by Robin Spano
One thing he knew: his writing space would have a decent coffee maker. He would grind his beans fresh for every cup. He might even learn how to roast them.
He gave his attention back to Josie.
You’re lifting your blush brush to your cheek when you catch your friend’s eye in the mirror. He’s followed you into the bathroom.
“What’s with you tonight?” you say. “You need some extra attention or something?”
“Nice job.” You think he means the makeup. You wonder if he’s flirting. You don’t think so; he’s one of your buddies. But — what the fuck is going on?
Before you notice, he’s slipped a rope around your throat. For a second you think it’s some crazy kind of foreplay, but when he doesn’t draw the rope away, you become alarmed.
You struggle with your friend. Why is he trying to kill you? Has he taken drugs that make him paranoid? You try to get your fingers between the rope and your skin for long enough to reason with him.
He says in a clear, unimpaired voice, “I told you not to stray from the plan.”
And you know. You pull frantically at the rope. You want to tell him you’re sorry. You’ll get back with the plan — you won’t breathe a word. You’ll be the perfect little poker cheater from this day forward.
You try to scream.
Too late.
You’re dead.
George rolled his eyes at his own melodrama. Of course he wasn’t going to submit this to any publishers in second person. But he would edit later, when he swapped out the real names for fictional ones. It felt good to be writing this freely. Normally he criticized himself so much as he wrote that he probably averaged four words an hour.
You’re Victim Number One. The police think you were killed in a crime of passion. They interview your friends, interrogate your exes, and arrest the middling poker player you’ve just begun to date. When there’s no evidence, they release him. They let the leads dry up until your case becomes one unsolved of many.
George closed the document and double-clicked its icon, making sure his password worked. Yup. Sealed up nice and tight. He didn’t want the world to see these words until they were very, very ready.
TEN
CLARE
“I hate it here,” Clare moaned into her Android phone with the stupid pink case. The party was over, she’d lost three thousand dollars at the poker table, and she was nowhere closer to knowing who the killer was. “I wish like hell that I could tell you where I am.”
“I wish you could, too.” Kevin’s voice was strong, and Clare wanted to be wrapped up by his body. “I could fly out and see you on the weekend.”
“You could drive,” Clare said. “I haven’t even left the province yet. And by the looks of things, I’m not going to.”
“Are you allowed to tell me that?”
“I don’t care.” Clare stared at her primly made bed. She should have requested a room with no flowers on the bedspread.
“You should care. I thought you loved your job.”
“I love it when everything’s going right.” If Clare ever found the perfect man, it would be someone who didn’t feel compelled to give her advice about her own job. “Anyway, you couldn’t visit, because my character is supposed to be single.” And then to drive home the point: “In case I have to get close to someone for the assignment.”
“So I shouldn’t consider it cheating.” Kevin was good-natured, which wasn’t the response Clare had been aiming for.
“Exactly. But you have to stay faithful, because you’re still the same Kevin Findlay. With a girlfriend named Clare.”
“Girlfriend?” Kevin said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My girlfriend doesn’t exist. She vaporized yesterday.”
“That’s not how it works.” But Clare smiled despite herself.
“No? You’d better tell me how it works, then.”
“Pretend I’m an actor. The real me and the real you have to stay faithful to each other. But if I’m in a movie — or in this case, a cover assignment — my character might have to interact romantically with another character in the movie.”
“Or the cover assignment.”
“Right.”
“For artistic reasons.”
“Yeah,” Clare said. “Or for espionage.”
“What a life you lead.”
“It’s pretty awesome.”
“So what if I’m off on an electrical job, and — for argument’s sake — a super-hot housewife wants to blow me and double my pay. Does that count as sleeping around in the name of a job? Or would that be cheating?”
“I think that’s prostitution,” Clare said. “Which would be a relationship-ender on a couple of levels.”
“Fair enough.” The sound of Kevin cracking a can of beer came through the phone. “Okay, so let’s say she — it’s the same hot housewife — calls me over because her outlet can’t handle her plug-in vibrator, and it keeps shorting out or blowing a fuse. Is it cheating if I watch her use the vibrator until I can figure out the problem?”
“No,” Clare said. “In that exact situation, you can watch the hot housewife masturbate with no negative impact upon our relationship. You can even help her out, if the situation demands it.”
“Great. Well, thanks for that clarity.”
“No problem.” Clare was starting to feel both more and less homesick. “So we’re good then? You and Clare, that is?”
“Yes.” Kevin grumbled. “And Anastasia DeWitt, or whatever name you’re operating under, is free to mess around with whomever she likes.”
“Thanks.” This was the best of both worlds, right?
Then why, when Clare tossed her clothes on the floor and crawled under that floral-print bedspread, did she feel like she was alone in both worlds?
