he asked.

  How gallant. What if I said no?

  “Then I would have to take you to jail.”

  “Excuse me, did I say something?” I asked, shocked.

  “No, I was reading your mind.”

  Huh. “I guess you’re accustomed to rejection.”

  “I’ll take you to your favorite Egyptian restaurant.”

  “How would you know where that is?”

  He looked at me and smiled.

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot. You read minds.”

  “Or know the right people.”

  It couldn’t be Frank. He disliked Frank. Suddenly it occurred to me, “Chief Patterson. You talked to him, didn’t you?”

  “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

  “Let’s go eat.” If Patterson spoke to him, he wasn’t all bad.

  Trankosky was a rather charming dinner date, for a cop, only intermittently pumping me for information and moderately satisfied when I gave him tidbits. I still withheld the whole Affie kidnapping—for two reasons. Either he knew all about it because he was behind it all, as Joe suspected, or if he hadn’t known, I was afraid he’d try to fix it and get Aph killed in the process. He sensed I was hiding something but didn’t press so hard that he threatened to pull my toenails out or anything. Good thing too, because I think I would roll over on the toenail torture. I can’t even stand a hangnail.

  What’s more, he only growled twice (surely a record), when he asked where Frank was and I told him it was none of his business. And then I asked what he knew about the Medula.

  “Why do you need to know about them?”

  “Well, the person who tried to kidnap me at the Image that first night is one of their members. I just thought I ought to know more about them,” I said, trying to sound conversational, hoping he wouldn’t read the “and my brother has gone to join them” that kept flashing through my mind.

  “How do you know that’s who it was?”

  I gave him a raised-eyebrow look because I wasn’t mentioning Frank’s name again.

  “Oh,” he said, getting it. “I’m sure then I don’t know more than you do. They run a variety of criminal syndicates throughout the West and Southwest. We know who the leaders are but only ever catch the underlings, all of whom have either killed themselves or been killed in jail before they talk. Not a good group to hang with,” he said pointedly, pinning me with a hard look. “You’re lucky you got away.”

  I couldn’t swallow. Suddenly I wanted to tell him everything, just to save Ben. I wished I trusted him more. I wished he were Frank. My life was such a pretzel.

  After a few moments in which he ate and I scooted the kofta around on my plate, he observed wryly: “Here this was my idea and I think you are the one doing the interrogating, instead of me.”

  I leaped at the opportunity. “Since you don’t mind, I have another question: Do you know anything about a psychic named Moon? Lives in the Happy Homes trailer park off Hibiscus?”

  “Why?” he answered, his eyes narrowing.

  Uh-oh. He knew her. “My best friend, Shana, seems to have stumbled upon her and is paying her to tell her future,” I said casually. “Shana is impressionable so I just wanted to make sure it was harmless diversion.”

  “It’s a waste of money if she wants to know the future,” he began.

  “Oh well,” I said.

  “But Moon is pretty decent at pointing you in the right direction if you have a missing person.”

  I choked on a sip of pinot grigio. Trankosky smoothed his hand across my shoulders as I waved off his help and dabbed at my lips. He continued. “The department has used her a few times over the years depending on who the head honcho is at the time. Some aren’t as open-minded about that kind of thing.”

  “Speaking of sheriff, who wants to be head honcho now? Has Patterson been replaced?”

  Bingo. He studied my face again. I forced myself to look the picture of innocence. “Now I think you’re the one who is reading minds. Actually, Mickey Juarez is acting sheriff, but the Republican party is trying to talk me into running. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “Curious. Patterson was a good guy.”

  “Still is. Now it’s my turn,” he said between bites of mombar mahshy. “Do you know anything about the rumor that players in the Poseidon’s poker room were using counterfeit money?”

  “Is that where all those FBI guys were going when I left there this morning?”

  Trankosky smiled tightly. “I wondered if you’d admit to being there.”

