Stacked Deck

by Tracy Watkins

  Hell, maybe she was dead and he was paying some rogue CIA group!

  Giambi made the transfer, then made a call to check on the progress of a Greek shipping magnate’s yacht, which was heading for Monaco. He was a billionaire with an interest in the proposal Giambi had made about building a casino in Kestonia. Giambi was talking up the small, Eastern European country as the next Vegas. It was also a place a man could work his money without worry. If Giambi could bring the Greek on board his casino venture, then get the rich widow to invest in his Formula One team, life might start looking good again.

  He had a printout about this rich widow, Anne Hurley. Worth upwards of a hundred million dollars, she definitely could be the solution to some of his immediate problems. He wanted his race team up and running again, but it would take millions to accomplish that and he couldn’t afford to go it alone.

  Sometimes, and this was one of them, he’d just stop his mind. Just suddenly stare off into space at the truth. He was seventy-eight years old, and time was shooting by on a fast train to nowhere.

  In those few seconds, when he stared that truth dead in the face, it scared him to the quick.

  All those vitamins and longevity formulas he tried to down, all the care he took of his body by working out every damn day, none of that could erase the years.

  And that reality pushed Giambi to get things done and get them done now. He still had ambitions, big ambitions.

  If it weren’t for that damn blackmailer, he’d be one of the truly big players. Steve Wynn and Donald Trump wouldn’t have had anything on him. He’d have been as big as both combined. And as far as racing was concerned, Christ, he could have teamed up with Paul Newman in the Indy league and coaxed him over into Formula One.

  One of these days, he promised himself, he was going to hunt that bitch down and put a bullet in her himself. At his age, he was beyond worrying about consequences.

  His phone rang. It was the concierge in the lobby. “Anne Hurley just phoned and requested a limo,” the rough voice said. Giambi didn’t know which of his employees was speaking to him, he only knew that at that moment the guy deserved a raise.

  “What time will she be here?”

  “Around nine-thirty, sir.”

  “Let me know the minute she arrives.”

  “Will do.”

  He hung up, and downed three extra-strength Tums to neutralize some of the acid in his stomach. Then he walked over to his bar to pour himself a scotch and get a cigar.

  I still have a good fifteen years, Giambi thought, and Ms. Hurley is going to help me enjoy every damn minute of it.

  He lit his cigar and gazed out the window. “Cool Hand Luke! That was the name of that damn Paul Newman film. Ginkgo biloba my ass.”

  Chapter 5

  W hile waiting for the limo, Beth checked her Judith Leiber bag to ensure that the cloner and tiny antenna were in the right pocket. This was her means to pick up a signal from a smart-card badge. She would catch the signal emitted from the badge and download the data onto her cloner, then later make the transfer to her computer. She had other B&E tools for getting in and out of secure places, and she’d been provided instructions, but not a lot of practice. Her main means of entry, she hoped, would be JD Hawke, once she figured out how to get some leverage with him.

  The limo picked her up at 9:15 p.m. On the way to Giambi’s place the limo passed Le Grand Casino on 1 Ave Princess Grace, then over to the Sun Casino on 12 Ave des Spelugues, and, of course, the Monte Carlo Sporting Club.

  The playboys and playgirls of the moneyed world were out and about cruising in their Mercedes, BMWs and Ferraris.

  Beth had had a great time here several years ago, gambling and dancing at Jimmy Z Dance, mingling with the trendsetters at this premier hot spot on the French Riviera.

  When the limo pulled up in front of Sapphire Star, a dapper casino valet dressed in a red shirt, black vest and black pants opened her door.

  “C’est avec le grand plaisir that we welcome you to the Sapphire Star Casino, Monaco.”

  She nodded as if her entire life was an entrance to sumptuous digs and servile attention. “Merci beaucoup.”

  She stepped out of the limo wearing a hot blue, butterfly-lace dress with black trim that hugged all the right places on her toned body; her bling bag dangled from her shoulder, and Manolo pumps on her feet gave a feminine look to her long, athletic legs.

