“I’ve lived in this area a long time. Let’s just say I have contacts.” He leaned back, crossed his legs. A fat gold ring on one finger caught the neon bar lights, seemed to throw out sparks. An even fatter turquoise-and-silver ring gleamed on his other hand. His lightweight beige suit was shantung silk; the pale blue shirt was silk, too, and the mirror-gloss black shoes looked Italian made. “It’s Mahannah, by the way,” he said. “Vince Mahannah.”
“Mr. Mahannah.”
“What would you guess my profession to be?”
“I’m not good at guessing games.”
“Give it a try anyway.”
“Same business as Andrew Vanowen?”
“Do I look like a venture capitalist? The odds are poor in that kind of business, unless you have an MBA and the right kind of background. Too much risk, too easy to cash out all at once.”
“Gambling’s also a risky business.”
Mahannah cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what you think I am? A gambler?”
“This is a Nevada casino, you seem at home here, and you use terms like ‘poor odds’ and ‘cash out.’ Good a guess as any.”
“So it is,” Mahannah said. “I have a number of interests, as a matter of fact, but I admit gambling is one of them. What about you?”
“Gambling is one of my interests, too.”
“Professionally?”
“No. I’m strictly an amateur.”
“The high-stakes kind of amateur?”
“Depends on the game.”
“Is that why you’re in Stateline? To play some kind of high-stakes game?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Try me.”
Their drinks arrived. Mahannah sat warming his between long-fingered, delicate-looking hands. Gambler’s hands. Cape nibbled his cognac, set the snifter down.
He said, “I used to be a salesman for a company that manufactures industrial valves in Rockford, Illinois. Dull work. So I decided to retire and do what I’ve always wanted to do—see some of the country, live it up a little.”
“And you finance this new lifestyle how? By gambling?”
“No. I had some money saved.”
“A man can always use more, though.”
“I’m not looking to get it the way you’re thinking.”
“What way is that?”
“Look,” Cape said, “why don’t we quit sparring and get down to it. You’ve got a notion that I’m here to try some kind of scam with a handful of photographs. The truth is just the opposite. I’m here to warn you and the Vanowens that somebody else might be planning a scam, one that involves the three of you.”
Mahannah cocked the eyebrow again. “Who would that somebody be?”
“A couple of small-time grifters I met in San Francisco two days ago. Tanya and Boone Judson—at least, that’s what they’re calling themselves. Names mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“They claim to be brother and sister, but they’re either married or shacked up. Cardsharps working the convention circuit. He’s the mechanic, and a pretty good one. She does the roping and steering. Marked cards—shaded decks.”
Mahannah seemed to be looking at him in a new way. “How’d you meet these two?”
“I got roped into one of their poker cons, spotted the gaff before it was too late.”
“And did what about it?”
Cape told him.
Mahannah said, “So you left Frisco with the satchelful of money.”
“No. I divvied it up, took my share, and returned the rest to the other players.”
“Did you, now. How big was your share?”
“Exact amount of my losses, plus a sixth of two thousand that belonged to the Judsons.”
“No more than that?”
“Not a penny more,” Cape said.
“Good for you.” Mahannah’s smile was all mouth; the eyes, unblinking in the half-light, were an almost reptilian black. “This Boone mentioned something about Tahoe and seed money, you said. Is that all he let slip?”
“The woman cut him off before he could take it any further.”
“What else was in the satchel besides the money and photos?”
“Nothing.”
“Describe the Judsons.”
Cape did that, in detail.
“Neither one is familiar,” Mahannah said. “If I’d seen them, I’d remember.”
“Question is, what kind of scam could they be planning with you and the Vanowens?”
“Same kind you caught them doing, maybe. I host a private poker game once a month at my home. Friends, mostly—Andy Vanowen’s one. Now and then, when we can’t round up enough players, we let a stranger sit in.”
“High stakes?”
“It can be that kind of game, yes.”
“Next one coming up soon?”
“Saturday night. These grifters might’ve gotten wind of it somehow, figured to worm the Boone character into the game. But he couldn’t’ve pulled off a shade-work gimmick with us. No way anybody brings his own decks into my game.” The mouth-stretch, the reptilian stare. “No way anybody cheats in my game, ever, if he knows what’s good for him. He’d have to be a damn fool to even try.”
“Does Mrs. Vanowen sit in?”
“Stacy? Hell, no. Down-and-dirty poker’s not her style.”
“A lady,” Cape said.
“That’s right. A lady.”
“So why did the Judsons have the photos of her? Where does she fit into a poker con?”
“She couldn’t fit in. No way.”
“Could be she knows the Judsons from somewhere. Or they know her.”
“The last people she’d be likely to rub elbows with are short-con artists,” Mahannah said. “But I’ll ask her. You have those photos on you?”
Cape laid them on the table, watched Mahannah study each one in turn. Nothing showed in his face; the cold eyes still didn’t blink.
“The studio portraits of you and Vanowen,” Cape said. “How would the Judsons have gotten hold of them?”
