Death On the Flop (5 page)

“Not right now, dude,” Ben said, trying to edge me back out onto the sidewalk. “We need to check into our hotel room.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “And where would that be?”

Ben put a hand on my back and began to propel me away. “Off The Strip,” he answered over his shoulder.

Cyrano nodded. “When you get settled in, call me. I pay two thousand dollars an hour. Triple if you allow a CD.”

I stumbled. Ben caught my forearm, locking my wide-eyed gaze with one of his own. Whoa. What kind of talent was this guy looking for anyway? Six thousand dollars was a lot of money for an out of work ad exec. I turned around. “That much even though I don’t have any experience acting?”

“Hmm. I prefer that, actually.”

Ben was pulling me by the hem of my baby tee. Cyrano didn’t seem to mind. He was looking at my exposed midriff.

Ben yanked me down the sidewalk. “Thanks, she’s not interested.”

“Hey,” I said, spinning around. “Maybe I am. Not all of us get a regular paycheck anymore.” Not that I’d be any good at acting but once would be enough to pay my rent for a while. Ben glowered at me.

“Miss Carlo, feel free to contact me after you check in,” Cyrano called out, pulling up his sleeve to consult a diamond encrusted Rolex in case I’d missed the price tag on the clothes.

“Get real, dude,” Ben said, under his breath, hustling me across the street and then doubling back across and into the entrance to Caesars Palace.

Once we were inside the doors, the dings of the slot machines and the yells from the players at the roulette tables made me pause. After I took in the charged atmosphere for a moment, I turned to my brother. “I know that guy was creepy, but why were you in such a hurry?”

“Bee, don’t tell me you are that naïve?”

“Listen, I worked on that side of the ad business for a long time. All those talent agents are creeps. You learn to live with it. I know I’m not young anymore, Ben, but they even have senior citizens do work in commercials for goodness sake! Some types are hard to find for certain shoots.” I jammed my hands on my hips.

“What is your
type
then, Bee?” Ben asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Um . . .” I felt my righteous indignation waver. “Mature single woman with semidecent legs and good hair.”

“Don’t forget a big rack.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think that matters unless you are doing a bra commercial.”

“Huh, I don’t think he wants you wearing a bra,” Ben snorted. “And I’m sure you are exactly the type this guy is looking for.”

“See.” I jammed my hands on my hips. “I could have found a job and you ruined it for me.”

“Bee.” Ben shook his head. “Have you done anything kinky with your boyfriends?”

Why was the world suddenly obsessed with my sex life now that I didn’t have one? “Ben, this is none of your business!”

“I take that as a no. So I can also assume you never watched a naughty video either?”

Fighting the heat rising up my neck, I looked around to see who was listening. A May-December couple passed us but didn’t seem to take offense at our conversational topic. In fact, she had her hand a little too far down the front of his slacks to be quite polite. I nudged Ben and nodded in their direction.

“You are avoiding my question, but if that sight makes you blush then I know the answer. You’ve never seen a skin flick.”

The temperature of my face would register at about three hundred degrees. “Ben!”

“If that’s the case, maybe calling good ole Cyrano might do you some good then!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cyrano was a pervert, albeit a rich one. Porn was his business. He wanted to see you ‘in action,’ either alone or with someone else and put it on CD to see over and over and over.”

“Gross!” I shivered. “You have a sick, demented mind, Ben. There’s no way anyone would want to see
that
.”

Ben just sighed and shook his head. “Welcome to Vegas, where the underbelly of the world is the norm. Tell you what, let’s go play poker and maybe you’ll meet some semi-normal folks.”

“I thought we were going to check into our hotel?” I rubbed on my bare arms. “I feel dirty suddenly. I need a shower.”

“We’ve got plenty of time for that. Let’s play a hand or two at a table here.” Ben took off toward the mass of tables crowded with players. What were they thinking? It was midnight. It was past my bedtime.

I felt my heart leap in my chest as I chased him. “But I don’t know how to play.”

