Death On the Flop

by Jackie Chance

  “We just hope that’s all we’re going to lose.”

  As I mulled over that happy thought, Frank swerved into the Mirage parking garage, squealing across the smooth concrete.

  “Bee,” Frank said tensely as he wheeled around the turns, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “As soon as I slam on my brakes, we are going to run for the stairs. Don’t wait for me, don’t call for me, just run as fast as you can, into the casino. Conner doesn’t have any pull in the Mirage, so hopefully he can’t call the house goons to shackle us. We’ll meet at the Hold ’Em tables. If we get separated and I’m not there in five minutes go back to the Lanai and get to the tournament. You’ll be safe in the TV lights. Do not wait more than five minutes, you understand? The longer you are here, the more you risk getting caught. If you get caught, the odds of ever finding Ben will virtually disappear.”

  We were on the fourth floor now. Frank had risked hitting parked cars and bystanders to get us far enough ahead of Conner that he was out of sight. I yanked off my shoes and held them. We heard Conner’s wheels squealing around the corner as we opened the doors and ran for the stairs. Frank had stopped so close I was only half a stride away. I was already half a flight down before I heard him screech to a stop. I heard a huge thump and a gunshot.

  I paused on the stairwell. Frank wasn’t behind me. Maybe he’d gotten a shot off at Conner. Then I remembered the hospital metal detector. He didn’t have his gun.

  I turned around.

  Don’t wait for me. Don’t call for me.

  I backtracked two steps, my heart at my throat, blood pounding, sweat trickling down my backbone.

  Run as fast as you can. We’ll meet at the Hold ’Em tables.

  I raced the rest of the way down the stairs and wound my way through the tropical gardens toward the casino lights. I couldn’t hear anything else definitive from the garage, no matter how hard I tried. I stepped on a rock and bit my tongue to keep from yelping. A man was holding the casino door for his wife and I slowed to keep from alarming them. He gave me a strange look but nodded me through. I thanked him quietly and hotfooted it past the gift shops toward the sound of slot machines.

  Once I reached the casino floor, I paused, sucking in a deep breath and willing my adrenaline under control. I had to find the Hold ’Em tables. I glanced at my watch. It had only been two and a half minute, but it seemed like a week.

  Just as I located the poker tables, I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked to my right to see a casino security goon looking down at me. He had to be six foot five. Even my famous heel kick wouldn’t catch his crotch. I was devising other ways to get free before he dragged me to Conner when he said, “Ma’am, we have a no shirt, no shoes policy here.”

  My hands flew to my chest. Had I been breathing so hard, I’d ripped my blouse?

  My shoes knocked into my right breast and I remembered I was still barefoot. I forced a laugh that hopefully covered my sigh of relief. “Oh, these shoes have been killing me all day. I’m sorry. I forgot I’d taken them off. No wonder my feet didn’t hurt.”

  He gave me a nutty broad look and watched me strap the sandals back on before he wandered off.

  I had one minute to meet Frank at the Hold ’Em tables. I didn’t see him, but I’m sure he hid better than I did. I scanned the backs of the heads of the players. From here I identified two potential heads. I figured he’d have found another way down, maybe the elevator or through the tropical forest instead of on the pathway, which was why I hadn’t seen him. I got as far as they would let me get without playing.

  “You want a seat?” the pit boss asked.

  “Maybe in a minute,” I answered, on closer inspection discounting both players I thought might be Frank. “I’m supposed to meet someone here. We probably want to sit together.”

  She nodded and left me alone. The last minute ticked by with excruciating sloth. No Frank. I scanned the other tables, craps, roulette, blackjack. No Frank. I waited another minute. Every dirty blond male head with his back to me made my heart race. No Frank.

  Do not wait more than five minutes, you understand?

