Wrong.
Dead wrong.
They should inaugurate me as the Mayor of Wrong Town and give me a key to the city for my great service to the art of being wrong.
We made it back to the hotel in barely enough time to touch up my hair and makeup—I used about a thousand bobby pins trying to achieve that “barely done” evening look of it pinned at the nape with some curly tendrils hanging down. I’ll need a fistful of aspirin just to survive this hairstyle.
Then I slip on the dress Grace labeled in the instructions: For evening—be careful not to sweat in it. Sure.
Once it’s on I understand exactly why I can’t sweat in it. Or breathe in it. Or even think about how much dessert I ate earlier. It’s a slinky silk red thing that, true to her word, covers my shoulders but clings in artful folds all the way down my frame and pools around the matching red heels. I’ve never seen my hips so defined, and I’m sure this silhouette was a mistake.
Until I see Damon’s expression when I walk out with my gun and lipstick stowed in yet another clutch. Finally I understand the phrase “jaw-dropping.” I thought he was going to bruise his chin on the marble floor.
Maybe he’s staring because it’s terrible.
Unsure, I take half a step back. “Is it bad? Should I change?”
Damon steps toward me, sputtering a bit. “Only if you want me to actually concentrate tonight. I’m going to forget my own name, let alone my cover ID.”
Shy, I swat him with my clutch. “You’re just saying that.”
His face is adamant. “I’m really, really not. This is . . . nice.”
“Well, thank you.” I catch my reflection and muse, This is weird. Is this what confidence feels like?
Damon doesn’t look too shabby himself. I’d probably swoon if I could manage to get up again in this dress. The collar of his deep plum shirt is still open, showing a glimpse of a silver chain beneath, but the suit is nice, dark, with sharp lines. His blond hair slicked back from his face gives him suaveness that wasn’t apparent when he was dressed more casually. This Trey guy cleans up nicely.
He glances at his watch. “As much as I’d like to keep staring at you for three or four hours, we have to go. It’s almost eight.”
So we glide down to the lobby and follow the concierge’s instructions to the casino on the lower level. I’m feeling pretty good about things. I look all right. All I have to do is enjoy myself and observe. Easy-peasy.
So very wrong.
The man with the severe expression and very nice suit standing at the casino entrance seems to know exactly who we are. He leads us through the maze of slot machines and poker tables to a raised platform in the center of the room. A table circled by a red velvet rope with a gold-edged sign in front of it proclaims, High rollers’ table. Private.
Easy-peasy. I’m going to die.
Damon feels my hesitation and places a hand against the small of my back, urging me up the few steps to the platform. The Solokovs are already seated but stand as we arrive, each shaking my hand and acknowledging Damon with a nod.
“So glad you could make it.” Dax grins. It’s startling how that streak of cruelty displayed in the desert has vanished as quickly as it appeared. The collar of his charcoal suit is popped, and he’s wearing designer sunglasses pulled down low on his nose. He’s all casualness and money—ready to party. Still clasping my hand, he turns to the others at the table. “Gentlemen, ladies, we’re honored this evening by the presence of Miss Monroe. Carmella, everyone.”
So this is what high rollers look like.
There are three others seated at the table besides the dealer, and each is a different specimen of wealth. To the left is an Asian guy who gives me a nod and a grin, introducing himself only as “Haiko.” He looks awfully young to be a high roller—probably early twenties—but from his huge sunglasses to his chestful of bling and black-silk ensemble, he exudes money. He’s leaned back in his chair with one leg propped against the edge of the table.
The other man is clearly annoyed with his casualness about the whole thing. Nearly as wide as he is tall, he stands and bows over my hand with practiced formality. He’s paired his suit with a well-worn cowboy hat and tells me, “I’m Marshal Claymore, ma’am,” with a slight Southern drawl. Probably an oil man or in cattle or something. Isn’t that what rich Southern gentlemen are into?
On Dax’s right, the only other woman at this little gathering is what I imagine Lady Havisham would look like if she ever ventured out in public again. Her every surface is covered in fur and diamonds, and an enormously plumed gray hat sits atop her head. Her expression is pinched beneath several inches of gaudy makeup, her drawn mouth seeming to be the point holding her wrinkled face together. When she doesn’t introduce herself, Dax tells me, “This is Mrs. Gilda Buchanan,” and her thinly penciled eyebrows crank upward, as if expecting me to know the name.
