“You do that, Harold,” Jimmy said. “You do what you have to do to find out who Paulie got his information from, and then you plug that leak. I don’t want anybody else getting out and hitting me up for a favor. You got it?”
“I’ve got it, Jimmy.”
“And get back to me soon,” Jimmy said, “by tonight.”
“You got that cell phone I gave you?”
Jimmy made a face. He had it, but he never turned it on.
“I’ve got it,” Jimmy said.
“Can I call you during the game? I mean, how long are you playing? I don’t want to interrupt—”
“We play from noon to midnight. I’ll call you when I break for dinner.”
“Okay,” Landrigan said. “Hopefully I’ll have this figured out by then.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, “hopefully.”
Jimmy hung up. He thought Landrigan had it figured out already. What he probably had to do was figure out a way to tell Jimmy what happened without sounding like a complete idiot.
Though they had met for breakfast the previous morning Jimmy and Kat did not intend to meet for breakfast every day, so when Jimmy went downstairs at 9 A.M. he was on his own. He went to Palio for coffee and a pastry, preferring that to a full breakfast. Paulie was not only giving him a headache but also a sour stomach.
As much as he missed the old Vegas and disliked this new version, he still felt the lure of some of the new casinos. After breakfast he decided to go up the Strip and take a look at a few of the newer ones. He stopped at the New York-New York, the Luxor, and ended up at the Mandalay Bay. He wandered around the casino for a while, watching tourists pour their hard-earned coins into slot machines or trying out foolproof systems at blackjack or roulette. He stayed away from the strange table games that had popped up while he was inside—variations of poker like pai gow, Carribean stud, let it ride, and three-card poker didn’t interest him. Red dog, a game he knew from old Vegas, was nowhere to be found. About the only part of classic Vegas he still saw in the casinos was the wheel of fortune. Just put your money down and watch to see if the big wheel stopped on the one-, two-, five-, ten-, twenty-, or forty-dollar slot. He enjoyed the crowds gathered around the table, shouting at the poor sap who was only doing his job by spinning the wheel. Mandalay Bay, being new Vegas, did not have one.
He wandered by the House of Blues and over to the Sports Book, where there was already some action from the East Coast tracks going on. He stopped at the door to watch the horses on one of the big screens mounted on the walls. All around him were odds posted in neon red figures for horses, ball games, fights, and other sporting events. On one screen there were some greyhounds running on a Florida track. He was about to walk away when he heard his name called. He turned and saw a very familiar face, one that made him smile. The smile slipped, though, when it hit him that the man was in a wheelchair.
“Francisco?” he said.
“Jimmy, my friend.”
Francisco Remigio Pareira grabbed Jimmy’s hand and crushed it in his. His laugh was as loud as his booming voice and almost left a ringing in Jimmy’s ears.
“It is so good to see you,” Francisco said.
“And you, Francisco,” Jimmy said. He didn’t know why it hadn’t dawned on him that he’d probably see Francisco in Caesar’s. It was the Panamanian’s home, after all. It was here Jimmy had last seen Francisco over thirteen years ago, and he swore the man—though always a sharp dresser—was wearing the same suit and the same cologne.
“Don’t you usually hold court at Caesar’s?”
“Ah, but look at this facility,” Francisco said, spreading his arms. “It is beautiful, no? I could not resist relocating.”
“I can’t say I blame you.”
“I have not seen you in Las Vegas in many years, my friend,” Francisco said. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
“I’ve been busy, Francisco,” Jimmy said. Behind the man Jimmy could see Francisco’s entourage. He always had four or five cronies hovering around him to run errands for him or make bets, as Francisco rarely left his seat in Caesar’s—or, rather, the Mandalay Bay—Sports Book.
“Ha! ‘I’ve been busy,’ he says.” Francisco turned and looked at his friends, who all nodded and laughed as if he’d said something funny or interesting. Whenever Francisco spoke it was in a voice that could only be described as booming. “I, the Great Francisco, have also been busy!”
Francisco’s family had money, and he received a regular stipend every year that kept him in gambling funds. The amount of one million dollars had been mentioned many times in reference to Francisco. It was said that was the amount he got each year from home. It was also said that he once bet a million on the World Series, when a million dollars was a million dollars. Jimmy didn’t know if either statement was true, but he’d never asked and he never would. You had to take what Francisco said with a grain of salt, but there was no denying the man’s charm. Wherever his money came from, or whatever he said, he was a larger-than-life figure in Vegas; and in a town specializing in larger-than-life figures he stood out. He made his bets—good or bad—with supreme confidence, and he was a man with honor. He always paid his debts—eventually.
His dark hair and beard were peppered with gray, and Jimmy put his age at about fifty, but other than that he looked much the same as Jimmy remembered him. Jimmy knew he had been an athlete in his native Panama in his younger years, and even in the wheelchair he looked remarkably fit.
“What are you doing here now?” Francisco asked.
“I’m playing in the WPT tournament.”
“Ah, the contest at the Bellagio? That is good. They need talent like you.” The big man made a face, shook his head. “So many amateurs these days.”
