“The bar is adequate,” I said.
He walked with me to an empty stool and motioned to the bartender. “We want to make you happy.”
“Thank you, Beckman. I’m confident you will.”
It wasn’t my happiness he was concerned about. It was Sparrow’s.
Taking a breath, I lifted myself up to a stool not far from where I’d been earlier today.
“Mr. Kelly,” the bartender, a young man, said. “What can we get for you tonight?”
Before I could answer, my interest was diverted to a tall table in the adjoining room, near the piano. It wasn’t the table or even the piano that demanded my attention. It was the presence of the most beautiful woman I knew or had ever known. In her hand was a glass of white wine. Tonight’s dress was black, sleek and shiny like her hair. The way the dress hugged her curves was vaguely familiar. It wasn’t the dress but the person beneath who had me enthralled.
I’d held those curves last night. Simply the thought of it made my circulation reroute.
This wasn’t the time or the place.
Yet I couldn’t look away. Like a model on a runway, she had my full notice. Her raven dark hair was not down as it had been last night, but piled high on top of her head with ringlets near her cheeks. Around her neck was a large necklace, the mounting made of a dark metal, and the stones shining emeralds. It complemented her dress and showcased her vibrant green eyes.
Widening my focus, I noticed the man at her side. I recognized him from last night’s play.
Why was Madeline having a drink with Marion Elliott?
“Mr. Kelly?” the bartender repeated, “may I get you a drink?”
“Blanton’s, neat.”
“Very well. Would you like anything else?”
The raven-haired beauty by the piano. I didn’t say that. “I’ve heard wonderful things about your shrimp scampi. I’d like a salad first with your house dressing.”
After I’d given my order, I found my attention pulled back to Madeline and her companion, Marion Elliott. As my mind filled with more questions, I had a stark realization. Marion Elliott was on the Sparrow radar. Madeline being with Elliott would put her on the same radar. It was a place I didn’t want her to be.
Madeline was a gambler, a poker player. Whatever was happening did not involve her. It couldn’t.
Utilizing the reflection of the large mirror behind the bar, I searched the room for Mitchell Leonardo. I hadn’t had the opportunity to research him, not with others on two. Nevertheless, my gut told me that he was present to watch over Madeline. While I also got the feeling that she wasn’t one of his biggest fans, he seemed to have a job with her.
Where was he and why wasn’t he standing by while Madeline made nice with one of the highest rollers in the poker world?
A ruckus came from the entry, drawing everyone’s attention.
Fucker wasn’t trying to lie low.
I sent a text to Mason.
HILLMAN HAS ARRIVED.
Patrick
My gaze went from the five cards in my hand to the other five players. There was only one player from my table last night, Mr. Daniels. I’d done my research and found him to be personally as boring as his online persona. I also didn’t consider him to be much of a threat.
The other four players were new to me, in person. I knew their online personas by heart. However, it was in person that gave me the advantage. In our short time of play, I was deciphering my newer opponents’ tells. Mr. Garcia, a local businessman, took a sip of his rum and coke each time he was unsure. A healthy hand and his glass remained untouched. Mr. Robertson, who had traveled from England where he owned manufacturing houses worth billions, was subtler. He had a very slight sway to the left when the cards fell the way he wanted, as opposed to his total statuesque stillness when they didn’t. That left Dr. Bolton, a doctor from the West Coast. Some might consider him a manic, a player who does a lot of hyper-aggressive raising and betting. I hadn’t decided if he was a good player or simply a gambler at heart.
What was important was that the stack of chips before me was growing.
I’d changed my strategy from last night. During our drinks, Marion Elliott had mentioned how others were talking about the lady with a bigger reputation than deserved. That didn’t bother me. Let them all underestimate me. However, if I were to play with the big boys on Saturday night, I needed the tall stack, the assets that came with accumulated funds.
Keeping status quo may have allowed me to make the first cut, it might even make tonight’s. However, if I continued that strategy and continued to advance, in the final round I wouldn’t have the betting power to win. It went without saying that each of the final six players would come into play with a tall stack of chips.
The pretournament drinks had yielded other interesting tidbits of information. Marion ended last night’s play with over two hundred grand, over 150 more than I. He hadn’t mentioned it as a way to boast but more casually, as if he were surprised such a night’s small earnings had landed him in the first-place spot.
He jokingly accused me and others of sandbagging. While I laughed it off, that was exactly what I had been doing. I wasn’t any longer.
The current bet came to me. The ante had been five grand and so was the first bet. I could call at five grand. We still had our original five cards; there was a draw still to come.
Marion Elliott didn’t accumulate two hundred grand with minuscule $5000 bets. It was time to up my game.
Flashing a smile, I moved my gaze around the table.
The hand I’d been dealt was weak, but as with any one, there was potential:
7, 8, 8, J, Q
Odds would tell me to keep the pair of eights. It could be enough. Maybe with a three-card draw I could get another pair or maybe a third eight. The riskier move was to give up the seven and eight and hope for an inside straight. I would need a nine and a ten.
I pushed five chips toward the dealer and nodded at Dr. Bolton who had placed the first bet. “I see your five.” I moved ten more chips. “And raise you ten.”
