‘Who’s Herron?’ Otis asks, taking a sip of his drink.
‘Fucked if I know,’ says Johnny with a shrug.
‘We’ve heard the name,’ Mikey says, looking at Carl over the top of his shades. ‘Police have connected him to a couple dozen incidents in the past few weeks.’
Cabressa nods. ‘I’ve had word of some problems on the streets – product getting stolen from our stores, overseas shipments going missing – those involved have named this Herron as the perpetrator.’
Carl puts his hands together and cracks his knuckles. ‘It’s not good for business.’
Mikey nods. ‘It isn’t good for the city. A man like that causing trouble, it creates unease.’ He looks at Cabressa. ‘Someone needs to fix it.’
Cabressa holds Mikey’s gaze. ‘I’m sure they will.’
There’s a moment of silence. Then Carmella deals the next hand.
Thoughts of Herron are forgotten as we look at the hands we’ve been dealt. Johnny stares at his cards. Otis jigs his leg up and down. Both of their stacks of chips are critically low.
‘We should talk about that place you’ve got over on the west side,’ Anton says, glancing at Cabressa. ‘The area’s coming up good, I could make you a lot of—’
‘We’re here to play, not do business,’ growls Cabressa.
Anton either doesn’t get the hint or ignores it. He gestures towards Carl. ‘But haven’t we already been talking business? You know, all that stuff about Herron and—’
‘I said not here,’ Cabressa says, his tone full of steel.
Anton puts his hands up. ‘Steady there. I’m just talking, putting some ideas out there.’ He leans across the table towards Cabressa. ‘We’re talking really profitable ideas for—’
‘Not. Now.’ Cabressa waves Anton away like he’s an annoying bug.
Anton shifts back in his seat, looking confused. ‘But usually—’
‘I said enough,’ Cabressa says, glaring at Anton. ‘Keep quiet, we’re trying to play here.’
Cabressa’s voice has only raised a couple of notches, but the effect is dramatic. Anton’s piggy eyes widen, and his red cheeks drain of colour. It’s the first time he’s been quiet since the game began.
Carmella raises an eyebrow. Looks at Otis. ‘Are you in?’
‘Okay, sure,’ he says, pushing a five-thousand-dollar chip onto the table.
I fold – my hand is nothing special – as does Mikey. Cabressa, Johnny and Anton call.
Carmella deals the flop.
Otis shakes his head and throws his cards onto the table. ‘I’m out.’
Cabressa takes a ten-thousand-dollar chip and places it on the table. He looks around the table and smiles.
Johnny’s looking agitated. He’s got less than ten thousand in his stack so if he’s going to bet, it’s all in or nothing. He glances from Cabressa to Anton, as if trying to work out if they really have good hands. Then he cusses, and tosses his cards onto the board. ‘No, I’m out.’
Cabressa smiles a little wider. Looks at Anton.
Anton fiddles with the chips on his stack. He looks nervous, like he doesn’t want to bet but thinks he has to. Slowly, he pushes his stack towards the middle. ‘All in.’
‘Good,’ says Cabressa. He adds some chips to the ones in the pot to match Anton’s bet, then sits back and nods to Carmella.
Anton turns over his cards. All he has is a pair of eights.
Cabressa reveals his hand. When combined with the cards on the table he’s got a full house, jacks and threes.
‘The pot goes to Mr Cabressa,’ says Carmella.
Anton cusses. Pushing his chair back from the table, he gets up and stalks over to the window. I hear him muttering something about how I shouldn’t have been allowed to play, that because of me being here he’d been put off his game. I frown. If Anton saw women as real people, not just sex objects, maybe he wouldn’t have let himself get distracted.
Otis leans closer to me and whispers, ‘Don’t go taking what he said personal. Anton always takes losing bad and he always has to blame someone else. He’s got money problems, you know.’
