Death On the Flop (27 page)

I turned around.

I backtracked two steps, my heart at my throat, blood pounding, sweat trickling down my backbone.

I raced the rest of the way down the stairs and wound my way through the tropical gardens toward the casino lights. I couldn’t hear anything else definitive from the garage, no matter how hard I tried. I stepped on a rock and bit my tongue to keep from yelping. A man was holding the casino door for his wife and I slowed to keep from alarming them. He gave me a strange look but nodded me through. I thanked him quietly and hotfooted it past the gift shops toward the sound of slot machines.

Once I reached the casino floor, I paused, sucking in a deep breath and willing my adrenaline under control. I had to find the Hold ’Em tables. I glanced at my watch. It had only been two and a half minute, but it seemed like a week.

Just as I located the poker tables, I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked to my right to see a casino security goon looking down at me. He had to be six foot five. Even my famous heel kick wouldn’t catch his crotch. I was devising other ways to get free before he dragged me to Conner when he said, “Ma’am, we have a no shirt, no shoes policy here.”

My hands flew to my chest. Had I been breathing so hard, I’d ripped my blouse?

My shoes knocked into my right breast and I remembered I was still barefoot. I forced a laugh that hopefully covered my sigh of relief. “Oh, these shoes have been killing me all day. I’m sorry. I forgot I’d taken them off. No wonder my feet didn’t hurt.”

He gave me a nutty broad look and watched me strap the sandals back on before he wandered off.

I had one minute to meet Frank at the Hold ’Em tables. I didn’t see him, but I’m sure he hid better than I did. I scanned the backs of the heads of the players. From here I identified two potential heads. I figured he’d have found another way down, maybe the elevator or through the tropical forest instead of on the pathway, which was why I hadn’t seen him. I got as far as they would let me get without playing.

“You want a seat?” the pit boss asked.

“Maybe in a minute,” I answered, on closer inspection discounting both players I thought might be Frank. “I’m supposed to meet someone here. We probably want to sit together.”

She nodded and left me alone. The last minute ticked by with excruciating sloth. No Frank. I scanned the other tables, craps, roulette, blackjack. No Frank. I waited another minute. Every dirty blond male head with his back to me made my heart race. No Frank.

Another minute passed. I couldn’t swallow. My imagination drew all sorts of undesirable conclusions, from Conner running Frank down with the black sedan to Conner knocking Frank out and kidnapping him to Conner shooting Frank and leaving him to bleed to death on the slick concrete of the parking garage. The last image made me backtrack through the casino until I got to the hallway leading to the gardens. Frank would kill me for doing this. I wouldn’t mind him killing me if he lived. But if he was kidnapped and I went back, was caught by one of Conner’s lackeys and then couldn’t get help for Frank, we’d be in worse shape than we were in now. At least I was free; at least I could call in reinforcements. I could find Joe—by some miracle since I didn’t know anything about him, including his last name—and ride to Frank’s rescue.

Maybe Frank had just taken longer than he expected to pulverize Conner and headed back to our hotel. Maybe he was now twiddling his thumbs at the Lanai, waiting for me outside the tournament ballroom and nervously envisioning my demise because I was taking longer than we’d planned to return.

I had to hang onto that possibility to propel myself out of the Mirage and onto The Strip. I racewalked past Caesars Palace, trying not to remember my last hours with Ben. Getting mushy now wouldn’t do anyone any good.

I might be the only one able to ride to Frank and Ben’s rescue. Time to gather my resources and come up with a strategy.

Resource number one: I was free.

I walked through the front doors of the Lanai.

Resource number two: I had incriminating information.

I saw the posters advertising the final round of the Lanai Pro-Am Texas Hold ’Em Tournament “Live on ESPN!”

And that gave me resource number three: I had the media’s attention. By the end of the evening I’d have a microphone at the end of my lips.

I had eyes only for the television crews. The ESPN
cameras were already inside the ballroom, focused on the final tables. If I could just make it to the local news reporters lined up interviewing tournament officials and fans, I could tell them—

A hand grabbed my upper arm. “Miss Cooley, the casino and the tournament have been looking everywhere for you. We were getting quite desperate.”

I recognized one of Conner’s security cohorts. He was squeezing a bit too hard and I tried to wrench my arm away. He squeezed tighter.

“I just need to go . . .” I drifted toward the news cameras. He directed me back toward the ballroom door.

“Sorry, Miss Cooley, there’s no time to powder your nose right now. That will have to wait for a commercial break.”

With that, he ushered me into the ballroom where the cameras started whirring and flashes popped. Microphones were under the reporters’ mouths, not mine. Go figure. I should have written the message across my forehead, my cleavage or my rump since that is where the cameras seemed to be focusing.

I scanned the crowd. Amy was there with Junior waving a “Buzz ’em Bee Cool!” banner. The Poker Babes were back in larger force. Ringo was there with a “Hold ’Em Dudes for Bee Cool” sign and a horde of his fellow nerds. About a dozen women in silver mirrored Gargoyles just like mine were wearing matching gold spangled halter tops and lipstick in the same Crimson Desire shade I favored. “Hold ’Em’s new Mae West” one hand lettered sign read. Spring peeked out from behind it along with all the folks I’d played with in the room. They all waved and hollered. I waved back and tried not to look as disappointed as I felt when Frank’s face didn’t pop up in their midst. I looked at a group of unusually tall women in business suits holding a “Bee Cool for President” sign. I peered closer. It was Carey and friends. She nodded and waved. I grinned back and winked.