  I blinked. “I didn’t do anything wrong except play poorly. Why wouldn’t I admit to that?”

  He studied me for a moment, not believing me but not having any proof otherwise. “How do you know what FBI guys look like?”

  “I watch TV along with the rest of America.”

  He let it go. “So go back to the beginning and tell me how you knew Thelma.”

  “Only in passing. She often played tournaments, but lately was more of a railbird. I think she was making more money sponging off flush players, hitting up the new ones who are feeling generous and don’t know they are opening up a bottomless pit of begging if they shell out even a ten-dollar bill.”

  “The underbelly of poker. Sounds like you have some experience.”

  “Isn’t that how we learn best?”

  “I like to think so.” His blue eyes twinkled. I squirmed in my seat. That didn’t help the direction my thoughts had taken with his simple statement.

  “Is it illegal to pay someone for information?”

  Trankosky shook his head. “But ignorance is not protection from the law, so the next time you do something questionable, you probably should check it out first so I don’t have to drag you to the clink.”

  “Hmm. Okay, Thelma got sidetracked and instead of finding out why people were using my name in a cheating context, she dug up some dirt on the big-mouth preacher.”

  “And what was that?” Trankosky asked, more politely than interested.

  “That Paul pays those girls to walk the pickets.”

  “He’s probably not the only one in history who’s done that. Again, unless they are under sixteen, not against the law, but not very morally or ethically correct either.”

  “Oh,” I said, deflated.

  “Then I sent her off yesterday to find out more about the rumors circulating about me being a dirty player.”

  “Really? And what did she discover?”

  “I don’t know. I never talked to her again.” I felt the tears welling and willed them back where they came from. I might have succeeded had Trankosky not leaned over and drawn my hand into his.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about the accident, which I don’t think was an accident at all. You didn’t intentionally send her off to her death.”

  “That doesn’t help much.” I sniffled. He handed me his handkerchief. I blew my nose, wiped at the mascara tracks on my cheeks and dreaded looking in the mirror. “Why don’t you think it’s an accident?”

  “Because witnesses saw the van swerve and speed up to hit Thelma, the tire marks support that. The vehicle had no license plates.”

  “What kind of van?”

  “Unfortunately, the kind every rental outfit in Vegas got a package deal on—there are thousands in town.”

  “Smart killer,” I mused.

  “Exactly, which gets you off the hook for this one too.”

  “Very funny,” more insulted than relieved, evidence of my truly perverse nature. “Do you have any more leads on who killed Tasser?”

  “No, but you are the common denominator. A popular theory at the station house is that locking you up will reduce the body count more than catching the real killer.”

  “But you’ll stave off those theorists?” I asked, holding my breath, thinking of Joe’s suspicions.

  “If you share the bourtaka
muhallabieh with me,” he said, and I let out the breath with a smile. Orange custard? Suddenly I didn’t mind if he were using me. Food extortion I could definitely deal with.

  Two levels and four hours later, the tournament was down to twenty-seven. I eliminated Blackie. What a sense of accomplishment, although, suddenly and inexplicably, I felt lonely, a bit bereft. The enemy was leaving the building. I wondered if I would ever really know who she was. I expected her to grunt, perhaps, if she were feeling generous and wander off under the shelter of her cloak, gloves and glasses. Instead, she reached across the table and shook my hand.

  “Congratulations, Bee,” she said clearly, with her other hand pulling back the hood she wore to reveal her face, sliding her sunglasses off and placing them on the felt. She was lovely—midthirties, with a round face, flawless skin, an easy smile and warm brown eyes that drew you in like a comforting blanket. Her blond hair, sun streaked, was smooth and shiny. I almost fainted in shock. How could the woman I’d envisioned beneath her strange dress alternately as Cruella De Vil and Morticia from The Addams Family be so normal? No, better than normal. She was someone I’d want as a friend. Gosh, she was someone I would want to be. Her soul shone through bright and clear. She glowed with goodness. With psychic balance.

