A Calculated Magic

18

They returned to their suite to change clothes and plan their next moves. While Cassandra sorted through her suitcase, searching for something she considered fit to wear, Jack made a phone call to Chicago. He relayed in abbreviated form to Merlin much of what the ravens had learned. Story told, he requested that the magician conduct a quick investigation of complex financial records. Afterward, they discussed several specific actions to be taken if Jack’s hunches proved to be true. Seconds after Jack finished the conversation, the Amazon emerged from her room clad head to foot in black leather.

“Now this garment is more like it,” said Cassandra, as Jack put down the receiver. He whistled in a combination of appreciation and bewilderment.

“If you think men aren’t going to notice you in that outfit,” he declared, “you’re crazy.”

The Amazon wore a one-piece soft-leather cat suit. The only break in the shiny material was a metal zipper that extended from her neck to waist. With matching gloves and boots, Cassandra could have stepped out of the pages of any of a dozen superhero comic books.

“Let them stare,” she said. Whirling about on one toe, she lashed out with her other foot in a deadly karate kick. The air seemed to vibrate from the force of her blow. “Dressed like this, I can fight.”

Out of her boots came the Amazon’s stilettos. In a continuous fluid motion, she flipped the two blades into the nearby wall. “There won’t be any plague if the Russian suffers a fatal accident,” she declared, pointing at the twin knives gleaming in the lamplight. “I specialize in causing necessary accidents.”

“The same thought occurred to me,” said Jack, “but only as a last resort. There are two more pressing problems. First, I require an invitation to this auction. Not attending would be a disaster. Even if you eliminated Karsnov, we have no guarantee al-Sabbah doesn’t already own a sample of the plague virus and would put that up for bid instead.

“Second, if Megan is being held prisoner in the Old Man’s version of Paradise, I need to discover its location. The sooner we find and extricate her from his minions, the better I’ll feel. If we make an attempt on the Russian’s life with her in al-Sabbah’s power, she’ll suffer. I can’t allow that to happen.”

“You have a plan, I assume,” said Cassandra.

“The solution to both problems,” said Jack, “is to attract the Lord of the Assassins’ personal attention. I’ve been thinking about the conversation the ravens heard this afternoon. While he never mentioned the source of his loans, he did refer to a flourishing supernatural criminal underworld. Merlin confirmed my own suspicions as to the figure in charge. Based on what I’ve discovered, I think using the right approach with our buddy, Hasan, will work miracles.”

“And if you’re wrong?” asked Cassandra.

“I mastered the process of thinking quick under pressure during my years on the college debate team,” said Jack. “If I draw a blank with al-Sabbah, I’ll switch to another story. I know it’s not the best approach, but it’s the only one we’ve got. With the auction tomorrow evening, we’re running out of time.”

Cassandra scowled. The Amazon preferred the direct approach. Given the chance, she’d opt for an old-fashioned fight to the death over subterfuge and deception. However, she was intelligent enough to recognize that Jack’s proposal was their only viable scheme.

“How are you going to gain admittance to Hasan’s presence?” she asked. “I doubt if he’s very accessible. Especially for a complete unknown.”

“We’ll do it the old-fashioned way,” said Jack. He pointed to the two ravens, trying to open the door of the suite’s refrigerator using their beaks. “With the unseen coaching of our feathered friends, I’m going to win a small fortune gambling. Once the stakes hit the stratosphere, al-Sabbah will come running.”

“Did you mention gambling?” asked Hugo, its beak wedged beneath the door handle of the icebox. Mongo stood beside him, trying to force open the lock. “I love gambling.”

“Me too,” said Mongo, its voice muffled by metal. “In Valhalla, we rolled the bones endlessly.”

“Used real bones, I bet,” muttered Jack, pulling out a new outfit for the night’s adventure. Like Cassandra, he needed to dress properly for the role he intended to play.

Groaning in protest, the door of the refrigerator clicked open. Instantly, both blackbirds darted inside. “Hell,” echoed Hugo’s voice, “there’s no chocolate bars in here.”

“I’ll buy a box of them for you later at the souvenir shop,” said Jack, as he tucked a solid black shirt into charcoal gray pinstripe pants. Next came a thin white tie, the suit coat, and a pair of sparkling black shoes. “After we complete our sting.”

