Death On the Flop

by Jackie Chance

  “Quality control? What did your sister do exactly?”

  “Randomly open boxes to make sure the right fruit was in the right box, that there were no spoiled fruits, that kind of thing.”

  I nodded and made sympathetic noises. I wanted to ask her for her sister’s name and phone number, but I couldn’t without getting her suspicious. And besides, I really didn’t want anyone else to die. I’d have to ask Frank how to proceed. “Amy Downs, good to meet you.”

  “Bee, what’s your last name?”

  “Cooley.”

  “ ‘Bee Cool’ Cooley. I see a championship in your future.”

  Frank was shaking his head in disbelief when the tournament officials finished taking my information to move me into the next round. “I guess the marker was lucky after all.”

  I nodded. “Even better than winning, I stumbled into some more information about Stan and Fresh Foods.” I related the story Amy told me.

  “I don’t think tracking the sister down will do any good. From her casual tone, Amy told you all the sister knows. If they replaced the quality control department, it certainly means that Stan wanted his guys in place so they could bring in something illegal. Or else they just blamed Stan.”

  I held my head in my hands. “How complicated is this going to be?”

  “Consider this: Stan is just the figurehead and Conner is the real bad guy. We already have enough circumstantial evidence to link Conner to Felix’s murder and to Pudgy Pete’s demise.”

  “I guess the best way to find out would be to talk to Stan and see how he reacts.”

  Frank shook his head. “Too dangerous.”

  I arched my eyebrows at him. “Not if I do it in front of the TV cameras.”

  “Just keep playing like you’re playing and you just might get the chance.” Frank guided me to an alcove off the lobby. “Now, you need to call your buddy Cyrano. I’ve rented another room for the night. Tell him if he’d like a preview of what you can do, he can meet you at room 1969 in one hour.”

  Yuck, just pretending was going to make me sick. “What if he’s too careful to come?”

  “Oh, he’s careful alright, but he’s also a pervert. Perverts can never resist a free show.”

  Sixteen

  Frank was right. Again. Cyrano was cagey on the phone when I invited him over. He offered money up front if I’d come to him, but I told him I was worth more and I’d give him a free preview to prove it.

  A half hour later, there was a knock on the door. I looked again toward Frank who shoved a thumbs up around the drapes he hid behind. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I walked slowly to the door. Slimy Cyrano who was wearing another five thousand dollars worth of clothing. The guy had to be loaded. I wondered if this was business or recreation. He surveyed the room thoroughly before stepping foot into it. I tried to remember Frank’s warning that if Cyrano wasn’t the snuff film dealer, he might know who was. Either way he might be more than just creepy—he might be deadly.

  “Exquisite sequins,” he fingered one right at my nipple. I jumped and swallowed a squeal. The drapes moved and I quickly guided Cyrano to the couch, our backs to the window.

  I had to remind myself I was doing this for Ben. If he made it out alive, he was going to owe me for the rest of his life for this one.

  “Would you care for a cocktail?” I asked.

  He ignored my question. “When do you begin?”

  “Uh, I just need to get a little warmed up first,” I answered.

  Cyrano’s beady eyes lit up. I couldn’t begin to imagine what fantasies my casual words inspired. Whatever it was it made him lick his lips. Ook.

  “Remember, I would love to pay you triple if you come now to my studio.”

  I leaned toward him, as nauseating as that was, and asked, trying not to appear too smart with my higher math, “That’s great, Cyrano, but that would make it, like, eighteen thousand dollars, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, earlier tonight I met this guy and he offered me twenty-five thousand just for me and one of his guys in a video. He said that they would be acting out some scary things but it was all just pretend. And, I’d get to travel, to go to their studio in the desert somewhere. It’d be kinda like those Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoots I think.”

  Frank and I had come up with this story after he’d called Deidre about the setting for the snuff film she saw. It had been set in the desert, which would jibe with the Texas Rangers’ theory on the disappearances of the young Mexican girls.