  “Th-thank you,” I stuttered as I took her hand.

  She was a little taken aback by my shock. Her face shuttered a bit. “You’ve seen photos, then, I suppose.”

  Was she someone famous I was supposed to know? Oops. I racked my knowledge, but sadly I didn’t have the time nor the inclination to haunt poker sites in a celebrity search. Maybe that was it, she was a Hollywood star. She was lovely enough, somehow reminding me of Grace Kelly in her elegant composure. “I’m sorry, no, I haven’t seen photos…”

  Suddenly, her face relaxed in relief and a trace of sadness. “Yes, I guess I was silly to think so. I am Monica Gilbert.”

  If she had told me she was an alien from Pluto, I wouldn’t have been more stunned. “B-but,” I stammered, again, begging myself for the composure she commanded effortlessly, “When I called you, I thought you were in L.A.?”

  “I’m sorry for all this.” She waved at her cloak, her sunglasses and her gloves that she now pulled finger-by-finger off her hands. Still, she hadn’t risen from the chair. Because she couldn’t. I felt sick suddenly as she continued, “But, I beg you to understand. I know Frank was getting serious about you. I just wanted to be sure when the kids spent time with you two that it was going to be okay for them. I had to meet you without meeting you.” She paused and sighed heavily, dropping her pleading gaze for a moment to gather her thoughts. “You don’t have children. I don’t know that you will understand. But I can only beg—”

  Emotions that I had no idea I possessed were welling in me. As I sat back down, I spoke without thinking. “But I do understand. I don’t know how, or why, but I understand. Although I don’t think you have to worry about Frank exposing me to the kids, because he protects all of you on the other side of a great wall that I am not allowed to broach verbally, and certainly not physically.”

  Monica shook her head, smiling bittersweetly. “He’s ready. I can see it in him. I can feel it in him.”

  A flash of jealousy ripped through me. His ex-wife knew Frank better than I did. The head in me said: Well of course she does, she’s known him longer, they have children together. The heart in me said: To hell with this, let her have him back.

  “Well, I’m glad someone can, because he can’t.”

  “Don’t worry, he will.”

  I was glad she was so confident. “If he ever surfaces,” I put in.

  “We’ll work on that,” she said, revealing herself as an investigator’s wife, well versed in unexpected absences. Turning over her palm, she wiggled her fingers barely and a woman came through the side doors of the ballroom with a wheelchair.

  As she eased into the chair, I said: “You certainly did have your disguise well planned. I wondered why you always beat me to the table.”

  She smiled, with a touch of sadness. “You have to understand, I thought this was the best way to see you unguarded. As you are. I couldn’t exactly hire you for an ad campaign for a company I don’t own, or encounter you at a health club, obviously.” She paused to wave at her useless legs without rancor and with total acceptance of reality. “Neither of those would be ideal, regardless. I thought, since poker is rather new to you, that I would see you a little in control sometimes and a little vulnerable sometimes. That is the best way to glimpse a person’s real character.”

  “I guess you’ve played a long time. You are quite good.”

  She nodded. “I’ve played for twenty years. Not big-time tournaments, but steady local games. Lately, some Internet dabbling.”

  I envisioned her and Frank playing together as newlyweds. I ached. Swallowing the pain, ready to snatch opportunity when I saw it, I asked: “So tell me why Frank quit playing.”

  Monica shook her head. “You have to ask him.”

  Did I invite people to shut doors in my face? Here I thought we were getting along great. “I have asked. He didn’t tell.”

  Smiling like a beautiful, self-possessed Buddha, she said: “He will. In time.” It must be a Gilbert family theme song.

  “That’s the problem. I’m not very patient.”

  “With Frank, you need to learn to be.”

  Suddenly, I was tired of her Frank lessons. They were accurate, and dammit, why couldn’t I give them? I forced a smile. “Where are the kids?”

