Death Plays Poker

by Robin Spano

  “I guess you have no idea how they might have figured out your identity.”

  Noah kicked at a candy bar wrapper that someone had left on the sidewalk. Its flimsiness annoyed him as the wrapper lifted slightly from the ground and settled an inch from its starting point. “What are you going to do? Deny, deny, deny, like fucking usual?”

  “Yup. We’re planning to leak that you’re with the mob. You’ve been cheating at cards; that’s considered a crime here. You’ll probably have to do some jail time.”

  “That’s so unfair.”

  “It’s what we should do.” Bert grunted. “But the powers above might level with the pleasant Canadians. It’ll cost us, though. We might have to let them in on the Gallagher motel room crime scene as a peace offering.”

  “That murder is part of their investigation. You should let them in anyway.”

  “Going native? I think I can guess how they got your name.”

  Noah fumbled for a cigarette and managed to get one in his mouth and light it with one hand.

  “You want to confirm or deny?” Bert said. “Not like it’s going to make it any worse on you. You’ll be lucky if you get another plum assignment after this one. If you’re not, you know, arrested and thrown in a Canadian prison for your mob ties.”

  “Fine. I told Clare. But she was supposed to keep quiet. We even have a plan to work together.”

  “I guess the broad was playing you. What did I tell you about letting your heart get involved?”

  Noah pressed his phone’s Off button as violently as he could. The horrible part was that whatever happened to him wouldn’t be unfair: this mess was down to Noah’s own stupidity.

  Fucking Clare, and her fucking boyfriend at home.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  GEORGE

  George watched the sun as it slipped down toward the horizon. He zipped up his fleece; the night was turning cold.

  An animal moved through the water in front of him. It was swimming too fast and too straight for a seal. His first guess was a beaver, though all he could see was a furry dark head. In less than a minute, the creature was gone.

  He’d lied to the police. They asked him if he’d left the hotel the night before. If he’d rented a car and crossed the border. Did they know he was lying when he’d said no to all three? Not that a Zipcar really counted as a rental. But he’d given his own ID at the border. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now it was only a matter of time.

  George adjusted his seating position on the large rock. The mountains were beautiful from Richmond — not big and overpowering, like they could appear from the city, but muted, like the backdrop of a movie set. George wouldn’t want to live here; he needed a place more bustling with culture and energy. But for a stop along the way, this Vancouver suburb with its casino and fishing village ranked among his favorites.

  Five people were dead. But it hadn’t mattered to George until Fiona.

  Of course he and Fiona hadn’t been getting back together. George wasn’t blind to the fact that she’d been using him as a security blanket when she’d felt herself losing control. He should have been angry about it, but no such luck. He’d never felt himself pulled to a woman like that before, and he hoped like fuck he never would again. He’d rather die single, or in some pleasant, banal marriage where at least there could be no heartbreak.

  Even jail would be better.

  George got up off his rock and walked back toward the bus stop. On the gravel path, two young girls, maybe eight years old, were trying to control their two small dogs. One girl spoke seriously to her dog and pulled severely on the leash before cracking up with laughter. The other joined spontaneously in the laughter, and soon they were in hysterics.

  George would ordinarily have found the scene endearing. Tonight, he pictured Fiona at that age. And Josie Carter. So these girls with their dogs — full of life at the moment — should turn nine, and then twelve, only to die before they were thirty? Why bother?

  The girls giggled and continued on the path away from George.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  CLARE

  Clare loved morning. She loved the smell of coffee before she’d had her first cup, and she loved the way the first sip tasted as caffeine dripped pleasingly into her veins. She especially loved morning when she was outside, the chilly air brushing her skin and making her feel alive.

  She gazed over the water at the North Shore mountains and the Howe Sound beyond. It reminded her of a grade-school panorama — layers of mountain and water from big and up close to tiny and far away. Several fishing boats were out already, dropping their traps or lines for whatever they hoped to catch.

  “It’s the mountains.” Noah’s voice startled her from behind. “The water’s nice, but mountains give you energy. They make you feel like you can do anything.”

  “I’m not supposed to see you.”

  “I worked that out.” Noah glanced down at his Rollerblades. “Paid a kid five hundred bucks for these, and they’re not even my size.”

  “Cabs are cheaper.”

  “Thanks. Mine dropped me on the other side of the park. When I realized it was the wrong entrance, the driver didn’t have time to take me to the right one because he had a pick-up at the Westin Bayshore.”

  “Asshole. I hope you didn’t tip.”

  Noah laughed. “It’s not the driver’s fault I gave him crap directions. Anyway, what’s so clandestine that you only have until seven a.m. exactly?”

  Clare glanced around in case the RCMP guys had followed. She was pretty sure she and Noah were alone, but since she’d never been in the spy business, she recognized that she might not know what to look for. “My handler told me I have to stop working with you.”

  “I figured you weren’t washing your hair when you bailed on last night. Why did you tell her about me?”

  “You already knew?” Clare was surprised.

  “Yeah, and I’m in a load of shit for it.”

  “Sorry.”