Mahannah thought about it. Shook his head and said, “I don’t know.” He put away some of his cognac. “I’d like to keep these.”
“The one of you, sure. I’d prefer to deliver the others to the Vanowens personally.”
“Why? You don’t trust me to do it? Tell them what you told me?”
“That’s not it. I like to finish what I start.”
“If you’re thinking of some kind of reward—”
“Money’s not an issue. I wouldn’t take it if it was offered.”
“A man with scruples, to a fault,” Mahannah said. “You interest me, Cape. I don’t run across many selfless men.”
Cape said, “I used to be selfish as hell. I figure it’s time to find out how the other type lives.”
Mahannah’s chuckle was almost genuine. “Suppose Andy and Stacy don’t want to see you.”
“That’s up to them. I’ll be here one more day. If I don’t connect with either of them, I’ll leave the photos in an envelope at the desk with your name on it.”
“Fair enough.” Mahannah finished his cognac, fished a couple of bills out of his pocket, tossed them on the table. He stood up. “If you’re all you seem to be, I owe you a favor, and so do the Vanowens.”
“Forget it. I won’t be around long enough to collect.”
When Mahannah was gone, Cape looked at the bills on the table. A twenty and a ten. Whatever else he might be, Vince Mahannah was no piker.
11
The phone was ringing when Cape stepped out of the shower. He swung a towel around himself, went out dripping to cut off the noise.
“Mr. Cape?” Woman’s voice, low-pitched, tentative.
“Yes?”
“This is Stacy Vanowen. I understand you want to speak to my husband and me about some photographs.”
“I didn’t mention the photographs in my note.”
She said coolly, “Vince Mahannah is a good friend of ours.�
��
“So I understand.”
“I… don’t know those people you met in San Francisco. Andrew says he doesn’t, either.”
“Let’s hope you never have anything to do with them.”
“Yes.” Pause. “We’ll be lunching at the Lakepoint Country Club today. Andrew asked me to invite you to join us.”
“A brief meeting is all that’s necessary—”
“He insists. The Lakepoint is in Stateline, not far from your hotel. At the end of Lakepoint Drive.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Twelve-thirty. The reservation is in his name.”
The breakfast buffet was crowded, a line of people waiting for seats. Cape paused, glancing around. He hated standing in lines, even short ones. Skip breakfast? He wasn’t hungry, but he could use some coffee.
His gaze caught and held the occupant of one of the two-person booths in the middle of the room. The Eurasian woman from Milady’s Pleasure. In her purple-and-gold outfit, eating alone.
He walked over to her, bypassing the hostess. “Good morning. Justine, isn’t it?”
“Yes? Oh… the man with the photographs.”
“Cape, Matt Cape. Would you mind if I joined you?”
“Well…”
“No other available seats. And the line over there is getting longer.”
The striking almond-shaped eyes studied him. “I won’t be here much longer, so I guess it’ll be all right.”
He sat. The table was small and mostly covered with her breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, hotcakes, orange juice, coffee.
“You must be hungry,” he said.
“Well, free breakfast is one of the perks of my job.”
“Nice perk.”
“It’s a good job. Did you find Mrs. Vanowen?”
“Yes. I’m having lunch with her and her husband today.”
Smile, shrug. She reached out for her orange juice. Light glinted off the bracelet on her wrist: patterned silver, with a heart-shaped clasp.
Cape said to the waitress who had just come up, “Just coffee, thanks.” Then, to Justine, “What’re the Vanowens like?”
“You don’t know?”
“Nothing much about either of them.”
“I only know Mrs. Vanowen as a customer,” Justine said carefully. “She doesn’t say much, but she seems nice.”
“She have a job or profession?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How about her husband?”
Justine’s gaze flicked away, flicked back. “What about him?”
“I understand he’s a venture capitalist.”
“Oh… yes. Very successful, very high-powered.”
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The look on your face yesterday when I showed you his photo. The look on your face right now.”
“I really don’t know the man.”
“Or want to?”
“Or want to. He’s too… aggressive.”
“Man who won’t take no for an answer?”
“That type, yes.”
“If I’m not getting too personal, you make him take no from you?”
Her gaze slid away again.
“Don’t answer the question if you’d rather not.”
“I don’t date married men,” she said, “no matter how insistent they are or how much money and power they have.”
“That’s a good philosophy.”
“It almost cost me my job.”
“You mean he did. The vindictive type, too.”
“That’s all past. I don’t care to dredge it up again.”
“I won’t ask you to,” Cape said. Then, “I like your bracelet.”
Her smile came back. “It is nice, isn’t it? My son gave it to me for my birthday. He’s only fifteen, but he has really good taste.”
“Fifteen? You don’t seem old enough to have a son that age.”
“Thank you. I was nineteen when I married his father.”
“Not still married, I take it?”
“Divorced eight years ago, before Gary and I moved up here from Sacramento.”
“Separated after twelve years,” Cape said, “divorce pending. My fault, not hers.”
“In my case, we were both at fault.”
“Any other children?”
