When Jimmy returned to the Bellagio he immediately knew something was wrong. Players were milling about in the poker room, but no one was sitting at their tables. Off to one side the tournament organizers were huddled with men he didn’t recognize, though he immediately knew the type.
They were cops.
While Jimmy had no love for cops, he had nothing against them. They had only been doing their job when they arrested him. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be around them if he didn’t have to.
Whatever had happened it looked as if it was going to hold up the start of day two of the tournament. He tried to locate Kat. He couldn’t see her, but did spot Mike Sexton, standing with a man and a woman.
“Hey, Mike,” he called, walking over.
Sexton turned and froze. Jimmy knew Sexton still saw him as a murderer. Nevertheless, he was the ambassador of poker. Sexton graciously excused himself and turned to meet Jimmy with a handshake.
“You made it into day two, eh?” Sexton asked.
“I made it,” Jimmy said. “What’s going on here?”
“They’re not saying,” Sexton said. “All ah know is that there are a couple of detectives here talkin’ to the tournament director about somethin’ and it looks serious.”
“How serious?”
“We’re tryin’ to find out. My boss, Steve Lipscomb, is tryin’ to get together with them.”
“Who’s that attractive woman with the two of you?”
“That’s Steve’s partner, Robyn Moder.”
Jimmy looked at his watch. It was eleven forty-five. He started looking around for Paulie. If there was trouble, maybe Paulie DiCicca was part of it. His stomach got queasy again.
“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” Jimmy said. “You want anything?”
“No, thanks. Ah’m gonna stick around here and see what’s what.”
“Okay,” Jimmy said. “Later.”
Sexton gave him a pat on the back and went to rejoin the other two men, one of whom was—presumably—his boss.
Jimmy went to find a house phone and called Kat’s room. She didn’t answer. She had to be down here somewhere. There was no reason to believe that whatever trouble was brewing had something to do with her, but he got nervous nevertheless. He wondered if this was what it was like to be a father.
He went to Snacks and got a cup of tea rather than coffee, hoping it would settle his stomach. If the detectives were going to get around to questioning everyone at the tournament it could get unpleasant for him. Would they do that? Try to question hundreds of people?
By the time he got back to the poker room it was quarter after twelve. There were even more players now milling about, many of them looking anxious and uncomfortable. He couldn’t see Sexton and his boss anywhere. He did, however, spot Kat and rush over to her.
“There you are,” she said, grabbing his arm. “What’s goin’ on? Nobody knows shit.”
“Put me in with nobody, then,” he said, “because I have no idea.”
“I saw cops in the lobby.”
“In uniform?”
“Yeah, why?”
“There are also some detectives roaming around here.”
“Detectives?” she repeated. “Dude, I hope this doesn’t mess up the tournament. We’re late gettin’ started as it is.”
Jimmy continued to scan the room, aware there were uniformed cops on the periphery. He watched as one officer intercepted someone trying to leave the casino floor.
“They’re not letting anyone leave,” he said. “Something’s really wrong.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but it’s bad.”
Suddenly he realized there was something different about her. She was wearing a skirt for the first time since he’d known her. And was that makeup on her face?
“Are you wearing makeup?”
“Dude, fuck off.”
At one o’clock the tournament director instructed all players to go to their tables. They were going to begin day two with about two hundred players overall, down to twenty tables.
“Is it over?” Kat asked.
“No,” Jimmy said. “They probably figure this is the best way to keep everyone from trying to leave—have us all sit around and start to play.”
“Well, that suits me,” she said. “I’m goin’ to my table. Let’s shuffle up and deal.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good luck, and be careful.”
Before he went to his table he wanted to try to talk to Sexton to see if he had found out anything. The tournament director, Jack McClellan, having made his announcement, walked over to the two men who had to be police detectives. He said something to them, and they nodded. One of them looked over at Jimmy—or, at least, Jimmy thought he did. He looked away quickly, then thought how foolish and guilty that must have looked. He’d done his time and wasn’t guilty of anything. He looked over at the men again, realized that the detective was simply assessing the crowd.
He decided to go and sit at his table.
It started as a rumor, working its way through the crowd from table to table. Players were free to leave their tables for pit stops, refreshments, or to consult with someone in the gallery, but they were not allowed to leave the general vicinity.
“I heard there was a murder,” the man seated next to Jimmy said.
“What?”
He’d introduced himself as Paul Jefferies, one of the amateur players who had made it to day two. He was in his thirties, a businessman from Dallas who had decided to try his luck, as he said, “with the big boys.”
He’d just returned from a trip to the men’s room when he announced, “Somebody said the cops were investigating a murder.”
“One of our players?” someone at the table asked.
“I don’t know,” Jefferies said. “I didn’t get much information.”
Most of the players at the table were locked into the game and didn’t comment.
“No point discussing rumors,” Jimmy said, “but if any of you would like to do that and allow it to take your mind off your game, be my guest.” Chris Ferguson gave him a look and a nod of approval. Jimmy’d said it with a smile, all part of his patter. While he was wondering what the hell was going on, he wasn’t about to let it tarnish his game.
Several players at the table were having a hard time concentrating, not playing with the same vigor they had the night before. Jimmy, Ferguson, and a new face and star of the WPT, Lee Watkinson, were the most focused at the table, giving their concentration to the game. That was one of the things Jimmy had learned when he was inside: how to push everything else to the back of his mind, focusing only on the cards.
Losing concentration at the poker table could cost you money—lots of it.
Losing it in prison could cost you your life.