I wonder why the hell he’s still playing if he has money problems. It makes me think of all the times my ex-husband, Tommy Ford, stumbled home blind drunk as dawn was beginning to break. Depending on his mood, he’d take out his frustration on me with his fists, or crawl into bed apologising for losing that month’s rent money at the poker table. It might have been over ten years ago now, but sure as dammit I still remember every punch and every empty apology. I shudder. And push the memories away. Anton’s out the game now, I need to forget about him. I turn my attention back to the table and the game.
Carmella deals and we play on.
A few hands later things get interesting again. Cabressa and Johnny have folded. Mikey, Otis and me are still in the game. My bet is on the table – a cool five-thousand-dollar chip. Mikey’s up next and is looking all kinds of uncomfortable.
‘In or out, Mikey?’ Carmella asks.
He dithers. Fiddles with the cufflinks in his shirt and makes a real performance of huffing and sighing, but eventually he matches my bet.
‘Otis?’ says Carmella.
Mikey and me look at Otis.
‘Give me a minute here.’ There’s sweat on Otis’s upper lip and his leg has stopped jigging. He fiddles with his stack, lifting the chips off the table and then putting them down again.
As we wait, I feel eyes on me and glance back along the table. At the far end Cabressa is watching me, unblinking. His expression is impossible to read, but his eyes, cold and hard, make me suddenly shiver.
‘I’m going to have to hurry you,’ Carmella says.
Otis’s leg starts jigging again. He wipes his lip and his brow. Shakes his head. ‘Okay, fine. I’m going all in.’
He pushes his stack onto the board. Jeez, there must be ten thousand in chips. I hadn’t figured on the betting going so high. But my hand is good – a low straight – and I can’t see much potential for a better hand on the board with just the final card to be dealt. JT and Monroe said I needed to play the players, not just the cards. I study Mikey and Otis. They were both chilled earlier in the game, but their luck hasn’t been great, and as the hours have passed they’ve looked increasingly tense. Now Otis is sweating again, and Mikey is ramrod straight, a sure sign that he’s trying to hide the urge to fidget. I think they’re bluffing. I take another chip from my stack and add it to the pot. ‘I’ll go with you.’
Mikey huffs, then pushes the few chips he has into the middle of the table. ‘Me too.’
We’ve all bet slightly different amounts, as Mikey and Otis are all in, so as Carmella counts the chips, calculating who will get what, dependent on who wins, I count what’s left of my own stack. It’s not much, only three thousand in chips. If I don’t win this hand, I’ll be dead in the water.
I glance at Cabressa. His hands are steepled on the table, with his chin resting on the top of his fingers. He’s staring at the cards.
‘Here’s your last card,’ says Carmella.
I hold my breath. Watch her as her red-nailed fingers deal the next card face up onto the table. It’s the ace of diamonds.
My pulse pounds at my temples. This is the moment of truth.
I turn my cards over, showing my straight.
Shaking his head, Otis flips over his cards, revealing a pair of jacks, ace high. ‘Nice hand,’ he says to me. ‘Played good too.’
‘Thanks.’
Mikey stares at the cards over the top of his shades for a few seconds longer, then shakes his head and pushes his cards onto the table, face up. He has three of a kind, eights, but it’s not enough and he knows it. He takes off his shades and holds up his hands. ‘You got me.’
I exhale, and take the pot with trembling hands. I was bold and it worked. And thankfully my stack is a whole lot healthier than before, which is a real good thing. It’s down to just three of us now – me, Cabressa and Johnny.
I glance at Carmella, and there’s a flicker of a smile as her eyes meet mine. Then her poker face returns, she readies the cards and deals again.
Cabressa wins the next hand by default, vacuuming up the blinds when Johnny and me fold. I can’t see them, but I can hear Carl, Anton and Otis whispering to each other over by the piano. Anton doesn’t sound happy, and every now and then I hear my name mentioned. There’s the clinking of glasses as more champagne is poured, and I guess that the losers are trying hard to drown their sorrows.
Carmella loosens the leopard print scarf around her neck a fraction and then deals the next hand. Johnny hunches over his cards, munching through a bowl of roasted peanuts as he studies them. Cabressa watches him closely – he’s not drinking and he’s not eating – his expression giving nothing of his own hand away. The air conditioning is cranked up to the max, and I shiver as I look at my cards – six of clubs and queen of clubs. They’re not great, but I’m in for the big blind anyway, so I figure I may as well see what the next cards bring if no one raises the bet.
