He left Vegas at dawn.
Vegas was a gaudily disguised trap, a sugared slice of hell, no better underneath than the Tex-Mex tenderloins. Leaving it was like an escape.
Death Valley.
Some people might call it a slice of hell, too, but he wasn’t one of them. Awe-inspiring. Stark vistas, vast brown and gray and saltwhite emptiness, bare jagged mountains brooding all around. Dazzling sunlight, ink-black shadows. So still the silence hurt your ears. You stood looking out from Zabriskie Point, or one of the high spots in the Grapevines and Panamints, and it put everything into perspective. You understood that you really didn’t matter much, alive or dead. That nobody did. That this place had been here for millions of years, and would be here for millions more after you were gone. The knowledge was somehow comforting.
Barstow.
Palm Springs.
Los Angeles.
Beach scene for a day. Didn’t appeal to him much. Phony, superficial, everybody playing a role—surfer, beach bum, bikini bombshell—like extras in a bad teenage movie.
The rest of L.A. was clogged freeways, towns that weren’t towns but teeming highway connectors, smog so thick the sky was yellow-brown and breathing hurt your throat and lungs and screwed up your sinuses.
Two days of California Dreaming, and he was on the road again.
Santa Barbara. Better, but still too much residual L.A.
Big Sur on Highway 1. Much, much better. The air, the coastline, the Pacific Ocean—all clean, beautiful, unspoiled.
Carmel. Monterey.
Argument in a pool parlor with a local who tried to hustle him. Nothing came of it inside, but later, when Cape left, the local and one of his buddies jumped him on the street. Wasn’t much of a fight; they were both too drunk to do any real damage. But they kept trying to get his wallet away from him, and that made him furious. He smashed the hustler’s nose, stomped the other one’s hand, left them both down and moaning, and drove off before anybody else showed up. The last thing he wanted was trouble with the law.
The fight stayed with him that night, into the next day. The depth of his anger, the capacity for violence—he didn’t like that hidden side of himself. He would have to be careful to keep it caged. Still, there was cold comfort in knowing that if he needed it, had to depend on it in a tight spot, it was a coiled and powerful part of him.
San Francisco.
And in San Francisco, he met Tanya and Boone Judson.
5
He bumped into her in the ornate lobby of the Sir Francis Drake. Literally. He came wandering in there; the marbled and muraled expanse was crowded with people wearing badges, somebody yacking and not paying attention stepped into his path, he veered to avoid collision and had one anyway. They caromed off each other, not hard. She smiled ruefully; he did a small double take.
In that first quick glance he thought she was Anna.
Same long, lean body type. Blond hair cut short and side-swept across the forehead. Hollowed cheekbones, wide mouth, green eyes. He blinked—and she wasn’t Anna anymore. Younger, her skin browner, the eyes more hazel than green, neck longer, ears set more closely against her skull. The resemblance, once he’d gotten a good look, was no more than superficial.
She looked at him looking at her, head cocked quizzically to one side. “You think you know me?” she asked.
Cape said, “No. Sorry,” and stepped around and away from her. He made his way through the crowd into the lobby bar. Small and packed solid. He came back out again. A billboard wall sign caught his eye: STARLITE ROOF, and the words “Dining, Dancing, Cocktails.” He’d come into the hotel looking for a drink; he didn’t want to go out and look someplace else. He rode one of the elevators up to the Starlite Roof.
Big rambling room in the same Renaissance style as the lobby, ringed with tall windows that provided sweeping views of the city and the Bay. Not nearly as many people here: early yet, a little after four. Cape found an empty table, ordered Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He’d spent most of the day walking around North Beach, Chinatown, the downtown area. Tired now, and his back ached. He needed some downtime as much as he needed the drink.
He’d been there about five minutes when the blond woman walked in. Alone. She stood glancing around the room; her gaze touched him, lingered briefly, moved on. There was one window table left, and she claimed it. Male eyes followed her across the room, Cape’s among them. She had that kind of figure, that kind of bearing.
Cape sipped his drink, admiring the cityscape. When his attention shifted, he caught the blond peering his way. It happened again, twice. The third time he quit watching the view, watched her instead. She brushed off two men who came to her table. Her drink was something dark with fruit in it; she worked on that for a while. Then her head came up, and she was looking at him again.
He got up and carried his drink over there. Nothing in her expression welcomed him. Cool, aloof. He said, “You think you know me?”
It wasn’t what she expected. The edges of her mouth twitched upward. “I guess I was staring, at that.”
“Payback for downstairs? Or some other reason?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“You’re a man, aren’t you?”
“Not all men are the same.”
“They are in my experience. I’m not looking for company.”
“Then why the long-distance appraisal?”
“I suppose because of the way you looked at me in the lobby. It made me curious. Do I remind you of somebody?”
“Superficially. My soon-to-be-ex wife.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I don’t think you do,” Cape said.
“Not carrying a torch? Well.”
“Is it all right if I sit down?”
“I told you, I’m not looking for company. As a matter of fact, I’m waiting for someone.”
“Husband, boyfriend?”
“It might not be a man, you know.”
“With you, I’ll bet it usually is.”
