Death Plays Poker (9 page)

GEORGE

George’s fingers trembled on the keys of his computer. If Mickey had been telling the truth about Fiona, the whole game had just changed.

But he’d get to that soon enough. First, he had one more death to write.

September 2010

Calgary, Alberta

Jimmy Streets.

You’re alone in your hotel room. It’s midnight and you’ve had a few. The lights are on. You’re watching
Bound
on cable and jerking off.

Your performance at the tables today was stellar as always. You’re a seventy-year-old card-playing machine, and you’ve been on the scene since it was dangerous.

But you don’t care about poker now. You’re about to get off, and Jennifer Tilly is the image in your head.

There’s a knock at your door. You try to ignore it — you’re so close to coming, Jen can practically taste it. But the knock becomes insistent.

“Who the fuck is there?” you shout.

“It’s me.” A familiar voice. A man’s. You have to answer.

“Gimme a minute!” you yell.

You wish you could go back to Jennifer — a particular shame, since you’ll never get to see her again.

You pull up your jeans. You open the door for your killer.

The cops write you off quicker than Josie. Like doctors write off lung cancer patients with little emotion, you’re seen as a victim of the world you chose to play in. And you’re old — the public doesn’t weep for a man in his seventies. No connection is drawn between your death and Josie’s. Why would it be?

George frowned at his page. Maybe the line about age was harsh. Jimmy was dead, but there were other people in their seventies who might not like to feel disposable. Could George afford to offend an entire demographic of potential book buyers in one go? He highlighted the line; his finger hovered above the Delete key. In the end he left it in; this first draft was supposed to be edit-free.

And anyway, George didn’t give a shit about Jimmy Streets or any of the Poker Choker’s victims. He’d care again, but for now he had a more pressing mystery to worry about:

Fiona Gallagher. With your perfect blow-dried hair and your stunning little smiles that make everyone around you feel like they’re not good enough to eat the fucking dirt you tread on. How are you involved?

CLARE

Fiona fingered the stem of her martini glass as her gaze wandered somewhere Clare couldn’t follow. “This scene didn’t use to be so antisocial. Until July . . .” Fiona sighed. “Until July, there’d be a bunch of us hanging out in bars like this on any given night. Now everyone keeps to themselves. Couples couple off, gamblers stay at the tables . . .”

Clare picked up her cosmo and took a slow sip. It was pretty good — stronger than it looked. It didn’t taste pink. “What happened in July?”

“My best friend died. Josie.”

“I’m so sorry.” Total cliché, but what else could Clare say?
Did you kill her?
wouldn’t sound right. “Are people still really sad?”

“They’re too selfish to be sad. Josie’s long forgotten. Two more have died since her.”

“Mickey told me.” Clare chose her words carefully. “He said there’s a serial killer. I’m kind of thinking I should pack it in — maybe invest my trust fund in something more normal, like university.”

“Yeah.” Fiona’s voice was almost wistful. “If my career wasn’t here, I would have packed up long ago.”

“But this afternoon, you seemed so thrilled to be here.”

Fiona smiled sadly. “This afternoon I was working. I was still miked up in the bathroom — and even if I hadn’t been, I was in smile-for-the-camera mode.”

“Oh.” Clare wanted a cigarette, but the bar was non-smoking and Fiona didn’t smoke.

“So why the Canadian Classic?” Fiona asked. “I would have thought with a trust fund like yours, you’d want to try the European tour. North American casinos are so grubby. I take three showers a day and I still feel gross.”

“I figured I’d start close to home,” Clare said. “But maybe that was dumb. Why isn’t this serial killer in the press? You’d think that would be huge headlines.”

Fiona shook her head slightly, like she had no idea what the outside world might care about. “Josie’s death made headlines in a couple Maritime papers.”

“But when the others died . . .” Clare wasn’t sure if she was smart to urge the conversation in this direction. She knew why the story had never taken off — the
RCMP
had never publicly acknowledged that this was a serial killer, and no journalist had made it their mission to find out. She didn’t want Fiona — a minor public figure with access to
TV
publicity — to run with the story herself.