  “They’re here,” answered the wheelchair-wielding senior citizen who flashed Monica’s smile. “Off with Grandpa right now to watch the Mellagio fountains dance at midnight.”

  Frank’s children were perfect. Well-behaved, well-adjusted and gorgeous little things. They made me sick.

  How could Frank live away from them? How could I keep him away from them? How could she let him ever leave such precious packages?

  “I think you need to come stay in our hotel,” Katie told me with an endearing lisp. “I can do your hair. It looks like fire, don’t you think, Mamma?”

  Monica smiled. “Yes, I do, vibrant description, sweetie. Good job.”

  “I bet your friend would play bull rider with me, wouldn’t she?” Matthew asked his mom.

  “Bull rider?” I asked.

  “He rides you like a bull, hands and knees, lots of bucking, that kind of thing.” She looked skeptically at my stilettos and miniskirt. “I would never ask you to—”

  I nodded. “I would love that.”

  “Cool!” he shouted, starting a bout of wrestling with his grandfather, Randolph.

  “I’m sorry you busted out of the tournament, dear,” her mother, Wilma, told her.

  Monica looked at me and said: “That’s okay, Mom. I think I ended up richer in the end anyway.”

  I don’t think she knew how true her words were. I had decided something seeing them, meeting them. When her mother turned away to help Katie with her bow, I asked Monica, “Do you have any ideas on where I can look for Frank?”

  “I called him, after you called me,” she said. “He is on his way back. He got a little distracted in L.A. after he visited the prison. With what happened here to Rudy Serrano, he had some things he said he had to deal with.”

  And couldn’t answer his phone and couldn’t tell me but he could tell his ex-wife. I tried to swallow my jealousy. After all I’d asked her to help, hadn’t I? “Thank you.”

  We watched the kids play for a few minutes, so carefree and real, that I felt rejuvenated until she added: “He had been drinking. I don’t know what to tell you other than, I’d hoped he’d gotten a handle on that.”

  I turned and smiled at her, genuinely, because I was stone-cold clear about the future. “That’s okay. I think I know what he needs to keep him out of all that.”

  Her big emotive eyes softened. “I hope so. God bless you if you find the answer.”

  It was looking me in the face.
r />   Twenty-four

  Ingrid nearly attacked me when I let myself into the suite. “Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

  “My phone hasn’t rung.”

  Reaching into my tassel bag, I handed it to Ingrid, who pressed some buttons and then shook it in my face. “It’s silenced!”

  “I didn’t do that,” I mused, trying to remember when I had last checked my phone. Then I remembered, I’d left it on the table when I went to the restroom at the restaurant. Trankosky? I checked my voice mail and had twelve messages: ten from Shana and Ingrid, one from Mom and one from Frank.

  “Is it Affie?” I asked, frantically searching their faces.

  Shana shook her head. Ingrid waved her hand in the air. “Of course not, do you think we’d hang around for you if we’d found the girl?”

  “Is it Ben?”

  Shana shook her head again. Ingrid snorted, “That fool is on his own, probably sashimi by now.”

  Shana and I winced. Ingrid, the epitome of sensitivity and tact, didn’t notice. I listened to Frank’s message. “Honey Bee, we’ll talk when I get back tonight.”

  Weak. He was mad at me for calling his ex and too proud to apologize for disappearing. And, I hated myself for the intense relief flooding through me at the sound of his voice.

  Mom’s message was typical and guilt inducing. She wanted to know where Ben was because he wasn’t answering his phone. That’s because he’d left his phone on his dresser to reduce the chance of being found out by the gang. Good thing, because Mom calling would have been a certain death sentence. She spoke into the phone at thirty-eight thousand decibels so that everyone within a mile radius could hear her clearly.

  “Are you finished yet?” Ingrid demanded, shoving her hands on her hips.

  I slipped the phone back into my purse. “Did Jack find you?”

  She arched an eyebrow at me. “Yes, although I don’t know why he found you first.”