Nodding in approval, Cassandra reached into the flower basket and pulled out a white carnation. She stuck it into the jacket’s lapel. “Perfect,” she declared. “You look like you stepped right out of an old gangster movie.”

“Spiffy,” commented Hugo. “You wanna tell us how we’re going to help run this scam.”

“Simple,” Jack said, and outlined his ideas to the attentive ravens. For a change, they listened quietly, then, when he was finished, made several useful suggestions. In ten minutes, they had everything arranged.

“I love it,” said Hugo, transparent on Jack’s right shoulder as they headed for the main casino. “This reminds me of the time we tricked Surt, the fire giant, into thinking he was haunted by the spirit of his first wife. What a laugh! He was afraid to eat for a week. Too bad that story never made it into the Elder Edda. It’s a lot funnier than that hokey tale about Thor’s visit to the frost giants.”

“Pipe down,” said Jack, glancing around to make sure no one was staring at him. “I can’t use that ventriloquism line a second time. Speak so only I can hear you. Is Mongo nearby?”

“Right over your head,” announced the other bird from a spot directly above Jack’s left ear. “Once you find a seat at the poker table, I’ll fly around to the other players as needed.”

“Okay,” murmured Jack as he walked into the atrium. Cassandra kept pace several steps to the rear, seemingly relaxed and at ease. Appearances were deceptive. The Amazon was primed and ready for battle.

“Hugo’s right,” continued Mongo softly. “Our adventures with Surt were much funnier than that stupid story about Thor.”

“Tell me another time,” said Jack, searching the room for the high-stakes poker game. He finally located it, directly in front of an all-purpose cash station. Though it was nearly midnight, the table was crowded with people.

“There’s a minor-class sorcerer stationed on the floor,” said Cassandra as they strolled over to the game. “Checking to make sure no one is using magic to alter the odds or fix the cards. Since the birds aren’t directly influencing the deck, you’re fine.”

Like most mathematicians, Jack had played cards throughout college. He started with hearts as a freshman, progressed to double-deck pinochle in his sophomore year, and finally succumbed to duplicate bridge for the rest of his undergraduate stay. In graduate school, the game changed to poker. Possessing a near-photographic memory and excellent card sense. Jack played to win. Cards were not a social event but war, and he believed in taking no prisoners. He rarely lost, but he had never played against professional cardsharps before. Nor had he ever gambled for thousands of dollars on each hand.

Before entering the game, Jack studied the flow of the cards for ten minutes. The table consisted of a big man, a young attractive blonde woman, and a middle-aged male dealer playing five-card stud. A small crowd of people stood behind them, watching the action.

The woman, good looking and flashy with diamonds, sat to the dealer’s left. In draw poker, it was the worst position, but she seemed not to care. Her card playing left a great deal to be desired. Quick to fold, she was too easily bluffed. She squinted at the cards like they were her enemies. The blonde had too much money and not enough brains for no-limits draw poker. Five red and five blue chips sat in front of her. Stationed directly behind her were two dangerous-looking young men, dressed in dark suits and wearing sunglasses.

The big man, who referred to himself constantly in third person as “Tex Wilson,” sat directly across from the dealer. A hearty, red-faced individual, he was dressed in a cowboy shirt open almost to his waist and smoked a big cigar. He talked much too loud and placed big bets. However, Jack noted that Wilson knew exactly when to drop out when things looked bad, and that he rarely lost a hand in which he wagered heavily. The drink at his side. Jack suspected, was more likely ginger ale than whiskey. Ten red and eight blue chips made up Tex’s bankroll. Huddled close behind him, several well-endowed women dressed in attire that made Cassandra’s outfits look like schoolmarm stuff squealed with pleasure each time the red-faced man won.

The dealer, like most professional card handlers, played a calm, conservative game, relying on the odds, an unlimited bankroll of chips, and the other players’ mistakes to keep him ahead. He dealt the cards with a slow, steady rhythm and appeared slightly bored by the whole proceedings.

A half dozen other men and women, evidently tourists, watched the game in respectful silence. Oddly enough, the males eyed the bimbos clustered around Tex while the females tracked the chips. Different fantasies, he concluded, for different folks.