“Of course,” I respond, and her pinched mouth lifts a fraction at the edges. I’m guessing that’s supposed to be a smile.
Between Gilda and Marshal—I almost draw back, startled—the dealer is, for lack of a better term, huuuuuuge. I thought Agent Samuel on the Natalie Paul case was big. This guy could put Samuel in his shirt pocket. All the dealers in the casino are dressed similarly in white button-up shirts and deep-azure vests. His ensemble was clearly purchased in the largest possible size but still strains at the beefy shoulders and barely buttons over his massive chest. His graying hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and his eyes are icy-blue above a grimly set expression.
It’s like they dressed up the Abominable Snowman for a tea party. And he is not happy about it.
“Hello,” I greet the table in general, trying not to edge away from Snowy over there. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Our pleasure,” Slade says and motions for me to take a seat. Surprisingly, they offer Damon a chair directly to my left. Clearly he’s warranted enough notice now to be included. “We were just about to start another hand.”
Oh, please, please be a hand of Parcheesi or something.
Panic clogging my throat I manage, “What’s on the docket?”
“Texas Hold’em.”
That’s gambling. Right? I’m pretty sure that’s gambling.
I’m so dead.
“Vladimir told us you’re a big fan of Hold’em,” Dax says, seated two to my right—just past Slade. “So we organized this little game especially.”
So, so dead.
“I’m flattered,” I say.
Dax grins. “You did ask for the Vegas experience.”
And it’s been coming back to haunt me ever since. “And it hasn’t disappointed.” Flashing a smile, I add, “I just need to go place my drink order.”
As I start to rise from the table, Slade says, “We have a private waitress for this table who can accommodate you. No need to move.”
“I need to speak directly to the bartender,” I say. Then, to make it sound more believable, “I have very particular tastes.”
No one seems to question that as I glide down the steps, Damon in tow, and make my way toward the long, glossy bar. Once there I turn to him, and keeping my face steady and my mouth as motionless as possible, I say, “Okay, okay, what do I do? I’m going to throw up here!”
“No, no, it’s fine.” He too is trying not to appear concerned. “They’ve clearly done this to please you.”
“Because apparently Carmella is a fan of Hold’em! How did that not come up when Lela was giving me the lowdown?”
“It’s possible she didn’t know. Carmella might’ve held it back just to be difficult.”
“Or Lela could’ve held it back because she was eager to see your new girlfriend get shot in the middle of a casino.” I’m starting to hyperventilate. And sweat. Which Grace specifically told me not to do.
“It’s okay. They mostly meant this as a gesture. I don’t think you’ll have to play for long.”
“I can’t play at all!” I hiss. “Besides the fact that all the prophets say gambling is wrong and not to do it, I don’t know how.”
His brow furrows slightly. “You’ve never played poker?”
“No.”
“Of any kind?”
“No!”
“Not even like candy poker?”
“Not even like anything! The prophets say gambling is wrong and not to do it!”
Damon’s expression is half affection, half infuriation. “Do you do everything you’re told?”
“Have you met me? Of course I do!” My voice is getting a little shrill, and I try to take it down. “Maybe I could run up to the room and just real fast rent Casino Royale.”
He gives a smothered laugh. “I don’t think we have time. Do you know any of the rules?”
“Uh, there are like kings and queens and jokers and stuff.”
He’s waiting, eyebrows raised. “Is that it?”
Feebly I add, “Numbers, right?”
Glancing toward the table, Damon says, “We’ve got to get back.”
“But I still don’t know what to do!”
“Just look for the same suits.”
Panic surging, I ask, “Who’s wearing a suit?”
Now Damon looks terrified. “On the cards there are hearts and diamonds, spades and clovers. Try to get matching ones of those.”
“Can I get you something?” the bartender asks.
“Shirley Temple please, loooots of cherries. And no—no alcohol in there,” I stammer. Then to Damon, “So look for the little symbols that are the same.”
