Death Plays Poker Read online

“Rich people don’t usually smoke.”

  “Who says she’s rich?” Elizabeth put the earrings back in. Maybe she should look flash tonight. “She might have backers.”

  “The way she plays?” Joe was shouting over the running water in the tub. “I said she was learning, I didn’t say she was good.”

  THREE

  CLARE

  Sergeant Cloutier sawed a chunk off his rib-eye, looked at Clare, and lifted his fork to his mouth. Before taking the bite, he said, “You’re still in the tournament after the first day. That’s better than I thought you’d do.”

  “Believe me, it’s luck.” Clare took a sip of Corona and leaned back into the leather booth. The beer tasted watery and bitter, but orders from Amanda were premium only for Tiffany’s precious tastebuds, and Clare had yet to find an import that came close to replicating Bud. “I thought I knew how to play poker — I’ve been reading every book there is and practicing online with my own money. I’ve already won enough for a killer new pair of motorcycle boots. But when you’re thrown in with a bunch of seasoned professionals, the normal rules get tossed out the window. Those players are mean.”

  Cloutier chewed deliberately. His thick jowls reminded Clare of a hippopotamus. When he’d finished, he said, “I know. That’s why I’m recommending you don’t move on with the tour to Vancouver.”

  Clare sat up straight. “What?”

  “You’re not ready. This game is hard, and the players are harder. I know you like to think you’re tough, but I can’t send you on. You’re new at this. You could get killed; I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  “Will the RCMP even listen to you?” Clare knew Cloutier didn’t think much of her job skills, but after the last case they’d broken together involving political murders on the University of Toronto campus, she didn’t think he’d sabotage her. “You’re just some handler from Toronto. They think I’m ready.”

  “The RCMP will hear my advice and make their own decision.” Cloutier began to cut another piece of steak. “For now, you can tell me what you saw today. You learn anything about the players?”

  “Mostly that they’re assholes.” Clare felt her jawbone tighten. She was not going to let Cloutier push her off this case. “But there’s this one guy, Joe Mangan, who was decent to me.”

  “Mangan. A young guy, right?”

  “Mid-thirties?” Clare was guessing. “He came third in the World Series of Poker main event last year. He’s been on TV at a few other final tables.”

  “I know the kid. No bracelets, right?”

  “Huh?” Clare sliced a morsel from her striploin. She could have cut it with a bread knife, it was so smooth. “No, I don’t think he wears any jewelry.”

  Cloutier groaned. “First place finishes. I thought you said you knew this game. A bracelet’s what they give you if you win a major tournament.”

  “Seems like a girly prize in a field full of men.” Clare popped the steak into her mouth. She had to admit it was delicious, even if she thought it was a rip-off at forty-five dollars without any side dishes.

  Cloutier grunted into his cloth napkin. “Nothing girly about the prize money.”

  Clare scowled. “Everything is always about money. I believe in capitalism, but I don’t understand how people can be so fascinated by pursuing dollars for their own sake.”

  “Your time in that university paid off.” Cloutier smirked.

  “Oh, shut up,” Clare said. “So listen, there’s this guy T-Bone —”

  “T-Bone Jones?” Cloutier stared.

  Clare nodded.

  “You met fucking T-Bone Jones? Were you playing at the same table?”

  “If I get you his autograph, will you let me stay on the case?” Clare asked. “And he’s one of the assholes. He’s one of the meanest guys here.”

  “So he thinks you’re a spoiled dumb, rich kid.”

  Clare frowned. “No, he doesn’t. You said I didn’t have to act dumb or spoiled.”

  “Looking like you do, you’d have to speak like fucking Einstein for anyone to give you credit for a brain.”

  Clare remembered why she never wore makeup in the first place. “That sucks.”

  “It doesn’t suck. You want these players to underestimate you.”

  “For what? Five minutes, before you send me back to Toronto?”

