“Bee?” my would-be fan persisted. This restroom had been locked since noon, I was told. And the goon with me cleared the bathroom before I went in.
“Yes?” I sighed as I opened the door.
She grappled with her lock and shoved the door open, falling through. I recognized her but I couldn’t remember from where.
“Beth Watson,” she held out her hand. We shook as she continued, “I’ve been waiting in here, standing on the toilet seat, since noon to talk to you. Thank goodness you needed to pee.”
“You win the award for persistence,” I commented.
“Well, you promised me the exclusive,” she said.
“I remember. I would’ve given you the interview without a twelve hour wait in the loo.”
“I believe you,” Beth said, breathless, grabbing my forearm. “But I had to tell you what I found out about Steely Stan as soon as I could. I left you a message at your hotel room, but when you didn’t call me back, I knew this was probably the most guaranteed way to catch you before the end of the tournament.”
Damn, we’d been so busy I hadn’t checked the room messages since yesterday. “What?”
“You know they call the girls that hang with Stan his Squeezes, right?” I nodded and she went on. “Three of the girls known to hang out with Stan have each been listed as missing with their hometown police departments over the past couple of years. Shari Reichardt, Marianna Gomez and Lisa Aaron. The detectives I talked to each said that they contacted this county’s sheriff ’s department to check out Stan. They were assured by the detective he’d cleared an interview but they would keep an eye on him.”
I felt my hands going clammy. My heart raced. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. Finally I swallowed and asked, “Did they give you the name of the detective?”
“Daniel Conner.”
Struggling to maintain my composure, I walked slowly back to the Hold ’Em table. I now had the only proof that Conner and Stan were connected. Had Conner forced Stan to give him a cut of the Fresh Foods smuggling deal in exchange for keeping quiet about the disappearances? Had they cooked up a bigger plan once they found themselves kindred evil spirits, or had they been in it together before? Did Conner get himself assigned to the cases just to cover them up?
And what had happened to those girls?
The same thing that was happening to Ben?
I stopped my thoughts from traveling in that direction. I had to compartmentalize. I had to play my two games and win. I had a new weapon. Now I had to decide how to use it.
Twenty-Four
By the time I eased into my seat, I was deep in my best zone for playing Hold ’Em. My focus was sharp. I could feel the players around me and nothing beyond the table. I couldn’t hear the commentators anymore; I couldn’t hear the crowds’ calls of encouragement, either. I needed to win as soon as possible so I could get on with finding Frank and Ben before it was too late.
My new cohort and budding investigative journalist Beth was busy trying to track down a guy named Joe who worked for a security guy named Frank Gilbert. Once she’d exhausted all avenues there, she was going to look up the Hold ’Em dealer that had started to tell me about Stan’s “other job.” That’s all I could really afford to let her do. There was no way I was going to let anyone else die or get hurt because of me.
I ignored Stan as I peered at my pocket cards—muck. I folded. Stan’s chest puffed up. I folded the next three hands, playing a waiting game, hoping to make Stan overconfident and letting him knock out the competition. It worked. He narrowed the field to three in less than an hour with big bets and reraises.
Five hands later, I had a pair of Kings in my pocket and decided to call the big blind. Stan said almost inaudibly behind his big mustache, “Bet you’d make a great actress. Bet you make lots of noise. Bet you have one killer scream.”
“I bet they give gringos life in prison for murder in Mexico. I bet life expectancies aren’t too long behind bars south of the border either, Donald.”
Stan paled.
The flop was a Queen/spade and two blanks—three/ diamond, ten/club.
I raised fifty thousand. The only other player left was a middle-aged pro from Atlantic City. He was a huge chauvanist and had spent most of his game staring at my chest behind his Oakleys and snorting at my bets. I know he was still deciding whether I was a rock or a Maniac. Either way he had no respect for me. He raised fifty and Stan called.
Fourth Street was a Queen/heart. I went all in.
Stan, still pale, folded. The Atlantic City chauvinist went all in, having decided I couldn’t read my cards, I guess.
