Hold ’Em Hostage (15 page)

They did play with real cash, if the chips ran out during a hand. In one I thankfully had folded, Hong Kong and the California investor went heads-up on a royal straight flush draw. Hong Kong dug in his pocket for forty thousand-dollar bills. Ack.

“It's all in the mindset. You just have to imagine this is your local brick-and-mortar with dollar bills, or your twenty buck sit and go. Then, you can judge the cards fairly, read everyone's tells with the proper perspective.”

Nodding, I thanked him. It was excellent advice. I laid a bad beat, winning forty-three thousand dollars on the next hand with four of a kind—fives—I wouldn't have stayed around to play an hour before.

“Hey, what kind of secret did you tell her?” Hong Kong argued.

The hotelier smiled, despite losing a fifer to me. South Africa sulked, since twenty-five thousand of that had been his. I guess we weren't going to as nice a place for the dinner he had already invited me to.

Redskin was seriously sweating now. I wasn't responding to his signals, and it was making him crazy. If I could figure out his motivation, I might get a lead on Affie. Probably midtwenties, he was white as they come—blond, blue eyed and corn raised. He didn't talk much, but I could've sworn I heard a Midwest accent. No visible tattoos, but that didn't mean he didn't have one. I just didn't see him hanging with Dragsnashark; he looked more like a skinhead candidate, but of course so had Happy Ending. I was developing an alarming headache. I excused myself to go to the restroom and stopped to talk to Shana. “Where's Ben?”

“The tattoo creep came around, and he followed him.”

My heart seized. “What? How did he know it was him?”

“That snake/dragon/shark thing on his neck is hard to miss.”

“Why didn't he call Joe and have him do it?”

“He said Joe needs to be here for you.”

I looked around nervously, noticing a couple of others brave enough to skinny along the narrow ramp and belly up to the high-stakes rail. The casino didn't make it inviting, so you either had to know someone playing or have balls enough to try to look over a million-dollar player's shoulder, waiting for a pit boss to breathe down your neck. Neither railbird revealed the telltale tattoo. “Look, Shan, I'd feel better if you played a little at a table down in the poker room. At least you'd be in the middle of things and not easy to snatch up if someone wanted to.”

“I'll be fine. I have a good set of lungs.”

“Which I'm sure they know and know how to neutralize. What if some old gentle-looking grandma came to tell you that your daughter sent a message that she was waiting outside the hotel right now?”

Shana looked down, caught. “I'd go. I'd have to. Just in case.”

“Exactly my point—they'd hand Grandma a C-note, shove you into a car and whisk you away. These guys are ruthless. I can't lose you too. Besides, I need the extra pair of legs to help find Aph.”

Shana sighed. “Okay, I'll go play.”

“I'll come back for you. Don't leave with anyone else. Under any circumstances.”

Nodding, she wandered off to sign up for a table. I locked myself into a stall in the restroom and heard the restroom door open. The knock at my stall door sent my heart to my throat. “Bee Cool?”

When I opened my mouth, but couldn't make a sound come out, the female voice demanded: “Cool!?”

“Y-yes?”

“It's Thelma. I got some good scoop and I thought you'd never get up from that damned table.”

T
helma already had her hand out by the time I exited
the stall. Sighing, I reached into my Betsey Johnson and pulled out a hundred for her. I think I'd created a monster. She cocked her head at it. “What I got is damned good. It might be worth more, I'm thinking.”

It was one thing to be motivated. It was another to be greedy. I just wasn't sure how much I could trust greedy information. I'd just have to wait and see. Thelma must've been doing more nosing around for me than playing poker. I raised my eyebrows. “If it's that good, I'll pay double for the next report.”

“I guess that's fair.” A good sign, apparently she thought there was more where that came from.

After a long pause, I nudged, “I've got to get back, Thelma, let's have it.”

“The Reverend Phineas Paul is a big creep.”

I shouldn't have encouraged her the first time when she had something on the stupid pain-in-the-you-know-what minister. I wanted something on the Medula and Dragsnashark and his friends. Instead my paid informant was wasting time and money on Paul. “Thelma—

“And the church is a cult.”

“What do you mean?”

“Y'know, like the Branch Davidians, Jim Jones' People's Temple, the Uganda doomsday sect, he has a compound and everything. In southwestern Oregon, on the Idaho border. A day's drive from here. In the woods.”

