Death On the Flop

by Jackie Chance

  That placated Frank, but I was restless. We hadn’t talked about our visit to Stan’s ex and what that produced.

  “You think what Deidre really saw was a snuff film?” I shivered despite my promise to myself that I would be nonchalant.

  Frank’s mouth tightened. There was something he knew and didn’t want to tell me. Finally, he sighed. “I did some research on the Internet last night. I found a masters thesis about the possibility that snuff films actually do exist, and as real murders, not ones simulated on video. The PhD student quoted an anonymous source as reporting a rumor of a Las Vegas dealer who sells snuff films for $100,000 each. Buyers get the original. You wouldn’t have to sell many of those to stay rich.”

  “A Las Vegas dealer. That’s almost too coincidental.”

  “Coincidence is rare,” Frank said.

  We sat in silence for a while. Frank stared out the window at dusk on The Strip. “I wish I had better sources in the county. If I had someone in Vice to ask about this snuff dealer rumor we might have a handle on whether that angle is a wild goose chase. Abel told me to keep away from all the guys in Vice, apparently Conner lines their pockets on a regular basis. Of course we could always talk to a porn dealer,” Frank joked. “If we knew one.”

  “I do.”

  Frank’s head swiveled around so fast I was afraid he’d given himself whiplash. “What?”

  I’d remembered our encounter with Cyrano. Who knew I’d really use that card? I hoped it was still tucked away in that skirt I’d wadded up in the corner because it had cooties. “I met a porn dealer, or porn producer, at least.”

  Frank had puffed up like a lion whose lair had been invaded. “And how did you happen to meet a porn dealer?”

  “He wanted to make me a star.”

  Frank grimaced.

  I went into my bedroom to retrieve Cyrano’s card and handed it to Frank. He looked at it thoughtfully. “I don’t want you to have to talk to him, but these guys have cop radar. If we double-team him, he might suspect a sting.

  “I’ll figure something out, but first, we need to get you to the tournament. Maybe Ben will be there checking in and our problem will be solved. Maybe the bad guy will try to nab you as you check in. I’ll threaten to pull his fingernails out and he’ll lead us to where they’re torturing Ben by making him watch endless The Price is Right reruns.”

  I couldn’t resist a smile. “You can be a real goofball.”

  “Not usually, I think you bring out the goof in me,” Frank admitted.

  I’m a bit of an introvert, so big crowds of people aren’t my thing. One strike against this Hold ’Em tournament from the get-go. Crowds not only waited in line to check in, but throngs gathered on the sidelines to catch a glimpse of the pros playing. No sign of Stan yet, but I was guessing he would wait to make a grand entrance. I wouldn’t have thought that some stupid card game would draw fans, but then again I can’t believe people pay to go to the zoo either. Man, that place smells. I sniffed. My place in line was actually starting to smell pretty rank too, since the woman next to me was holding a baby whose diaper was well past due for a change. I wondered how she was going to juggle the newborn and her hand, but that wasn’t my problem.

  Unless of course she was sitting next to me. Which, knowing my luck, she would be.

  “You’re at table forty-one, seat six,” the registrar informed the little mother. She took her seat assignment and packet and started to move off. “What will you be doing with the baby?” her registrar asked as I moved to the front of my line.

  “I’ll be taking him,” she said, jutting her chin out in challenge.

  “No you won’t, unregistered people aren’t allowed inside the barriers.”

  “He’s six months old. I’m breastfeeding. Don’t tell me that you would deny a child his right to nutrition because of a rule that couldn’t possibly apply to infants.”

  The registrar shook her head and consulted behind her hand with her colleague. “I’m sorry ma’am.”

  “I guess the Lanai,” the mother raised her voice to a crescendo, “is prejudiced against nursing mothers. I’m sure NOW and the La Leche League will be interested to hear about this. Maybe we can file a restraining order against the casino to keep the tournament from taking place.”