  “You gotta see this as more serious, Vengel,” Cloutier said. “You forget what happened to Willard Oppal?”

  Chills ran through Clare. “No.”

  “Good. Because this job was nearly yours in September. They gave it to Oppal instead because I said I didn’t think you were ready then either.”

  “Thanks. It’s great to have a handler who believes in me. I can see myself really going places with support like that behind me.”

  Cloutier set his glass down hard. Some beer splashed up, but none spilled out onto the table. “This isn’t some dress-up game, Vengel. Your cop skills are hit and miss at best, and Willard Oppal showed us that when you miss too much you end up dead.”

  “You think it’s Oppal’s fault he died?” This struck Clare as impossibly cold.

  Cloutier shrugged one broad shoulder. “It’s his fault if he got made. It’s his handler’s fault for not pulling him sooner. The point is, you’re here now because you’re about the furthest thing from what people think a cop looks like.”

  “And because I figured out who killed the mayor.”

  “You got lucky on that one. But yeah, it looks good on your record.”

  Clare set her fork and knife down. “What about the other victims? You think it’s Josie Carter’s fault she’s dead?”

  “No one deserves to be murdered. But nor are they often completely innocent in their own demise. Josie was a party girl — she liked to snort coke and watch the sun rise with a new man each day. Not saying that’s what got her killed, but when you live on the edge, you sometimes get sliced up real bad . . .”

  “Harsh,” Clare said. “And Jimmy Streets?”

  “Old-time poker player. Came up through the ranks with T-Bone Jones. They were new kids together in Texas. The man was no saint.”

  “Wow,” Clare said. “Anyway, I guess T-Bone does think I’m stupid. He invited me to play in a cash game tonight.”

  “You got invited to play in a cash game with T-Bone Jones?” Cloutier’s hippo jaw hung open.

  “Don’t look so jealous,” Clare said. “The idea terrifies me.”

  “Why? It’s not your money.”

  “No,” Clare said. “But this game is in the back room of a bar.”

  “And what? You’re afraid you’ll get killed for your winnings if you do well?”

  “That’s not it. I don’t want to ask the RCMP for more money. I can’t use the casino credits they’ve set up for me in an illegal side game.”

  “Are you stupid?” Cloutier tapped two thick fingers against his head. “You’re not asking for a new car. You need money for the job, you can’t be shy about it.”

  Clare picked up her beer bottle and set it down without taking a sip. She’d forgotten for a second that she was supposed to be drinking from the glass beside it. “I hate asking for things.”

  Cloutier gave her a look that felt like it was piercing into her brain. “Vengel, grow a pair.”

  “Good one,” Clare said. Bite me, she thought.

  “I’ll run this by the finance wizards. For tonight — because I doubt I’ll have their answer in time — consider yourself authorized to gamble. You got enough spending money left?”

  “Yeah.” Clare hadn’t touched the ten thousand dollars the RCMP had deposited in Tiffany’s name in a bank account.

  “Good. Feel free to lose it.”

  Clare felt her eyes bug out from her face. “The whole thing?”

  “I’ll make sure your account is replenished to
morrow.”

  “But that’s, like, the entire entry fee to each tournament. I can’t blow that kind of cash in one night.”

  “We’ve been over this, Vengel. Ten grand is nothing to these guys. You gotta show them you can play on their terms, or they’re not going to have any respect for you.”

  “Fucking materialists. If you don’t have money you’re not good enough.”

  “It’s not materialism; it’s gambling.” Cloutier shook his head. “Shit, you really just don’t know enough.”

  “I can learn,” Clare said.

  Cloutier took a deep breath. “I’m going to insist they pull you.”

  Clare slumped in her chair. “You always want to pull me. It’s like your favorite thing to want. Have you ever thought maybe that’s my whole problem? It’s like driving with someone sitting beside you pointing out all your mistakes — you’re going to screw up even more because you’re self-conscious.”