Woods? Idaho? Oregon? That rang a recent bell but I couldn't remember why. “Old timers” was setting in. Or maybe “overwhelmers.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“Hey, I'm not stupid. I tell you and you cut me out.”

The level of trust was heartwarming. “Look, Thelma, I just want to make sure your source is reliable.”

“I don't think you got much room for being choosy. I don't notice no information train heading through your crib.”

Now I was getting sass. I think I needed a lesson in managing informants. I sighed—of course she was also right. I had exactly one car on my info train. “Okay, Thelma, go ahead with whatever else you've got. Even though I was kind of hoping for something on the Medula—the creeps with the dragon/shark/snake tattoos instead of crosses.”

“I don't know nothing about them, but I've heard talk about snakes with the Bible thumpers.”

“What about snakes?” Here was the first connection—snake head in the tattoo of the Medula, snakes in Paul's church. I prayed it wasn't a coincidence. With my luck it would be.

“That this Church of the Believers might be a sect of those snake handlers.”

I shivered. I actually owned a snake. A pet. Grog had been an inheritance I didn't want. Although I'd become attached to mine, I don't like the fanged reptiles as a general rule. I especially didn't like them wielded by bloodthirsty criminals and religious zealots. “What else?”

“Whoo, Cool, you never satisfied, are you?”

I swallowed my comeback, hiding it with a smile. “Thanks, so much, Thelma.”

“See that was worth more than a pissy hundred, now, right?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as I pushed my way out the bathroom door and back to the high-stakes room. I was angry at Phineas Paul, not only for distracting me with his rhetoric, but every ear to the ground I had as well. I might just have to put him in his place the next time I saw him.

 

B
ack at the table, Redskin had raked in a hand or two
by the looks of it. I found that difficult to believe, since he seemed only a marginally capable player, certainly not one who could hang in the ranks of a prince, diamond heir and trillionaire hotelier. Sweat beaded his upper lip as soon as he saw me. I guess I was the only one who made him nervous.

That was probably good, because I was tired of this game and ready to put everyone out of their misery, especially me.

Unfortunately the cards weren't on the same page. I was dealt a Doyle Brunson, of all things. I stared at the deuce of diamonds, 10 of diamonds, disgusted. Only one person in America could be lucky enough to win with this—Doyle had done it, twice, in the WSOP years ago.

“Ready for dinner yet, doll?” South Africa whispered.

Grr. I called the big blind and the reraise for twenty-three thousand dollars. This is not an advisable option—betting to prove a man wrong—but sometimes Lady Luck remembers which gender pool she belongs to. The Flop came a deuce of spades, 10 of hearts and 5 of diamonds. I had two pair now, not super, but beating out anyone who might hold pocket rockets. If somebody had fives in the hole, well, I was sunk. I raised. Everyone hung in, which was disturbing. South Africa reraised, so I went along, just because. Fourth Street came another diamond, a 9—now I had a flush draw too and still the high pair playing off the board. Goody.

With about two hundred thousand in the pot, The River brought a 10 of spades. I had the nuts. I went all in. Everyone folded but a perplexed Redskin who'd been tapping furiously to no avail and my would-be date. He went all in too.

“How many suckout hands have you gotten anyway?” South Africa whined.

“Not as many as you remember,” I commented as I hauled in my chips and random cash, counting in my head as I did.

The hotelier said: “Beat out by what made you rich—diamonds. That's a helluva thing, isn't it?”

I counted my money—I'd made enough to call it an afternoon. I thanked the boys, picked up my stack and went to cash out.

For some reason, South Africa had forgotten his invitation. Dinner wasn't mentioned in the grunted good-bye.

The kidnappers had been right. It took forever to get the cash. No less than fifteen times, someone from the casino office came out to ask me if I wouldn't rather have casino credit, a check, anything but greenbacks. The longer I sat at the three-card poker table, the more money I made.

