Jimmy entered the casino with some trepidation, waiting to hear word of another murder. All he heard, however, were the bells and whistles of the slots. He checked his watch, saw that he still had two hours before start time for day four. He decided to get out of the Bellagio for a while, go over to the Mandalay Bay. Not only would the air do him good but talking to Francisco for a while would be a breath of fresh air as well.
Walking through the high-tech hotel lobby and casino floor, reading the signs directing patrons to the waterfall or the Shark Reef, he decided that when the tournament was over—and the killer was caught, hopefully—he was going to go down to the Riviera and then down to Fremont Street to Binion’s and the Golden Nugget, or even Arizona Charlie’s on Decatur, for a taste of old Vegas.
When he reached the Race & Sports Book, Francisco was right there in the middle of a group of men, all arguing about who was better, Florida- or California-bred Thoroughbreds.
“The Sunshine Millions at Gulfstream Park don’t mean a damn thing,” a man argued. “That’s only eight races on one day.”
“So whadda wanna do—keep track of the whole year?” another man asked. “Two years? Ten?”
Sometimes Jimmy wondered about the persona of the horseplayer. Poker players varied in size and shape and, most notably, dress. But the serious horseplayers Jimmy remembered from the clubhouses and grandstands of his youth—even the ones he was looking at now—all seemed to be the same type: cigars, loud shirts worn out over their big bellies, and sunglasses. Whenever he’d sneak away from school or work for a day at Keystone Park—which later became Philadelphia Park—or even Monmouth, there they’d be, always arguing.
A sexy waitress leaned over with a huge tray of hot food. Pastrami sandwiches, Reubens, hot dogs, and so on. The three cronies grabbed for the food like pirates.
Francisco was looking up at the bickering men from his wheelchair; but when he noticed Jimmy, he turned the chair abruptly and wheeled himself over, his arms working the wheels speedily. Jimmy wondered why the man didn’t use some of that money his family sent him to get an electric wheelchair.
“My friend, you are back!” Francisco’s voiced boomed. Once again he shook Jimmy’s hand in a powerful greeting.
“Just needed to get out for a bit,” he said, looking down at his friend.
All of a sudden, out of the corner of his eye, Francisco saw something he didn’t like. He snapped.
“What are you doing, Red? Put that Reuben down, you fucking buffoon!” His crony, who was just about to take a huge bite out of his sandwich, stopped suddenly, looking guilty. “You know you’re not supposed to eat that.”
He looked back at Jimmy.
“Ah, my associate. I’ve got a fifty-thousand-dollar weight bet against Dallas Jack that comes up in two weeks. My friend here has to lose twelve pounds, and there he is, stuffing his face.”
Francisco turned back to his associate. “Eat the grapes. There’s yogurt and cheese.”
His fat friend nodded as he sheepishly put down the sandwich.
“You’re still making side bets, huh?”
“What else is there in life?”
Jimmy hadn’t noticed before how much gray had crept into Francisco’s beard, although his hair was still as black as ever. Oddly, Jimmy wondered if this gregarious, always-frank man dyed his hair.
“I have heard that things are bad over there,” Francisco said, nodding gravely toward the Bellagio.
“What else have you heard, Francisco?” Jimmy asked. “You have your ear to the ground—you usually hear everything. Any idea what’s going on?”
“Well, to me it sounds like someone has finally gotten fed up with those young wannabe poker players and is picking them off one by one.” Francisco made a pistol out of his thick fingers and went, “Pop, pop, pop.”
“Well,” Jimmy said, “only two pops so far, but, yeah, essentially that’s it. You haven’t heard anything else?”
The man shrugged. “What else would I have heard?” he asked. “The Great Francisco is here, always.”
“Come on, don’t kid a kidder, Francisco,” Jimmy said. “You’ve got eyes and ears all over this town.”
“Yes, it is true,” Francisco said, “but they are listening for things that interest only me, things I can use to my benefit when making a bet.”
Francisco was one of those people who would bet on anything. It was his life, and he was always looking for an angle. But it was also apparently the reason he was in a wheelchair.
“Tell me,” Francisco asked, “can you believe those yuppie kids are getting killed . . . but you know they have ruined the game of poker. They are like an infestation. Cocky college kids picking up on our game, making millions with their own sites.”
“That’s pretty harsh, Francisco,” Jimmy said. “I’ve heard some people say these young players are the reason poker has become so big.”
“Come, Jimmy, you know,” Francisco said, warming to his subject, “we played poker in back rooms among men!” He emphasized the word “men.” “You were there, my friend.”