  “You want a boss who doesn’t care if you live or die?”

  Clare wrinkled her nose. What did she want? “I want to dive into this role, play this spoiled rich kid, and find out who’s been killing all the poker players.”

  “I want that for you, too.” Cloutier frowned. “But the stakes are too high. There will be other cases as exciting as this one, but I think you should tackle them later, once you’ve wet your feet on smaller, safer cases.”

  “Come on. You know I won’t be given smaller cases if I’m pulled from this. I’ve been waiting for a transfer to undercover for six months; no one’s in a hurry to make that happen.” Clare widened her eyes in case pleading would work.

  “Vengel, kill the puppy-dog look. You’re just proving my point. You’re twenty-three. You don’t know this job. You still think it’s a game.”

  “I’m not working any more break and enters. If you pull me from this case, I quit. I’ll go be a mechanic. And you should hope I never work on your car.”

  “That’s not how to make me change my mind.” Cloutier spoke more softly than usual.

  “What will it take for me to convince you I can do this?”

  “You need to understand that you could die.”

  Clare felt the same chills that she’d felt earlier when he’d mentioned Willard Oppal. “Okay,” she said. “I get it.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you going off to Vancouver.”

  “Why? Because Vancouver is such a dangerous city? Are the hippies going to attack me with their lava lamps?”

  “But,” Cloutier said. “I’ll strike you a deal. If you can cash in this tournament, it will show me you’re serious, that you can play on the same level as these guys.”

  “And if I can’t magically find my way into the money?” Clare asked, because he was really talking long shot odds.

  “Then I’m going with my gut and having you pulled.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Clare said. “You can’t strike gambling deals over someone’s career.”

  “Vengel, does the whole cop hierarchy thing mean nothing to you? You’re supposed to at least pretend to treat me with respect.”

  “Okay, that’s one thing I like about you,” she said. “You can take it if I challenge your authority.”

  “Yeah? Well, Amanda can’t take being challenged so well.”

  “Who said I was challenging Amanda?” Clare shook her head when the waitress offered her another beer. If she did have another, it would not be that watery piss they called Corona. “And anyway, I’m on loan — I don’t have rank with the RCMP, so I don’t have to answer to their hierarchy.”

  “Amanda’s going to be your handler in Vancouver. If you go.”

  Clare dropped her empty bottle to the table with a clunk. “No.”

  Clare had never met anyone more different from her in her life. To morph Clare into Tiffany, Amanda had spent nearly a full week with her. They went shopping in Yorkville, where snooty boutique employees exchanged smug glances because Clare didn’t care about the distinction between two shades of blue. They ate sushi and other precious food that Clare was shocked cost so much more than a decent pub meal that would actually fill you up. They went to Civello on Yonge Street, where Clare was wrapped in seaweed by a smug woman named Serenity, and manicured by one of the shallowest bimbos she’d ever met. And Amanda seemed to enjoy every minute of this.

  “I know it’s hard to part with me.” Cloutier smirked. “But Amanda’s a pro. And she’ll look the part — a fashionable friend you can go shopping with.”

  “I already went shopping with Amanda. I have enough nice clothes to last the rest of my life.”

  “Tiffany James might beg to differ. In fact, she wouldn’t wear the same dress to two parties with the same people.”

  “How do you know?” Clare glared at her soon-to-be ex-handler.

  “I’ve dated a high-maintenance woman or two in my time.” Cloutier sucked in his cheeks and picked up his beer glass with his pinky sticking straight out. He looked more like a blowfish with a broken finger than anything posh, but Clare got the point.

  “Are you calling me high-maintenance?”

  “I’m saying you have it in you.”

  “So if you think I have it in me, why would you recommend I get pulled?”

  “Because having it in you and using what you have are two completely different things.” Cloutier pulled in his pinky and took a sip of beer.

  “I did fine on my first case.”