“Right. And try not to mention that you’ve never played before.” He’s already steering me back toward the table.
“But—I can’t play! We’re not supposed to play! The prophet said so.”
“I know, baby.” He pauses to really look at me. “And I know you try so hard not to do anything wrong. But this is just one hand that we need so we can get out of here alive. I think the Lord will forgive us.”
I sure hope so.
I’m especially going to need forgiveness if they shoot me in the next five minutes.
“I didn’t get my drink,” I say as we approach the table.
“They’ll bring it to you,” he answers and helps me step back up to the platform.
No backing out now.
“All squared away?” Slade asks as I sit.
Not remotely. But I nod.
He slides a tray full of different colored chips toward me. “Compliments of the house,” he says, and I wonder how much money that is. Is each chip worth like a dollar or something?
Trembling, I ask, “Shall we begin?”
Then everything gets crazy.
Right away, the dealer says to Gilda, seated directly to his left, “Ante up, ma’am?”
What? What language is he speaking?
Gilda nods and throws a chip into the center. Wait a second—why did she do that? We don’t even have cards yet! Don’t you have to have cards before you start betting?
To Dax, next to Gilda, the dealer asks again, “Ante up, sir?”
Now Dax is throwing in two chips. What is happening here? Are we all supposed to do this? Is the number of chips some kind of code?
I lift a few chips from my tray, prepared to toss them when asked. But then the enormous dealer is flipping cards to each of us in turn. Okay, that’s just like normal dealing. Subtly, I slip the chips back onto my tray and try to pretend like I knew all along.
I take my cards as they sail to me one at a time, but I’m not sure if I’m allowed to look at them. Is it cheating to look at your cards right away? Are you supposed to wait or something?
The others seem to be looking at their cards, so I peek at mine. Only two cards? Don’t they give me any more? I’ve got a nine with a weird looking little symbol—that’s a spade, right?—and one with a clover on it. I recognize the Lucky Charms one as an ace, which I know is good, but the other one doesn’t match it. It’s not a wild card, right? Both of my cards are black. Is it like Phase Ten? Is all one color a good thing?
“Your drink, ma’am.” There’s a coconut-clad waitress at my elbow, holding my Shirley Temple out on a tray.
I take it and give her a nod then notice everyone staring at my pink drink with all those cherries bobbing in it. I really should’ve thought through the Shirley Temple thing before I ordered it.
Holding it up as if toasting, I say, “Whimsy keeps you young.” Then I take a swig.
Everyone is really looking at their cards now, and the dealer seems to be waiting. Haiko is now smoking a cigar, and Gilda is trailing her skeletal, silver-tipped fingers across the tops of her cards. I see them shuffling the cards around a bit and do the same, even though I have no idea what order these are supposed to go in. Damon is stoically not looking at me, arranging his own cards as he’s slumped back in his chair. Casual Trey. Knowing how to play poker like all the rest of them.
It’s so unfair. I would destroy these guys at Go Fish.
Now the dealer turns to Dax. “To you to open, sir.”
Dax is tossing some chips into the middle of the table. “Open, one thousand,” he says.
One thousand?
One thousand dollars? Is he serious? Because of his cards he’s betting a thousand dollars? That’s more than my rent, and he doesn’t even look nervous about it. He’s gnawing the end of his cigar while he looks at his cards, leg slung up over the arm of the chair.
“Call,” Slade agrees, tossing in more chips.
Clearly this is a left-to-right thing, and now they’ve come to me.
Oh, dear.
I have no clue what’s in my hand. These cards don’t look like they go together at all. I was hoping I’d get the whole royal family, which I know is a good thing. Damon told me to look for similar suits, but these symbols don’t match.
So my hand is bad, right? What do people do in poker when their hand is bad? They bluff.
Bluffing. Okay, okay. How to bluff . . . pretending you have something when you don’t. Like giving a forty-five minute lesson in Relief Society when you totally forgot and left the manual at the bottom of your bag for three weeks. I’ve done that before. So I can bluff. Just pretend.
Okay, so they all put in two red chips, right? Those must be five hundred apiece. Knowing this, I do a double take when I look down at the tray of chips Slade gave me. With all those red ones, this must be a few thousand dollars at least. I don’t even know what the blue ones or green ones mean.