“Yes, I was.”
“See? Then you know.” Francisco looked very happy. “Life is strange.” He always spoke his mind and never took anything back. “I must go. The East Coast races, you know.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “I know. Thanks, Francisco.”
Francisco turned his chair but arrested the movement mid-turn.
“Take my advice, my friend.”
“And that is?”
“Do not get yourself involved in this business,” the other man said gravely. “Concentrate on your poker. You will be happier that way. You and your policeman friend should not play detective anymore.”
He completed his turn and moved away quickly before Jimmy could ask him what he meant.
“Fruit plate! Give him a fucking fruit plate!” he screamed.
As Jimmy left the Mandalay Bay to return to the Bellagio, something was nagging at him, the kind of thing that tickled the back of his brain until something jarred it loose with an aha!
The kind of thing that would drive him crazy if he let it.
The first person Jimmy saw that he recognized when he re-entered the Bellagio was Vic Porcelli’s wife. It took him a minute, but he managed to dredge up her name—Margaret.
He prepared himself to have a conversation with her, but it wasn’t necessary. She plowed right past him and, as he watched, rushed over to an obviously predetermined penny slot machine at a bank of machines called Hot Penny. She wasted no time feeding a bill into the hungry machine from her fanny pack—lime green, matching her jogging suit—and began pressing the lighted buttons. Why did middle-aged women wear jogging suits? He’d seen more of them since his arrival in Vegas than he cared to count.
He left her to her pennies and headed for the poker room. When he got there he could hear the voice of Linda Johnson—also known as the first lady of poker—on the microphone. She did most of the announcing for WPT events.
There were uniformed cops standing around, too, which almost made him feel like he was in an armed camp. But they were so outnumbered he wondered what would happen if some of the players just decided to leave. Maybe even the killer. Could he simply walk out and never look back?
He looked around for Kat, found her talking to a couple of other players who were too old to be posse members. People were also gathering in the gallery where they could watch the day’s action. It was not yet the final day, so there were no TV cameras around, and Mike Sexton was not going to have to work today.
He walked over toward Kat, who excused herself from the two men she was talking to and turned to meet him, a delighted look on her face.
“Do you know who they are?” she asked.
Jimmy took another look. Both of them seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place them. And he knew she’d take him to task for that.
“Sorry,” he said.
“The cute one with the chin spinach is Antonio Esfandiari. He’s a poker millionaire. The other one is Mark Seif. These guys are the real deal, Jimmy! And they like the way I play.”
“That’s great.”
“Which means they like the way you play, because you taught me, dude.”
“I didn’t teach you, kid,” he said. “You knew how to play when we met. I just helped—”
Jimmy stopped himself when he noticed Kat’s eyelashes. They were fake and oversized. He pointed to them.
“Hey, they look . . . hot.”
“You think so? Must be workin’”—she gestured at Antonio and Mark. “Anyway, here I am on day four.”
“Well, just keep playing like you’re playing and maybe you’ll make it to day five.”
“We haven’t talked about how we’re in the money! Both of us! That’s so cool.”
“Yeah, well,” Jimmy said, “there has been some other stuff going on.” He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t realized they were down to fifty players already.
“I know, dude,” she said. “That’s what I mean. Even with all that, look how well we’re doin’.”
“Don’t get carried away, Kat,” Jimmy said. “Stick to your game.”
“I will,” she promised. “I’ll have to. I’m at a tough table, now. I’ve got about thirty thousand in chips. Who’s at your table?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, “but they’re all loaded now.”
“This is so awesome!” she said. “I’m used to watching these guys play on TV, and now I’m here!”
“And you’re hyperventilating,” he said. “Chill out.”
“Okay, yeah,” she said. “You’re right. You find out anything about those murders?”
“No,” Jimmy said. “The cops figure they’re connected, but that’s obvious because of the cards.”
“The Picasso flop you told me about? What could that mean? Why put those cards in the dead men’s pockets?”
“I don’t know, kid,” Jimmy said. “The cops are going to have to figure that one out.”
“You’re a smart guy, dude,” she said. “I bet you can figure it out.”
Linda Johnson’s voice rang out like a call to the post at the racetrack.
“It’s time,” he said. “Remember, don’t be so impressed at the table. Keep your cool, play your game. And good luck.”
“You, too, Jimmy. You’re aces, old man.” Impulsively, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I can’t thank you enough.”
In all the time they’d spent together that was the first time she’d ever kissed him. It was a nice gesture, but it also meant she was so excited she didn’t care if the cops saw her kissing him.
Maybe too excited.