  Noah pulled his cigarette pack from the front pocket of his fleece. Although she had her own smokes with her, Clare accepted a Marlboro. She wanted the raw, nasty edge of the American cigarette.

  Noah sat on the bench beside Clare, took the coffee from her hand, and took a long sip before setting it on the seat between them.

  Clare liked that Noah liked his coffee black, that they could share a cup and both enjoy it. Kevin drank his with cream and sugar, which Clare had never understood.

  “See, we’re meant to be together.” Noah leaned back, stretched his non-smoking arm so it rested behind Clare, his hand lightly touching her shoulder.

  Clare wondered if it was cheating on Kevin to let Noah leave his hand there. It sure felt like it. “If this was destiny we would have met when I was single.”

  “You can be single anytime you want to be. Ditch your boyfriend and move to New York.”

  Clare blew a couple of smoke rings. “I suppose you moving to Toronto isn’t in the cards.”

  Noah smirked. “You suppose right.”

  “Is that like the Antarctic Pole to you?”

  “More like Siberia. But that’s not it. What if I could get you a job working with me?”

  “Because the FBI loves recruiting inexperienced Canadian girls.”

  “They like recruiting assets. I told my boss about our plan — the notes, and the disinformation havoc we want to create. He’s not being particularly nice to me right now — something about some Canadian operative spilling that she knows my real identity — but he likes the plan. I told him it was yours.”

  Clare wished Noah would move his arm, because it continued to send a warm electric current through her body. “That’s why I called you here. I want to continue our plan with the notes whether Amanda okays it or not. I might not be able to make all the drops I was planning to, but I’ll pull as much weight as I can.”
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br />   “Don’t worry,” Noah said. “I’ll run the notes around until you’re allowed to breathe on your own. You just dictate what you think the notes should say. I’m used to being a woman’s lackey.”

  “And you should move your arm; it’s annoying me there.”

  Noah put his cigarette to his lips, inhaled, and blew the smoke out slowly. He didn’t move his arm. “I got one of those notes this morning.”

  “You —” Shit. Of course. Because the real Dealer was still out there. “What did it say?”

  Noah pulled a crumpled page from his pocket.

  Stop stirring shit around.

  Clare stared at the note. It didn’t make sense. If Noah had been made, why would he get warned instead of killed?

  Was he fucking with her? Noah could have written the note as easily as received it. Amanda was right. She had to get the hell away from this guy until they knew who he was.

  Clare took Noah’s arm from around her shoulder, intending to get up and walk away, but instead she kept his hand and held it. Because she wanted to? She told herself that no, she kept his hand because she didn’t want to tip him off to her suspicion. There were joggers out, and some other early risers. But Noah on Rollerblades would be able to chase Clare down easily if she tried to run. Unless she headed for the bushes . . . but that was verging on ridiculous. Better just to stay here and leave slowly.

  “So tell me about your real father,” Noah said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been idolizing this fake one — Tiffany’s father. What’s your real dad like?”

  “He’s fine. He’s a mechanic.”

  “Are you close?”

  “We used to be.” Clare didn’t want to talk about her depressing real family. “What about yours?”

  Noah snorted. “He tried to create me in his image. He failed.”

  Clare’s phone beeped. She turned the screen away so Noah couldn’t read it.

  Amanda: Where r u? Thought u went 4 smokes but u’r gone 2 long.

  Clare: Clearing my head. Walking on seawall. Surprised goons didn’t follow me.

  Amanda: Probably did. Come back. Have new info.

  Clare: What new info?

  Amanda: Not in a text.

  Clare stood up. “Thanks for the revelation. Sorry your dad’s a jerk. I have to go.”

  “Clare, whatever they tell you —”

  “I have to go.”

  “They might lie. The FBI might tell the RCMP that I’m not who I say I am.”

  Clare walked away as quickly as she could without breaking into a run.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  ELIZABETH

  “You know what having a kid would mean?” Elizabeth poured cream into Joe’s coffee and stirred it. Joe was driving Last Tango home to the casino. They’d spent the night anchored up Indian Arm, a secluded saltwater fjord surrounded by dense forest and sheer granite cliffs, and Joe’s only message on Twitter had been to tell the world he was “chilling with Liz & offline until morning.” Elizabeth loved that about Vancouver — how close you could be to the city, and how far away you could feel. If her family ever left, she would move home in a heartbeat.

  “Sure I know,” Joe said. “This baby will mean a whole new world of endorsement opportunities. Gerber ads, Huggies commercials . . . hell, if the kid’s cute, he can be on TV with me.”

  “Oh my god.” Elizabeth set the coffee on the dash in front of Joe. Some splashed from the cup as they went through a wave.

  “Kidding.” Joe put his hand on the coffee as he braced for the next small wave. “But seriously, this kid’s going to be awesome. Cute, funny, smart — and if he takes after you, he’ll also be responsible.”

  “What I meant was, do you know what having a baby is going to mean in our lives? We’ll have to work less — maybe enter less tournaments.”