Two-thirds of a smile this time. “I thought I’d heard all the lines. That one’s not bad.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I really am waiting for someone.”
“If it’s your husband, I’ll go away quietly.”
“I’m not married,” she said.
“Fiancé? Lover?”
“My brother.”
Cape waited, one eyebrow raised interrogatively.
“Well, all right,” she said. “Just until Boone gets here.”
He sat down. The afternoon sunlight slanting in through the windows showed tawny flecks in her hazel eyes. Cat’s eyes, frank and direct.
“My name’s Matt. Short for Matthew.”
“Matthew what?”
“Cape.”
She said immediately, deadpan, “Hatteras or Kennedy?”
It wasn’t funny, but he laughed anyway.
“Tanya Judson.”
“Interesting name. Tanya.”
“My mother’s family were White Russians.” She sipped her drink. “You don’t look like you belong here, Matt.”
“No? How do I take that?”
“I mean,” she said, “you’re not wearing a badge. I take it you’re not part of the convention.”
“What convention is that?”
“Million Dollar Round Table. Insurance agents who’ve written a million dollars or more worth of business.”
“Not hardly. Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes and no. I’m not a Round Table agent, but Boone is. My brother.”
“And you’re his date for this convention?”
“His wife couldn’t get time off from her job. I happen to like San Francisco. So yes, you could say I’m his date.”
“No trouble getting time off from your job?”
“I’m a computer graphics designer. Freelance.”
“Not married, you said.”
“I was, once. First, last, and only time.”
“That bad?”
“That bad. And don’t ask me if I’m involved with anyone or how I feel about short-term relationships. The answers don’t concern you.”
“Then why let me sit down?”
“I’m easily bored. And you seem like you might be interesting to talk to for a while.”
“Uh-huh. As long as the conversation doesn’t get too personal.”
“Intelligent, too. Another point in your favor.”
Cape nibbled sour mash. “Where do you and your brother live?”
“San Diego. Where do you live?”
“At the moment, a motel on Lombard Street.”
“I meant—”
“I’m from the Midwest,” he said, “but I don’t live there anymore. I don’t live anywhere anymore. Here a while, there a while.”
“Ah. Drifter.”
“Road warrior. Sounds better.”
“How long have you been living that kind of life?”
“Not long enough.”
“You must have money. Or do you just move from job to job?” He shrugged.
“Or maybe you rob banks in your spare time?”
“Too dangerous.”
“I know—you’re a professional gambler. You’ve got that steely-eyed look.”
“Wrong. But I wouldn’t mind being one.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Gambling’s an interest of mine.”
“Really? You do much of it?”
“Now and then,” Cape said.
“Good enough at it to make a living?”
“Don’t I wish. I lose as often as I win.”
“Blackjack, roulette?”
“Poker, mainly. That’s my game.”
Tanya smiled and then laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Well, it so happens—Oh, here’s Boone. I’ll let him tell you.”
The man who came up to the table was about Cape’s age. Round-faced, on the pudgy side, losing his dust-colored hair on both sides of a long centerpiece like a skinny peninsula in a pink sea. Conservatively dressed: blue suit with a convention badge pinned to the coat pocket, white shirt, blue-and-white silk tie. He didn’t look much like Tanya. Except for the smile he wore: sunny, showing a lot of white teeth.
“Sorry I’m late, kiddo,” he said to Tanya. He ran liquidy, bright blue eyes over Cape as if he were examining a plate of unfamiliar food. “Who’s your friend?”
She introduced them. “Matt’s not with the convention,” she said.
“Figured that,” Boone said cheerfully. “No badge. You’re lucky, Matt, you don’t got to wear no stinking badge.”
“That’s right. I’m lucky.”
“Local? Or visitor like us?”
“He’s a road warrior,” Tanya said.
“A which?”
“His home is the open road.”
“Oh, a free spirit. Now I really think you’re a lucky guy, Matt. Wish I could live that kind of life instead of being tied down to a nine-to-five.”
“You seem to be doing pretty well at your nine-to-five.”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain.”
Tanya said, “Matt was just telling me he likes to gamble.”
“Is that right?”
“Guess what his game is?”
“Not poker?”
“Poker,” she said, and Boone laughed with her this time.
Cape said, “How about letting me in on the joke?”
“Not a joke, just a funny coincidence.” She laid cool fingertips on the back of Cape’s hand. “My dear brother happens to be a poker nut himself. He also happens to be getting up a game tonight. You haven’t filled all the seats yet, have you, Boone?”
“One left,” Boone said. “Interested, Matt?”
“Depends. Where and when?”
“My suite at the Conover Arms. That’s a couple of blocks away, on Geary—we couldn’t get in here at the Drake. Nine o’clock.”
“What kind of poker?”
“Stud and draw. Keep it simple, that’s my motto.”
“Wild cards?”
Boone looked offended. “No way. I hate wild-card games.”
“So do I. Stakes?”
“Table stakes. Five-dollar ante, twenty-dollar limit, no limit on raises.”
“How many players?”
“A full seven, if you’ll join us.”
Cape asked Tanya, “Will you be playing?”
