Hold ’Em Hostage (5 page)

“Bee! Stop worrying about everyone else and worry about yourself and your goddaughter. My people don't work without me. Now we are all working on this. End of story.”

I opened my mouth to ask more, wanting as I always did to know more about what Frank did and for whom. He would say for himself because he ran FBG Enterprises but it was his client list I wanted a peek at. I suppose I was on it now. I closed my mouth and figured a way to be sneaky. “I don't think I can afford you or Ingrid, for that matter, she told me she doesn't work for you, just
with
you.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Just like a woman.”

“Hey!” I warned to hide my “ah-ha!” “So what will I owe you?”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “Probably more than you are willing to deliver, but I'm willing to work something out in trade.”

“Be serious, Frank.”

“I am.”

I sighed. Enough playing footsies. Fun as it was. I had to know what he wasn't telling me. “So how did my name keep cropping up at the cop shop?”

Frank's face tensed, and he turned away. I wasn't going to get the whole story. “You are the highest-profile player being bandied about as being dirty, therefore making you prime game for any publicity-seeking investigator or prosecutor. Unfortunately, there is one of each in Clark County right now, salivating over the possibility you are corrupt.”

“The cop wouldn't be Trankosky, would it?”

Frank shook his head, and stalked off, pacing the room behind me. “That's not the name I was given.”

“Great, then I have two enemies in blue now.”

Sighing, Frank came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my torso. “I wish we could go home.”

Since our homes were in two different states, I didn't quite know how to take that so I kept quiet, as uncertain of my safety as I was of my relationship with the man whose chin rested on my shoulder.

“Y
ou look like the wrath of God,” Ben croaked, stumbling
out of the bedroom, rubbing his hands across his face and up through his hair, leaving a disheveled mess that on me would look like hell and on him looked like sex-god heaven.

“You're not the only one who thinks so,” I murmured, motioning at the television screen where the morning news was showing a scene outside the Fortune casino that was hosting this year's World Series of Poker. About a hundred protestors carrying signs decrying gambling, most specifically poker, as the devil's work, paced the sidewalk. I turned up the volume to hear the reporter. “So according to the Church of the Believers, the longtime poker greats, here to begin the tournament today, like Danny Negreau, the Phils, Jennifer Harman, Annie Duke are committing a sin.” The camera cut to a well-dressed middle-aged man with a thick head of slicked-back silver hair and a self-righteous air. “It is not only their participation in this vile game that we are here to protest, but also their use of their celebrity. They promote this sin against humanity, gambling, making it not only a seemingly sanctioned recreation for our young people to pursue, but also a glorified one. We must save not only America's youth, but the youth of the world from this dark road into debt and destruction.” The camera cut back to the reporter, who stood before the waving signs. “The Reverend Phineas Paul says his ‘Believers' are embarking on a religious campaign to push poker from the forefront of international gambling to the backrooms again.”

The camera zoomed in on a sign that I'd seen in the pan shot at the beginning of the story: “DEALING DESTRUCTION—THE RISE IN POKER SIGNALS THE RISE OF THE DEVIL AND THE IMPENDING END OF THE WORLD.”

“Friendly.” Ben reached over, grabbed my coffee and swigged it. “Welcome to Vegas.”

“I'm glad Frank took off before he could see this,” I murmured, feeling suddenly queasy.

“Look.” Ben pointed at the screen, grinning. A bleach blonde, poured into a silver spandex minidress, pranced across the street in five-inch electric plexiglass platforms, right through the middle of the picketers and into the front door of the Fortune casino. No one even turned to look.

I had to smile. Only in Vegas would you see a hooker wander through a group of religious protestors, unaccosted as they protested card playing.

“They certainly are one-track-mind protestors,” Ben observed drily.

“I saw them at the airport too,” Shana's unusually small voice said from the other bedroom doorway. We all turned to look at her. She always bounced out of bed, looking pert and perfect. I'd never ever seen bags under her eyes before. My heart ached for her.

I moved to go to her, but Ben had already hurried over and led her to the couch. I cocked my head, still trying to figure out what was going on as they murmured in low tones.

Frustrated and overwhelmed, I snapped, “Ben, this is all your fault. If you hadn't gotten me into the stupid game in the first place, we could all be vacationing in Cancún and Affie would be home. Safe.”

In the middle of my tirade, the door had opened to Frank, with Ingrid and Jack in tow. They paused in the foyer as Ben's eyes narrowed at me in an anger I hadn't seen from him. Not ever. “Don't you lay this on me, Bee Bee. Don't you dare. You're the one who continues to play the game with no gun to your head.”