ELEVEN
NOAH
Noah woke up ten minutes before his alarm was set to ring. It was a gray morning, which was fine with him. He was feeling kind of dim anyway.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle Bert. He’d lost a pile of money the night before and he didn’t have anything to show for it. Sure, there was the bet with Joe — but was that really for the job, or did Noah just want a piece of Tiffany and need the added push to ask her out? Fuck, he had to stop overthinking things. He should have stayed at NYU and done something normal for a career.
Noah made a coffee and waited for the knock on his door. Halfway through the cup, it came. He rose to let Bert in.
“Nice room.” Bert bent down as if to remove his shoes but seemed to have a change of heart and left them on. Like the casino hotel carpet wasn’t good enough for his designer socks. “Shame about the slob who’s staying here.”
“Sorry,” Noah said. “Didn’t realize cleanliness was part of the code.”
“I should make a handbook.” Bert took an armchair by the window and set two Tim Hortons cups on the table beside him. “So what have you learned?”
Noah coughed into his hands and steadied his nerves. “I have leads. I’m not ready to discuss them.”
Bert shook his head. “Always the same with you people.”
“We people? Because my mother’s Jewish?”
“Yeah, I’m suddenly a racist prick, you schmuck. I mean, you people under thirty. Think you’re so hot, you can run the whole show.”
“I don’t think I’m so hot.” If he had, then a lifetime of being told otherwise by his father would have permanently cured him. “I don’t want to waste your time unless I know my leads might go somewhere.”
Bert sighed. “So don’t waste my time telling me you have them. Are you going to sit down, or do you plan to keep pacing the whole time we’re talking?”
Noah rolled his eyes as he took the other armchair. “If I tell you nothing, you’ll think I’m pissing away your resources. I lost twelve grand last night, incidentally.”
“Incidentally?” Bert’s mouth opened, and stayed that way. “Did you lose it down a drain, or at a card table?”
“A card table. Obviously.” Noah knew he was being rude. It was his natural reaction when he felt like a cornered fuck-up. Maybe one day that would change, but for now he just had to go with it. “I’m making headway with some of the name players.”
“Like who?”
“Joe Mangan.” Noah looked at his jeans and noticed a small red stain from the previous night’s pizza. He flicked at it with his finger, but the sauce was embedded pretty deeply. “I have a prop bet with him. We both want to nail the same girl.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Tiffany James. She just joined the tour. She’s a trust fund princess, but she looks like she’d be fun in bed.”
“Is she involved in the hole card mess?”
“I don’t know,” Noah said. “But I wouldn’t mind getting messy with her.”
“This isn’t about you getting laid, Walker. It’s about the family-friendly game of poker being compromised without our consent.”
“Without our consent,” Noah muttered. Of course the problem wasn’t the game being compromised; it was that Bert and Co. weren’t in on it.
“Tell me about Joe Mangan,” Bert said. “He must be filthy rich from all his tournament successes.”
“And celebrity endorsements. He’s in beer commercials, car commercials; I wouldn’t be surprised to see him in condom commercials. Nice guy until you get him talking.”
Bert chuckled. “They’re all nice when they want to take your money.”
“Yeah. Joe’s the guy who took most of mine last night.”
“Never mind,” Bert said. “It’s going to be worth it in the end.”
“You mean I’m going to make more cheating than I can lose playing?”
“Careful what you say.” Bert looked around the room pointedly.
“I checked a million times. The room’s not bugged.”
Bert squinted, like he might see something Noah had missed.
“My god, you’re like an old-time mobster.”
“I like that comparison.” Bert grinned. “You shouldn’t knock those guys. They had style.”
“Whatever. They all killed each other in the end.”
“Make sure you don’t get blindsided by the girl’s body,” Bert said, serious again. “I don’t want you distracted from your mission.”
“My mission. You make it sound like I’m going to Mars.”
Noah blinked hard. “You have to be prepared to exploit this girl, if the situation calls for it.”
“I know.”
“You have to be prepared to see her as your enemy.”
Noah stared at the rim of his coffee. “I know.”
TWELVE
ELIZABETH
Elizabeth stood by the thick stone wall and gazed at the cloud of mist obliterating the bottom quarter of the falls. She could barely hear her thoughts over the thundering water gushing down in freefall for 170 feet, but she liked it that way. Her thoughts had been so dark recently; they could use some obscuring. She had no idea what might inspire someone to plummet over in a barrel, but she admired the courage of those who had tried.
Her peace was interrupted by a chirpy voice saying, “Morning.”
Elizabeth reluctantly turned to see Tiffany James carrying a giant take-out coffee that made her small frame look even more miniature. Tiffany clearly hadn’t showered yet, but even with messy hair and no make-up, the kid managed to look adorable.
“Morning back.” Elizabeth was going to be nice to this girl if it killed her.
“Are you looking forward to Vancouver?” Tiffany joined Elizabeth at the wall and peered over the edge.
Elizabeth wondered how much force it would take to toss Tiffany in. “No.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Vancouver? Once or twice. I grew up there.”