“Me? God, no. Boone’s the only gambler in our family.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I’m sure you think so.” Her smile held mock sympathy.
“The others are all conventioneers like me,” Boone said. “Dilettantes bit by the gambling bug, you might say.” He paused, measuring Cape again with his liquidy gaze. “Strictly a friendly game.”
“No sharks allowed.”
“No, sir, no sharks allowed.”
“Suits me. I like swimming in safe waters myself.”
Boone beamed at him. “Count you in for the last seat, then?”
“Count me in.”
6
Boone Judson’s two-room suite at the Conover Arms was on the small side—just enough space in the sitting room for an oblong table and eight chairs provided by the hotel staff. The lighting was weak, two lamps and a ceiling globe. On the table: wheel carrier of red, white, and blue chips and four sealed decks of blue-backed Bicycle cards. On a sideboard: plenty of liquor, ice, snack food.
“Only thing we haven’t got,” Boone said through his sunny smile, “is naked babes. You gents’ll have to make those arrangements for yourselves.”
Everybody laughed, Cape included. Five of them there now, just before nine o’clock, clustered around the sideboard waiting for the last two players to show up. Drinks in hand, chattering, eager to get started. The conventioneers drank Scotch or bourbon; Cape drank plain soda over ice. They accepted him anyway. He knew how to blend in with salesmen; he’d been one himself for too many years, gone to his share of conventions. Memorize names and hometowns, use them often. Joke, glad-hand, pretend interest in dull banter. Drop names like Emerson Manufacturing into the conversation.
The last two insurance agents trooped in twenty minutes later, half in the bag and spouting excuses. Everybody got acquainted, freshened drinks. Then they took seats at random around the table.
“Virgin decks, boys,” Boone said. “Matt, you do the honors. Pick one and pop its cherry.”
Cape slit the cellophane, broke the seal, shook the cards free, and removed the jokers. He gave the deck seven or eight hard shuffles to take out some of the stiff newness. Dealt one card to everybody, face up. Scott from Cleveland caught a deuce and grumbled about it; banking would interfere with his concentration, he said, as if the liquor he was knocking back wouldn’t. He was one of the latecomers.
Buy-in was five hundred. Cape took the minimum. Most of the others took a thousand, and Joe from St. Louis laid out fifteen crisp hundred-dollar bills. Fat wallets, all the way around the table.
The play started off slow, on the conservative side, the way the bigger-money games among strangers usually do. Feeling one another out. Cape paid particular attention to a different man through each of the first six hands—faces, eyes, body language, the way he held his cards, when he bet and how much and how often, if and when he folded. Mitch from East Rutherford looked to be the strongest player. Scott from Cleveland and Charley from Seattle were scatterguns, more interested in drinking and yacking than working at their games. Boone was the hardest to read—loose but casual, not drinking much, folding quickly unless he had the cards to back up a bet, raising only once. The sandbagging, check-and-raise type.
It was forty minutes before Cape won a small pot. Another thirty minutes before he won a second. Bad cards again, the kind of streak you had to just ride out. The play had picked up by then—larger bets, a couple of pots that exceeded three hundred each. Winners so far
were Mitch from East Rutherford and Boone, who claimed both of the three-hundred-plus pots: kings full in a hand of draw dealt by Charley from Seattle, trip aces in five-card stud dealt by Joe from St. Louis.
Cape lost slowly but steadily. His buy-in five hundred was gone in less than two hours; another five hundred went even faster. Scott from Cleveland, Charley from Seattle, and Perry from Sarasota were even bigger losers. Mitch from East Rutherford kept winning. So did Boone. Four or five medium-size pots, another fat one that Cape dropped out of halfway through the betting. He figured his three queens wouldn’t be enough, and he was right. Boone had an ace-high spade flush to Charley-from-Seattle’s small straight.
“Boone,” Charley said, “you’re just plain-ass lucky. Drop-dead gorgeous woman like Tanya for a sister, and here you win all the big pots.”
Perry from Sarasota said dreamily, “Amen on both counts.”
Boone said, grinning, “Hell, if I was really lucky, I’d win every pot and Tanya’d be my wife instead of my sister.”
Everybody laughed except Cape.
Not long after midnight, Charley from Seattle quit the game. He was sloppy drunk by then and down better than twenty-four hundred, by Cape’s count. Forty minutes later there were just five of them; Perry from Sarasota cashed out at around nineteen hundred in the hole. Mitch from East Rutherford began to lose a little; Joe from St. Louis began to win a little. Scott from Cleveland kept throwing good money after bad, drinking Scotch and bitching the whole time; he was into the game for four thousand by then. Cape’s losses were close to fifteen hundred. Boone remained the heavy winner.
Biggest pot of the night came at one-thirty, on a hand of seven-card stud dealt by Joe from St. Louis. Cape caught wired aces in the hole, a pair of sevens faceup and a third seven on his last down card. Mitch from East Rutherford had three hearts showing, and the way he bet after his last down card, he had two more hearts buried. Scott from Cleveland stayed in for a while with what was probably trips. Boone was the fourth man in; he had a pair of fours showing, nothing else.
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