Flamingo Hotel

Las Vegas, Nevada

 

“I’ll raise.”

Andres studied his cards, forcing himself to keep his attention everywhere but on the man sitting directly across from him. From the moment they sat down at the table, he’d been assessing each of the players, trying to figure out which ones really knew what they were doing, and which were just there to play a game. He’d dismissed a couple of players immediately, and they had already lost all their chips and been forced out of the game. The serious players were still hanging in there, the ones who thought they knew what they were doing, but really didn’t. There was only one really serious player here, and it was the guy across from Andres.

He was an older man, with shaggy white hair constantly falling over his forehead and a cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth. He was a caricature of a poker player, but Andres was pretty sure that was intentional. He wanted other players to dismiss him as Andres had done those others. Poker was as much about acting, about fooling the other players until you could swoop in and take the big pot, as it was about actually playing cards. Some people were really good at it, taking it to the level of an art form. Others…not so much.

Andres had lost a few hands, and won a few. He was testing the waters, waiting until he could positively identify the guy who was here to win. Now that he knew, it was time to put his strategy into play.

He could feel Lobo’s anger radiating toward him from across the room. He’d apparently expected Andres to kick butt from the first hand, but that wasn’t how these things worked.

Slow and steady. Wasn’t there some proverb that said slow and steady was best?

The three other guys still playing folded, leaving the pot to Andres and the caricature. Andres dropped more chips into the pot, his eyes cautious as he watched his opponent’s face. The man smiled, his cigar moving around to the other side of his mouth as he dropped his cards.

“Sorry, friend.”

He had a royal flush.

Andres set down his cards: a full house. Good, but not good enough.

Lobo’s face tightened, a warning flashing in his eyes as the dealer began shuffling the cards for the next round.

Three hands later, Andres was down to a quarter of the chips Isaac had provided for him. Lobo was pacing behind caricature and his calm entourage, clearly convinced Andres was going to lose it all. They’d been at this for more than six hours, taking breaks only twice to rid themselves of the drinks that flowed like a waterfall. Andres stuck to Diet Coke, needing to be as sharp as possible, but the others were all drinking whiskey and expensive brandy. He could see the caricature’s façade slowly melting, the alcohol making the strain of his role-playing almost too difficult.

It was time.

Andres picked up the hand dealt to him and made a few exchanges, a tickle of pleasure rushing through him when he got the cards he needed. It wasn’t just luck, really. He’d learned as a kid on the streets how to count cards, and he’d been doing it all night, just not utilizing the strategy until now. Some might think it was cheating. Andres thought of it as an attempt to save his life.

They’d put a sack over his head and tied his hands with cable ties. It was a warning, a show of force. If he didn’t win this game, he wasn’t going to see his kid again.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Two of the players folded. The third raised the bet. Caricature hesitated, studying his cards and Andres. Then he raised, too. The other player folded, tossing his cards down with disgust. He was out of chips.

Andres and caricature stared at each other over the tops of their cards. Caricature had a pile of chips that was three times the size of the pitiful stacks Andres had left. The pot, however, would put one or the other over the top, forcing the other players to go all in with the next hand. This was the definitive round.

If caricature took this pot, it was over for everyone. If Andres, however, managed to pull one out, the game could continue.

The other players were silently rooting for Andres.

Caricature dropped half a dozen more chips into the pot without saying a word. Andres studied his own cards, then caricature, looking for some crack in his façade, hoping that he didn’t have another royal flush. He knew the odds were low since he’d counted the cards and knew there was only one king left unaccounted for. It could still be in the deck. Or it could be in caricature’s hand.

Everything rode on Andres’ decision in this moment.

He tossed the last of his chips into the pot. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Caricature’s smile came back, that cigar once again riding to the other side of his mouth. “Hope you’ve got better than four of a kind, king high.”

It was a good hand. Gasps sounded all around the room. Lobo’s face was so red, Andres was briefly afraid the big man might have a heart attack right there.

Only two hands could beat what caricature had just laid down. Fortunately, Andres had one of them.

“Straight flush,” he said, fanning his cards out on the table.

The gasps turned into laughter and sighs of relief from the other players. The color changed on Lobo’s face, draining and then turning into high color on his cheeks.