“Right, except now the gun is against Affie's head,” I snapped, then immediately regretted my flash of temper as Shana sucked in a breath. I couldn't miss Frank's raised eyebrows. Okay, so now I was the bad guy? Suddenly I was sick and tired of all the men in my life. Save the one shooting me an empathetic look with his big puppy dog eyes.

“L-listen, everybody,” Jack piped up, letting his arm slide off Ingrid's waist as he walked toward me. “Blame is overrated. G-guilt is a waste of t-time and energy. Neither will f-find Aphrodite.”

“Well spoken, Jack,” Frank said, shooting me a warning look then looking pointedly at Ben. Obviously he expected me to apologize.
Ha, dream on, dude.
“You and I should go try to hunt down the two guys who mentioned Bee at the high-stakes room last night. Ingrid is here to keep an eye on Shana, so—”

“I'm going home,” she announced. Ben patted her hand.

Frank shook his head, repeating his theory about the dangers of being at home when under surveillance. “You need to stay close. But I understand your need to do something. Why don't you register for one of the major satellites, throw Bee's name around a bit, and eavesdrop hard. The more ears and eyes we have out in Vegas, the better. Affie's abduction obviously has something to do with the game in town. If we all have something to do with the Main Event, the higher the odds we'll luck into some information that will lead us to our girl.”

Shana bowed her head, sighed heavily, then raised it again. “I just don't know what's right.”

Frank brushed his fingertips over the top of her head. “We'll just have to play that by ear.”

Sparing me a vicious glare, Ben whispered something in Shana's ear then disappeared into his bedroom. “He's going to get changed for the tournament,” Shana explained.

Frank looked at me, wearing his cop face. “Good, you two can get over there together. Take your car but it's best if you valet park from now on too—there are too many dark corners in parking garages.”

Jack and Ingrid had wandered over to the alcove behind the bar, fawning over each other. It was cute in a sickening kind of way. I don't think they'd ever had a disagreement since they'd hooked up on the cruise last fall. I don't think Frank and I went a day
without
a disagreement since we'd hooked up the winter before that. Should I take that as a sign, or was I just hard to get along with?

As if reading my mind, Frank cupped my elbows in his palms and brushed his lips along my cheek. Then he ruined the gentle gesture by speaking. “You need to make up with Ben, Honey Bee. You hit him with a low blow.”

“Yeah, but what I want to know is why is he taking it so hard,” I narrowed my eyes at Ben's bedroom door, deep in thought. “Usually he doesn't feel the impact of those through his overinflated ego.”

Frank shrugged. “I don't know why. And it doesn't matter. We are stronger working together as a team, and you're dividing us.”

Grr.

 

S
ometimes cascading warm water and perfumed
soap change everything. Today, however, a shower didn't make me feel anything but clean. I supposed it was still an improvement, although not as big a one as I'd hoped for. At least the Church of the Believers couldn't fault me for my hygiene. Pulling my sash on my robe tight, I stepped out of the bathroom to find my wardrobe laid out on the bed. My sometimes fashionista had obviously been busy, apparently rifling through my Burberry bag with her eyes closed.

That motley collection of pieces was what I was supposed to wear to a nationally televised event? Well, that was going to change or I'd have Believers Against Fashion Disasters marching on me at my next tournament. I left the bedroom to fortify myself with a mineral water from the wet bar. As I poured, I was struck by how quiet the suite was. “Ben?”

No answer. I strode over to his bedroom door, which stood open. I jammed my hands on my hips and talked to the molding. “Ben, I know you're mad at me. Quit being juvenile.”

No answer. I walked into the room, finding only a waft of Balenciaga Cristobal left behind. Ben had ditched me.

Angrily, I stomped back to my room and finished slapping on my MAC. I was halfway through the bronzer when another possibility occurred to me—Ben might have been kidnapped. It wouldn't be the first time. I called his cell phone. It transferred immediately to voice mail. “Where are you?” I demanded. I raced back into his room, but could see no sign of anything but sloppiness. I returned to my room, and, after smoothing on lip liner and gloss, began to paw through the clothes in my suitcase. It was no use. I couldn't concentrate now that Ben might have joined Affie in the great unknown. I turned to Ingrid's fashion disaster on the bed and blew out a breath. It would have to do.

 

“H
ubbahubba.”