“A lot has changed,” Jimmy said, and he found himself staring at the chair.
“Ah, this,” Francisco said, bouncing his hands on the arms of the chair. “My own fault. When you make a bet, you must have the money to pay when you lose, eh? Some people have no patience. They did not trust the Great Francisco!” He lowered his voice. “They came in with baseball bats. Oh, the pain.”
Jimmy winced. “That’s awful luck, Francisco. Something like that should never have happened.”
“Ah, forget it!” Francisco said. “Do not be sad, my friend. The Great Francisco is still Francisco, eh?”
“I can see that. So no longer playing poker?”
“I play, my friend, I play,” Francisco said, “but in real games—you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean.”
Unlike Jimmy, Francisco was a gambler rather than a poker player. He liked cards, horses, sports, anything he could get a bet down on. He was the ultimate action guy.
“Now if you will excuse me, I must get back to my place in time for the next race, my friend,” Francisco said to him, “but it has been so very good seeing you again. Stop by before you leave, eh?”
“I will,” Jimmy said, shaking the man’s big hand. “I promise. Oh, Francisco, it’s been so long I forget. Don’t I owe you money?”
“Oh, my friend Jimmy, you have no memory. It is the Great Francisco who owes you money. Remember those football bets?”
“Oh yeah,” Jimmy said. “I guess I did win those two. What was that, four grand?”
“No, eight thousand dollars. Remember we bet the Super Bowl future bet? You won that, too? But, of course, you had relocated by that time.”
Jimmy looked at him. He admired the man’s memory and honor. And it was just like the Great Francisco to know exactly where he’d spent the last years.
Francisco moved closer.
“Unfortunately, my friend, the Great Francisco is a little short right now. He has not had a good season. But you know Francisco is good for it.”
“You give it to me when it feels right, Francisco. I trust you.”
“?‘I’ve been busy,’?” the man quoted again, and returned to his position, shaking his head and laughing loudly. Jimmy could s
till hear it echoing behind him as he walked across the Mandalay Bay floor.
FOURTEEN
When Jimmy returned to the Bellagio he immediately knew something was wrong. Players were milling about in the poker room, but no one was sitting at their tables. Off to one side the tournament organizers were huddled with men he didn’t recognize, though he immediately knew the type.
They were cops.
While Jimmy had no love for cops, he had nothing against them. They had only been doing their job when they arrested him. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be around them if he didn’t have to.
Whatever had happened it looked as if it was going to hold up the start of day two of the tournament. He tried to locate Kat. He couldn’t see her, but did spot Mike Sexton, standing with a man and a woman.
“Hey, Mike,” he called, walking over.
Sexton turned and froze. Jimmy knew Sexton still saw him as a murderer. Nevertheless, he was the ambassador of poker. Sexton graciously excused himself and turned to meet Jimmy with a handshake.
“You made it into day two, eh?” Sexton asked.
“I made it,” Jimmy said. “What’s going on here?”
“They’re not saying,” Sexton said. “All ah know is that there are a couple of detectives here talkin’ to the tournament director about somethin’ and it looks serious.”
“How serious?”
“We’re tryin’ to find out. My boss, Steve Lipscomb, is tryin’ to get together with them.”
“Who’s that attractive woman with the two of you?”
“That’s Steve’s partner, Robyn Moder.”
Jimmy looked at his watch. It was eleven forty-five. He started looking around for Paulie. If there was trouble, maybe Paulie DiCicca was part of it. His stomach got queasy again.
“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” Jimmy said. “You want anything?”
“No, thanks. Ah’m gonna stick around here and see what’s what.”
“Okay,” Jimmy said. “Later.”
Sexton gave him a pat on the back and went to rejoin the other two men, one of whom was—presumably—his boss.
Jimmy went to find a house phone and called Kat’s room. She didn’t answer. She had to be down here somewhere. There was no reason to believe that whatever trouble was brewing had something to do with her, but he got nervous nevertheless. He wondered if this was what it was like to be a father.
He went to Snacks and got a cup of tea rather than coffee, hoping it would settle his stomach. If the detectives were going to get around to questioning everyone at the tournament it could get unpleasant for him. Would they do that? Try to question hundreds of people?
By the time he got back to the poker room it was quarter after twelve. There were even more players now milling about, many of them looking anxious and uncomfortable. He couldn’t see Sexton and his boss anywhere. He did, however, spot Kat and rush over to her.
“There you are,” she said, grabbing his arm. “What’s goin’ on? Nobody knows shit.”
“Put me in with nobody, then,” he said, “because I have no idea.”
“I saw cops in the lobby.”
“In uniform?”
“Yeah, why?”
“There are also some detectives roaming around here.”
“Detectives?” she repeated. “Dude, I hope this doesn’t mess up the tournament. We’re late gettin’ started as it is.”
Jimmy continued to scan the room, aware there were uniformed cops on the periphery. He watched as one officer intercepted someone trying to leave the casino floor.
“They’re not letting anyone leave,” he said. “Something’s really wrong.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but it’s bad.”
Suddenly he realized there was something different about her. She was wearing a skirt for the first time since he’d known her. And was that makeup on her face?