  “You were posing as a student where the victims were politicians. Here you’re posing as a poker player where the victims are poker players. You don’t get a second chance when your first fuck-up gets you dead.”

  FOUR

  GEORGE

  Mickey Mills fidgeted with his cigarette pack on the table. “I’m telling you, Georgie. You should take me up on my offer. There’s thousands of people — maybe millions — who want to read my life story. You stick your name on this sucker and your writing career will soar through the roof.”

  George stared past Mickey and out of the diner to the main floor of the casino. Slot machines dominated the scene — waves of neon and flashing LEDs with bells and cheap carnival music to make you think it was a game, giving away your welfare check to sit there all day in an adult diaper. A large woman in spandex stood midway between two machines. She played them both with a dexterity George would have admired had it not been for the desperation in her posture — the quick, tense movements that told George she would mortgage her cat for another token to put in the machine.

  George turned back to Mickey. “Unfortunately, Mick, most of those thousands are either poker players or your relatives, which means that even if I write the most brilliant biography in the history of time, they’ll wait until the free copy hits the library.”

  “No, man. I got fans. You should check out the Internet. The World Wide Web. I got fan clubs all over the place.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. You’re a poker legend.” George pushed his thick red glasses up on his nose. Seeing smudge marks, he pulled them off and wiped them with his shirt.

  “So what are you pretending to hesitate for? You don’t like my terms? They’re negotiable.” Mickey took out a cigarette and started rolling it between his stubby fingers. A busboy walked by and looked nervously at Mickey. “Don’t worry,” Mickey told the kid. “I’m not gonna light up.”

  George hadn’t smoked for four years, but watching Mickey toy with his cigarette made him want one. And what was he pretending to hesitate for? George had only agreed to this meeting because Mickey had cornered him when he’d been having a heart-to-heart with Fiona, and the fastest way to get rid of Mickey had been to say yes. No way was George writing Mickey’s biography. “I have a lot on the go at the moment. Maybe try one of the other writers.”

  “I want you.”

  “Why?” George hazarded
the guess that Mickey had peddled this offer to the other writers on the scene and come up dry.

  “People take you seriously.” Mickey spoke earnestly, as if from a script. “If you write my biography, they’re gonna take me seriously. You’re not like the other poker writers. You’re classy.”

  George had once heard someone say that if you used the word classy, it meant that you weren’t. Not that the judgment would bother Mickey even if it were true.

  “Why do you need strangers to take you seriously?” George asked. “You win piles of money at poker. Isn’t that its own reward?”

  “Maybe thirty years ago the cash was exciting.” Mickey cast his glance down in dejected dismissal. “But that thrill is long gone. I still like beer more than Dom Perignon, and most of what’s extra goes to my douchebag ex-wife.”

  “That must piss you off,” George said.

  Mickey shrugged. “I still got enough to send home, keep my parents in style. They won’t move outta Southie, even though I keep sending brochures for these tropical fucking paradise old folks homes I wouldn’t mind checking myself into for a rest. But I paid for their new furnace last year, and when my mom broke her hip, I arranged for a nurse around the clock. That feels good.”

  “So why a book?” George asked, pulling at a pill on his plaid flannel shirt sleeve and making it worse. “You just said it: the human rewards are way more exciting.”

  “Because look at me.” Mickey grabbed a chunk of his graying black hair. “My parents don’t got too many years left. I’m gonna need something else — something that ain’t material — to make me feel like my life has some kind of purpose.”

  “Then you should think about doing something, not having something written. Volunteer in a youth home. Start a charity. What do you want to see done differently in the world?”

  Mickey snorted. “I want to see a new book on the shelves. No offense, George, but stop trying to know me. I know what I want, and I want you to help me. Can you just say yes or no?”

  “What about a ghost writer?” George tried to sound upbeat. He didn’t hate Mickey; he just didn’t want to write this damn biography. “You tell the story how you want it, and it’s only your name on the cover.”