The tournament president leaned into me, whispering, “What a grand entrance. Wily of you I have to say, and good for the game, but it about gave me a heart attack.” Then he pulled back and smiled, shaking my hand for the cameras. “Thank you for joining us, Miss Cooley, for the final round of the first annual Lanai Pro-Am Tournament. Please draw your seat.”

It seemed silly, since my seat was obviously the only open seat left. Although I’d been hoping to sit next to Steely Stan from the get-go, I wasn’t even at his table. I reached in and handed the official the only slip of paper left. He read, “Table two, seat one”.

My only piece of good luck today: I would have the dealer button first.

I could feel Stan glaring at me through his Oakleys. He was probably pissed I’d stolen his thunder by arriving last. Too damn bad. I pulled my Gargoyles out of my pocket. I was more pissed than he was, and I was going to have his cojones by the end of the night. That was the only way I was going to have my say on camera.

My only chance to find Ben and save Frank.

I had to win.

 
The cards had been good to me so far. I was in
tensely focused. The man sitting next to me joked that he’d heard he’d at least get kissed before I screwed him over for first at the table. When he was eliminated, he said he hadn’t even gotten a giggle or a smile, much less a kiss.

Still I didn’t smile.

I had psyched out the table. My tension was infectious, although they must have perceived it as emanating from the game of poker when in fact it emanated from the game of life and death.

I could feel Stan’s stare every now and then, but I never wavered. Conner hadn’t showed up, and I noticed that caused a bit of consternation among his troops. They fidgeted, whispered and checked their beepers more often than usual. Casino security chief Cedillo paced around the room, obviously not as well versed on the security plan as he needed to be. One of the local news reporters read the loophole and inched over toward our table, swooping in when she saw a security goon’s back turned and swinging a mic in front of my face.

“Josey Micky KWOP news. How do you feel about usurping the role of crowd favorite from Steely Stan, Miss Cooley?”

“I’d feel better about it if my brother and boyfriend weren’t missing,” I began saying.

The little strawberry blonde gasped, her blue eyes wide. “Do you think it has something to do with the tournament?”

Apparently the security force wised up, because the reporter suddenly squealed and was yanked back out of earshot before I could answer. The tournament officials evicted her from the room. I watched her go with a sinking spirit. Maybe that was enough to raise questions, maybe it was enough to bring police. Maybe it was enough for Conner to let Ben and Frank go.

If they were still alive.

In the first hand heads up with the button against the pro from Florence, I peeked at my pocket: three/club, three/ heart. I could call the big blind, which would be safest. I could raise, which would be semidaring. But since I had probably a couple thousand dollars in front of me, I could go all in, lose and still stay in the game because I had more chips than the Italian did. I remembered how the cards fell when Frank and I had played heads up and when I’d ended up heads up before. Italians were known for being loose players. It didn’t seem that risky after all.

I went all in.

He went all in.

The Flop was a bunch of blanks to me: nine/spade, five/club, Queen/spade.

He had a King/heart, ten/spade in his pocket.

We all held our breaths as an ace/heart fell on Fourth Street and deuce/spade fell on The River.

I’d won.

The Italian shook my hand and pinched my ass behind the TV cameras. “I think you’re pretty hot, Bee Cool.”

Dismissing him with a skeptical look, I looked toward the last table where the other five waited, since our table had taken the longest to finish. Stan, of course, had made it. He had an empty chair to his left.

I smiled. Stan glowered. Not only could I rattle him with what I had to tell him, I got to see all his bets before I bet myself. I couldn’t be in a better position.

The tournament president appeared at my elbow with his fishbowl. “Your last draw of the tournament, Miss Cooley. Good luck.”

I handed the slip to him without looking at it, and headed straight for the seat next to Stan. I could hear the ESPN commentator rattling on in excitement from his seat behind the barricade, “This could prove to be one of the matchups to remember in Hold ’Em history. ‘Steely Stan’ has proven himself unbeatable for the last year, winning not only the World Series of Poker but every other major Hold ’Em tournament. Belinda ‘Bee Cool’ Cooley, who’s become a crowd favorite here at the new Vegas casino, the Lanai, has come virtually from nowhere to sit at this final table as the only woman and the only amateur among five pros.”

“There is no virtually about it.” A female commentator cut in. “From what we understand, Belinda Cooley hadn’t played poker until a few days ago. I find this hard to believe, and likely some sort of stretch of the truth. But she doesn’t have any tournament experience—that much is true. I suppose we could say she is a poster child for the part luck and innate skill plays in this game.”

I glanced at my watch. It was time for the eleven o’clock news. I could see the reporters from the three local stations outside the ballroom door, broadcasting live. As the tournament president signaled the dealer to begin and a hush spread through the room, I prayed Josey from KWOP would play my soundbite and that it would break the case wide open.