Suppressing a wince, I handed the taxi driver my cash before he started drooling, then turned toward the Fortune. Of course Ben had taken the car, or at least the car keys, leaving me to fend for myself. The insensitivity actually comforted me because it was so in character and, unless the kidnappers came to snatch him without transportation, Ben was probably okay.

Unless, that is, they took the keys so I couldn't follow. I hated having such a fertile imagination. It was mostly a pain in the ass.

Since Frank had produced one of his “company phones” for me to use until I could get a new one of my own, I'd considered calling him, but didn't—partly because I was still put out with him and partly because I didn't want to distract him from the “team” work just to worry about me getting to the WSOP. That would definitely be my excuse for not calling him if Ben really was AWOL. Turning his advice around that way would make Frank furious. I smiled to myself. I'm a bit perverse that way.

My reflection in the building's mirrored glass turned my smile into a grimace. The hot pink satin blouson shorts didn't at all match the long-sleeved, tailored white Ann Taylor button-down shirt. The charcoal gray velveteen vest was part of a three-piece Donna Karan, although it did admittedly have a barely visible strip of hot pink thread that ran along the seam, its saving grace in this ensemble. The dark silver pumps were meant for my somber Prada suit. The gypsy beads around my neck Shana picked up from a seer at the Renaissance festival and the sea glass dangling from my ears said “Kokomo” not “raise you two mil.”

I was aiming to avoid the picket line by ducking into the side door of the casino, but unfortunately, as I turned the corner, I saw they'd staked out that door as well. Sliding my Gargoyles from the top of my head to my nose, I realized I should've worn my church lady suit, because sneaking by in hot pink is hard to do.

“There she is,” I heard ripple through the protestors.

I sped up. They rallied around as a reporter from KLVS weaved her way to me. “I'm sorry, you must be looking for Clonie Gowan. She'll be along in the next taxi.” I waved my hand toward the street and dove for the door.

“No, Miss Cooley, I'm looking for a comment from you,” the reporter said, grabbing my forearm in such an intense vise grip that I wondered if they didn't send reporters to ambush boot camp.

“I can't imagine why.” I smiled tightly. “There are so many other players more worthy of your attention than I am.”

“I don't think so,” the reporter answered, gleefully pointing at a sign held by a teenager that read:
Bee Cool, BURN YOUR CARDS OR BURN IN HELL.
“What do you say about that?”

“This country is built on free speech, although that right is restricted to not injuring another with that freedom. An inflammatory statement such as that would certainly be considered injurious and thus not protected by the first amendment, wouldn't you say?”

“And what would you say, Miss Cooley,” a booming voice spoke from the back of the crowd, resonating so deeply I wondered for a moment if he didn't have a megaphone. I could see the coiffed snow white hair move through the protestors who suddenly parted like the Red Sea. “If I told you that you are injuring millions of people, young and old, throughout this God-given world of ours by your sinful decision to play poker and flaunt your body in such a way as this?”

The Reverend Phineas Paul. I had to admit he was impressively charismatic, although I had to say his tan looked more artifical in person. Fighting him head-on would only play into his hand so I hit where he didn't expect it. After all, we hadn't been introduced, had we? “I would ask who it is accusing me.”

He blinked, temporarily speechless, but recovering quickly, extended his hand. I took it as he said, “I am the Reverend Phineas Paul, supremely blessed to lead the Church of the Believers.”

The camera was taking it all in. I dropped his hand as soon as I politely could, resisting the urge to wipe it on my shorts. Although it hadn't been sweaty, his shake had left me feeling somehow soiled. He smiled knowingly at me. “And your answer to my question? What would you tell these impressionable young girls here today about the devil's work you do?” In a grand sweeping motion, he indicated the teenage girls holding signs around us.

“I would tell all of you to choose what you want to do in life and do it lawfully, honestly and to the best of your abilities.”

“You are saying, Miss Cooley, that anything sanctioned by secular law is right?” Paul demanded. “How about alcohol? It isn't against the law to drink an entire gallon of whiskey at once but is that
right
?”

He'd hit me where it hurt. Frank's alcoholism continued to be one of the heartaches of my life. I looked at Paul, wondering if he'd just gotten lucky in his barb. Of course, he had. He was a professional verbal attacker. He used scare tactics for a living. I shrugged off the paranoia and dredged up a polite smile. “I suppose you are right. I shouldn't be telling people what is right and wrong, that is your job. I'll just live my life and stay out of everyone else's.”