They don’t. Cabressa makes up the small blind to match the big. Johnny puts in his chips too. We’re all in the game. As Carmella deals I catch a waft of scent from the huge display of lilies in the vase on the baby-grand piano. I grimace. I hate lilies; the scent of them makes me feel sick. Try to focus on the cards.
Seven of diamonds. Nine of clubs. Three of clubs.
I bite my lip, then immediately stop. I’ve been warned that it’s my tell, I mustn’t let the others see. When I look at Cabressa he’s looking at his cards and smiling. He never gives anything away about his cards, so I doubt they’re the cause of his smile. I think he’s figured out my tell.
I glance at Johnny. He’s murmuring to himself and swigging back champagne. Hot damn, he’s drunk at least a bottle, most likely more like two, and his words are starting to sound a little slurred. As I watch him I notice he’s leaning over to one side in his chair, resting his elbow on the table, and cradling his beard-covered chin on his hand.
Carmella looks at me. Raises an eyebrow. ‘Your move.’
I take eight thousand-dollar chips from my stack and push them onto the green. ‘I’m in.’
Cabressa matches me. Johnny takes another gulp of champagne and then does the same.
Carmella deals the next card. It’s a six of hearts.
I’ve got a possible flush, or a guaranteed pair. The flush could win the hand. The pair is real unlikely to do anything good. If I stay in, it’s a real gamble. But if I make a medium bet, let Johnny think I’m being cautious, and reel him in alongside me, I could win his stack and get him out of the game.
Johnny’s trying to look confident, but his eyes are drooping and there’s champagne splattered down his beard. Cabressa sits straight-backed, with his expression impassive. He doesn’t look at the rest of us, just continues staring down at the table.
I push a ten-thousand-dollar chip onto the board. Cabressa folds. I need Johnny to come with me. I alter my posture, hunch over a little, put an anxious frown on my face. Fake that I’m nervous.
Johnny watches me a moment, eyes narrowed. Then he pushes the last of his chips onto the table. ‘Go on then, I’m all in.’
Carmella counts Johnny’s chips, then looks at me and says, ‘You need to add a couple thousand more.’
As I push the chips onto the green felt my heart quickens. I have to win this.
‘Ready?’ Carmella asks.
We nod and she deals the last card. It’s the king of clubs.
Johnny’s shaking his head, guessing he’s already beat.
I turn my cards over. ‘I’ve got a flush.’
‘You sure got me good,’ slurs Johnny, pushing his chair back from the table. ‘I don’t got nothing that’ll beat that.’
Carmella collects up the cards and pushes the pot towards me. I take the chips, arranging them into neat stacks. I’ve made it to heads-up. I played the gamble, took the risk, and it worked. I give myself a virtual high five.
Cabressa nods, a thin smile on his lips. ‘Nicely done, Miss Anderson.’
‘Yeah, good work,’ Johnny says, raising his empty champagne flute towards me. Then he stands and staggers over to the piano to join the others.
‘We’re now heads-up,’ says Carmella. Putting the deck we’ve been playing with aside, she unwraps a fresh deck and puts them through the Shuffle Master.
I take a sip of my champagne and glance at my watch. It’s almost two in the morning. We’ve been playing for hours. I hope JT is okay. I hope Monroe is getting the video and audio from the micro camera, and I hope to hell that this is almost over.
Carmella looks from Cabressa to me and says, ‘Let’s play.’
That’s when the shouting starts.
19
‘You been coming to these games a while then?’ JT says, adjusting his weight in the chair.
The wrestler-type guy shrugs. ‘I guess.’
‘Since the big game started?’ JT asks.
Again the guy shrugs and looks noncommittal. He glances over at the identikit security guard. Seems he’s not so talkative now.