Unfortunately for them, it was still my lucky day and I'd won another thirty-three hundred dollars by the time they finally delivered me my winnings. I'd seen the other gang member lurking and wondered if he wasn't supposed to be following me to the drop since Ben had neutralized Dragsnashark. Ingrid had passed by about thirty minutes before to inform me she was picking up Shana and would meet us at the suite after the drop. Now I hoped Joe had gotten my page and was waiting for me outside the hotel. I was tough, I was independent, but I didn't want to walk around Vegas with this much money, a cop on my tail, a bad guy in spitting distance and probably a few religious heretics behind a pillar or two without my own personal Marlboro Man in my back pocket.

 

T
he drop went off quietly, although along the way Joe
had disappeared and had yet to reappear. I guessed if Frank ever showed again, the permanent loss of his right-hand man would tick him off, and since for some reason I cared about that, I retraced my steps before meeting up with the group in case Joe had sprained his ankle or something.

I was almost back to the Mellagio when a hand reached out and grabbed me, dragging me into a sex store. My heart pounded. My palms sweated.

Darn it. It was just Joe.

Having a serious conversation with my boyfriend's hot assistant between a leather and chain bustier and a whip collection was a bit disarming, although Joe didn't seem to notice where we were at all.

“Do you know that the Redskins' colors are red and yellow?”

“Okay?” I said, slowly, distracted by the odd-shaped plastic thing hanging from the ceiling. “What's that?”

Joe put his knuckle under my chin and forced my focus back to him. “And Affie sent you that note in red and yellow…”

I guess I had just spent six hours
not
making that connection.
Duh.

“Do you think it means something?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I lost you because I had an opportunity to chat with your poker buddy.” Joe was staring down at his hand, flexing his fingers, examining his palm.

“My supposed collusion partner? Where is he?” I looked around, why I don't know since I didn't expect him to have hung around, becoming Joe's best friend. One could hope, however.

“At the hospital, I guess.”

“What?”

“Well, he wasn't as forthcoming as I'd have liked. I was nice. I threw him out on the sidewalk so someone would call an ambulance.”

“Joe! You can't hurt people to get information.”

“Why not? They're hurting Affie and she didn't do anything to deserve it. Look at it in terms of a business goal, Bee, and how to reach it. There are lots of paths to the same destination—it depends on how fast you want to get there. I'd like to take a Learjet instead of walking to find this girl. At FBG, we are cleared to use what it takes at the time.”

I swallowed, trying not to think about Frank telling them to kill people to meet the “goal.” “It didn't really do any good this time, though, did it?” I asked a bit self-righteously, I'll admit.

“It actually might have. I'll let you know after I follow up on a couple of leads.

“Why can't you tell me now?”

“Because I don't want you going after what I'm going after. When Frank gets back, he'll kill me.”

“Don't you mean ‘if'?” I corrected.

Joe shot me a warning look as he grabbed my elbow and led me along like a reluctant kindergartener to the restaurant.

 

D
espite the fact that I had grilled Joe all the way
back—about the Redskin information and Frank's past—I knew nothing more than that he'd been captain of his high school baseball team and he'd lived on MoonPies and Mountain Dew as a nine-year-old. Believe me, I'd looked him up on Google enough times, but Frank Gilbert is a pretty common name and he'd never told me exactly where in California he'd grown up. I still didn't know, by the way. I wasn't finished working on Joe, but I obviously was going to have to get more creative in my investigative techniques. Maybe I'd sic Thelma on him.

“Where's Ben?” I asked when Shana and Ingrid came around the corner of the restaurant, having apparently not yet committed to a table.

“Don't tell her yet,” was Ingrid's recommendation.

“He's gone to the tattoo place.”

“Why? Did he forget something last night?”

“No, he is going to get the shark/snake/dragon tattooed on his neck and try to break into the gang.”

I tried to maintain some semblance of sanity so I modulated my voice when I said: “WHAT?!”

“His idea. He insisted.” Shana explained.

“Okay, none of this is making sense. I'm touched my brother cares about my goddaughter but this is a bit over the top. I need to know what is going on.”

“Bee,” Shana said, “you are always talking about his focus mode. Remember how wrapped up in Steely Stan he got and he didn't even personally know the guy…maybe he's using focus mode now for a better cause.”

“I'm sure that's the case but why?”

I could tell she knew something but wasn't going to tell me. Shana crossed her arms over her chest and said quietly, “Whatever the reason, I'm grateful.”

“I'm scared. These guys are ruthless killers.”

“And they have my baby.”

I shut up and ran out the door, headed for the Tattoo Palace.