  Cyrano’s face clouded. He shook his head—at himself more than at me. He looked undecided about what exactly to say. “I would not recommend doing that.”

  “Why not? Sounds like pretty easy money and I’d get to keep it all myself.”

  “Because you might not live through it, you stupid girl,” he snapped.

  “What do you mean?” I tried to swallow but couldn’t through the lump in my throat.

  “Have you ever heard of a snuff film?”

  “Um.” I tried to act like the airhead I was supposed to be. “Isn’t that porn where they simulate murder during the act?”

  “Sometimes it isn’t simulated, you understand me? The man you talked to would take you somewhere and never bring you home.”

  Cyrano was jittery and angry. I wasn’t sure if it was directed at me or his competition. “What did this man look like?” he demanded, narrow eyed.

  Uh-oh. I shrugged. “Average white guy.”

  I didn’t know exactly how far I could push him. He was getting more agitated by the second, a box of explosives about to blow. I looked at the drapes. They were still. No help there. I crossed my legs and let my skirt hike up. He looked at my thighs, briefly distracted while I asked, “So you know him?”

  “By reputation.”

  “Aw, maybe it’s just a bad rap.”

  “A bad rap they try to attribute to me,” he spat out suddenly. “Is this a set up?” He lunged for me and I leaned back out of his reach. “Is there someone here, listening?” He jumped up and ran to the bedroom. He flung open the door, looked in and ran back to me, reaching over the couch to grab me around the throat. “Are you working for him or the cops? Are you wearing a wire?” He stuck his hand down my halter top. If I hadn’t been so scared, I might have thrown up dinner.

  Before my adrenaline even reached my fingertips, Frank had yanked Cyrano off me. He planted the porn promoter’s face into the carpet, stuck his knee in his back and handcuffed him.

  My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t find words for a moment. “Where did you get handcuffs?”

  “My back pocket.” Frank looked at my chest and I realized then that my halter top was ripped open to my belly button. Cute. I pulled the pieces together and tried to act self-righteous.

  “And why do you have them? Are they standard equipment in the security business?”

  He cocked his head at Cyrano. “If they aren’t, they ought to be—I’d say he was pretty secure now.”

  “I don’t think it’s legal to have handcuffs if you aren’t a cop.”

  Both Frank and Cyrano said, “Yes it is.”

  Okay. Well, I had to try a different tack to find out Frank’s secrets.

  “Who the hell are you?” Cyrano grunted. “You aren’t her brother Benjamin. I just met him once, but forgive me if I say don’t think he’d have the balls for this.”

  “Watch what you say about Ben,” I warned, although I kind of agreed with him.

  “Her brother is missing,” Frank told Cyrano, as he hoisted him up by his designer leather belt I swore was an S.T. Dupont and deposited him on the chair. “Do you know where he is?”

  “How would I know where he would be?”

  “You might have heard among your colleagues,” Frank said.

  “I want you to understand something.” Cyrano cleared his throat. His expensive taste, formal manners and aristocratic accent made what he did almost otherworldly. “This man who does these snuff films is sick and is not
my anything. What he does is immoral.”

  Ha, I guess even morality is relative.

  “What’s more, I have no idea what he looks like nor do I know his name.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t exist,” Frank offered. “Maybe the films don’t exist beyond an urban legend.”

  “Oh at least one exists. I saw it. A few months ago, he sent a boy to meet me. He had an iPod that showed the movie like a music video. I got a preview as an advertisement. It was for sale for a hundred thousand dollars. And it was real. The sex, the death.” Cyrano was ashen. It had to have been worse than horrible to turn the stomach of professional smut distributor.

  “And you told this to authorities?”

  “Yes, I called the FBI. They didn’t believe me, probably still don’t, because of course I had no evidence. They traced the number that he called from and it was one of those prepaid phones you can buy at Wal-Mart with a twenty dollar bill and no identification. And the whole affair has put a damper on my reputation. I’m afraid they are watching me now. You and your brother were the first time I’d tried anything extracurricular in months and now, look, I’m in the mess all over again.”

