Death On the Flop (21 page)

A rope ringed the tables, keeping onlookers back at least thirty feet. I saw Frank get as near to my table as he could, which wasn’t even close enough to see his five o’clock shadow. Fat lot of help he was going to be way over there.

Introductions were made all around. The pro at our table was Yegor from Uzbekistan, who told us in broken English that he learned poker on the Internet and now kept himself in vodka by playing in Hold ’Em tournaments around the world. As our dealer shuffled, I noticed Conner enter the ballroom through a side door. He looked immediately at me, then looked away when I met his gaze with a toothy smile. I hoped he and Stan didn’t compare notes about me because they might think I was either bipolar or definitely suspicious.

As they cut the cards, I remembered the marker Frank had given me during our dinner. “A lot of people use these to put on their pocket cards,” he explained. “Partly for security, to make sure they stay down, but mostly for luck.”

I’d looked at the wooden disc, its painted words so worn they were illegible. “And why is this one lucky?”

He’d gotten a faraway look in those dark eyes. “Someday I’ll tell you the story, but for now, just trust me.”

I reached in my clutch and pulled it out just as the dealer tossed out the first pocket card. The second followed. I set the marker on the two and pinched up the corners. A pair of sevens, all red. This was a good pocket pair, according to the book Frank had given me. Maybe this marker would be lucky after all.

 
In the end it seemed way too easy. The pro was a total
Rock who signaled his good hands from miles away. He got knocked out in the first two hours. Yegor wouldn’t be buying Grey Goose tonight. Of the rest of the table, only three gave me a run for my chips. A man sitting in seat four might have actually nosed me out if it hadn’t been for fate known as Amy and Junior. Amy had been playing pretty damned well for a woman juggling an infant. A Queen fell on Fourth Street with a Queen and a pair of sixes on the flop. I had only a pocket eight and an ace. Somebody likely had a full house, or easily four of a kind. Junior was hungry, so Amy tucked him under her shirt for a little snack. The D man couldn’t keep his eyes on the game so driven to distraction was he by Junior’s sucking. I decided to bluff. I raised. Everyone folded. I won even though there were better hands out there, because when Seat Eight showed bad etiquette by asking what I had in my hand, I used worse etiquette in showing the table my cards. Seat Four gritted his teeth and Seat Seven kicked the table leg. I widened my eyes and apologized for my bad poker manners, but I’d taken the opportunity to use a lesson Frank had taught me—sometimes you had to act stupid to win smart.

Amy and I ended up heads up in the last round. I had unsuited ace and Jack in the pocket and even though Frank and the book both told me this wasn’t a hand to play, I decided to try it anyway. Amy raised and I called. We had Queen, ten, four all unsuited, on The Flop. Amy raised. I wanted to bounce my leg, I wanted to tap my fingers. I stayed still and waited for the right time. Just as the dealer was about to urge me along, I reraised and she went all in. The River card was a King. I got lucky—Amy had pocket Jacks.

I thanked a sleeping Junior for his help and shook Amy’s hand. “I’m going to be watching you, Bee. You are one cool customer,” she said. “I hope you beat the pants off Steely Stan.”

Her comment reminded me of the Internet players who’d wished the same result for Ben. My eyes misted.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, just thinking about my brother. He really wanted to be here, doing this. He really wanted to beat Stan in the worst way. I didn’t want it as bad and still don’t understand his intensity about the guy.”

Amy shrugged. “He’s the guy we all love to hate in poker. I think those of us who’ve played for a long time are sorry that he would have to be the one to ride Hold ’Em’s sudden wave of popularity. Right now he is Mr. Texas Hold ’Em to the world, and most of us would rather have a different ambassador for the game.”

“I can see that,” I said.

“On the other hand, Stan is larger than life, an easy person to put on a magazine covers and expect to sell lots of copies. If some dweeb won the World Series of Poker, it might not be as popular as it is. Still, I hate that he put people out of jobs once he made it big.”

“What do you mean?”

“My sister used to work for Fresh Foods, a produce supplier. They’ve sponsored Stan on his World Series bids since he was a nobody. Once he won his first title, a lot of people were fired at Fresh Foods and replaced by people hand picked by Stan. It must have been some sort of power trip.”

“Sounds like it,” I said vaguely. Hmm. I smell something fishy in the produce section. “Was your sister one who was fired?”

“Yes, she and all the other quality control experts. Stan told the company he wanted the quality of the produce to match the quality of his game. Gag me.”

“Quality control? What did your sister do exactly?”

“Randomly open boxes to make sure the right fruit was in the right box, that there were no spoiled fruits, that kind of thing.”

I nodded and made sympathetic noises. I wanted to ask her for her sister’s name and phone number, but I couldn’t without getting her suspicious. And besides, I really didn’t want anyone else to die. I’d have to ask Frank how to proceed. “Amy Downs, good to meet you.”

“Bee, what’s your last name?”

“Cooley.”

“ ‘Bee Cool’ Cooley. I see a championship in your future.”

 
Frank was shaking his head in disbelief when the
tournament officials finished taking my information to move me into the next round. “I guess the marker was lucky after all.”

I nodded. “Even better than winning, I stumbled into some more information about Stan and Fresh Foods.” I related the story Amy told me.

“I don’t think tracking the sister down will do any good. From her casual tone, Amy told you all the sister knows. If they replaced the quality control department, it certainly means that Stan wanted his guys in place so they could bring in something illegal. Or else they just blamed Stan.”

I held my head in my hands. “How complicated is this going to be?”

“Consider this: Stan is just the figurehead and Conner is the real bad guy. We already have enough circumstantial evidence to link Conner to Felix’s murder and to Pudgy Pete’s demise.”