Plucking two red ones from the tray, I throw them into the middle and say, “Call.”
That seems to have been the right move because no one bats an eye. Damon “calls” as well.
This continues on until we rotate back to Gilda, who only throws in one red chip. I thought we were doing two chips? Does she get some kind of discount?
Now it’s back to Dax, who’s adding four red chips. It’s Slade’s turn now, and the dealer says, “That’s two thousand to you, sir.”
Slade slips four red chips into the center. I try to ignore the sweat gathering at my nape.
We continue around the table, everyone adding four. There’s got to be crazy lots of money in the middle now. I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that those little colored chips represent so much currency. They look like something from a game of Monopoly. Only that money has never actually cost more than my parents’ house.
Now the dealer is flipping cards over in front of him so everyone can see. A queen, a six, and a jack I think? What do those cards mean? Are they supposed to mean something?
It’s back to Dax, who throws in two additional chips. Slade and I copy him, and I’m hoping they won’t notice. Everyone else is copying too, so maybe it’s not so bad. But now the dealer is turning over another card in the middle. That’s a king of some kind. I still don’t get these cards in the middle—are they available for anyone to take one if they want?
Dax throws two red chips in. I’m puzzling out the cards in the middle when suddenly Slade says, “Raise,” and throws several blue chips into the center. I ignore the cards in the middle and do the same, as does Haiko.
“Too rich,” Marshal murmurs and slides his cards to the dealer, facedown.
Gilda too slips her cards back to the dealer with a simple, “Fold.”
Dax then adds the same number of blue chips.
Once more, the dealer is turning a card over in the middle. It’s a two—hearts.
Dax tosses in more blue chips. Slade copies Dax and says, “Call.”
It’s to me now. I think they’re only “raising” and stuff because they have good hands. If I raise, I’ll have to show my cards and they’ll know I have no clue what I’m doing.
Instead I opt for what Gilda and Marshal did and slide my cards, facedown, to the dealer, saying, “Fold.” Damon does the same after me. Relief floods me. Got through that one okay, I think.
Haiko, Dax, and Slade go back and forth with more blue chips—raising the bet a few times before Haiko finally turns his cards over—a ten and a nine. The dealer pushes the cards forward, showing that, with those from the middle, there is a set of some kind.
Dax turns his over. He has two numbers, but even with the ones in the middle, only two of his match. He gives a grin, and I wonder why he kept raising when he had cards as bad as mine. Oh, bluffing. Right. Gutsy little guy to bluff so high with such a crap hand.
Then Slade, with a tiny little smile, turns his cards over. The dealer pushes two in between some, pushing the other cards out of the way. He’s got the royal family all lined up with what I know is an ace at the end.
Dax laughs, and Haiko stamps out his cigar in annoyance, so that must be a good hand. The dealer is taking back the cards, and Slade is gathering the chips to him.
It’s over, right? The hand is over?
Before I can think of a way to slip quietly away, Dax and Slade are already tossing in chips and the dealer is flipping new cards to each of us in a smooth motion.
No, no, no. I can’t sit through another one. How do I get out of this?
It’s like that moment when you get into the seat on a roller coaster and then you change your mind but you’re already strapped in.
Feeling sick, I take my new cards and look at them, praying for royalty. A diamond with a four on it, and another four—that’s a spade.
This hand is opening with Slade. The dealer tells him, “To you to open, sir. Check or call?”
Slade taps his fist on the table and says, “Check.”
What is that? What is a check? Am I supposed to knock on the table?
Maybe what you do changes with each hand. I’ve watched movies where they played poker, for sure, but clearly I wasn’t paying enough attention.
Better to imitate. I rap my fist once on the table and say, “Check.” Then wait to see if anyone pulls a gun on me for being an imposter. Instead the bet goes to Damon, who does the same. Okay, so we’ve all three done it. It must be a thing you do in the second hand.
Then Haiko throws in four red chips and says, “Raise, two thousand.”
Or not.
The bet cycles through Damon, Marshal, and Gilda, who each call at two thousand. Dax does the same, and Slade folds right out of the gate. His hand must’ve been terrible.