“No one cared about the second guy. Sorry — I’m sure that sounds horrible if you never knew him, but Jimmy Streets was a snake. And the third guy, Willard Oppal — we’re pretty sure he was a cop.”

Clare tried to keep her eyes steady when they wanted to bug out from her face. She’d known Willard Oppal must have been made to get murdered, but she never dreamed his cover had been blown so wide open that it was cocktail conversation.
That
was something Cloutier might be interested to know.

Clare tried to reason like Tiffany would. “But if he’d been a cop, and he’d been murdered, other cops would have pounced on the scene. Everyone knows you can’t kill a cop and get away with it.”

Fiona swiveled her bar stool to face Clare. “Do you know how much tax money casinos generate? I was thinking of doing a piece on the murders, but this tournament is my livelihood. I don’t want people scared away until I have something better lined up. Take you for example.” Fiona’s eyes ran the length of Clare’s body, from her new chin-length haircut down to her surprisingly comfortable black heels. “You would never have come onto this scene if you thought there was a serial killer running rampant.”

“True.”

“Word is that half a dozen of the new players on the scene are undercovers. Obviously not you, though.” Fiona laughed. “That would be a seriously deep cover.”

Clare grinned. For the first time, she thought Amanda might have an ounce of intelligence for the way she’d crafted Tiffany’s character. “What about the people who do know? How come they’re not all parachuting the hell out of here?”

“It’s too surreal.” Fiona took a long, slow sip of her cosmo. “Plus — this is the strange part, at least to me — the pattern isn’t like most other serial killings. Josie was murdered in July, Jimmy was September, and Willard was January. You get what I’m saying? If there’s any trend, it’s toward slowing down, not speeding up. You know anything about serial killers?”

Clare shook her head.

“I do,” Fiona said. “My plan was to go into criminal law, and I minored in psych in my undergrad. Serial killers — the kind who kill because they’re compelled to, biologically — kill more frequently as they go along. It’s like a drug they develop a tolerance for — they need a stronger hit more often to keep themselves satisfied. This could be an exception — something about the second murder might have scared him for a while. But more likely it means people are getting killed for a reason. You’ll only be a victim if you get in the Choker’s way.”

“How do I stay out of his way?” Clare asked.

Fiona shrugged. “Play by the rules.”

Which of course was not an option for Clare.

She tried one more line of questioning. It was maybe too bold, but she needed answers fast if she didn’t want to get sent home in the morning. “Is it true that some players are cheating?”

Fiona uncrossed and crossed her legs on her barstool. “How would I know? I’m not a poker player.”

“Fair enough.” Clare plunged along. “Hey, I’ve always wanted to know something, when I’ve watched poker on
TV
. When the game is on, can you or the other commentators see the hole cards live, or do you have to wait for tapes? It sounds so real, the way you commentate — it sounds like the tension is live — but then it seems like it would be too risky for security if the cards were being shown to someone as it happened.”

Fiona smiled thinly. “You’re right. I can’t see them.”

“Can anyone?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe a techie, to make sure the feed is working. But they wouldn’t be sitting there watching.”

“Makes sense. It must be such a rush, to be on the inside of the game like you are.”

“Not really.” Fiona’s shoulders had tensed and her eyes had become more focused. Clare wasn’t sure when the shift had occurred, but she’d been more relaxed when they’d been talking about murder. “If I had the choice to make over again, I would have gone to law school.”

“Really? Because you know, murders aside — I don’t mean to be a suck-up — but you seem like a natural on camera.”

“Maybe I’m good at it, but this job is like living at summer camp. Repetitive recreation with no substance.”

Clare had never gone to summer camp, and had never known the luxury of too much down time.

“I probably use more brainpower asleep when I’m dreaming than I need in my day job. I’m not complaining — it’s my own choices that got me here — but Sudokus aren’t cutting it anymore. I need to get back to the land of the living, if only so my brain synapses have a direction to fire in.”

And Clare needed to get back to her task at hand. “So who are these techies?”

Fiona looked at Clare hard. “Don’t even go there. As long as hole card cameras have been around, there have been people trying to beat them. No one has succeeded.”

