At least she wasn’t wagering her own money. It’d been Carlyle’s crazy idea to have her here, so it was his cash on the line. That was some consolation, because Erin realized very quickly that she wasn’t likely to be winning.
“Maggie, love,” Corky said. “Deal me a pair of aces in the first hand. I’ll thank you in my prayers.”
Maggie didn’t respond. Instead, she looked at Evan.
“Deal the cards,” he said. “Let’s play.”
* * *
Erin knew how to play poker, but was no professional gambler. And this was no friendly game. Her police instincts were screaming at her that several of the people in the room were extremely dangerous, particularly Mickey Connor. He was the sort of guy a cop would never lose sight of, no matter how crowded the room. But she didn’t want to stare at him. Besides, Evan O’Malley also needed her attention, and she was trying to keep track of everyone else at the same time. There was just no way to play skillful cards in this situation.
She bet conservatively, trying to take the measure of the other players. Carlyle and Evan played like pros, giving nothing away, staying calm, watching everyone else. Mickey played aggressively, trying to intimidate the other players with big raises. Corky was reckless, bluffing as if they were schoolkids playing for pennies, laughing off bad luck. Liam was nervous and twitchy, unpredictable, but with a tendency to fold. Veronica didn’t seem to care what cards she was dealt; she was too busy playing the players. Corky started a couple of times, and Erin would’ve bet the other woman had done something to him under the table. Finnegan appeared distracted, almost unaware of what was going on. Carlyle occasionally had to quietly say, “It’s your bet, Kyle,” to call him back from wherever he’d gone in his head.
Caitlin, one of the Corner’s waitresses, breezed in every few minutes to freshen drinks. The most popular beverage was Glen Docherty-Kinlochewe whiskey. Erin stuck to Guinness, figuring she’d better keep her head as clear as possible. Liam opted for something called a “death by chocolate,” which appeared to be a bastardized milkshake, complete with whipped cream and a cherry on top. She noted that Evan only ordered one drink, and an hour in, it was still half full. Finnegan asked for mineral water, which led Corky to comment, “Lad, she asked if you wanted a drink.”
“Liquor makes me fuzzy,” Finnegan said.
“Like a cat?” Corky replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Carlyle shot his friend a sharp look. Erin, remembering what he’d said about Finnegan, tensed and wondered exactly to expect from a crazy mobster.
Finnegan’s cheek twitched and his whole body jerked slightly sideways, like a man getting a mild electric shock. He looked down at the tabletop and rubbed his thumb against his fingertips.
“People say there’s more than one way to skin a cat,” he said quietly. “But it’s all cosmetic. Really, when you get down to it, there’s just the one way.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
“My bet?” Finnegan said, blinking and looking around.
And the game went on.
After that first hour, Liam was out of chips and Veronica and Finnegan were running low. Erin, to her surprise, had more or less broken even. Corky and Carlyle were winning. Erin was even relaxing a little. Conversation was remarkably commonplace. Even crooks liked watching sports and talking politics. No illegal business was discussed.
Liam excused himself and sidled out of the room. He’d been getting edgier as his pile of chips had shrunk, and Erin figured he had a date with a dime bag of powder. The game went on without him.
It was the middle of a hand, a little after nine o’clock, when things got out of control.
The flop in the middle of the table showed the ace of clubs, five of spades, and three of diamonds. Erin’s hand was garbage, a seven and eight, and she folded in the first round of betting. Veronica dropped out, too, and was watching Corky with an intensity that was making him nervous. The other players were still in.
“Hey, Cars,” Mickey said. “Got a question for you.”
“What is it you’re wanting to know, Mickey?” Carlyle replied quietly.
“I was just wondering how you and the city kitty got acquainted.”
Erin glanced at Finnegan, but he didn’t seem aware of the second mention of felines.
Carlyle smiled thinly. “One of the advantages of being a publican is that one has the opportunity to meet people. She walked through my door one day, and we got to talking.”
Mickey snorted. “I don’t believe it.”
“Are you questioning my truthfulness, or my memory?” Carlyle asked. “Regardless, my answer’s what it was.”
“You sure you’re not leaving things out? Like, maybe she gave you a ride in the sow crate?”
Erin suppressed a flinch. She’d heard the term before. A sow crate was a police car driven by a female officer, and was not something you said to the cop’s face. She did a quick mental tally and decided Mickey was on his fourth drink of the night. He might be a little buzzed, but a guy his size wouldn’t be drunk enough on four shots of whiskey to have lost his self-control
“You know as well as I that I’ve never been arrested this side of the pond,” Carlyle said, still calm and controlled. “Unlike yourself.”
“Yeah, you’re slick,” Mickey said. “You’re so slippery, I bet you don’t even need to lube up before you get it on.”
There was a momentary silence. Looking around the table, Erin saw several startled faces. Even Finnegan seemed to be paying attention now.
“Mickey,” Carlyle said, and there was a definite edge to his voice. “You’ve crossed a line. I suggest you take a good, long step back.”
“An apology to the lady’s a good place to start,” Corky added.
“Oh, sorry,” Mickey said. “I didn’t know any ladies was