  Another minute passed. I couldn’t swallow. My imagination drew all sorts of undesirable conclusions, from Conner running Frank down with the black sedan to Conner knocking Frank out and kidnapping him to Conner shooting Frank and leaving him to bleed to death on the slick concrete of the parking garage. The last image made me backtrack through the casino until I got to the hallway leading to the gardens. Frank would kill me for doing this. I wouldn’t mind him killing me if he lived. But if he was kidnapped and I went back, was caught by one of Conner’s lackeys and then couldn’t get help for Frank, we’d be in worse shape than we were in now. At least I was free; at least I could call in reinforcements. I could find Joe—by some miracle since I didn’t know anything about him, including his last name—and ride to Frank’s rescue.

  Maybe Frank had just taken longer than he expected to pulverize Conner and headed back to our hotel. Maybe he was now twiddling his thumbs at the Lanai, waiting for me outside the tournament ballroom and nervously envisioning my demise because I was taking longer than we’d planned to return.

  I had to hang onto that possibility to propel myself out of the Mirage and onto The Strip. I racewalked past Caesars Palace, trying not to remember my last hours with Ben. Getting mushy now wouldn’t do anyone any good.

  I might be the only one able to ride to Frank and Ben’s rescue. Time to gather my resources and come up with a strategy.

  Resource number one: I was free.

  I walked through the front doors of the Lanai.

  Resource number two: I had incriminating information.

  I saw the posters advertising the final round of the Lanai Pro-Am Texas Hold ’Em Tournament “Live on ESPN!”

  And that gave me resource number three: I had the media’s attention. By the end of the evening I’d have a microphone at the end of my lips.

  Twenty-Two

  I had eyes only for the television crews. The ESPN cameras were already inside the ballroom, focused on the final tables. If I could just make it to the local news reporters lined up interviewing tournament officials and fans, I could tell them—

  A hand grabbed my upper arm. “Miss Cooley, the casino and the tournament have been looking everywhere for you. We were getting quite desperate.”

  I recognized one of Conner’s security cohorts. He was squeezing a bit too hard and I tried to wrench my arm away. He squeezed tighter.

  “I just need to go . . .” I drifted toward the news cameras. He directed me back toward the ballroom door.

  “Sorry, Miss Cooley, there’s no time to powder your nose right now. That will have to wait for a commercial break.”

  With that, he ushered me into the ballroom where the cameras started whirring and flashes popped. Microphones were under the reporters’ mouths, not mine. Go figure. I should have written the message across my forehead, my cleavage or my rump since that is where the cameras seemed to be focusing.

  I scanned the crowd. Amy was there with Junior waving a “Buzz ’em Bee Cool!” banner. The Poker Babes were back in larger force. Ringo was there with a “Hold ’Em Dudes for Bee Cool” sign and a horde of his fellow nerds. About a dozen women in silver mirrored Gargoyles just like mine were wearing matching gold spangled halter tops and lipstick in the same Crimson Desire shade I favored. “Hold ’Em’s new Mae West” one hand lettered sign read. Spring peeked out from behind it along with all the folks I’d played with in the room. They all waved and hollered. I waved back and tried not to look as disappointed as I felt when Frank’s face didn’t pop up in their midst. I looked at a group of unusually tall women in business suits holding a “Bee Cool for President” sign. I peered closer. It was Carey and friends. She nodded and waved. I grinned back and winked.

  The tournament president leaned into me, whispering, “What a grand entrance. Wily of you I have to say, and good for the game, but it about gave me a heart attack.” Then
he pulled back and smiled, shaking my hand for the cameras. “Thank you for joining us, Miss Cooley, for the final round of the first annual Lanai Pro-Am Tournament. Please draw your seat.”

  It seemed silly, since my seat was obviously the only open seat left. Although I’d been hoping to sit next to Steely Stan from the get-go, I wasn’t even at his table. I reached in and handed the official the only slip of paper left. He read, “Table two, seat one”.

  My only piece of good luck today: I would have the dealer button first.

  I could feel Stan glaring at me through his Oakleys. He was probably pissed I’d stolen his thunder by arriving last. Too damn bad. I pulled my Gargoyles out of my pocket. I was more pissed than he was, and I was going to have his cojones by the end of the night. That was the only way I was going to have my say on camera.