Andres had won the pot.

 

***

 

Three hours later, Andres was on a plane with Lobo, Isaac, and a dozen of Isaac’s hangers-on. Everyone was laughing and talking a mile a minute, champagne and harder liquors making the rounds. Andres sat near a window on the private jet, staring out the window, aching to get back home as soon as possible. It was four in the morning, too early for breakfast with Alyssa, but she’d be up soon enough.

But as much as his thoughts were on his daughter, he found himself thinking about her nanny, too. Gray had sounded worried on the phone, her concern for him heartwarming, but a little confusing, too. He’d never really had anyone who truly cared about him, or showed concern for his well-being. He’d had coworkers and supervisors who didn’t want to see him dead, but that was more about the job than anything else. There’d never been anyone in his private life whom he felt he had to check in with, for whom he needed to remain alive.

Now there was Gray.

Was she really concerned about him, or was she just concerned about how his absence would impact her week? He wished he knew how she felt about him, wished he could tell what she was thinking when she looked at him. Sometimes he thought he saw a shadow of lust in her eyes, but other times all he saw was innocence and concern for Alyssa. Was it stupid to admit he was sometimes jealous of his own daughter? At least Alyssa knew where she stood with Gray.

A part of him wanted things to stay the way they were forever. Another part wanted to rush home, fire Gray, and then throw her over his shoulder and show her what he’d been thinking about her from the moment she first walked into his life.

“Not celebrating, hermano?”

Isaac fell into a seat beside Andres and smiled widely, his eyes wild, the glass in his hand clearly not the only thing he’d been celebrating with.

“Just glad to be headed home.”

“Missing your woman?”

Andres lowered his head slightly, thinking that off-handed response was the most honest thing he’d shared with anyone on this plane since he first infiltrated their little club.

“You got to be careful, letting one woman get under your skin. Once she’s in there, it’s almost impossible to get her out. That’s why I like variety.” Isaac gestured to a few of the skinny, almost anorexic-looking boys waiting for his attention, including the boy who was the subject of this whole case for Andres. “It keeps things simple. One gets too attached, I move on to the next.”

Several of the boys seemed disappointed by that statement, but the others were either too drunk or too busy preening to care.

“Sometimes, you don’t really have a choice.”

“I guess not. But don’t fool yourself into thinking she’s loyal. Everyone has a price.”

“I suppose so.”

“You did good today, hermano,” Isaac said, slapping Andres’ thigh. “You will be well rewarded.”

Isaac got up, slipped his arm around the state senator’s son’s waist, and moved to the back of the plane where there was a small bedroom. Andres turned back to the window, his thoughts almost immediately returning to Gray, hoping she was sleeping safe and sound back at his place. It wasn’t a full minute later when Lobo came and sat heavily beside him.

“I need you to round up the boys and collect their money as soon as we land.”

“Now? Isn’t it a little early for them?”

“They’ve been told to expect your call.” Lobo leaned forward. “You nearly gave me a heart attack back there, ’migo.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It was smooth. No one saw it coming.”

“It’s an old trick. Pull them in, make them think you’re a loser, then steal it all.” Andres brushed a piece of hair off his face. “My mother taught it to me.”

“Your mother?”

“She was a prostitute, but most of our income came from her sleight of hand, you know? She’d distract those guys with her body, then give them a song and dance, offering them a discount for being so good with her. And then she’d slip the loose bills from their pockets, sometimes managing to get to their wallets while they were distracted by something else—getting dressed, phone calls from their wives, me sleeping in the bed beside them.”

“Sounds like every whore I’ve ever lain with.”

Andres shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. But it was a good lesson. Draw them in, give them a false impression, and then strike. It’s always been my motto.”

Lobo shook his head. “Well, whatever. You were good tonight. Isaac’s pleased. He’s talkin’ about moving you up the ladder, giving you more responsibilities. So, go collect the money, then head home. We’ll discuss what comes next later.”

“Okay.”

Like Isaac, Lobo wandered off, grabbing a girl who was part of Isaac’s entourage, dragging her into a row of seats at the back of the plane. Andres could hear her squealing, first in laughter, then in pain, all the way back to Los Angeles.

What a bunch of animals!