“Oh.” Tiffany nodded knowingly, like she might have the first clue about Elizabeth’s life. “And your family’s still there?”
“They live in Richmond,” Elizabeth said. “The same suburb as the River Rock Casino.”
“That’s convenient. Are you staying with them for the Vancouver leg of the tournament?”
“No,” Elizabeth said sharply. The last time she’d played at the River Rock, she and Joe had slept in her old bedroom for almost a week. Before their visit was over, Elizabeth had been ready to scream at pretty much everyone. “Joe chartered a boat. We’re keeping it moored at the casino.”
“In winter?” Tiffany shivered dramatically in her short white ski jacket.
“It’s nearly spring. Vancouver’s mild. Not like Ontario, where the people and the temperature are cold and bitter.” Elizabeth was pretty sure Tiffany was from Ontario. She had Entitled Little Toronto Bitch written all over her.
Tiffany shrugged. “I hope you don’t get seasick.”
Elizabeth hadn’t thought about that. They’d be moored in the river, but the Fraser was tidal and the water could get rough.
“So why do you hate your family?”
“I never said I hated them.” Elizabeth wished she hadn’t opened her mouth. She wanted Tiffany to go away so she could go back to being miserable alone.
“You didn’t?” Tiffany looked surprised. “Oh. Sorry. I guess I just thought . . . do you get along with them well, then?”
“I get along with them fine.” Which was true, because Elizabeth very rarely saw them.
“Are they hard on you about your career choice?”
Elizabeth furrowed her brow. She was tempted to say something snide about not appreciating the invasive analysis, but luckily, Tiffany kept right on talking.
“My parents wanted me to go to university, plod along miserably and learn useless things about literature and history,” Tiffany said. “So I get it.”
“Thanks,” Elizabeth forced herself to say. “So what does your dad do?”
“He’s in the import business.”
“Is he?” Elizabeth’s interest became genuine. “Mine, too. What does your dad import?”
“Furniture mostly.”
“Same here.” Elizabeth was surprised by the coincidence. “What’s your dad’s company called? I probably know it.”
“Um.” Tiffany bit her lip. “I’d rather not say.”
“Why not?” This was getting good.
“It’s — well — the point of all this is for me to go off on my own. Make my way in the world as an individual, not as someone’s daughter.”
Elizabeth snorted. “With a trust fund?”
“Oh.” Tiffany lowered her glance. “I guess I’m not that hardcore.”
Elizabeth wrinkled one corner of her mouth as she tried to make sense of this puzzle. Tiffany was lying about something. Maybe she’d call her brother, have him root through their father’s contacts and see what they could find.
“Does he own his own business?” Elizabeth watched Tiffany’s face as she asked this. A yes meant that he would be easy enough to find — his last name would be James, like Tiffany. A no would make things trickier — if he worked for someone else’s company, Tiffany’s dad could be anyone.
“Yeah,” Tiffany said. “But can we not talk about my family either? I’m like you — I’m here to get away from them.”
Maybe the secret was that innocent. But Elizabeth doubted it.
“You’re doing well so far.” Elizabeth forced cheer into her voice. “You’re still in the game after the first day. That’s better than I did in my first major tournament.”
“Yeah?” Tiffany looked at Elizabeth and her eyes lit up like a kid’s. “I’m doing better than you in this tournament, too.”
Elizabeth smiled, because the alternative was punching Tiffany in the mouth. “Good for you.”
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THIRTEEN
CLARE
“Tell me about yourself,” Joe Mangan said to Clare. “What’s your favorite food?”
Clare looked quickly at her pocket nines and stayed quiet. It was hard not to laugh at Joe: in place of the previous day’s hockey gear, he was now wearing a giant fruit basket on his head. She wanted to ask him why the costumes. Were they a publicity stunt, so he maximized his camera time? Or did he think they disarmed his competitors and drew their attention away from the game?
But these cards were important. Clare had to focus hard and make it past the bubble — that turning point between losing her entry fee and getting paid out a portion of the prize pool — or stupid Cloutier would pull her from the case. She had to hang on tight, playing only the best hands possible, until five or six more players were eliminated.
“You like Italian?” Joe said. “You look like you can handle spice.”
Clare said nothing.
“Maybe Mexican? I’d say let’s go for Indian, but curry’s not my thing. I feel like my clothes smell for three days afterwards.”
There was a nine on the board, plus an ace and a king, and Clare put in a bet for half the pot.
“Come on, honey. I want to know who I’m playing with.” Joe’s voice lifted playfully. “This game doesn’t have to be so cold.”
Clare thought she could beat whatever Joe held. He liked his hand; he didn’t want to fold. Clare had him on either two pair or a flush draw. If she played this right, maybe she could double through him. If she played it wrong, he’d fold and leave her with a tiny pot.
She smiled benignly. “Ask me anything you like when I’m not in a hand. If you want to know more about me, we can grab a coffee after the game.”
“Ah,” he said. “Confidence. I fold.”