The River was a ten/diamond. A.C. Chauvinist ooched around in his chair. Guess he had a pocket ten.
We showed our cards and he said a word that had to be bleeped from live television. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Beth elbow her way to the front of the boundary and give me a thumbs up. Whatever that meant. She found Joe? She’d found Frank? She’d been hired by the Washington Post?
I’d have to wait to find out.
The dealer asked if we needed a break before the first heads-up hand. Stan had recovered his composure and was looking to hurt me again. He’d acted like a rattlesnake every time he’d been hit. He’d coil and strike again.
“I’m ready,” Stan said authoritatively and the crowd ooed. “But this is Miz Cooley’s first big tournament. Oh, sorry, her only tournament. So if she needs more time, I certainly understand.”
Sure he did. Actually, I wanted to take more time. But since I wouldn’t be able to do what I wanted with that time—like try to find Frank and contact Joe—I eschewed the offer in favor of keeping Stan off balance. “Thank you so much for your consideration, Stan, but I’m ready,” I announced. My fans roared.
Stan frowned. Obviously this wasn’t playing into his expected hand. I hoped the cards wouldn’t either.
I drew the dealer button for the first hand. ESPN would be showing our pocket cards to the viewing audience at home. I doubted this would affect my play. After all, I pretty much didn’t know what I was doing, so looking stupid to couch potato poker experts was a foregone conclusion for me. Stan, however, had a reputation to uphold. He was the winningest Maniac in the history of the game, according to Ben. He might take some risks just to dazzle the viewers. I was counting on that.
As the dealer began to shuffle, a hush fell over the crowd. I did some quick math on the chips in front of us and decided Stan had a forty thousand dollar advantage. That was a good thing. He would play a little looser.
An hour later I hadn’t made much headway. I wasn’t getting cards and was doing a lot of folding. TVs across America were changing channels because this game had to be more boring than watching paint dry. I refused to lose, though. I knew if I waited long enough for the right cards, it would be time to really play. The tournament president was pacing, sweat popping out on his forehead. The PR flack for the casino was wringing her hands. I know they all wanted to slap me around.
“Bad case of nerves?” The dealer asked quietly during a commercial break as Stan chatted with one of the ESPN commentators. I could hear him say that it might take all night but he’d win by the blinds.
I smiled, winking behind my Gargoyles. “Nerves. Exactly.” Exactly what I want Stan to think.
The tournament president wandered by. “We would love to see some action.”
I smiled. “So would I.” I motioned to the dealer and joked, “Talk to him.”
When we were back on the air, the dealer gave us our pocket cards. I placed the marker on mine and prayed for a miracle. I peeled up the edges and let them slap back down. Finally. My luck was turning. Queen/heart, King/spade.
I called the big blind. Stan was so taken aback that I’d placed a bet that he paused, then raised fifty thousand. I called.
The Flop was nine/heart, deuce/heart and nine/spade.
I bet a hundred thousand. Stan raised fifty. I called.
The Turn was a nine/diamond. I checked.
Stan bet fifty. I called and guessed he was trying to play the board with a big kicker. As long as I kept calling, I would keep him from getting suspicious of my hand. The way he kept nodding smugly, I knew he thought I’d been shamed into betting by the dealer’s and official’s comments. If I didn’t get a King I would have to play the board too, with a King kicker. I prayed he didn’t have an ace.
The fourth nine fell on The River.
Stan grinned and bet another fifty. I called. We showed our cards and he had a blank and a Queen kicker.
My fans howled. I guess they hadn’t had much to cheer about up to now. I’d gotten lucky, and I was counting on a lot more of that.
“At least that woke everyone up,” Stan muttered, as if he’d lost as a favor to the fans.
“Marianna, Shari and—hope so,” I said as I brought my glass to my lips.
Stan went eerily still. Slowly, he turned his Bolles on me. The air around us dropped temperature. I suppressed a shiver and grinned, even more slowly, right back at him. I hoped Frank had made it through, because if he didn’t and I didn’t find a clean cop once this game was over, Stan was surely going to find a way to kill me before I found Ben.