Just one look at Ben’s eyes told me he was already in focus mode. I nudged him to make sure he heard me. He barely spared me a look. This was the Ben I saw playing poker on the Net. Swell.

“I need to teach you first, before you sit down at a table,” he said more to himself than to me. He grabbed my arm and steered me to a seat at the bar. He parked the suitcase next to me. “Have a drink and unwind.” He motioned to the bartender. “Get the lady anything she wants and run a tab for me.” The world-weary looking brunette nodded. Ben patted me on the head. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I watched his long strides carry him across the room and around the corner. Great, abandoned in Vegas where I knew no one but a porn purveyor named Cyrano. I’d even forgotten the name of our hotel so I couldn’t scoot off and check in. “Damn.” I swore under my breath.

“Was he going to play Hold ’Em?”

I looked at the man sitting one seat over from me. I hadn’t noticed him there earlier, but then again, I’d been distracted. In his forties, he was attractive in an unkempt way—wavy dark blond hair just overdue for a cut, tan face hours out of a five o’clock shadow and clothes just rumpled enough to look like they might have been worn days before being washed. He struck me as a man who might clean up well if he ever cared to try. The waitress brought him a drink in a highball glass. He took a sip and withstood my appraisal without comment.

“Hold ’Em?” I answered finally. It sounded familiar but I was so unsure of anything in this new world, I didn’t want to go out on a limb and respond in the affirmative. It might have been Beat ’Em or Deal ’Em for all I remembered.

“Poker,” he reiterated patiently. “Texas Hold ’Em is a kind of poker. Sounds from your accent like you might know a little about Texas, if not poker.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. He looked sort of normal, but then the couple from Omaha had too. “Tell me you aren’t a ‘talent agent.’ You don’t have a card, do you?”

“No. This isn’t a convention, you know.”

“Sure it is. Vegas is a convention of freaks, as far as I can tell,” I blurted.

His crow’s feet crinkled, warming his dark eyes. He had a rich, ironic laugh that made me shift on my stool a bit. “You’re very articulate. Well put.”

“Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Vegas,” he answered.

My blush crept back with a vengeance. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Frank Gilbert.” He offered his hand over the seat between us. With only a slight pause, I shook it. He had big hands that had known outdoor work and a firm, strong shake. Very nice.

I remembered my last introduction and couldn’t help smiling. He tilted his head quizzically.

“I introduced myself earlier as Paris Carlo,” I chuckled and shook my head, disbelieving the whole crazy episode all over again.

He hitched his right eyebrow. “Aha, with an Italian/ French accent, no doubt. I guess I should be asking you if
you
don’t have a card?”

I knew I should have been affronted, but the way he said it, just struck me as funny. I laughed, and he did too. Finally, I shook my head. “I don’t have a card, although maybe now I wish I did.”

I clapped my hand over my mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.”

Crow’s feet crinkled. He reminded me of Brad Pitt in
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
, a little dangerous, a little sexy, a little funny. A man with some secrets. “I’m glad you did. So, who are you now? With your twang, maybe Christie Houston, or perhaps Debbie Dallas?”

Shaking my head, I was surprised that his nomenclature didn’t make me blush. I might have never seen an adult video but I had heard of the most infamous one. “Is everything about sex here in Vegas?”

“Not everything.” Frank took another sip of his drink and looked off into the crowd around one of the green felt covered tables on the floor. “Some things are about money. Some things are about both.”

Some of those secrets were simmering under the surface. For some irresistible reason, I wanted to pry, but I had to remind myself that Frank was a stranger in a strange place and prying could only lead to trouble. Plus, his secrets were none of my business. In five minutes, he’d be a memory like good ole Cyrano.

Frank drew out of his reverie and motioned at me with his glass. “What are you drinking? Your husband told you to have the house.”

“Oh, no,” I corrected quickly, “Ben isn’t my husband.” I wiggled my left hand fingers at him to show the absence of a ring.

Frank chuckled. “Don’t rely on rings in Vegas to tell you who’s attached. Half the rings in town disappear into pockets once the cabs turn onto The Strip.”

