Death On the Flop (7 page)

“It looks like your brother’s finished his game, Miss Cooley,” my friend said in smooth warning. “Perhaps now he will be able to check you into your hotel.”

“Bee,” Ben warned. “I don’t like being pulled out of a hand with a bunch of fish when I had nuts on the turn.”

“Ben, since I have no idea what you just said, I can’t say I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps you should teach your sister to play poker, Mr. Cooley,” my bouncer buddy put in. “Then she wouldn’t be so eager to find her room.”

“I’m sorry, Bee,” Ben said, shaking his head at himself. “I did promise to teach you. I will. Let’s go check in at the Lanai and then we’ll get started.”

The only thing I wanted to start was a hot bath. I thanked my personal Secret Service agent, whose associates had somehow melted away during our conversation. He nodded and stepped back, keeping us in his sights as Ben grabbed the suitcase handle from me and we headed toward an exit.

“Did you really have to call the goons on me?” Ben whispered as we pushed our way out into the neon-lit night.

“The head goon found me, Ben. I guess they thought I looked like a terrorist, lugging my bomb fixings around in a Burberry bag.”

“That’s weird, but I guess with Hold ’Em becoming such an international sensation, it makes sense that they would increase security in all the casinos leading up to a well publicized tournament like the one I’m in.”

“Ben, why did you drop more than I used to make in a month on entering a stupid game?”

“How do you know how much it costs to enter?”

“You put me at the bar with someone who knew something about it.”

“A player?”

“Used to be, apparently, now plays blackjack.”

“I know it’s a lot of money, Bee, but I’m going to win a lot more.”

“Come on Ben, what are the odds? Most of the players are professionals or they’ve won their way to the tournament by playing a lot more than you do. I know you must play the odds when you play a hand, right? Play the odds here and get out before you get in too deep.”

Ben waved off my advice. “Hold ’Em is not all about playing odds and experience. Instinct and heart have a lot to do with it.”

“And luck, don’t forget that. That is so easy to control,” I added, sarcasm thick.

“Not everything in life can be controlled, Bee.”

“You are living proof of that.” I sighed.

We’d reached the Lanai where I would finally get my hot bath. I stepped into the driveway to avoid a trio weaving their way down the sidewalk. A loud honk behind me made me jump and Ben’s hand closed on my arm, pulling me back up onto the sidewalk as a glittering iridescent white Hummer limo zoomed its way to the front door. We’d just made it to the front door as the door to the limo opened. Out came two pairs of long, tan female legs, one wearing silver and rhinestone strappy Manolo Blahnik sandals, the other some pink polka dotted Jimmy Choos, followed by their giggling blond Playboy bunnyish owners. A tall man hopped out after them, dressed in red leather jeans and jacket, black snakeskin boots and mirrored wraparound Oakleys. Longish hair peeked out from under his black Stetson. For some reason, ZZ Top’s
Sharp Dressed Man
sang in my head. It wasn’t that this guy was that handsome—on closer inspection his nose was too big, his lips too thin and his jaw too thick—but he sure had a powerful charisma. Heads turned, and it wasn’t just because he wore half a cowhide.

Ben elbowed me so hard I almost went down. “That’s
him
!”

I was trying to figure out what movie star he was as other casino guests stopped and pointed. A couple waved and one man gave him a thumbs up. He ignored them, draping his arms around the shoulders of the bunnies, letting each hand dangle over a size D. Tacky. I groaned.

The Sharp Dressed Man paused and looked back at me over his shoulder. I could feel his glare through the lenses. “You got a problem?”

“No, but you do, two of them. And they are attached to your arms.”

“You oughta mind your own business.”

“I’m trying to, but you’re in my way.”

I think he was so shocked at being back talked that he reeled back a step, just enough for me to get through the door ahead of him, pulling Ben in my wake. I didn’t stop until we arrived at the front desk.

“Bee.” Ben wore a bemused half grin/half grimace. “I can’t believe you just got away with that! You know who he is?”