  I could tell Frank was frustrated. For as disgusting as Cyrano was, his story rang true. “Who did you talk to at the FBI?”

  “I didn’t call local police, because you never know who is corrupt and who’s not. If I’d happened to get one of the ones expecting a bribe, I would have been angry, because they are just too expensive. It was worse odds than the craps table. Therefore, I just dialed a California FBI office. I can’t remember the agent’s name.”

  Another dead end. Frank shook his head.

  “Why do you think Benjamin is with them?” Cyrano asked me. “Is he mixed up with this style of entertainment?”

  “No, I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What do you know about Steely Stan?” Frank asked, playing a hunch I thought.

  “He’s famous and he’s feared here in Vegas.”

  “Feared? Why?” I asked.

  “Because he’s ruthless and not just in cards. I hear he’s been acting more and more like a cornered tiger.”

  “But why?” Frank asked. “He’s at the top of the hottest gambling game in the world, wouldn’t an expected reaction be arrogance instead of desperation?”

  “Maybe because he’s about to lose his sponsor and maybe he’s afraid he won’t be able to sustain the lifestlye he’s become accustomed to on his winnings alone.”

  “But why would Fresh Foods want to drop him?”

  Cyrano got a hard, faraway look. “Maybe because Fresh Foods doesn’t like the image he has begun presenting.”

  In the end, we let Cyrano go. We both thought we’d gotten out of him all we could, and frankly I think we both liked him in a weird, “I have a freak as a friend” kind of way. He really did care enough about me that he didn’t want me to die, even though he wanted to watch me on video doing icky things.

  Vegas was not black and white, that’s all I can say. And it was either morphing me or warping me. I wasn’t sure which. Either way I was going home changed.

  Frank and I were back in his suite when he told me where he’d been while I went to check into the tournament. “I was talking to a colleague of mine who was researching Steely Stan Trident. His real name is Donald Sipowecki, age forty, born and raised in a small town outside of Detroit. He changed his name ten years ago and settled here. Smart guy, graduated from University of Michigan in accounting, which would explain his razor sharp ability to calculate odds in Hold ’Em. It’s my experience when someone changes their name, it’s not because he didn’t like what Mama gave him, he just is running from things.”

  “What ‘things’ was Donald running from?”

  “Accusations, but no charges apparently, of duping some seniors out of their savings for a moneymaking scheme. Accusations, again no charges, of pilfering from a company he worked for after that. Three out of wedlock children whose mothers are looking for alimony. Guess none of them play Hold ’Em or they might have recognized him.”

  “None of that is accusatory in this case, though.” I pointed out.

  “Except his tendency toward opportunism. He’s not some criminal mastermind, just a guy without a conscience who likes to make a buck illegally when he can.”

  “So what do you think that means in this case?”

  “I think it means that I need to get my guy to delve more deeply into the Fresh Foods connection. If Stan holds true to pattern, Fresh Foods’ sponsorship was another opportunity.”

  “And Ben somehow got in the way of his opportunity and that’s why he’s being held captive.”

  “We don’t know that for sure. We can assume whatever we want based on how we read Stan’s comment to you tonight, but at this point we only have evidence linking Conner with Ben’s disappearance. We don’t have anything yet linking Conner with Stan. Of course we can assume he is the one they were talking about in the stairwell.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I called from my cell phone and left a message for Stan at the front desk, giving the dummy room number. I said that I wanted to talk about Donald. It’ll shake him a bit. Likely make him paranoid, distracted, less careful.”

  “What if it makes him hurt Ben?”

  “Actually, it will make him less likely to do that, because he will be confused about Ben’s compadres. It will cause some infighting, which is always good to produce among the enemy.”