I could hear the commentators chuckling along about “bad blood” and “anti-fish.” “Steely Stan tapped on the aquarium and a shark popped out,” one of them chortled.
I wanted to tell them it was just one hand, guys, but I was grateful for the distraction. Stan could hear what they were saying too and I knew it would keep him from plotting exactly how to dismember me. I looked through the crowd and saw my very own Lois Lane bouncing on the balls of her feet. Beth saw me look at her, snatched a “Bee a Cool Poker Babe” sign, turned it over and scribbled something, flashing it at me. Found Joe, phone, no Frank, bloody Lincoln, I read before one of the security goons grabbed her by the arm and kicked her out of the ballroom. That was the last of her I’d see for a while. No one was allowed in after the round had started and everyone had to turn their cellphones in when they’d come through the doors.
Stan must have read the sign too, because he turned to me and spread his lips in an evil grin. “All alone, now, I see.”
“With nothing to lose.” I added under my breath. I forced myself to shut off the emotions that threatened to overwhelm my intellect.
“Except a game of cards and your life,” Stan reminded me as the dealer dished out our new pockets. “In that order.”
Twenty-Five
Frank might have ditched the car (after all, we’d done that once before with good reason), but I knew he would never purposely leave his phone. That’s when I knew where Conner was, hacking Frank into little pieces and throwing him in the dumpster behind the Mirage. Or maybe driving him out to the desert and leaving him for the vultures. Or maybe he’d already pushed him into one of the palm trees at the Mirage and he wouldn’t be found for days. Ben had a worse fate before him.
When Stan had said that creepy thing about my brother being a good actor.
It all fell into place.
They were keeping Ben to act in one of the snuff films. That’s how they were going to kill him. Opportunists that they were, they’d make money on him while disposing of him. How handy. I doubted they’d waste their time with Frank—he knew too much and every second he was alive was a second they put their operation in jeopardy. Ditto with me.
Except now, thanks to Beth, I knew more than Frank did. And I was about to have the spotlight. If I could just get the cards and keep my cool long enough to talk Stan into going all in.
It took three more hands which depleted my chip store to a nerve wracking level. I had only enough chips to cover maybe four more hands worth of blinds. My fans were holding their signs more limply. The tournament president held his head in his hands. The Lanai PR flack had resorted to drinking tequila shots.
The back of my pocket cards mocked me. Stan sighed heavily and drummed his fingers on the table. The dealer shot me a sympathetic look that also meant hurry it up. The commentators were practicing their eulogy. I peeked at my cards.
Ten/heart, Queen/heart.
I calculated the odds of a flush, and a royal flush, in heads up play. I didn’t really like any of them, but knew that I had to play this hand. I called the big blind. Stan raised fifty thousand. I called. He had something in his pocket for sure.
The Flop was a King/heart, eight/diamond, Jack/heart.
I could make it with a number of cards: a heart would give me a flush, the ace a royal flush, the nine a straight flush. Five different cards would give me a simple pair. Stan could have a flush working with ace high to beat me or three of a kind.
We both checked.
Fourth street was an ace/spade. I felt the energy zap through Stan even though he remained motionless. He had pocket aces. I was sunk unless I got exceptionally lucky. He went all in. My fans dropped their heads.
I could limp off or I could stay and fight.
“All in,” I said clearly, pushing my chips forward on the table. My fans cheered.
“Decided to put everyone out of their misery a little quicker, huh?” Stan snorted.
The River was an ace/heart.
The roar from outside where the crowd watched the game on TV monitors in a closed circuit telecast shook the ballroom wall. My fans inside were dead quiet. Stan’s fans clapped. With his Bolles on me, Stan rose as he turned his cards over, ready to accept the congratulations from the crowd as he put his fist in the air for victory.
I waited a beat. Then quietly and slowly turned my pocket cards up. The roar from outside quieted like it had been turned off with a switch. All the fans, mine and his, inside the ballroom, blinked blankly, stunned.