And now it’s back to me again. I guess there’s no pattern, so still unsure what kind of cards I actually have, I match the bet at two thousand.
The dealer throws down three cards. I throw in a few more red chips. A few people are raising here and there. We go around for a bit that way, and the bet slowly ratchets up. Now we’re throwing in two blue chips apiece, which I’m pretty sure is two thousand every time.
I could live forever on what’s sitting in the middle of the table. If I wasn’t against stealing, I would be so temped to stuff a bunch of chips into my dress.
By now Gilda and Damon have both folded, and as it comes around to him again, Marshal does the same. Only Dax, Haiko, and I are left. I so want to just fold with the others. It was safe for me last time. Yeah, I’ll be losing more money than I’ve ever seen in my life, but since it’s not actually my money, I’d never keep it even if I won. I couldn’t handle the guilt.
But I’m afraid of how it’ll look. Carmella is supposed to be some kind of card sharp. (Is it sharp or shark? Doesn’t matter—I’m neither.) They organized a gambling party just for me because they thought I’d like it. Does someone who loves poker just keep folding every time? That doesn’t seem to follow.
Besides, I’ve got to find a way to escape this table. Maybe losing spectacularly would be the way to do that. They’ve got to believe me wanting to be done if I lose all my chips, right?
Now the dealer is laying another card on the table faceup like before. He motions to me. “To you, madam.”
Looking at my cards again, I see there’s two more fours on the table, and I decide to just run with it. Unless that’s only like sixteen points . . . Are there points? At least it’ll look like I was trying to do something smart.
Or maybe they’ll think all the Shirley Temples went to my head.
I decide to throw the rest of my blues in the middle. I think it’s about eight thousand.
The bet goes around again, and they both call. The dealer lays another card down.
Pretty much all I have left is some green chips. I lift three off the tray, hoping this isn’t a lesser value or something, and plunk them into the middle. Gilda gasps audibly.
“Bet’s you to, sir,” the dealer tells Haiko. “Sixty thousand.”
I gag on my drink.
When they all look at me sputtering, I dab my mouth with a napkin and choke out, “Cherry . . . went the wrong way.”
Sixty thousand? That’s so many Baconators I want to cry.
Haiko doesn’t even blink—just tosses in three with a careless, “Call,” and keeps puffing his cigar. Dax also calls.
Don’t think about it. It’s not your money. It’s gambling money. It would give you the guilt sweats to even look at it.
Once more the dealer turns to me. I sort of squeeze my eyes shut so I can’t see as I add one more chip. Haiko too puts in a chip.
I only have a few green chips left. Hopefully I can just add them, and—
“Raise,” Dax says, sliding in four. “Eighty thousand.”
“Dax,” Slade says. It sounds like he’s scolding a child for taking one too many cookies.
“Just showing her a good time,” Dax says, grinning at me.
Fighting the stress twitch in my left eye, I glance down at my tray. Only five left. My fingers are trembling as I toss them in. “Raise. One hundred thousand.”
Dax’s grin spreads.
Haiko whistles under his breath. “Too rich for me.” He tosses his cards to the dealer then keeps smoking like losing all that money is no big deal. Chump change.
Dax’s gaze is steady on mine as he matches my bet. Two hundred thousand in the pot just between the two of us in the last thirty seconds.
Then, without looking away from me, he flips his cards over.
“A straight,” the dealer says, and the others murmur. Even Damon has flinched. That must be a good hand.
“Cards, ma’am?” the dealer asks me.
Please don’t let them shoot me when they see these.
Shakily, I turn over the matching numbers and push them out to be seen.
Dax’s smile vanishes.
Gilda laughs loud and brittle, and Marshal says something like, “Hot dawg!”
“Four of a kind,” the dealer says. “The lady wins.”
The lady who-what-now?! Trying not to look too shocked, I watch Dax flip his cards toward the dealer, annoyed, and slump back in his chair. Everyone seems to be expecting me to move, and I venture the briefest glance at Damon, whose gaze swivels toward the mountain of chips.
Is he serious?
Fearing for the safety of my fingers, I reach forward and slowly start pulling the chips toward me. No one stops me or slices my hands off at the wrist, so I continue to rake them to my side of the table.