Finally, Jack decided there was no postponing the inevitable. Signaling to Cassandra, he stepped over to the table and seated himself in the empty chair on the dealer’s right. On his shoulder, Hugo murmured in his ear, “Mongo’s set in position. Let’s take these suckers for a ride.”

“Deal me in,” said Jack. He pulled out a thick billfold from his suit pocket. “How much are chips?”

“Five hundred on the red,” said the dealer, “a thousand for the blue. Red for the ante. Jacks to open, otherwise no deal. No limit on bets.”

Nodding his agreement to the rules. Jack reached into his wallet and counted out fifteen one-thousand-dollar bills.

“Kinda young to be playing a man’s game, sonny,” said Wilson as each player put a red chip in the center of the table. “Sure it ain’t past your bedtime?”

Jack gave no indication he heard the big man’s words. Several years before, he audited a mathematics course that he was grading for another professor in the department. None of the students in the class realized that Jack was the person actually marking their homework and tests, not the teacher. Listening to their constant complaints after class about the professor’s harsh scoring, Jack developed a remarkably impassive expression. His was the perfect poker face.

Calmly, he picked up his cards. He held a pair of sixes. “Three tens for the dealer,” whispered Hugo. The ravens communicated by a complex series of prearranged wing signals. “Lady’s holding a pair of queens. Possible flush for big mouth.”

Playing cautiously, Jack dropped out of the first three hands. Knowing the other hands meant nothing without the right cards.

The fourth hand he pulled a pair of aces, best on the table. After the blonde and Tex both passed, Jack raised a red chip. Everyone matched his bet.

Fate handed him a third ace while filling in Tex’s queen high with two more ladies. The other two players dropped out immediately, but Wilson stayed with Jack for two raises. Jack dared not play too aggressive. Not yet. Still, he took Tex for three thousand dollars.

“Junior finally won a hand,” Tex declared loudly, taking a swig of his drink. “Beginner’s luck.”

“What makes you think I’m a beginner?” said Jack calmly, reaching for the next hand. “Only a fool insults a man he knows nothing about.”

“Where’d you hear that, sonny?” snarled Wilson. Jack felt sure the man’s anger was mostly show. Tex bluffed on the table and off, “Watching the Ninja Turtles?”

Jack merely smiled and studied his cards. The hand was garbage, as were the next three. Tex Wilson crowed as he won back most of the money he lost to Jack without a fight.

“Cards are running pretty poor,” muttered Hugo as they paused for drinks. Jack asked for a Coke. Chortling, Tex ordered scotch and soda. Watching the red-faced man closely. Jack saw him slip the waitress a twenty. There might be soda in Wilson’s glass, but there would be hardly any scotch. Despite his rude behavior and insults, the gambler was stone-cold sober.

Hugo’s shocked whistle almost caused Jack to drop the next hand. Staring at the cards, he felt a little shaken himself. He held two pair—aces and eights. It was the infamous “dead man’s hand” dealt to Wild Bill Hickok shortly before he was shot in the back.

“Cassandra’s right behind you,” said Hugo, as if reading Jack’s mind. “You’re high. Big Mouth’s holding jacks and fives. Beauty queen’s sitting with a possible straight, either end. The dealer has a possible flush.”

Jack opened boldly with a blue chip. Two pair always looked great but rarely paid off. The odds of drawing a full house were eleven to one. The chances of his opponents filling their hands were much better than his. But many gamblers refused to risk money on straights or flushes. Tonight both of his opponents and the dealer matched his bet.

No one said a word as they each discarded one card.

“Blondie’s drawn her straight,” declared Hugo. The young woman’s hand tightened on her cards and a small smile flashed across her face. She was not very good at concealing her pleasure, which might suit her other activities but not her card playing.

“Big Tex picked up a third jack,” croaked Hugo. “That gives him a full house, knave high.”

Praying to Pierre Cardan, the father of probability theory and a notorious gambler, Jack lifted his card. Hugo collapsed on his shoulder, nearly dropping into his lap. Carefully, Jack inserted the ace of hearts into his hand.