“Royal flush wins!” The ESPN commentator declared belatedly, finally finding his voice. “Belinda ‘Bee Cool’ Cooley has done it. She’s won the first annual Lanai Hold ’Em Pro-Am, beating the great Steely Stan!”
All at once, my fans started screeching and clapping and shouting, jumping up and down on top of each other. It was bedlam outside the boundary tape. A group of Stan’s fans all wearing fake mustaches grabbed a “BEE COOL” sign from one of the Poker Babes and started dancing around with it.
“Guess I didn’t lose everything, did I?” I asked Stan quietly.
He took a step toward me. “That’s just a game. It’s your life I’m interested in.”
As I backed away from Stan, I felt a hand at the small of my back. Expecting the tournament president to be ready to guide me to the media, I gratefully let him push me away from Stan, who gave him a heavy look, through the boundary tape and the madding crowd. Ringo gave me a noogie as I passed. I tickled Junior’s adorable belly and gave Amy a cheek for a kiss. Carey shook both my hands, with tears in her eyes.
Grateful as I was for all this support, all I could think of was Frank and Ben. I tried to push the sudden wave of sadness away. I blinked away a tear.
Carey stopped us. “Where are you taking Bee? We want to celebrate!”
Just then I smelled a waft of Iceberg Effusion.
“She has to get ready for her media interviews,” a familiar voice said, confirming my worst fear.
I started to twist out of his grasp, but Conner was too quick. His hand held my arm in a vice grip.
“Hey, mister,” Carey said, her brow furrowed in concern and confusion. “Did you know your head is bleeding?”
“It’s a rough world out there, you he-she,” he threw over his shoulder as he pushed me ahead.
“Carey, hel—” The click and cold metal pressing against the flesh under my jacket cut off my plea. Conner leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Keep walking and keep quiet or I will blow straight through your belly.”
“Isn’t slicing and dicing more your style?” I asked.
“Shut up,” he hissed. “Nobody can tie me to that.”
“Want to bet?”
Carey, who apparently hadn’t bought Conner’s insensitive blow off, began nudging her companions and gesturing toward us. I threw th
em a desperate look.
Looking back the way we’d come, I could see Stan sidling over to an exit door.
“Your partner gets a free ride out of here, huh?” I asked, deciding if anyone had any incentive to stop Stan it would be Conner.
Conner looked over his shoulder at Stan, paused and swore under his breath. Before he could decide whether to ditch me in favor of going after that partner, the doors Stan had been heading for flew open. Frank strode through with a phalanx of uniformed sheriff ’s deputies behind him.
“Conner!” I heard the tournament president call over the crowd. Conner paused as the president continued, “Where have you been?”
Frank, his T-shirt torn, jeans bloody and face swollen and battered, tried to locate us through the crowd. Conner pushed the gun deeper into my kidney. We were a step away from an exit when I heard Frank yell, “Let her go!”
“Go to hell,” Conner shouted back, spinning around, dragging me in front of him, drawing the gun out from under my jacket and holding it to my temple. The fans, who’d gone into an uneasy, confused quiet, now screamed and scattered at the sight of the slick black semiautomatic. Stan was taking advantage of the chaos and inching his way to a different exit, trying to shake loose of one of his “Squeezes.” The camera operators couldn’t keep up with the action. I saw the red lights flashing on their cameras and figured we were still on live TV. Guess the folks who went to the bathroom when I folded that second to the last hand would be sorry.
“Daniel Conner, you are under arrest,” a plainclothes policeman yelled. “Let your hostage go, drop your gun and put your hands in the air. We just want to talk to you about a few things. What might be no more than a misunderstanding is turning into a felony, Conner. Think about it.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Carey and her castmates behind us. Instead of stampeding toward the nearest exit along with everyone else, they’d gathered in a huddle with their heads together, whispering. They looked like they were planning to march at the ticker tape parade.
Death On the Flop Page 21