  The poor registrar’s face had gone from pale to flushed and back again. She called on a walkie talkie and whispered to my registrar. Suddenly, they both looked up beyond me and smiled. I sucked in a breath, praying for patience. Iceberg Effusion! I started to look back and suddenly Daniel Conner was at my elbow. Ack. Of all the dumb bad luck. I looked quickly forward, swallowed a scream and forced myself to breathe normally. Frank had gotten a call and had gone around the corner for better reception. He wouldn’t be able to save me if Conner suddenly grabbed me by the hair and dragged me out to the dumpster.

  I had a second to escape, if only I could just creep away unseen. Conner hadn’t seemed to recognize me—but he was focused on the dispute next to me. He spoke in low calm tones and all the women seemed placated, probably more by his physical beauty than anything else. Apparently, the Lanai chose to forgo a lawsuit and bad press and let the nursing mother play.

  My registrar sighed and turned to me just as I was about to slip into the crowd. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What’s your name?”

  Conner was whispering into his walkie-talkie. I held my breath. I smiled at the registrar. She raised her eyebrows impatiently. “Yes?”

  I muttered my name fast. Conner turned his back to me, pressed his hand to his free ear and kept talking.

  I leaned down to the registrar and quickly whispered, “B. Cooley, Houston, Texas.”

  Conner froze for an instant, then spun around, eyes narrowing at me. I steeled myself, smiled wide, held out my hand and exaggerated my drawl, “Hi, handsome, I’m Bee.”

  “We’ve met,” he said smoothly, kind of like a snake must talk to a mouse before it swallows it.

  I shook my head slowly. “I don’t think so, because I would’ve remembered a gorgeous pair of baby blues like yours.”

  A little uncertainty crept into those baby blues even though his voice was just as confident. “You lost your wallet, except you didn’t. Remember?”

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t lost my wallet in Vegas, but I will if I get to talk to you again.” I winked. Ick. I hope I wasn’t overdoing it. “And what room are you staying in where I should go report if I notice anything of mine missing at all?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me again, clearly getting my sexual innuendo. He wasn’t interested, thank the good Lord. “I guess I was mistaken,” he mumbled, turning away with only a single glance back.

  I knew he was not at all sure he was mistaken, but he certainly wasn’t going to try to shake me down about the Felix encounter in front of these women. My registrar was smiling smugly at me, clearly gratified by his rejection of my advance. Little did she know I was more gratified than she was. She held out a glass bowl. “Draw your seat.”

  Still watching Conner out of the corner of my eye, I reached my hand in and grabbed a paper. She took it from me and read: “Table forty-one, seat five.”

  Uh-oh. “Is that—”

  Her smile grew. Bitch. “Yes, that is right next to Amy Downs, the lady who just checked in with that sweet little baby. Good luck in the tournament, Miz Cooley.”

  Fifteen

  By the time I turned away from the check-in table, the number of onlookers had doubled. I suppose this signaled the approaching arrival of the star pro—Steely Stan. Other pros had arrived to a smattering of applause from the crowd. But they were clearly waiting for the main man.

  I looked over heads for Frank. There was no sign of him. I’d kept an eye on Conner, who’d kept an eye on me as he consulted with some suited goons, pointing at the tables in the adjacent ballroom. I tried not to let his presence bother me, because he seemed to have a shark’s sense for blood in the water. A couple of the players waiting with me helped distract me by striking up
conversations. A chatty bunch, these poker players, I guess it’s more fun to know the person you’ll be taking money from later. I used the opportunity to get as much information as I could about Stan, but none of them knew any more than I did.

  “How many of these have you played in?” a balding accountant from Nova Scotia named Ringo asked me.

  “It’s my first,” I answered, looking over him for Frank.

  “Wow, you sure are jumping in with both feet.”

  “And sure to find myself in way over my head, I’m sure,” I said, trying to warm up to all Hold ’Em’s water analogies with one of my own.

  “I don’t know,” he offered, “if you’re brave enough to start at something this big then you’ll probably make a helluva Hold ’Em tournament player.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Where are your shades?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your sunglasses.” He motioned to the clutch purse I held in the crook of my arm. “They can’t fit in that tiny thing.”