  Before she went two steps a gorgeous hunk of a man emerged from the casino wearing casual slacks, a tan shirt and a cream-colored leather sports jacket. Wow.

  He headed toward her like a radar-guided, heat-seeking missile, and even though he was taller than she’d imagined, at least six feet, she recognized him instantly—JD Hawke. He walked with that cocky Saturday Night Fever Travolta strut, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips and every bit the cat on the prowl. Maybe mixing business and pleasure would be a nice advantage. Her body was already reacting to the guy, and she kind of liked how her heartbeat quickened as he strode toward her.

  This Tennessee racecar driver, her initial target, looked like very delicious trouble. Bring it on.

  She suppressed a grin.

  She watched as he took her in from top to bottom, then locked eyes with her. “Miss Hurley, welcome to the Sapphire Star. I’m Mister Giambi’s associate. He would like to invite you to have a drink with him.” A warm smile followed his rich Southern drawl.

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He had an engaging smile, big and handsome enough to paint a blush on a teenage girl’s face. She felt her own cheeks heat up after his intimate stare. C’mon, Beth, time to get a grip.

  “Aren’t you the racecar driver, John Davis Hawke?” She made sure there was just a touch of awe in her voice.

  He nodded as they shook hands. “Yes, ma’am. But people generally call me JD. At least those who like me.”

  Beth smiled a slow smile back at him, then followed JD into the elegant, soft ambiance of Giambi’s casino. She couldn’t wait to meet the man who was able to establish a casino in Monaco, a major accomplishment in and of itself. Monaco was a very protective place and this ex-Boston Wise Guy was, apparently, part of that protection.

  “If you want to play some poker,” JD said as they stepped inside a private elevator, “we have a unique poker room for special guests.”

  “And what makes it unique?” She liked the smell of him, clean and fresh. As if he’d just taken a bath, a long, leisurely bath. A bath where he lounged in an oversized tub, his long finger beckoning her to join him. She liked the image. Too much. She forced the picture out of her mind.

  “Let me show you.”

  She mentally shook herself as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor and the doors opened onto a piece of the old American West.

  JD said, “This is a duplicate of the poker room underneath the famous Bird Cage Theater in Tombstone, Arizona.”

  “I’ve seen the original,” Beth said. “That’s where Wyatt Earp played poker and where he met his third wife.”

  JD gave her a glance. “You are exactly right.”

  They walked past the tiny poker room with its three tables nestled behind a railing. “Everything’s to scale,” JD said. “The exact lampshades and chairs, even right down to the bullet holes in the walls and cigarette burns on the tables.”

  Beth looked around at the surrounding closed doors. “I see you even have the rooms where the prostitutes served the needs of the clients. I presume they aren’t in operation.”

  “Not exactly. These are private dining rooms for the players. Very private dining rooms.”

  Beth caught his eye and then glanced at the older men at the tables surrounded by a few women not much younger than Beth. “Some things never change,” she said.

  JD smiled, then laughed lightly. “Makes life more interesting, don’t you agree?”

  She found herself smiling. “Yes. There’s something to be said for tradition.”

  “Yes, ma’am, there sure is
.”

  They both smiled slyly at the same time, and instantly Beth knew this guy was going to be way too easy. And maybe just a little too much fun.

  Several of the men at the tables wore ten-gallon cowboy hats. Beth said, as they walked around the outside of the railing, “If Vegas recreates everything that is classically European, why not return the favor with a little bit of the Old West in Monaco. Giambi is obviously a shrewd businessman.”

  “One of the best.”

  She noticed the players using the large, square Monaco-style chips. They were difficult to riffle, but Beth had mastered the technique and was anxious to hold those chips once again.

  Soon enough, she thought.

  They walked away from the tables and past a packed restaurant tucked behind a small piano bar. Beth decided to open a new conversation. “I’ve seen you race and you’re one of the top-rated talents out there who doesn’t currently have a ride.”