“Fifteen grand before the draw?” Mr. Robertson asked dismissively. “A tilt by the lady.” He shoved ten grand into the pot. “I call.”
It was a disparaging remark insinuating that I was playing wildly or recklessly. No doubt he believed it would throw me off my game. On the contrary, I smiled, hoping to do the same to him.
The next two players folded.
It came to Mr. Garcia. “I will see you for the draw.”
Now was the moment of truth. “Cards?” the dealer asked.
Taking only two would give the illusion of three-of-a-kind. However, I wasn’t here to bluff my way to the final table. I removed the 7, J, and Q, placing them facedown, said, “Three.”
Mr. Robertson’s shake of his head didn’t go unnoticed.
I didn’t reveal the new cards as the call went around the table. Mr. Robertson took two. It was Mr. Garcia who had my attention.
“I’m good.” He would keep his five dealt cards.
Fuck.
What was he sitting on?
Scooping the additional three cards into my hand, I began to fan them.
8 and 8, the cards I retained.
9.
Shit.
That would have been the first for the straight.
9.
I remained calm. Two pair was a good hand. Normally, it was. However, normally a player asked for at least one card. Mr. Garcia hadn’t.
The final card.
8.
I had a full house.
“Ms. Miller, I believe as the last to raise, the bet is to you,” the dealer said.
I looked to Mr. Robertson who had just lowered his glass of rum and coke. He wasn’t my concern. Grinning toward the table, I pushed in the appropriate chips. “I bet ten.” That would be another ten grand. With my current bet, the pot was sitting at $110 grand.
Mr. Robertson was the first to withdraw. “I’ll wait for another hand
,” he said, laying his cards facedown on the table. “I fold.”
“Mr. Garcia,” the dealer encouraged.
Slowly, he pushed ten more grand into the center of the table. “I’m not a selfish man, Ms. Miller, just a curious one. I will see your ten.”
That meant I had to show my cards. The dealing and betting were done.
“It’s too bad you didn’t push for more,” I said with a smile as I turned over my full house. “Eights over nines.”
“Well done.” One by one he revealed his cards. A jack, another. A king, and another. The table took a collective breath as we waited. One more of either and I was beat.
His last card was an ace.
Collecting my pot, I nodded. “A kicker.”
“You never know,” he said with a shrug.
I should have been considering what was happening at the other tables. I should have wondered why Andros had changed his mind about Elliott. And why he wanted me to meet him for pretournament drinks. I should have wondered about Patrick. God knows I saw him enter. I even saw him momentarily at the Bar Regal before the tournament. However, with Mr. Garcia staring across the felt at me, I concentrated on what I knew.
I concentrated on cards.
Once again, I’d made it to the end of the night. My earnings were considerably more than they’d been the night before. As the dealer handed me my new receipt, I read the earnings: $510,000. I could walk away tonight with more than half of the jackpot. Or I could continue to build my earnings and walk away with those plus the jackpot.
It wasn’t that I would walk away with any of it. It would belong to Andros.
My gaze caught Mitchell’s as he stood in the same spot he’d been the night before. I nodded almost imperceptibly, but enough for him to see. I scanned the perimeter—the people watching, not those part of the tournament. To my surprise, Andros wasn’t there. I hadn’t seen him since he’d left my hotel room after issuing my sentence, reprieve, and instructions.
He had divulged that he was staying at the Palmer House in the executive suite. He told me not to expect to see him again tonight while at the same time, not to be surprised if I did. I had been told that when he called, I would answer and deliver a full report.
“Tomorrow afternoon, the field is set at eighteen,” the house announced as the room turned deadly silent. This time they began at the bottom of the list. “Number eighteen...”
As for our table, I was confident that I was either just behind Mr. Garcia or just ahead. From a distance, our stacks looked evenly paired. It would depend on what we had each brought to the table.
The numbers continued.
“Number ten, Mr. Patrick Kelly.”
I sucked in a breath. He’d made the cut. I wasn’t certain if the news made me happy or sad.
“Number nine, Mr. Adam Garcia.”
I nodded at my tablemate. We were the only two from our table to advance.
“Congratulations,” Mr. Robertson whispered.
“Number eight, Ms. Madeline Miller.”
My lungs filled with air at the confirmation.
More numbers.
“Number four, Mr. Antonio Hillman.”
I craned my neck to get a sight of this man, the one Andros had mentioned. I couldn’t, not completely. The view was obstructed. Yet a table to my far right was congratulating him.
Three.
Two.
“Number one, Mr. Marion Elliott.”
His name brought a smile to my lips. I wasn’t happy for him. I was grateful.
Eight wouldn’t get me to the final game. Only the top six would make it. Thankfully for me, we all began at ground zero, our only differing element the stockpile of available cash. Mine had grown considerably and like everyone else, I had one more round to move up at least two positions.
Mitchell appeared with my coat. “Ms. Miller...”
Before he could finish, Marion was standing at my side. “Madeline, we must celebrate.”
The blue stare from a few tables away caused me to hesitate but only for a moment. As I turned my attention back to Marion, I lifted my hand to his and said, “We must.”