“Are you wearing makeup?”
“Dude, fuck off.”
At one o’clock the tournament director instructed all players to go to their tables. They were going to begin day two with about two hundred players overall, down to twenty tables.
“Is it over?” Kat asked.
“No,” Jimmy said. “They probably figure this is the best way to keep everyone from trying to leave—have us all sit around and start to play.”
“Well, that suits me,” she said. “I’m goin’ to my table. Let’s shuffle up and deal.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good luck, and be careful.”
Before he went to his table he wanted to try to talk to Sexton to see if he had found out anything. The tournament director, Jack McClellan, having made his announcement, walked over to the two men who had to be police detectives. He said something to them, and they nodded. One of them looked over at Jimmy—or, at least, Jimmy thought he did. He looked away quickly, then thought how foolish and guilty that must have looked. He’d done his time and wasn’t guilty of anything. He looked over at the men again, realized that the detective was simply assessing the crowd.
He decided to go and sit at his table.
It started as a rumor, working its way through the crowd from table to table. Players were free to leave their tables for pit stops, refreshments, or to consult with someone in the gallery, but they were not allowed to leave the general vicinity.
“I heard there was a murder,” the man seated next to Jimmy said.
“What?”
He’d introduced himself as Paul Jefferies, one of the amateur players who had made it to day two. He was in his thirties, a businessman from Dallas who had decided to try his luck, as he said, “with the big boys.”
He’d just returned from a trip to the men’s room when he announced, “Somebody said the cops were investigating a murder.”
“One of our players?” someone at the table asked.
“I don’t know,” Jefferies said. “I didn’t get much information.”
Most of the players at the table were locked into the game and didn’t comment.
“No point discussing rumors,” Jimmy said, “but if any of you would like to do that and allow it to take your mind off your game, be my guest.” Chris Ferguson gave him a look and a nod of approval. Jimmy’d said it with a smile, all part of his patter. While he was wondering what the hell was going on, he wasn’t about to let it tarnish his game.
Several players at the table were having a hard time concentrating, not playing with the same vigor they had the night before. Jimmy, Ferguson, and a new face and star of the WPT, Lee Watkinson, were the most focused at the table, giving their concentration to the game. That was one of the things Jimmy had learned when he was inside: how to push everything else to the back of his mind, focusing only on the cards.
Losing concentration at the poker table could cost you money—lots of it.
Losing it in prison could cost you your life.
FIFTEEN
By the time they broke for dinner at 7 P.M. the rumor had taken root. Jimmy overheard two people in the restaurant at the table next to his talking about a murder in the hotel, and they were not involved with the tournament.
He’d decided to try the Picasso restaurant this time rather than go back to Prime again. He had not seen Sabine Chevalier since they’d had dinner together the night before, and he wondered if she’d even made it to the second day.
“What have you heard about the murder?” he asked the waitress when she brought him his check.
“Not much,” she said. “I only came on about an hour ago.”
He nodded, paid the bill, and left. When he got back to the casino floor, he saw Mike Sexton walking ahead of him. He speeded up enough to come alongside him.
“Hey, Mike.”
Sexton looked at him, startled.
“Oh, hey, Jimmy.”
“What have you heard?”
“About what?”
Jimmy grabbed Sexton’s arm. “Don’t play dumb with me, Mike. You know what I’m ta
lking about. You’re a broadcast journalist now. There’s no way you don’t know what’s going on.”
Sexton looked at Jimmy, then glanced around for something. Finally, he led Jimmy into an empty aisle of nickel slots.
“Okay,” he said, “but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“You got it.”
Sexton hesitated and then said, “Okay, there may have been a murder in the hotel.”
“That much I know,” Jimmy said. “It’s all over the place.”
“Yeah, well, this you don’t know,” Sexton said. “The victim is one of the players.”
“Jesus! Who?”
“You didn’t hear this from me, right?”
“I swear, Mike,” Jimmy said. “Who was it?”
“Tim Bennett,” Sexton said. “He’s one of the Internet crowd, runs with a group that call themselves the posse.”
“I’ve met him,” Jimmy said. “Just saw him yesterday.”
“Yeah, he won a bracelet last year in his first World Series event.”
“How did it happen?” Jimmy asked. “Where?”
“I only know this because mah boss got the detectives to talk to us,” Sexton said. “It happened sometime during the night.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “His neck was broken.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Sexton said, nodding, “in his room. They found him on one of those portable massage tables.”
“Who the hell would—?”
“They think he was with a woman at some point during the night,” Sexton said.
“How do they figure that?”
“Ah don’t know,” Sexton said. “Apparently there’s some kind of evidence that leads them to believe that.”
“Could a woman have done that to him?”
“Who knows?” Sexton said. “Maybe she let the murderer in. Or maybe she actually was a masseuse. They’re pretty strong.”
“What are they going to do?”
“Keep everybody around, interview all of ’em.”
“That’s a lot of interviews,” Jimmy said. “They were smart to let the game continue. Keeps everyone here for now. What are they going to do tonight when the game breaks up, though? And what about the players who were eliminated yesterday?”
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