Deadman's Bluff

them coughing. “Easy. I’ll find out who made the cap.”

26

It doesn’t get any better than this, Karl Jasper thought.

Jasper stood at the rear of the crowd in Celebrity’s poker room, chewing an unlit cigar. The scene was absolutely beautiful. Skip DeMarco was beating the pants off the competition and the spectators were cheering his every move. The kid was going to be known in every home in America by the tournament’s end. Every home.

Jasper watched the action while trying to calculate how much money DeMarco would make in endorsements. He’d cut his teeth working for a Madison Avenue ad agency, and could not look at success without equating it with a dollar figure.

Only trying to figure out DeMarco’s worth was tricky. The kid was an overnight sensation, and advertisers tended to be wary of those. But DeMarco appealed to that all-important demographic—males eighteen to forty- nine—which meant he could endorse anything from condoms to cars, and be a hit.

Finally Jasper hit on a number. Twenty million in endorsements the first year, not including any deals from Europe, and that was being conservative. He would have to talk to Scalzo about managing the kid.

The crowd had grown quiet, and Jasper stood on his tiptoes to watch. A monster pot was building, with three players in the hunt. Fred Rea, an amateur player from Vero Beach, Florida, “Skins” Turner, a seasoned pro from Houston, and DeMarco.

Rea was the short stack at the table with four million in chips. It sounded like a lot, only his opponents had more. By declaring himself “all in,” Rea was putting his tournament life at stake.

Skins called him, and shoved four million in chips into the pot as well.

DeMarco immediately called Rea and Skins. The kid had a special savoir faire that Jasper loved. The five community cards had already been dealt and were lying face up on the table. Each player was allowed to use his two cards plus the community cards to make the best possible hand.

Rea turned over his two cards. He had two pair, fours and sevens.

DeMarco turned over his cards. He also had two pair, kings and sevens. He’d beaten Rea, and the crowd broke into wild applause. Jasper clapped along with them.

When the applause died, Skins Turner cleared his throat. “Afraid I’ve got you beat, son.” Skins turned over his cards. He had three kings, or what gamblers called “a set.” He raked in the pot while laughing under his breath.

The crowd let out a collective groan, and so did Jasper. Even though he didn’t know how Scalzo’s scam worked, he knew that DeMarco couldn’t lose. Yet somehow, DeMarco had lost. Jasper stared at the electronic leader board hanging over the feature table. DeMarco was now in third place.

Jasper’s cell phone was vibrating in his pocket. He pulled the phone out, and stared at the face. Mark Perrier, the hotel’s general manager, had sent him a text message: COME TO MY OFFICE! Jasper punched in Perrier’s number, heard Perrier pick up on the first ring.

“What’s going on?” Jasper asked.

“I’m going to close down your fucking tournament,” Perrier informed him.

“I’ll be right up,” Jasper said.

Perrier’s office was on the hotel’s top floor, not big, but with a breathtaking view. Jasper took the private elevator up while staring at the bad carpeting job. The hotel was a big white elephant, and once the newness wore off, its bad location was going to catch up with it. Perrier knew this, so he’d agreed to host the World Poker Showdown.

Perrier was standing by the window when Jasper walked in.

“Have a chair,” the general manager said.

Perrier was a drop of water in an Armani suit, and not the kind of guy Jasper took orders from. He joined him by the window.

“Great view. What’s the problem?”

Perrier’s eyes bore into Jasper’s face with an animallike intensity. “Were you aware that I sicced the police on Valentine?”

“No, but it was a good idea,” Jasper said.

“Do you know why I did that?”

“You wanted him out of the way?”

“I wanted to buy time,” Perrier said.

“To do what?”

“Sit down, and I’ll show you,” Perrier said.

The sitting area in Perrier’s office was dwarfed by his desk, and Jasper wedged himself into the stiff-backed chair that sat in front of it. Perrier went to the DVD player that was part of an entertainment unit, and fiddled with the remote. A flat-screen plasma-TV flickered to life.

“Nice picture,” Jasper said. “That high definition?”

Perrier remained standing, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “When you came to me with this tournament, I knew it wasn’t clean, and that I’d probably have to cover your tracks. That’s why I’ve put up with that mobster Scalzo in my hotel, and why I didn’t say anything when I heard you were using dealers with criminal records. I kept my mouth shut, and cleaned up your mess as best I could. But we’ve got a new mess, a real big one, Karl, and I’m not going to clean it up for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Jasper asked.

Perrier jerked his thumb at the TV screen. “Take a look.”

Jasper squinted at the flickering images on the screen. The picture was grainy black-and-white, and taken from above. “What am I looking at?”

“A surveillance tape.”

Jasper took out his glasses, fitted them on, and squinted at the screen. The tape showed two men standing at the bottom of a stairwell, one black, the other white, the camera’s angle revealing the worried looks on their faces. Jasper stared at the bottom right-hand corner of the tape. It contained the date and time the tape had been recorded, which was at a few minutes past midnight. He felt himself growing restless. “Come on, Mark, what am I looking at?”

Perrier continued looking at the screen. “Here we go.”

On the tape, the door to the stairwell burst open, and a silver-haired man rushed in wielding a handgun. He shot each man in the forehead, then ran out of the picture. It was over in a matter of seconds.

Jasper heard himself exhale. On the tape, the two guys lay dead, blood pooling around their heads. He knew who they were. Hitmen, hired to kill Valentine. Scalzo had said that Valentine had shot them in the stairwell, only now Jasper knew otherwise. It was Scalzo who’d shot them. Jasper rose from his chair.

“Give me a drink,” he said.

Perrier poured Jasper a Scotch on the rocks at the bar. The drink was strong and made Jasper’s mouth burn. They stood by the window, staring into the distance.

“The police asked me about the surveillance camera in the stairwell,” Perrier said, sipping water. “I lied, and told them it didn’t exist.”

“Good move,” Jasper said.

“Maybe. I could tell them I was wrong, and turn the tape over to them. Or, I could destroy the tape. What I do depends on you.”

Jasper stared at Perrier’s reflection in the glass. “How so?”

“The tournament is a winner, and everyone wants it to continue. But there’s a hitch. We have a mobster running around killing people in the hotel. I want you to make the mobster go away.”

“I can’t do that,” Jasper said.

“No?”

“He’s my partner. He put up the cash.”

“Make him go away, anyway.”

“How? You saw what kind of person he is.”