  My only chance to find Ben and save Frank.

  I had to win.

  The cards had been good to me so far. I was intensely focused. The man sitting next to me joked that he’d heard he’d at least get kissed before I screwed him over for first at the table. When he was eliminated, he said he hadn’t even gotten a giggle or a smile, much less a kiss.

  Still I didn’t smile.

  I had psyched out the table. My tension was infectious, although they must have perceived it as emanating from the game of poker when in fact it emanated from the game of life and death.

  I could feel Stan’s stare every now and then, but I never wavered. Conner hadn’t showed up, and I noticed that caused a bit of consternation among his troops. They fidgeted, whispered and checked their beepers more often than usual. Casino security chief Cedillo paced around the room, obviously not as well versed on the security plan as he needed to be. One of the local news reporters read the loophole and inched over toward our table, swooping in when she saw a security goon’s back turned and swinging a mic in front of my face.

  “Josey Micky KWOP news. How do you feel about usurping the role of crowd favorite from Steely Stan, Miss Cooley?”

  “I’d feel better about it if my brother and boyfriend weren’t missing,” I began saying.

  The little strawberry blonde gasped, her blue eyes wide. “Do you think it has something to do with the tournament?”

  Apparently the security force wised up, because the reporter suddenly squealed and was yanked back out of earshot before I could answer. The tournament officials evicted her from the room. I watched her go with a sinking spirit. Maybe that was enough to raise questions, maybe it was enough to bring police. Maybe it was enough for Conner to let Ben and Frank go.

  If they were still alive.

  In the first hand heads up with the button against the pro from Florence, I peeked at my pocket: three/club, three/ heart. I could call the big blind, which would be safest. I could raise, which would be semidaring. But since I had probably a couple thousand dollars in front of me, I could go all in, lose and still stay in the game because I had more chips than the Italian did. I remembered how the cards fell when Frank and I had played heads up and when I’d ended up heads up before. Italians were known for being loose players. It didn’t seem that risky after all.

  I went all in.

  He went all in.

  The Flop was a bunch of blanks to me: nine/spade, five/club, Queen/spade.

  He had a King/heart, ten/spade in his pocket.

  We all held our breaths as an ace/heart fell on Fourth Street and deuce/spade fell on The River.

  I’d won.

  The Italian shook my hand and pinched my ass behind the TV cameras. “I think you’re pretty hot, Bee Cool.”

  Dismissing him with a skeptical look, I looked toward the last table where the other five waited, since our table had taken the longest to finish. Stan, of course, had made it. He had an empty chair to his left.

  I smiled. Stan glowered. Not only could I rattle him with what I had to tell him, I got to see all his bets before I bet myself. I couldn’t be in a better position.

  The tournament president appeared at my elbow with his fishbowl. “Your last draw of the tournament, Miss Cooley. Good luck.”

  I handed the slip to him without looking at it, and headed straight for the seat next to Stan. I could hear the ESPN commentator rattling on in excitement from his seat behind the barricade, “This could prove to be one of the matchups to remember in Hold ’Em history. ‘Steely Stan’ has proven himself unbeatable for the last year, winning not only the World Series of Poker but every other major Hold ’Em tournament. Belinda ‘Bee Cool’ Cooley, who’s become a crowd favorite here at the new Vegas casino, the Lanai, has come virtually from nowhere to sit at this final table as the only woman and the only amateur among five pros.”

  “There is no virtually about it.” A female commentator cut in. “From what we understand, Belinda Cooley hadn’t played poker until a few days ago. I find this hard to believe, and likely some sort of stretch of the truth. But she doesn’t have any tournament experience—that much is true. I suppose we could say she is a poster child for the part luck and innate skill plays in this game.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was time for the eleven o’clock news. I could see the reporters from the three local stations outside the ballroom door, broadcasting live. As the tournament president signaled the dealer to begin and a hush spread through the room, I prayed Josey from KWOP would play my soundbite and that it would break the case wide open.