“I don’t care—” I could see him out of the corner of my eye, dragging his blondes along, glaring our way.

“That’s him,” Ben whispered heatedly. “That’s Steely Stan Trident. The jerk I’ve gotta beat.”

And the jerk Frank Gilbert warned was dangerous.

I can’t remember when a hot bubble bath felt any
better than the first one I took in Vegas. Of course, it helped that our room turned out to be a suite and bigger than my apartment back home by half—two bedrooms, a sitting room, dining room, fully stocked bar, even a foyer. Did I mention the Jacuzzi that overlooked The Strip lit up brighter than Christmas from twenty floors up? That might have been why I thought I was in nirvana amidst the Giorgio scented bubbles.

I could get used to this, I thought as I wrapped myself up in an overly plush cabernet-colored robe.

Of course to do so, I would have to rely on my brother sitting in on high stakes poker games on a regular basis. I wasn’t sure I could handle the stress. That was why we were in a suite—neither of us could afford such. I found out—after I’d nearly suffered a heart attack when the porter opened the front door—that Ben’s last flight attendant girlfriend had treated him to a turnaround to Vegas in April and he’d played at the biggest table at the Aladdin. According to his story, he’d won a lot and lost a lot and went home even. The hotel wanted him back in the hopes that he might not be as lucky as the house the next time, so they offered him a free room. The strategy must have worked, or they wouldn’t be passing out thousand dollar a night rooms with such wild abandon. When Ben registered for the tournament he’d called the Lanai and bemoaned the fact that he would be staying at his free suite in the Aladdin. The Lanai, of course, preferred a big spender be tempted to squander his free time gambling at their tables so they offered the same, a suite.

I wandered out into the spacious, tastefully decorated living area and took in the view that wrapped around nearly 180 degrees in floor to ceiling glass. It was already three o’clock in the morning but The Strip was as busy as rush hour in Houston. I looked at Ben’s closed door. He’d dragged the suitcase in to unpack when I’d left to bathe. Surely he couldn’t have fallen asleep already. I wouldn’t be so lucky.

I knocked. “Ben?”

Hearing nothing, I turned the knob, bracing myself to find one of the coeds from the street or someone like her. Ben had never been known to go long without some girl on his arm, or rather, in his bed.

The bed was empty, save a piece of hotel stationery. Uh-oh. Snatching it up, I read Ben’s chicken scratch handwriting.

 
Make me proud? Make me crazy was more like it.

I could just see him gambling away our return tickets on a last ditch effort to beat Steely Stan. Jeez. With only a glance at the champagne (Perrier Jouet, what was he thinking!), I grabbed the suitcase and wheeled it back into my room. There I pulled out the jumble of clothes I’d so bravely pitched in and took stock.

“This is what I get for being impulsive,” I told myself out loud. Now I had to live with the consequences, which would be cordovan leather Steve Madden scrunch cowboy boots with an eggplant suede jacket, an ocher silk shirt, tan suede skirt. I didn’t even pack the jewelry that matched any of the partial outfits I had on. If I had any luck at all, that would’ve happened by accident. Luckless, that was me. Oh well, might as well go all the way into unmatchingdom. I closed my eyes, dipped my hand into my jewelry pile and came out with . . . oh no. Sucking in a deep breath, I slid on the teal and gold chandelier earrings. I hoped everyone I encountered was color-blind.

I almost put back on the unobtrusive denim mini and black baby tee I’d worn on the plane, but then remembered it had been touched by Cyrano’s slimy hands. With a shiver, I deposited it into the hotel laundry bag and stuffed it into the side pocket of my suitcase.

I tied my unruly hair back into a bun at the base of my neck, slid the room key into the pocket of my jacket, blew out a breath and reached for the doorknob. So far this vacation was a blast.