“
OMG
,” Clare said, nearly gagging on the wording she’d chosen for Tiffany. “I’m sorry if you thought — that’s totally not what I meant.”

“Good.” Fiona arched her eyebrows. “Because there are easier ways to make money. Like rocket science.”

“I have a trust fund.” Clare pulled her snottiest look from her repertoire. “I don’t need to cheat. I’m just interested in the mechanics of how the game is run. In case I ever open a casino.”

Fiona’s laugh sounded to Clare like the smoothest witch’s cackle in the world. “Just how big is your trust fund?”

ELIZABETH

“Did I tell you recently how amazing you are?” Elizabeth reached past Joe to get the soap. She loved showering with him. The way he lathered himself up and liked to slip and slide against her made her feel like they were two seals playing in the river. It also turned her on.

“No,” Joe said. “But go ahead.”

“You’re my hero. I love the way you took Tiffany out two spots before the bubble. Poor little bitch must be steaming.” Elizabeth turned the water temperature down and stood aside to let Joe get wet.

Joe tilted his head back. The water splashed his hair into a mat against his head. “I beat her just for you.”

“You could say that more convincingly.”

“Sorry,” Joe said. “I’m nervous about the game today.”

“You are?” This was new.

“Weird, huh? I keep having all these final table finishes, but I can never get first place. I’m sure it’s my own fault, but I’m starting to feel like I’m cursed.”

“It’s not your fault.” Elizabeth took his hand.

“Of course it is. Once, twice — even five times, I could put it down to luck. But this is happening too often — these are players I can beat, in side games. I get to the final table and then
bang
— suddenly I can’t play for shit anymore.” Joe squeezed Elizabeth’s hand and released it. He ran his hands over his wet hair, smoothing it back. “It’s probably my ego. I’m probably getting too cocky and forgetting to play good poker.”

Elizabeth’s mind was churning as she began to soap up her arms. “I don’t think it’s your ego.”

Joe cranked the water back up to Elizabeth’s hotter preference and slipped past her to give her a turn under the stream. “It must be something in my mind. Maybe I’m giving a win too much importance and killing my game because of pressure.”

“I don’t think it’s that either. Joe, there are bad people at work here. Someone’s cheating. Someone’s killing people. I think it’s those people — or that person — who’s preventing you from winning first place.”

“Whatever. I’m still winning money.”

Elizabeth tried to see behind Joe’s smile. “Why does money matter so much to you? It’s not like you were spoiled by too much of it growing up. You got through okay.”

“Money is freedom,” Joe said, fixing his eyes on the shower curtain. “Growing up, I was always someone’s burden. You have no idea how powerless it feels to have to let people treat you like crap just to get food and a place to sleep.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard. “I can imagine.”

“No, Lizzie, you can’t. You can hate your family all you like, but you can’t imagine not having them.”

They were quiet for a minute, hot water falling on Elizabeth’s shoulders as she wondered what she could say to make Joe okay. “I know you don’t like watching yourself play,” she said finally, “but I think we should watch the footage when Fiona does her preview after the game. Especially the final table.”

Joe frowned.

“Maybe you’re making mistakes,” Elizabeth said. “So worst case, we can analyze that and catch it. But maybe you’re not. We should watch for players who play like they know too much.”

“What, catch the cheaters?” Joe looked amused as he picked up the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo.

“Here, use mine. The hotel shampoo is crap.”

“Why is it crap?” Joe took the larger bottle from Elizabeth.

“It’s full of parabens and other chemicals.”

Joe smirked. “Good thing I have you.”

“Don’t forget it. Yes, catch the cheaters. What can it hurt to try?” Elizabeth moved to switch places again.

Joe stood in the water. He looked either vacant or deep in thought — Elizabeth couldn’t decide which.

“You planning to let me rinse this conditioner out?” she asked eventually.

“Sorry.” Joe moved aside. “I’m trying to remember all my recent final tables. T-Bone’s been at more than his fair share.”

“T-Bone was winning before the cheating started, so why would he jeopardize a lucrative career? Just pay attention going forward. We’ll figure this out together.”