  Twenty-Three

  “You think you’re real hot, don’t you?” Stan hissed as he brought his highball to his lips to swig whatever clear liquid he was drinking. The tournament had decided to even the odds a bit in the last round by letting us put in secret drink orders. It took away an element of one of the weapons I’d used thus far with success.

  But if I had to guess, I’d say Stan was drinking vodka. His movements were more studied and careful than I had seen him make so far. Perhaps I could get him to say, or better, do something he would regret.

  But he threw me off balance first.

  “So, Bee Cool, I hear your boyfriend is drinking again. That’s too bad. I know you must be worried, having to sit here while he’s getting soused. It’s pretty easy to die of alcohol poisoning, you know. And drunks fall off high places all the time.”

  I stiffened. He knew about Frank. He knew Frank drank. They had Frank. They were pouring alcohol down his throat and were about to push him off the top of the Mirage parking garage. “I wouldn’t know, actually,” I said, trying to infuse my tone with scorn instead of the panic I was feeling. I dropped my gaze to his glass and hoped it burned through my Gargoyles. “But I guess you would.”

  His neck reddened. His knuckles whitened.

  I peeked at the cards in front of me, willing my hand not to shake—Ace/spade and King/heart. Good thing the cards were falling for me, because nothing else seemed to be. I waited for Stan to call the big blind and I raised. Everyone else at the table folded. Stan called my raise.

  The flop was a five/club, six/heart and King/diamond. Two blanks and one semipossibility for me. He could have a straight working or two pair or who knows what.

  Where was Frank?

  Stan bet ten thousand. I called.

  The turn was a seven/club.

  Where was Ben?

  Stan bet another ten. I called.

  The River was a three/diamond.

  Stan bet another ten. I called.

  I heard the ESPN commentator say something about “calling station.”

  His pockets were a four/club and King/heart. He double beat me. I decided right then and there that I had to change everything. Whatever he said had made me emotional and I couldn’t get that way in a game. I was distracted, too busy thinking about Ben and Frank to read any of his body language. From now on, I told myself, I would play two games simultaneously. Hold ’Em and save ’Em.

  I would save them by psyching Stan out of his mind.

  It wasn’t hard to win the next couple of half-decent hands I had, because everyone at the table had immed
iately underestimated me after the way I played the first hand so badly. Now I had them confused.

  That was exactly where I wanted them, especially Stan.

  I’d refrained from any talk until I got my mind squarely back into the card game, but now that I felt more secure, I could start shaking Stan’s tree.

  “I hear you are a supporter of third world cinema,” I said low but loud enough that the microphones might pick it up. “Of Mexico, especially.”

  His head snapped toward mine. I smiled. Slowly.

  “I think Sundance is great,” he answered. His head snapped back to the front of the table. His fingers moved stiffly to flip up his pocket cards like the tin man.

  I had a pocket pair of tens. I played through against three of the other pros. Stan folded early on. No telling what he had, but he did drain another glass of whatever. He flashed a number two to the waitress. We were given the choice of two drinks, with one being water. I wondered if he were ordering another vodka or if he was switching to water. I won about thirty thousand dollars on that hand, but infinitely more in the psychological war with Stan.

  My advantage didn’t last long, though, because two hands later he pretended to drop his cocktail napkin and leaned down next to me.

  “Your brother is a very good actor,” he whispered.

  I couldn’t suppress my shiver. Nausea rose in my throat. I grabbed my glass and took a gulp to wash it down. The other players watched me curiously, waiting for my bet.

  I suddenly couldn’t remember my pocket cards. I folded.

  “Psst. Bee?”

  In my stall, I tried to ignore the woman next to me. We’d been given a fifteen minute restroom break while ESPN ran commercials and a background story on each of the players. One of the pros at the table told me they’d interviewed his family. I wondered who they’d found to yak about me. If it was my mother, it was going to be scary.

  Since they’d sent me with one of Conner’s goons who was posted outside the door, the odds of me getting to a pay phone to try to find Frank were nil, unless I could give him one of my famous heels to the groin. . . .