“Dealer sucked up his flush,” said Hugo, returning to position. Bucking odds of several thousand to one, all four players had pulled the card necessary to make their hand. And Jack was sitting with the winning combination.

Betting proceeded at a rapid clip. The dealer, knowing the relative shortcomings of his flush compared to what the others might have drawn, dropped out first. The blonde, not as smart, finally quit when she ran out of chips to continue. Only Jack and Tex remained. Finally, with more than thirty thousand dollars in the pot and Wilson out of chips, Jack called.

“Full house, jacks high,” declared the red-faced man, reaching for the chips. Wilson was sweating profusely. He knew that if Jack had continued to bet, he would have been forced to cover to remain in the game.

“Sorry,” said Jack, calmly, laying down his hand. “Full house, aces high.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Wilson, shaking his head in astonishment, “Son of a bitch.”

Strangely enough, it wasn’t Wilson who was the most disturbed. A professional gambler, the big man knew poker was risky business. Instead, it was the blonde sitting next to him who exploded.

“Two full houses and a straight in the same hand,” she screamed, her voice shrill. “Bullshit. It can’t happen. This game’s fixed.”

“What’d you want us to do, Mona?” asked one of the woman’s two bodyguards. A .45 automatic loomed large in one of his hands. His companion, gaze fixed directly on Jack, was likewise armed.

“They cheated me,” said the blonde. “Find out how.”

“Lady,” said the dealer, his voice trembling, “we run an honest game here. It’s the law.”

Behind him, Jack sensed Cassandra tense. He assumed she was preparing to cope with the two thugs. It wasn’t until he noticed the man in the plaid suit that he understood the real reason for her concern.

“Is there a problem here?” asked the newcomer. Though man-sized and dressed in blue plaid, there was no hiding the Afreet’s neon red features. Reaching out with blurring speed, he plucked the revolvers out of the hoodlums’ hands.

“Sorry, but firearms are not permitted in the casino,” the genie declared. Politely, he handed each of the gunsels a lump of solid metal that a second before had been their weapon.

“I was robbed,” said the blonde, no longer shrill.

“Ronald?” asked a second newcomer. Dressed in a white suit, with white shirt and white tie, he was so thin he resembled a skeleton. His gaze swept around the table, lingering for a second on Cassandra before continuing on. His thin, bloodless lips barely moved as he spoke.

“Strictly legit, Mr. Hasan, sir,” said the dealer. “There was an unusual run of cards, that’s all. Neither gentleman complained. It was the lady who made a ruckus.”

The man in white focused his attention on the blonde. She seemed to shrink in the chair as he stared at her. “You have visited our establishment many times, Mrs. Adams. Please do not force me to deny you further entrance. I believe an apology is in order.”

“Oh yes,” said the blonde nervously. Hastily, she rose to her feet. “I’m sorry. I truly am. The booze went to my head. It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Adams,” said Mr. Hasan. “Good night, Mrs. Adams.”

“Good night, good night,” said the blonde and half walked, half ran from the table, her two bodyguards trailing behind like frightened puppies.

“Excitement’s over, folks,” said the Afreet. “Drinks, as always, are on the house.”

Quickly, Jack rose to his feet. Hasan and the genie were already walking away. “Cash me in,” he told Cassandra, as he flipped the dealer a red chip, “and deposit the money in a safe-deposit box. I’ll see you later.”

Anxiously, he hurried after the man in white. His whole plan of action depended on the next few minutes.

“Mr. Hasan,” he called, “can I have a word with you?”

The Old Man of the Mountain, for Jack knew he could be no one else, turned. As did the genie, who showed no signs of recognizing Jack. “Yes? Do I know you?”

“No,” Jack said, and mentally crossed his fingers, “But you know my boss. He sent me here to observe your auction.”

“Auction?” repeated the Old Man of the Mountain, his voice no longer friendly. “To what event do you refer, Mr…?”

“Green,” supplied Jack, preparing for his biggest gamble of the night. “The auction taking place tomorrow evening, Mr. Hasan, involving a certain Russian.”

“Who is your boss, Mr. Green?” hissed the Old Man of the Mountain, sounding remarkably like a snake. A very deadly snake.

“He has many different names,” said Jack slowly, “but most people just call him The Man.”