36

The two cameramen who joined the nightly card game with Finney and the Swami were a regular Mutt-and-Jeff combination. Finney thought the taller of the two, a hairy European named Augustus, was the more dangerous card player. Gus had that deadly quiet thing going, along with a dry wit that always made you wonder whether he was serious or kidding. During off-hours, he was fond of displaying his hairy and wiry body at the beach in his classic-cut European Speedo. He competed with the Swami for having the island’s darkest tan, with his hairy back and chest giving him a natural advantage.

His cohort, all five feet eight inches and 210 pounds of him, was a talkative guy named Horace, who smeared on SPF 30 sunblock and managed to stay pasty white even on Paradise Island. Horace sported a thick mustache and rounded shoulders that came in handy for shielding his cards from the prying eyes of the other players, though nobody had to peek at Horace’s cards to take his money. Every time he bluffed, Horace’s balding head would turn a shade of red, the exact hue depending on how much was at stake. He hadn’t won a big pot in two days.

The first night they played—Wednesday night—the men had painstakingly avoided any talk about the show or the challenges facing the contestants. Last night, Mutt and Jeff had brought their own drinks, chips, and dip. The conversation flowed as freely as the beer being consumed by the cameramen. Halfway through the night, they were making fun of all the contestants except Finney and the Swami. By the end of the night, there were no exceptions.

On this night, the third straight poker night, the conversation centered on women and the upcoming challenges for the contestants. With regard to women, the Swami was the only player who rated Tammy Dietz ahead of Dr. Kline for looks. In fact, he seemed so adamant about it that Finney took special note. Regarding challenges, they talked a little about the next two courtroom challenges and a lot about the upcoming psychological challenge.

“No offense, Judge O,” the Swami said, “but that one will come down to me or the mini-Buddha. Eastern religions know how to meditate and transcend.”

On camera, Tammy had described the particulars of the upcoming Chinese water torture. Next Wednesday morning, the contestants would be shackled into a reclining chair; then water would be dripped onto each contestant’s forehead until he or she called it quits. A clinical psychologist would be on hand to continuously evaluate the contestants. Blood pressure and heart rate would be monitored. The last holdout would win one of the fifty-thousand-dollar verdicts for their charities. If more than one contestant was still in his or her chair after twenty-four hours, then the one with the fewest physiological signs of stress would win.

“It’s basically what I go through every day in court,” Finney said. “I’ll be ready.”

He coughed and grimaced, his chest aching as he hacked away. By now, his card buddies were used to it, hardly noticing as Finney coughed phlegm into a paper cup he kept by his side during the game. Lately, Finney had felt like he was coughing underwater, drowning by small increments with every breath he took. It was the beginning of fluid on the lungs, he realized—the final stages of his cancer.

“Don’t they have allergy medicine for that?” Gus asked.

When they decided to call it quits, Horace withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and wrote each of their names on it. No money had actually changed hands in the last few nights; they merely kept a running total so they could settle up at week’s end.

“Don’t we already have a tally sheet someplace?” the Swami asked.

“Yeah, it’s on the kitchen counter, I think,” Finney said.

Horace quickly wrote the night’s results on the folded paper he had in his hand. “Here,” he said as he handed it to Finney. “Add it to the other totals.”

On the way out, Horace leaned over and whispered in Finney’s ear. “Check the other side of the score sheet.”

A few minutes later, Finney took the paper into the bathroom with him, away from the prying cameras. He unfolded the paper and looked at the opposite side. It contained a photograph of Bryce McCormack and Dr. Kline holding each other close in the dark on McCormack’s patio.

My new friend wants me to know, Finney thought. Finney might have lost money tonight, but the card games were paying off. Alliances were being forged on Paradise Island.