Deadman's Bluff

46

The men’s lavatory quickly filled up. DeMarco felt Valentine’s hand on his sleeve.

“I want one more thing out of you,” Valentine said.

DeMarco could hear other players swirling around them, the slamming of the stall doors, the loud banter of the players still remaining in the tournament. “What’s that?”

“Level the playing field between you and your opponents.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

Valentine drew close to him, put his mouth a few inches from DeMarco’s ear. “Lose a few hands so that everyone at your table has about the same amount of chips.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because then the tournament will be even,” Valentine replied.

It was DeMarco’s turn to whisper. “Why should I do that, if you’re going to have me and my uncle arrested?”

“Because I’m not going to have you arrested,” Valentine whispered back.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

DeMarco gazed at the floor. “I really appreciate this.”

Valentine squeezed DeMarco’s arm so hard that he winced in pain. “I’m not letting you go because I like you,” the older man said.

“Then why?” DeMarco asked.

“Just because you and your uncle cheated this tournament doesn’t mean you have the right to ruin it. I want the World Poker Showdown to end fairly, with a clean winner. Understand?”

DeMarco took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His arm was singing with pain where Valentine had squeezed it. “Yeah, I understand,” he said.

“Good,” Valentine said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

DeMarco walked out of the men’s lavatory to find Guido waiting for him. When his uncle’s bodyguard got excited, his breathing accelerated, each breath sounding like a short pant. He was doing that now and said, “Skip, your uncle needs to talk to you.”

“That’s nice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t want to talk to him. Walk me back to the table.”

DeMarco stuck his arm out, and Guido took it and escorted him back.

“How many players are left in the tournament?” DeMarco asked.

“Only ten,” Guido said. “A bunch of guys got knocked out in the last hand. They’re down to the final table. Look, Skip, I don’t know how to tell you this—”

“Then don’t.”

“—but your uncle has decided to leave Las Vegas right away. The situation in Atlantic City is bad. Karl Jasper has a private plane waiting for us at an airport just outside of town.”

“Us?”

“Yeah, you, me, and him.”

DeMarco stopped. They had reached the feature table, and he could hear the TV people adjusting their equipment and talking about the lighting. He could also hear gamblers in the crowd setting the odds on the remaining ten players in the tournament. They were calling him the favorite. “I’m not going,” he said.

“Say what? Your uncle—”

“Tell my uncle to call me, and I’ll meet up with him later.”

“Skip, that’s not such a good idea. Your uncle—”

“—isn’t running the show anymore,” DeMarco interrupted. “I am. I’m the tournament chip leader, and everyone expects me to play. So I’m going to play.”

“Don’t make me do this, Skip.”

DeMarco turned so he faced his uncle’s bodyguard.

“Do what? Drag me across the room by my collar? I’ll have you tossed out of here so fast it will make your nose bleed. I’m in charge of my own life, not you, and not Uncle George. Now say good-bye.”

“Say good-bye?”

“Yes. Say good-bye, and then go take care of my uncle. He’s going to need it.”

“Who’s going to take care of you?”

“I am.”

“You sure you’re ready for that?”

DeMarco didn’t know if he was ready to run his own life, or not. But the only way he was going to find out was by trying. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Guido’s fast-paced breathing returned. So fast, in fact, that DeMarco thought he might have a stroke. Guido had always been there for him, and he reached out and touched the bodyguard’s stomach the way he’d done as a little kid. “You’re a good guy, Guido. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Just doing my job,” the bodyguard said.

DeMarco took his seat at the feature table. He could hear the dealer riffle-shuffling the cards, the fifty-two pasteboards purring like a cat. He’d been exposed to radiation for five days, and realized the dealers who were bringing radioactive cards to the table had known the health risk as well. To themselves, and to him.

“Drink, sir?” a female voice asked.

“Get me a Coke and a pack of cigarettes,” he said.

The cocktail waitress came back a minute later with his order, putting the drink and pack in front of him. He removed his wallet, pulled out a bill. He hadn’t paid for a thing since coming to Las Vegas. He supposed now was as good a time as any to start.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Eight dollars.”

“How much is this bill worth?” he asked.

“A hundred dollars,” she said.

“Keep it.”

She thanked him and departed. He tore open the pack of smokes, stuck one in his mouth. To the dealer he said, “Give me your lighter, will you?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“The lighter sitting next to you. Give it to me. I want to light up my smoke.”

The dealer didn’t know what to say. DeMarco rose from his chair, grabbed his drink, and leaned forward a little too quickly. He sent the drink in the dealer’s direction and heard the dealer squawk. “Did I soak your cards?” DeMarco asked.

“Yes,” the dealer said angrily.

“Good. Now get out of here,” DeMarco said under his breath.

“What?”

“You heard me. Take your trick lighter and leave.”

The dealer said, “Shit,” under his breath, then pushed back his chair and left the table. DeMarco sat down. Moments later the tournament director came up behind him.

“Where did the dealer go?” the tournament director asked.

“He felt sick and left,” DeMarco said.

The tournament director spoke into a walkie-talkie, and asked for someone to clean up the table, and for a new dealer. When he disconnected, DeMarco asked, “Would you mind telling me the chip count for each of my opponents?”

“Sure,” the tournament director said.

Each player’s chip total was on the electronic leader board hanging over the table, and the tournament director read the totals to him. He was first, followed by seven players with roughly the same amount of chips, followed by the last two players, who were two million shy of the others. He would have to lose a couple of hands to the last two. That would make everyone at the table equal.

“Thanks,” he told the tournament director.

A new dealer came, and the other players returned. DeMarco felt the bright lights of the TV cameras come on. It was showtime.