 
I’d been waiting for the elevator for ten minutes. Ten
painful minutes trying to avoid the mirrors that lined the wall opposite me. Once I’d eroded my confidence to sub zero, I turned to look at the empty hallway. All I could think about was all the trouble Ben could be getting himself into. The whole way up to our room, he’d talked about the Stan guy like they’d had some longstanding, multigenerational feud. Granted, the guy was an obvious jerk, but if you lost sleep about every one of those you encountered, you’d die young. There was something Ben wasn’t telling me. Ben said there were claims Stan didn’t play a clean game (in other words, he cheated). After more prodding, he told me Stan’s well publicized and clearly obvious womanizing got Ben’s back up. I wanted to advise Ben to look in the mirror, but to his credit, I’d never seen Ben with his hands on two women’s breasts at the same time. Maybe in the same hour, but I guess that was an important detail.

Finally, when I threatened to get on the next plane home, Ben mentioned that Stan was supposedly some kind of pill popper. I still didn’t see what that had to do with Ben, except for the fact that he sold pills for a living, which you’d think would make him less critical of the guy if for no other reason than he might boost Ben’s paycheck in an indirect way. Okay, I was stretching it a bit, but something was off. Why a drug abusing, skirt chasing poker champion would get his back up, I don’t know. Ben was acting like he was employed as the flack for the World Series of Poker. It didn’t make sense and I aimed to get to the bottom of it.

The longer I stood there waiting for the elevator, the further my imagination stretched. Finally, when my mind had drawn a picture of Ben choking Stan to death at the poker table downstairs, I went in search of the stairs. Twenty floors was a long way to go, but at least it was down and maybe the exercise would curb my anxiety. Good thing my Steve Maddens were comfy. I was huffing by the time I got to the tenth floor, so I barely heard the voices over my own wheezing lungs. I paused and bit down on my lower lip to keep from panting out loud. The voices, loudly angry, were both male and drifted down the stairwell from a few floors above me.

“I don’t care what kind of problems you’re having down there right now, Pete, discretion is especially important because of what is happening here this weekend.” A deep bass threatened. “This is very important to the jefe. You cannot talk to him. You cannot talk to me. Got it?”

“But what am I supposed to do if I have problems with a new driver? He walked off the job and I swear he thinks something’s hinky with the operation. We already lost a day because of it and two transfers. We’ll lose money, he’ll get mad,” a whiny tenor proclaimed defensively.

“He’s already mad. You coming up to him in the middle of the casino like that, blowing his cover.”

“It wasn’t in the middle of the casino, I caught him out of the way. I didn’t know that idiot was stalking him or something. How could I know that?” The one named Pete raised his voice in frightened desperation.

“Listen, the jefe is a big deal here. People think he is some sort of a god. So that is why you have to cool it. I don’t know what the stalker idiot heard but now he’s my problem to deal with and I hate problems. If you don’t quit arguing and shut up, I’ll shut you up for good,” a deep bass threatened. I heard thumping and a whimper.

My heart was racing, and not from my hike. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Part of me—obviously the smart part—told me to escape out the door with the big ten on it and run like hell. Some other part of me—obviously the same part that keeps finding the wrong men to date—made me crane my neck to sneak a peek upstairs. A balding head on a neck bulging with a couple of fat rolls hung over the railing. Not on purpose, I didn’t think, since a pair of big hands were buried in those fat rolls, squeezing until the bald spot started to turn red. Rambo-ish dark-haired Bad Guy in a good suit loomed over the pudgy dude named Pete and squeezed harder. He glared at him with eyes so electric blue I sucked in a sharp breath.

Damn.

I shrank back against the wall. I tasted Iceberg Effusion on my tongue and sniffed again. I recognized it because, way back when, I’d spent about three hours smelling every men’s cologne at the Dillard’s counter to find the perfect birthday present for Ben. The crisp, hard-edged, almost threatening scent wasn’t my brother but it certainly would fit the tough guy upstairs. I hoped they couldn’t hear my heart that was now roaring. I swallowed hard and nearly choked. Fine, maybe I would die right there and spare the guy a second victim.