  He looked over at her, wounded pride showing on his face. “Hopefully I’ll have one soon.”

  “Monaco Grand Prix is only a few weeks away. Any chance?”

  With a note of bummed frustration, he said, “Not likely this year.”

  They encountered Giambi sitting alone at a back table of the piano bar. The casino owner rose when he spotted them and stretched his six-two frame, which appeared to have withstood gravity very well. He had a neat shock of white hair and excellent taste in clothes: dark, pin-striped suit, wingtip shoes and a tiny pink rose pinned to his lapel.

  As if making an announcement, he said, “I’m Salvatore Giambi, proprietor of this fine establishment,” and stuck out his hand to meet hers.

  His hand felt warm, and his eyes were ice-chip gray with no sign of melt in them. She knew plenty of eyes like that in Vegas. They reminded her of tiny gun portals, the eyes of a man forever under siege.

  They sat down at his table and chatted amicably for a minute or two about the weather and poker. JD kept quiet, his eyes rarely leaving her.

  The waitress took her drink order, a green apple martini. When she left, Giambi got right to the point. “An intriguing rumor has reached me that you are looking to invest in a Formula One team. Any truth to that?”

  “Quite a bit of truth.” She made herself comfortable in her chair, knowing this might take a while.

  They discussed his race team, who his other drivers might be, the cars he was building and his search for sponsors. Giambi seemed quick and sharp, despite his age.

  By her second martini she was telling them about the Formula One race she’d seen right there in Monaco when she was six. She told lies with great conviction and flair, a talent that every good poker player must possess.

  “I still have Alain Prost’s autograph after he won that race. He set the record before the new chicane at one-thirty-eight kilometers. The lap record was a Ferrari, Michele Alboreto, over one forty-four. I actually got a ride in his car. Not very far, but it was one of the most exciting moments in my life.”

  The two men exchanged surreptitious glances.

  When she was telling them about how she not only loved the races, but the endless work in designing and building cars, Giambi suggested she should have a look at his new race shop and the cars he was building.

  She said, “I’d love a tour.”

  “JD will be happy to give you a tour anytime. Won’t you, JD?” Giambi gazed over at JD.

  JD looked a little startled, as if he hadn’t been listening to what was being said. “Be my pleasure. Tomorrow I’ll give you the grand tour. L’excursion grande.”

  His Southern accent obliterated his attempt at French, and brought a smile to her face. Cute. Time for a test. “That’s great, but the night is young for nocturnal creatures like me. Why waste it?”

  “True,” JD said, “but I’m afraid I already have plans for this evening, and I don’t think I can get out of them.”

  She watched Giambi’s head snap around. “If the lady wants to see the shop tonight, then tonight it is.”

  JD looked at Beth for salvation, but she decided that Anne couldn’t afford to give in to his gorgeous, pleading eyes. She said, “Then tonight it is.” She was interested in seeing how Giambi would relate to JD’s comment. It was a good time to start gathering tells.

  JD glanced at his watch. “Maybe I could make a quick run to the Monte Carlo and—”

  Giambi rose abruptly from his seat. “Excuse us a minute.” He motioned for JD to follow him.

  JD turned, gave her a shrug and walked off.

  Beth sipped her drink then smiled at the sight of the old guy hustling his young stud driver out to the woodshed for an earful. The whole scene revealed a great deal.

  Giambi had taken the bait and he seemed anxious. Maybe this little operation wouldn’t take too long after all. She sat back to await the outcome of their mano a mano.

  Giambi couldn’t believe JD had tried to blow her off. When they were out of her earshot, he said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “You know I promised to meet some people from Hollywood, and I—”

  “To hell with them. This woman has deep pockets. Did you not hear me earlier about taking care of this woman, Mister Southern Charm? She loves drivers. Her type always does.”

  “So, now I’m an escort service?” As soon as the words tumbled out of JD’s mouth, Giambi could see JD was wishing he could take them back.