  “I don’t have any.” Panic threatened.

  “Don’t worry if you don’t have them tonight. Most of tonight is looser play, so luck plays a bigger part than skill, I feel. But the game changes as time goes on. You’d better get some shades by day three, if you’re still in there. Things get serious then. There’s a lot of money at stake and some of these pros are experts at reading even a blink.”

  “Okay, thanks for the advice, Ringo,” I said, shaking his hand and trying not to let my knees knock together. Where was Frank? The tournament officials were beginning to herd us into the ballroom where 200 poker tables were set up and waiting. “Good luck.”

  I lingered with the last stragglers, but still no Frank. Just as I was about to slip into the ballroom, I heard a burst of catcalls and applause behind me. I turned to see Steely Stan making his way through his fans, TV cameras following. I noticed he ignored them all as he sauntered by with a woman on each arm (different ones from the other day). His only acknowledgement of propriety was he kept his hands on their shoulders instead of their breasts. He wore a black leather jacket, black jeans and a red silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal a thick gold chain with a gold poker chip in a nest of nasty chest hair. Ick.

  “Man, aren’t you glad he’s not sitting at your first table?” the scrawny thirtysomething guy behind me whispered.

  “Don’t I wish he were sitting at my table,” the woman to my right purred with her hand on her throat. “Where we could rub elbows, and other things.”

  “Actually, you’ll have to get pretty far in the tournament to have that chance. Stan doesn’t play until the last night. He’s just here as a figurehead tonight,” I advised her. She stuck her lips out in a pout.

  Stan had reached the ballroom doorway and turned his Bolles on me. Uh-oh. He looked down his nose and I stared at myself in the twin mirrors. “Not you,” he growled. “In this tournament?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said clearly, not recognizing the strength in my own voice.

  One of Conner’s security goons approached. “Is there a problem, Stan?”

  “Just a PITA, but she’ll be gone before the night’s over.”

  “You wish,” I said.

  He turned the Bolles back on me and smiled coldly. “Alone tonight? Where is your sidekick?”

  I felt a frisson of fear go down my spine. Then I was pissed that he would be so bold. “I should be asking you that question, shouldn’t I?”

  I saw the muscles in his jaw bulge as he gritted his teeth. Then he turned his back to me.

  On an invisible cue, both women leaned in and kissed Stan on opposite cheeks and disappeared down the hallway.

  “They’re going where all women belong,” Stan said so no one but the few near him could hear. “To bed.”

  Grr. I saw Frank appear way down the hallway behind the fans. At first he looked concerned to see me so near Stan, then I think he read the emotion on my face and shot me a pointed warning glance.

  Stan sauntered on into the ballroom and a buzz went through the tables. A tournament official circulated through us dozen or so stragglers. “Last call to get to your seat. The tournament will begin in sixty seconds.”

  That should’ve made me nervous again, but I was so mad at arrogant, chauvanistic, something smuggler, maybe brother kidnapper, Steely Stan that I felt a cold cloak of pure focus settle on my psyche. I passed the waitress with a “40-45” label on her tray and decided she was the server for my table. I told her I’d be drinking Perrier tonight, in a glass, with a twist, refill whenever I got low. I passed her a twenty, then marched to table forty-one and sat down without a qualm. I nodded to Amy, who was bouncing Junior on her shoulder. The woman sitting in seat seven leaned in to me and whispered, “Do you know Steely Stan?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of formally meeting him,” I said blithely.

  “Oh.” she looked at my cleavage. “I guess he just liked your shirt, then.”

  I let that one go, because she was about as bad an example of womanhood as Stan was a bad example of manhood.

  A rope ringed the tables, keeping onlookers back at least thirty feet. I saw Frank get as near to my table as he could, which wasn’t even close enough to see his five o’clock shadow. Fat lot of help he was going to be way over there.