“I thought you had it for sure.” Marshal laughs at Dax. Then to me he says, “What a hand!”
They were just fours. How can fours be so great? Poker is illogical.
I don’t question it. I’m trying to figure out what to do with all the chips. I know I’m supposed to go exchange them, but they’ll never all fit in my clutch.
“Well,” I say, offering a sly smile. “I think I’ve had my fill.”
“You certainly had a rush of luck,” Gilda observes, lips pursed, but I’m pretty sure that’s just how she looks.
“You don’t want to play another hand?” Slade asks.
“I like to get in and make a quick killing,” I say, and even Dax laughs at that. Clearly losing huge amounts of money isn’t new to him.
Madness.
A different dealer helps me take all my chips to a barred window. We pass the chips through the slot, and the girl behind the bars drops them into some kind of machine that dispenses money. It spits out stacks of paper currency in rapid succession.
My mouth gets progressively drier as I look at the mound of cash. Never has the temptation to ignore that pesky rule about gambling been so tempting. But I’ll never be able to keep it.
As the girl finishes and bundles the cash into even stacks with paper bands, I’m again faced with a conundrum. What do I do with all of it? It won’t fit into my purse, and I don’t relish the thought of trying to carry it around in my arms or something. That’s a good way to get jumped.
Dax and Slade have left the high rollers’ table and come to the window to be sure my transaction went smoothly. “We can put that in the hotel safe for now if you’d like,” Slade says. “Keep it for you until you’re ready for checkout.”
Relieved, I nod. “That would be helpful.”
The same dealer who escorted me to the window carts the cash away, and I give it one last, longing look. So many shoes that could’ve been.
Dax and Slade give me a tour of the casino floor, Damon trailing behind with a drink. Those fiberglass palm trees stand every few feet, emitting Technicolor light across the animated faces of the players. All the table games are situated in the center, while the slots form a ring around the perimeter—a sphere of musical tone in every direction. I understand why gamblers get so caught up and can’t walk away. The atmosphere is heady, intoxicating, making you feel like you can do anything in here.
Dax is telling me just how successful they are. “In the short time since we opened, we’re already rated the number four casino on the strip.”
“Impressive,” I say mildly. “The gambling business seems to be treating you well.”
“That’s really why you open a hotel in Vegas,” Dax agrees. “The hotel and restaurants do pretty well, but the casino is where the money is made.”
“Then you’re content with this?” Vaguely I motion at the cavernous room. “The money to be made here?”
Both their eyes flicker as though aware I’m gently probing. “It’s a good start,” Slade says.
Thank you, Captain Evasive. “Do you plan to expand?” I press, watching one of the roulette tables to appear more casual. “Maybe open a string of casinos?”
Slade slides his hands into his suit pockets. “One is enough for now.”
I glance back at them, trying to gauge their expressions. Dax is bouncing slightly on his heels like he’s eager to say more, but Slade’s face is impassive, closed.
I need to separate them, the thought hits me. Dax wants to brag, but Slade won’t let him. Maybe if I got Dax on his own . . .
“I suppose gambling is all there is to do around here at night,” I say.
“Of course it’s not!” Dax laughs. “Vegas doesn’t even really wake up until midnight.”
“And what else is there to do?” I purse my lips. “More slots?”
“Perhaps we should show Miss Monroe Steam,” says Slade.
“Steam?” I repeat. Like a steam room? Are we going to use the sauna together?
Dax’s eyes light up. “Absolutely. Right this way.”
With only half a glance back to be sure Damon’s still lagging behind—I’m not going anywhere near a sauna with these guys by myself—I take Dax’s offered arm and let him lead me out of the casino.
He turns into a corridor I haven’t used before with designer stores on either side. Who shops this late at night? Probably people buying something new to go out on the town. Vegas doesn’t wake up until midnight, Dax said. Sounds exhausting. I like to be a couple hours into my pajamas by midnight.
At the end of the shops, we reach a shadowed doorway with muffled music pulsing beyond it. The neon sign above the door reads Steam, and a thick-necked bouncer guards the entrance armed with a clipboard and an unsmiling glare.
Oh no. It’s a club.