  “I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a top-notch driver, unemployed, living free on the top floor of this establishment at my expense. A man whose future depends on my getting a racing team up and running. And that costs many millions, my friend.”

  He watched as JD stood a little straighter, visibly preparing to stand his ground. It was something Giambi liked about the man. “These people I’m meeting are potential investors. I’m trying to line things up.”

  “To hell with these Hollywood types. They’re fickle. Look, right now I need you to find out if Anne Hurley is the real deal.”

  JD paused a moment, then said, “I thought you already ran a background on her.”

  “Electronic data can be faked and I don’t have time to run hard verification on her. She might be who she says she is, but I need to know for certain. If she really knows racing, nobody better to find out than you.”

  JD’s expression softened as he accepted the compliment. “I’m no detective.”

  “You’ll know a false note when you hear it. Get close to her. Do what you have to do.”

  JD’s lips curved up in a knowing smile. “Ah, you want me to seduce her.”

  “Like most men wouldn’t give their left nut for a shot at something like that. This is your life we’re talking about here. You want to drive a race car or a garbage truck?”

  JD frowned, but nodded his acquiescence. “You know I don’t like blowing people off when I’ve made arrangements with them.”

  “Call them and make your apologies. Then get in there and make this young woman happy.”

  JD nodded, his face showing he was back on track. “Fine, but I’m taking the Bugatti.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “I’m taking the Bugatti. She’s class, like you say. First class. So I’m taking a first-class automobile. She deserves a good ride. She’s young, sexy, rich and looking to save our asses. Don’t you agree?”

  Giambi couldn’t believe this kid. “You starting to enjoy the idea now?”

  “The lady likes racing and gambling and I’ve got a feeling she likes guys about a third your age. The keys, please.”

  Giambi shook his head. He handed over the keys. “You better not scratch anything. And don’t be racing. Every cop in France has you on their speed-demon list. You know that.”

  “I’ll save it for the track,” JD said, slipping the keys into his pocket.

  Beautiful, smart young women are wasted on young guys, Giambi thought with a touch of resentment. Older men know a woman’s value, know how to treat them. That was one of the many things he hated abou
t getting old. Age was a nasty little thief. It robbed you a little each day. First one thing, than another, until you became an empty shell stripped of everything worth living for, then age killed you without dignity.

  I have fifteen good years left, he told himself again.

  It had been his mantra for years. He borrowed it from some big business guy. Maybe it was the one who once ran GE, but he couldn’t remember the guy’s name because he couldn’t remember anybody’s damn name.

  On the way back to rejoin Anne Hurley, Giambi rested his hand on JD’s shoulder. “Just so you understand something. I want nothing more in this world than to see you back on the race circuit. The troubles you’ve had in the past are over. A man with your talent has to be given a second chance and I’m doing everything in my power to get it for you. Just go along with the program.”

  “I’m with it. You know I am.”

  “And remember, I didn’t survive all these years in this business by not knowing what has to be done. I like this woman. She’s got brains behind the beauty and that can be a dangerous combination. You start thinking with the wrong head and before you know it, she’ll run a game on you.”

  “She doesn’t strike me as the game-playing type.”

  “That’s just it. When they’re good, you never see it coming.”

  “You suspect everybody of running a game on you?”

  “They all would, if they could. I don’t let ’em. Now go find out who the hell we’re dealing with.”

  Giambi watched JD walk into the bar flipping the keys in his hand. As angry as he got at JD from time to time, he had to admit he loved the kid like a son. Cocky and wild as JD could be at times, he was talented.

  Giambi wanted to see him fulfill that talent. Become the next Michael Schumacher. Unfulfilled talent was, in Giambi’s opinion, about the greatest crime a person could commit in this life.

  Chapter 6

  B eth watched the two men as they stood toe-to-toe just outside the entrance to the piano bar. It appeared that Giambi was doing most of the talking and JD most of the listening, though there were some moments when the driver definitely held his own.