“I guess the best way to find out would be to talk to Stan and see how he reacts.”

Frank shook his head. “Too dangerous.”

I arched my eyebrows at him. “Not if I do it in front of the TV cameras.”

“Just keep playing like you’re playing and you just might get the chance.” Frank guided me to an alcove off the lobby. “Now, you need to call your buddy Cyrano. I’ve rented another room for the night. Tell him if he’d like a preview of what you can do, he can meet you at room 1969 in one hour.”

Yuck, just pretending was going to make me sick. “What if he’s too careful to come?”

“Oh, he’s careful alright, but he’s also a pervert. Perverts can never resist a free show.”

Frank was right. Again. Cyrano was cagey on the
phone when I invited him over. He offered money up front if I’d come to him, but I told him I was worth more and I’d give him a free preview to prove it.

A half hour later, there was a knock on the door. I looked again toward Frank who shoved a thumbs up around the drapes he hid behind. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I walked slowly to the door. Slimy Cyrano who was wearing another five thousand dollars worth of clothing. The guy had to be loaded. I wondered if this was business or recreation. He surveyed the room thoroughly before stepping foot into it. I tried to remember Frank’s warning that if Cyrano wasn’t the snuff film dealer, he might know who was. Either way he might be more than just creepy—he might be deadly.

“Exquisite sequins,” he fingered one right at my nipple. I jumped and swallowed a squeal. The drapes moved and I quickly guided Cyrano to the couch, our backs to the window.

I had to remind myself I was doing this for Ben. If he made it out alive, he was going to owe me for the rest of his life for this one.

“Would you care for a cocktail?” I asked.

He ignored my question. “When do you begin?”

“Uh, I just need to get a little warmed up first,” I answered.

Cyrano’s beady eyes lit up. I couldn’t begin to imagine what fantasies my casual words inspired. Whatever it was it made him lick his lips. Ook.

“Remember, I would love to pay you triple if you come now to my studio.”

I leaned toward him, as nauseating as that was, and asked, trying not to appear too smart with my higher math, “That’s great, Cyrano, but that would make it, like, eighteen thousand dollars, right?”

He nodded.

“Well, earlier tonight I met this guy and he offered me twenty-five thousand just for me and one of his guys in a video. He said that they would be acting out some scary things but it was all just pretend. And, I’d get to travel, to go to their studio in the desert somewhere. It’d be kinda like those Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoots I think.”

Frank and I had come up with this story after he’d called Deidre about the setting for the snuff film she saw. It had been set in the desert, which would jibe with the Texas Rangers’ theory on the disappearances of the young Mexican girls.

Cyrano’s face clouded. He shook his head—at himself more than at me. He looked undecided about what exactly to say. “I would not recommend doing that.”

“Why not? Sounds like pretty easy money and I’d get to keep it all myself.”

“Because you might not live through it, you stupid girl,” he snapped.

“What do you mean?” I tried to swallow but couldn’t through the lump in my throat.

“Have you ever heard of a snuff film?”

“Um.” I tried to act like the airhead I was supposed to be. “Isn’t that porn where they simulate murder during the act?”

“Sometimes it isn’t simulated, you understand me? The man you talked to would take you somewhere and never bring you home.”

Cyrano was jittery and angry. I wasn’t sure if it was directed at me or his competition. “What did this man look like?” he demanded, narrow eyed.

Uh-oh. I shrugged. “Average white guy.”

I didn’t know exactly how far I could push him. He was getting more agitated by the second, a box of explosives about to blow. I looked at the drapes. They were still. No help there. I crossed my legs and let my skirt hike up. He looked at my thighs, briefly distracted while I asked, “So you know him?”

“By reputation.”

“Aw, maybe it’s just a bad rap.”

“A bad rap they try to attribute to me,” he spat out suddenly. “Is this a set up?” He lunged for me and I leaned back out of his reach. “Is there someone here, listening?” He jumped up and ran to the bedroom. He flung open the door, looked in and ran back to me, reaching over the couch to grab me around the throat. “Are you working for him or the cops? Are you wearing a wire?” He stuck his hand down my halter top. If I hadn’t been so scared, I might have thrown up dinner.

Before my adrenaline even reached my fingertips, Frank had yanked Cyrano off me. He planted the porn promoter’s face into the carpet, stuck his knee in his back and handcuffed him.

My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t find words for a moment. “Where did you get handcuffs?”

“My back pocket.” Frank looked at my chest and I realized then that my halter top was ripped open to my belly button. Cute. I pulled the pieces together and tried to act self-righteous.

“And why do you have them? Are they standard equipment in the security business?”

He cocked his head at Cyrano. “If they aren’t, they ought to be—I’d say he was pretty secure now.”

“I don’t think it’s legal to have handcuffs if you aren’t a cop.”

Both Frank and Cyrano said, “Yes it is.”

Okay. Well, I had to try a different tack to find out Frank’s secrets.

“Who the hell are you?” Cyrano grunted. “You aren’t her brother Benjamin. I just met him once, but forgive me if I say don’t think he’d have the balls for this.”

“Watch what you say about Ben,” I warned, although I kind of agreed with him.

“Her brother is missing,” Frank told Cyrano, as he hoisted him up by his designer leather belt I swore was an S.T. Dupont and deposited him on the chair. “Do you know where he is?”

“How would I know where he would be?”

“You might have heard among your colleagues,” Frank said.

“I want you to understand something.” Cyrano cleared his throat. His expensive taste, formal manners and aristocratic accent made what he did almost otherworldly. “This man who does these snuff films is sick and is not
my
anything. What he does is immoral.”

Ha, I guess even morality is relative.

“What’s more, I have no idea what he looks like nor do I know his name.”