JT follows his gaze. Sees the guard’s staring over at them again. He can tell what’s going on – the guard’s trying to figure out if he’s a threat. He needs to convince him that he’s not. He turns more towards the wrestler guy. Frowns. Acts agitated. Raises the volume of his voice enough for the guard to hear real easy. ‘Have you worked for your boss long?’
‘Couple of years, I guess.’ The wrestler’s tone implies he doesn’t want to talk anymore.
JT needs to persuade him otherwise. ‘Look, maybe you could give me some pointers? This is my first time running point on a close-protection gig, and to be honest this set-up is freaking me out. I had orders not to let her get out of my sight.’ He shakes his head. ‘Feels like I’ve fucked up already.’
‘You just followed orders, dude. That’s all you could’ve done.’
‘I don’t have eyes on her though, do I?’ JT scrubs his palm over his hair.
‘You didn’t have a choice,’ the security guard says. He’s looking at JT with something bordering pity now rather than suspicion. ‘She can’t fire you for that.’
JT acts like he’s not convinced. ‘Hope not.’
‘It’ll be alright, dude,’ says the wrestler guy.
The conversation ends. The security guard goes back to his puzzle. The wrestler guy starts playing with his cell. JT checks his watch again. The game’s been on for three hours; longer than they’d anticipated. He scans the rest of the close-protection guys. No one looks bothered.
JT’s worried though. He hates not knowing what’s going on. He debates messaging Monroe. The man’s a worm, but he’s watching the live feed from Lori’s micro camera. He’ll be able to tell JT how she’s doing. He glances at the others again. Every now and then one of them side-eyes him.
It makes him feel uneasy. Outwardly they’re trying to give the impression of being relaxed, okay with the situation, but there’s something more going on. The wrestler guy stopped telling JT the way things worked after the warning look from the guard, the gum-chewing man mountain didn’t want to get involved from the get-go. The rest of the guys have tried to avoid eye contact. The guy with the Reacher book is tapping his forefingers against the cover as he reads. The pony-tailed guy sitting next to the wrestler is playing Candy Crush, but he’s tense – so tense that his neck muscles are popping out his neck.
A heavily tattooed guy with shaggy brown hair gets up and steps over to the refreshment table. It’s a fine spread – bagels, muffins, chips and a selection of sodas – but this guy’s the first JT’s seen use it. As tattoo guy starts loading up a plate, another of the guys gets up and moves over to join him. This guy’s the smallest of the bunch, but he’s still real big – like a rhino rather than a bull elephant. He’s got shoulder-length dreads and carries himself with the grace of an athlete despite his bulk. When he reaches the table, the tattooed guy leans over, says
something to him. JT can’t hear what, but from the grim expression on the guy’s face, he’s guessing it’s not good.
He wants to know more.
Getting up, JT saunters over to the refreshment station. He nods a casual hello to the two guys. The tattooed guy flicks his gaze to the dreadlocked man, then looks back at JT and gives a small nod back. The guy with the dreads keeps loading his plate.
‘This free?’ JT asks. He knows that it is, but it’s as good a conversation starter as any.
The dreadlocked guy ignores the question. The tattooed man nods again.
JT grins. ‘Good spread.’ He gestures to the food. ‘Any recommendations?’
Both guys ignore him. The identikit security guard is looking over at them, frowning.
JT raises his voice a fraction. ‘You hear me? I asked a question.’
‘I heard you,’ says the tattooed guy, glancing towards the security guard, then moves away from the table. ‘And I ain’t got nothing to say to you.’
JT turns after the tattooed guy. Holds his hands out, making like he’s all confused. ‘But I—’
‘Stay in your lane.’ The dreadlocked guy elbows JT hard and hisses, ‘Quit asking questions. That’s not how things works here.’
JT holds his hands up again. He’s seen all he needs to. ‘Okay, I hear you.’
The guy with the dreads picks up his plate and heads towards his chair. The security guard focuses back on his puzzle book.
Their act is good for sure, thinks JT. They’re so good it’s almost believable, but he can tell that they’re faking. These men aren’t ruling this roost – they’re not warning him off because they’re guarding their territory, as they’d like him to believe. This is real different.
Deep Dark Night Page 9