“No, just Gary.” She stroked the bracelet with the tip of her finger. “He’s the best. You know, he bought this with his own money. He works part-time as a caddy at the country club.”
“Lakepoint Country Club?”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“Just a guess. It’s where I’m having lunch with the Vanowens.”
“Oh. Well, you’ll like the restaurant. I’ve eaten there a few times with Gary and my roommate.”
“Roommate?”
“Her name is Lilith. She also works at Lakepoint, in their payroll department. We share expenses—wages aren’t high in this area, at least not for single mothers and widows.”
Cape’s coffee arrived. The waitress said to Justine, “Will there be anything else, Ms. Coolidge?” in chilly tones.
“No, nothing, Ms. Adams.” Just as chilly.
“Why the freeze?” Cape asked when they were alone again. “You and the waitress.”
“We had a problem a while back,” Justine said. “She thought I was competition for a man she was dating.”
“And she was wrong?”
“Completely. I don’t play that sort of game either.”
“Are you in a relationship now?”
“… No.”
“Neither am I. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
“I thought that’s what you were leading up to. I’m flattered, Mr. Cape—”
“Matt.”
“I’m flattered, but we’re not supposed to date guests. House rule.”
“Rules were made to be broken.”
“Not the Lakeside Grand’s, and not mine.”
“Suppose I weren’t staying here?”
“But you are staying here.”
“I could check out, move someplace else.”
Raised eyebrow. “Would you really do that?”
“I think I might.”
“The answer is still no.” She softened the words with another of her smiles. “You seem like a nice guy, but I’m not in the market for a fling, and there’s something about you that says you’re not in the market for anything else.”
“True enough,” he admitted.
“I really am sorry.”
“So am I.” Cape finished his coffee, stood up. “The best to you and your son, Justine. I mean that.”
“Thank you. And to you, Matt Cape.”
Win some, lose some. And just as well to be a loser this time. Justine deserved better than men like him and Andrew Vanowen and the ex-husband who’d let her get away. The kind of man she deserved was an older version of the kid who’d saved his money to buy her a patterned silver bracelet for her birthday.
12
He spent the rest of the morning making the rounds of the other casinos. In Harrah’s he won a hundred and fifty playing blackjack. In Caesar’s, another ninety. One of the craps layouts was getting some play in the Harvey’s; the shooter, a sweating bald man in his sixties, was riding a hot streak and betting heavily. Cape watched him make another pass, moved in, and put fifty on the pass line. Eleven, another winner. He let his winnings ride. The next roll was an eight. Cape put another twenty on the Come line, and the shooter made his eight point the hard way, with a pair of fours, on the third roll. The bald man paused to wipe his streaming face; his eyes had a glazed look. Subtle change in the vibes. Cape switched half his stack of chips to Don’t Pass. Right choice: The next roll was boxcars. Craps for the shooter, another winner for Cape.
All right. No luck with Justine, but a nice little run of luck on the gambling end; he was close to five hundred ahead for his twenty-some hours in Stateline. Hang for a while
, try to ride it up? Or put it on hold and move on when he was done with the Vanowens?
The red message light on his room phone was blinking. Voice-mail message from Vince Mahannah: Call him back any time, he expected to be home all day.
Cape tapped out the number. Mahannah said without preamble, “How would you like to sit in on my poker game tomorrow night?”
“I was thinking I might get back on the road this afternoon.”
“Someplace you need to be?”
“No.”
“Then stick around a couple of days. Play some poker, leave Sunday.”
“Tell me something. Why the invitation?”
“Would you buy it if I said it was the favor I mentioned last night?”
Cape said, “It wouldn’t be a favor if I lost money.”
“No, it wouldn’t. Truth is, we’re shorthanded. Just five of us this time, and I don’t like playing with less than six.”
“I can’t afford to get into a high-stakes game.”
“You won’t be,” Mahannah said. “Not all of mine are like that. No high rollers in this one, just friends of mine. How much can you afford to lose?”
Cape thought about it. “A few thousand, maybe. But not for an hour or two’s entertainment.”
“You don’t strike me as the wild-hair type. That kind of play is the only way you’d lose a few thousand in an hour or two. Table stakes, twenty-dollar ante, no limit on the bets, four-limit on the raises. Straight poker, nothing fancy.”
“I don’t know,” Cape said. “I had a good run in the casinos this morning, and I’m not sure I want to push my luck.”
“Sometimes pushing it means riding it.”
“Sometimes.”
“Think it over. Give me another call if you’re interested.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks for the invitation.”
“Don’t thank me unless you play and win.”
Lakepoint Country Club.
Big, precision-landscaped place on the lakeshore. Most of the eighteen-hole golf course spread over a jut of land flanked by thick stands of trees—chlorophyll-bright greens, manmade lagoon, rolling fairways, not too many hazards. Clubhouse and restaurant and outbuildings made of pine and some darker wood, embellished with native stone and plenty of glass. Playpen for the rich. The greens fees would be high, membership fee upwards of five thousand a year: Keep out the riffraff.
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