  Hmm. Now Frank was sounding like a soldier. Maybe he’d been a military cop in California. I wish I had a faceless “colleague” to go research him.

  “I need to do the same with Conner but I wanted to wait until you’d made your first appearance at the tournament.” Frank slid his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed the front desk and asked to leave a message for Detective Conner. “I think he left something of his in the dumpster behind the Galaxy.”

  “Now let’s wait and watch,” Frank said, as he put his phone away.

  “But what if he goes and takes the body away?”

  Frank shook his head. “I called and reported it from a pay phone earlier. He knows the cops found the pieces of Pete. So, this will make him very nervous and very confused. He’ll probably suspect one of the men in blue is on to him.”

  “Since we’ve shaken them up a bit, they might try to move Ben. I can’t get to Stan’s room, it’s a keyed penthouse. But we can follow Conner. I’ve got a friend who just came into town and I’ve put him on Conner’s tail.”

  “Won’t a cop know he’s being tailed, especially a dirty one?”

  “He won’t know this guy is there,” Frank assured me. “He’s the best in the business.”

  “The security business,” I sighed.

  “Exactly.”

  “Now I guess I’ll turn in,” I yawned.

  “No, now I guess you’ll turn into a real poker player.” Frank got up and started a pot of coffee.

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow night is a whole new game, Bee,” he explained, coming to sit down next to me. “The way the tournament tonight was set up, some people qualified with no money in, some, like Ben, paid up front, and others came just to see the pros. With that mix, it played more like a home game. No one could really bluff effectively because few folded, and luck was a major factor. Don’t get me wrong, you played well, you read body language and stayed cool. But get ready for the heat to get turned up.

  “Tomorrow every player will smell the money. You may be at a table of all pros. They will underestimate you. Use that. Act a little sloppy; slurp down drinks. Try to lose a few hands where you can afford to so you can bluff them later. The rest, just do what you did before. Calculate the odds, but remember, anyone can do that. Read the body language. That is your big gift.”

  Three knocks sounded at the door. I cocked my head at Frank and tried not to let my heart race out of control. Had Conner found us? But Frank smiled. “Don’t worry,
it’s just the same group that taught you last night. Tonight, they are going to play a different game to warm you up for tomorrow.”

  Seventeen

  I slept until one o’clock in the afternoon, which wasn’t bad considering we’d stayed up playing Hold ’Em until dawn. I shuffled out into the living room and knew I was alone. I had a moment of panic when I realized how much I’d come to rely on a man I’d only known a couple of days. That was not a good thing. Relying on a man had never done me any good.

  Besides, I really didn’t know Frank Gilbert. He could be using an assumed name, like Stan, for all I could prove. I didn’t know what his motivation was in helping me find Ben besides being bored or nice or both. Or neither. He could be Conner’s sworn enemy, out to bring him down. He could be someone Stan beat at a poker tournament once who vowed to get even. He could be another snuff film supplier here to take out the competition.

  Why finding out he was any of those things, besides the last one of course, would make me feel better, I didn’t know.

  I wandered over to make coffee and saw his note.

  Bee -

  Went to go rendezvous with my man.

  Have some coffee. Read Hellmuth’s book again.

  Above all, stay put!

  I’ll take you to lunch in a bit.

  - F

  Hmm. I hated to be told what to do. I decided to forgo the coffee in favor of dressing, going downstairs and nosing around. I washed my face, threw my hair up, pulled on my low rise Calvin Klein jeans, a white silk shirt and the jeweled thongs that were becoming my uniform shoes. Vegas had changed me, I realized as I made my way to the elevator. I’d forgotten all about earrings. I don’t think I’d been this fashion lax since I was ten years old.

  I got in the elevator and joined a half dozen people inside. We were about halfway down when a voice from the back said, “Hey, it’s Bee Cool.”

  I looked back. “Hi, Amy.”

  “This woman is going to beat Steely Stan,” Amy announced to the captive audience.