  “Nah,” Joe said. “That’s the trouble with parents today. Their world is all diapers and child-protecting their houses. I think that’s why kids are growing up entitled. Their parents’ world revolves around them, so they think the real world should, too.” Joe waved at a seal. “Those things are adorable. If we ever live by the water, we should have a pet seal.”

  “Sure. We’ll have a seal. It can babysit our kid while we’re off playing poker.”

  Joe laughed. “We could hire someone to come with us on the road.”

  Of course. A nanny. A.k.a. Joe’s portable concubine. Elizabeth shook her head. “My parents offered to take care of the baby when we’re traveling.”

  “Yeah? You want to stop in Richmond before and after every tournament?”

  “Good point. How about a male nanny?”

  “The kid’s going to have enough male influences from the poker community. I think a woman is the way to go.”

  Joe turned the boat into the Burrard Inlet, bringing the city and its industry back into view.

  “An old woman, then,” Elizabeth said. “A grandmotherly type.”

  Joe grinned. “Fine. So will you marry me and have this kid?”

  Elizabeth stared at the water. The rising sun behind them, the North Shore mountains to their right, Stanley Park becoming larger ahead of them . . . even the giant pile of sulfur that was normally a yellow eyesore in the inlet managed to look beautiful in the early morning sun. “Yeah,” she said.

  Joe turned sharply to look at her. “Did you just say yes?”

  Elizabeth felt her throat constrict. She didn’t think she could speak, so she nodded.

  Joe let out a shout and gunned the engine hard. When he’d brought the speed back down, he said, “I thought you’d leave me if I ever asked you to marry me.”

  “You did?” Elizabeth said. “Why?”

  “Women like you don’t want forever with guys like me.”

  Elizabeth studied Joe. His eyes were on the water and his sunglasses hid their expression. “Sometimes,” she said, “you have no idea what you want until it’s there.”

  EIGHTY-SIX

  CLARE

  Amanda poured Clare a new cup of coffee. “You’re good.”

  “You mean . . .” Clare tried not to get her hopes up.

  “Noah Walker checks out.”

  “He’s FBI?”

  “Yes. We’re obviously not pleased that they launched their own investigation in our territory without first attempting to gain our cooperation . . .”

  “Will they share their Washington motel info with us?”

  Amanda gave her short, sharp laugh. “They don’t feel badly about being caught, if that’s what you’re asking. No, they won’t change their position on the motel room murder scene.”

  “That’s so unfair.” Clare decided not to correct Amanda’s grammar from “badly” to “bad.”

  “Welcome to dealing with the United States of America. You want really unfair, try dealing with Iran.”

  Clare smiled.

  “At any rate, we’ve resolved that issue. You’re sharing information on the ground level with Noah Walker.”

  On the ground level. Leave it to Amanda to find a way to be condescending. Clare wished she had corrected her grammar.

  “I guess I’d better get back to my low-level work, then. Seeing as it’s the only thing that’s actually accomplishing anything.”

  “Really, Clare? After everything, you’re still the pouting princess?”

  Clare lifted her head to face Amanda. “Me? What are you talking about?”

  “I fought for you to keep your job after you gave up classified information to Roberta McGraw and to Kevin Findlay on an unsecured phone line. Instead of pulling you from the case when you started pooling information with a suspect who claimed to be law enforcement, I went behind the scenes — possibly creating conflict with U.S. law enforcement — to find his true identity, again so you could stay in place. How
could you possibly think I don’t value your contribution?”

  Again, with the word “contribution.” Or maybe Clare was being overly sensitive. “Thanks, Amanda.”

  “For what?” Amanda looked surprised.

  “Cloutier would have had me pulled at Roberta.” Clare pushed away her nearly untouched coffee. “Your gourmet coffee’s actually pretty good, but you understand if I don’t stick around and drink the second cup, right?”

  “No pancake breakfast to finish off our sleepover?” Amanda looked almost disappointed.

  “Have you ever eaten a pancake in your life?”

  Amanda grinned, nearly blinding Clare with the whiteness of her teeth. “Only when I’ve had one sangria too many the night before.”

  “Another time.” Clare picked up her phone to send Noah a text. “I need to get back in this game.”

  “The game doesn’t start until the afternoon.” Amanda glanced at her watch. “It’s not even eight thirty.”

  “Yeah,” Clare said. “I’m talking about my metagame.”

  “Is that a poker term?” Amanda frowned.

  “It’s the game above the game. It’s where you create illusions in order to trick people into making mistakes.”

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  GEORGE

  George felt like he’d been drinking the same cup of watery coffee since the beginning of the Canadian Classic Poker Tour.

  He could turn on his computer, but why? He’d already written everything he had to say.

  His plane for Las Vegas was leaving that night; he’d go back to his crummy apartment and regroup. If he couldn’t buy his writer’s cabin in New England, maybe he could rent one for a year.

  That actually sounded good. George booted up his computer to look at cabin rentals. Anywhere except a city, and nowhere that a poker tour was stopping by. Fiona was dead — he couldn’t change that. But he could avenge her murder the only way he knew how: through fiction.