Patrick
Blood surged to my face, warming my skin, as I watched Madeline place her hand in Elliott’s.
“Mr. Kelly,” the dealer said, interrupting my thoughts, “here’s your receipt. Congratulations, sir, on your winnings.”
“Thank you,” I muttered as Madeline stood and moved her hand to Elliott’s bent arm. In this room of men, she was a beacon of light. The necklace around her throat glistened like the Queen’s crown jewels in a glass case on display.
A large hand landed on my shoulder. I turned to see Mason standing beside me. A tall man, he could appear menacing when necessary. Tonight he’d done as he said and cleaned up, appearing almost refined. His long hair was fastened in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. The suit he wore was custom, as nice as mine or nicer. The pointed toes of his cowboy boots made me grin. Just because they weren’t Italian loafers didn’t mean he hadn’t spent a fortune on them. It meant, when it came to Mason, conforming wasn’t his way.
“Did you see anything?” I asked.
“Yeah. Interesting dynamics. I have some theories.”
The room around us was beginning to clear. Madeline and Elliott were no longer present, the same as most of the players. An exception was Antonio Hillman and his entourage. They were some of the few remaining. I stood to put my suit jacket back on, the one I’d removed during play. As I stood shoulder to shoulder with Mason, I fastened one button. Looking up, I caught the stare of the man we were sent to watch.
“It’s a shame that the club’s standards have dropped,” Hillman said, looking our way. “There was a time this never would have been accepted. If you ask me, they need an exterminator to rid the place of birds. Filthy animals.”
It would be too easy to take his bait. Refinement was a weapon men like Hillman were unable to fight against or incapable of doing so.
“Hillman,” I said, standing three to four inches taller than him. “The only standard I question is your presence. I would think you’d be concerned about the optics, coming back to the scene of the crime and all.”
He scoffed. “It doesn’t seem to deter you. Besides, I’m here for the tournament. There’s nothing illegal about that. I have no other objectives.”
“Such a simple man,” Mason said. “I would suppose multiple objectives would be above your skill level.”
“The rumors are true,” Hillman said, eyeing Mason up and down. “It’s really you.”
“I’m me,” Mason said.
“You know what isn’t true?” Hillman asked.
We didn’t answer.
“The old saying that you can’t kill what’s already dead.”
He was again baiting us, threatening Mason.
“Try it,” Mason said, deadly calm.
Hillman turned back to his four henchmen. “This is boring. If memory serves me well, there’s a club not too far away that my father frequented. It offered a wide variety of pleasures, all flavors, blonde, brunette, and strawberry.” His men all laughed. Hillman turned back to me. “Surely Mr. Do-good hasn’t rid the city of all its fun.”
“He redefined the boundaries. Fun to be had must consent and be of legal age.” I nodded. “Break those rules and we’ll know. You’re in our city.”
“Enjoy the illusion.” With that, he turned, his men following one on each side and two behind. Classic formation.
And he called us birds.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. “They’re headed to McIver’s.”
“Top of the building above the Italian restaurant,” Mason said in confirmation as I sent Reid a text message knowing that he’d have the place covered in Sparrows.
“I hate that place,” I whispered after my text was sent and I returned my phone to my pocket.
“Yeah, after what you said happened to Araneae there, I’m surprised Sparrow didn’t light it up in
flames.”
The boss’s wife had been poisoned there before becoming his wife. Actually, at the time, she was...well, it was hard to define.
“That’s the thing,” I said, “Unlike those assholes, Sparrow sees the bigger picture. The city must function. He isn’t out to stop that. He just makes sure it does so on his terms. Besides, the guilty parties in that incident were identified and dealt with accordingly. No need to torch the whole basket for a few bad apples.”
Apple.
The perfect red apple tattoo came to mind.
“Mr. Kelly, Mr. Pierce, we must lock the room.”
Mason and I nodded as we stepped out into the nearly empty landing.
“You did well tonight,” Mason said. “Top ten. I was watching all five tables. The betting was getting higher and higher. There’s a lot of money in that room.”
“Do you think that’s what it’s about, the money? Do you think the tournament is all that’s happening, that it is the bigger picture, or do you think it’s a ruse?”
“I think there’s more. It’s a part, but not the whole picture. Even if it’s a ruse,” Mason said, “it is a piece of the puzzle.”
His comment reminded me of what Veronica Standish had said. I had the feeling she was trying to tell me something. “I think I want to track down Veronica Standish.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Gut, man.”
“Okay.” He looked around. With the exception of a few Club Regal staff passing by, we were now alone in this second-story hallway. “Hillman is an ass and a showman. He was manic in his play. Big bets. Big wins and losses, all with flair.”
“He wants us to watch him.”
“Which begs the question, why?” Mason said. “The way he’s commanding the spotlight feels like instead of the lead, he’s a distraction for someone else.”
“Elliott?”
“So far we’ve found nothing to indicate he’s any more or less than he appears, a stereotypical old Texas oilman. I was surprised to see him without a ten-gallon hat. I’m not saying our research made it look like he’s a choirboy. He has been around for a long time. He’s neck-deep in muck and dirty dealings all in the name of pursuing the American dream.”
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 13