“I noticed,” I said dryly.

“There’s a story there.” Frank observed.

“One that wouldn’t shock you, I’m sure.”

“I’d advise you to order a drink so your boyfriend won’t feel so bad when he’s three hours at the table.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my brother. And I’m sure he won’t be three hours—we still have to check into our hotel.”

With a wry smile, Frank shook his head. “Sorry, honey, but he had The Look. I’d venture to say he’s a candidate for Gamblers Anonymous. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he’s in the poorhouse or anything. Yet. Just, he can’t resist the call of the chips when he gets in a situation where they’re offered. Like he’d be okay outside walking The Strip, but once inside, with the noise, he gravitates to the tables. I bet when he’s at home when the computer is on, he’s just got to go check out what’s up on Poker Stars. Right?”

My face answered, I guess, because Frank nodded and finished his highball and signaled the bartender for another. “Give her a chardonnay.”

Toby had ordered for me always and I never argued, but for some reason it bothered me that this Frank guy would try it. “No, thanks. I’ll take a pinot grigio.”

Frank laughed. “An independent woman. Almost as rare a species here as an honest one.”

“It sounds like you have a bad history with the opposite sex,” I offered taking a sip of my white wine.

Frank threw me a dark look and took a slug. The bartender appeared with a bottle of Chivas Regal and refilled his glass.

“Then we have something in common, because I do too,” I said, surprising myself. The Caught Banging the Young Secretary Incident still smarted. Why would I tell a total stranger that I was a loser? I decided it was the white knuckle grip he put on his glass at the mention of women. His must have been bad. If misery really does love company I was trying to make him seem not so alone.

Frank lapsed into silence. I took the opportunity to soak up the surroundings inside Caesars. The variety of people in various types of dress surprised me, from couples in matching aloha wear to sequined dresses and tuxedos. After a few minutes I did notice that there were an inordinate amount of May-December couples like the one we saw when we first entered. Older men, much younger women. Hmm.

“I hope you’re not planning on playing poker with your brother,” Frank offered.

“Why not?” Did I look like a loser in cards as much as I did a loser in love?

“Because your face is an open book. They’ll see the cards in your eyes.”

“Okay, what was I thinking?”

“You were wondering why so many rich old coots are walking around with gorgeous jailbait on their arms.”

I deflated. And Ben had claimed I had a poker face. “Bingo,” I muttered.

Frank continued. “And the answer is, each casino has a certain type that gravitates to it—either by the casino’s design or the natural order of things. Most of these are call girls, pro or amateur.”

“Amateur call girl?”

“Any woman who’ll use sex to get money is a call girl.”

Hmm. To call his tone bitter would have been generous. At least one of Frank’s secrets definitely involved a woman.

Frank drained his glass again. The bartender shook her head when he asked for another. “Frank, don’t do this,” she said as she walked by. He tapped her arm and she nodded slightly, pouring him another. He didn’t act drunk to me, but he was a muscular guy, so he could probably withstand a few extra drinks without showing it. I, on the other hand, was already feeling a little looser just halfway through my first glass of vino. I’d better watch it.

“So what are you going to do in Vegas while your brother loses his shirt?”

“Stand by his chair at the tournament I guess and make sure he keeps it.”

Frank shook his head. “They won’t let you stand by any chair, honey.”

“Why not?”

“You might give other players signals. You might give your brother a signal.”

“But I don’t know poker!”

“They don’t know that. Besides, that’s just what you say and all poker players are liars.”

“Then what am I going to do while Ben’s at the tournament?” I asked myself more than Frank.

“What tournament?”

“Some big one,” I mused. “Let me see if I can remember, it’s some Hawaiian island.”

“The Lanai Pro-Am?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“He must be good, then, your brother. Or rich.”

“What do you mean?”

“The only way you get into this particular tournament is by being invited as a pro or paying your way in as an amateur.”

Uh-oh. Ben hadn’t been traveling around the nation playing professional poker, I knew that much. “How much does it cost to get a seat?”

“Five thousand dollars.”