  Introductions were made all around. The pro at our table was Yegor from Uzbekistan, who told us in broken English that he learned poker on the Internet and now kept himself in vodka by playing in Hold ’Em tournaments around the world. As our dealer shuffled, I noticed Conner enter the ballroom through a side door. He looked immediately at me, then looked away when I met his gaze with a toothy smile. I hoped he and Stan didn’t compare notes about me because they might think I was either bipolar or definitely suspicious.

  As they cut the cards, I remembered the marker Frank had given me during our dinner. “A lot of people use these to put on their pocket cards,” he explained. “Partly for security, to make sure they stay down, but mostly for luck.”

  I’d looked at the wooden disc, its painted words so worn they were illegible. “And why is this one lucky?”

  He’d gotten a faraway look in those dark eyes. “Someday I’ll tell you the story, but for now, just trust me.”

  I reached in my clutch and pulled it out just as the dealer tossed out the first pocket card. The second followed. I set the marker on the two and pinched up the corners. A pair of sevens, all red. This was a good pocket pair, according to the book Frank had given me. Maybe this marker would be lucky after all.

  In the end it seemed way too easy. The pro was a total Rock who signaled his good hands from miles away. He got knocked out in the first two hours. Yegor wouldn’t be buying Grey Goose tonight. Of the rest of the table, only three gave me a run for my chips. A man sitting in seat four might have actually nosed me out if it hadn’t been for fate known as Amy and Junior. Amy had been playing pretty damned well for a woman juggling an infant. A Queen fell on Fourth Street with a Queen and a pair of sixes on the flop. I had only a pocket eight and an ace. Somebody likely had a full house, or easily four of a kind. Junior was hungry, so Amy tucked him under her shirt for a little snack. The D man couldn’t keep his eyes on the game so driven to distraction was he by Junior’s sucking. I decided to bluff. I raised. Everyone folded. I won even though there were better hands out there, because when Seat Eight showed bad etiquette by asking what I had in my hand, I used worse etiquette in showing the table my cards. Seat Four gritted his teeth and Seat Seven kicked the table leg. I widened my eyes and apologized for my bad poker manners, but I’d taken the opportunity to use a lesson Frank had taught me—sometimes you had to act stupid to win smart.

  Amy and I ended up heads up in the last round. I had unsuited ace and Jack in the pocket and even though Frank and the book both told me this wasn’t a hand to play, I decided to try it anyway. Amy raised and I called. We had Queen, ten, four all unsuited, on The Flop. Amy raised. I wanted to bounce my leg, I wanted to tap my fingers. I
stayed still and waited for the right time. Just as the dealer was about to urge me along, I reraised and she went all in. The River card was a King. I got lucky—Amy had pocket Jacks.

  I thanked a sleeping Junior for his help and shook Amy’s hand. “I’m going to be watching you, Bee. You are one cool customer,” she said. “I hope you beat the pants off Steely Stan.”

  Her comment reminded me of the Internet players who’d wished the same result for Ben. My eyes misted.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, just thinking about my brother. He really wanted to be here, doing this. He really wanted to beat Stan in the worst way. I didn’t want it as bad and still don’t understand his intensity about the guy.”

  Amy shrugged. “He’s the guy we all love to hate in poker. I think those of us who’ve played for a long time are sorry that he would have to be the one to ride Hold ’Em’s sudden wave of popularity. Right now he is Mr. Texas Hold ’Em to the world, and most of us would rather have a different ambassador for the game.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “On the other hand, Stan is larger than life, an easy person to put on a magazine covers and expect to sell lots of copies. If some dweeb won the World Series of Poker, it might not be as popular as it is. Still, I hate that he put people out of jobs once he made it big.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My sister used to work for Fresh Foods, a produce supplier. They’ve sponsored Stan on his World Series bids since he was a nobody. Once he won his first title, a lot of people were fired at Fresh Foods and replaced by people hand picked by Stan. It must have been some sort of power trip.”

  “Sounds like it,” I said vaguely. Hmm. I smell something fishy in the produce section. “Was your sister one who was fired?”

  “Yes, she and all the other quality control experts. Stan told the company he wanted the quality of the produce to match the quality of his game. Gag me.”