The Granite Moth (7 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

L
ars Dekker rose to greet me with a kiss on the cheek as we had agreed upon over the phone, appropriate for an old family friend. It had been more than six years since I'd met the notorious playboy. He'd been lounging by the backyard pool, sipping a martini and reading David Markson. My urge to laugh at his monogrammed swim trunks had been squashed by his friendly demeanor. We weren't going to become best buds, but he was likable, politics-ready you might say, despite his obvious attempts to seem more adult than his twenty-four years. He had grown into his role as next in line to a fortune with panache. Tonight he had draped the jacket of his suit over his chair, but somehow his shirt was as smooth as if it had been ironed only minutes before. His gold cufflinks read “LGD,” and I paused to consider what the “G” might stand for before getting a good look at his face. He wasn't a “Most Eligible Bachelor” according to the gossip rags for nothing. His translucent blue eyes weren't hidden behind glasses like his brother's, and his darker hair made them even more noticeable.

I settled myself into a free leather chair and glanced around, confused by the spare accommodations. Sure, the table and chairs were nice and I appreciated the mood lighting, hoping it disguised my age a bit, but it was frankly hard to see. Not only were there no waiters, there weren't even windows, and I pitied the claustrophobic gambler who might wander into a game expecting Vegas-style luxury. Drinks were serve yourself from a rolling cart. It dawned on me that these were serious players, not just bored millionaires. Why else would they put up with this room? The thought didn't make signing a note for $10,000—the entirety of the money I had received on my last unusually lucrative case—any easier. I hoped Lars hadn't steered me wrong when he suggested the amount. For all I knew, the stakes included Bentleys and summer homes.

A respectable but by no means staggering amount of chips appeared in front me, and I used every last drop of my talents to keep my face neutral. I had no intention of losing all this money, but seeing my entire life's worth in round plastic coins was humbling. I twirled a five hundred on the green felt and inquired about the ante, corrected at once that in Texas Hold'em, the first monies are called “blinds.” I swear I could sense my new pals licking their chops. Nothing like fresh meat. I waited for the inevitable adrenaline to kick in. It couldn't come fast enough and when I threw the chip, a thrill slid down my spine.
Here we go
.

“Drink, honey?” asked a woman who introduced herself as Sybil while pouring me a generous gin and tonic before I had time to reply. She slid the glass toward me as the baby-faced dealer gave everyone a pair. I took a sip before peeking at the cards: two jacks.

So as not to give anything away, I shifted my focus to the birdcage in the corner, the room's sole decoration, if you could call it that. It was a plain, square container, not much
bigger than a carry-on suitcase, but the birds were something. Parakeets maybe. Their blue feathers glittered in the light, especially when they flitted from perch to perch as if to get a better view of us. I was trying not to let my nerves show, but when the dealer winked at me, I thought perhaps I had given myself away. I tucked strands of my red wig behind one ear, letting my cubic zirconium studs sparkle.
Finches
, I thought, keeping my focus on the fluttering in the corner rather than in my stomach.

“Parrotlets,” said the man to my right. He must have caught me staring because he pointed toward the cage.

“You must be joking. Such a darling name for such darling creatures. No, surely you're teasing me,” I answered, putting my cards back down on the table. I wasn't likely to forget a matching pair.

“No, ma'am. Those are cobalt parrotlets, Miss Eva's prize possession.”

I turned toward the man who had uttered the magic word. Not “parrotlets,” but “Eva,” the sole reason I was sitting around that table, pretending to be a socialite with a gambling addiction. Well, Kennedy wouldn't call it an addiction. Proclivity. I spun my five-hundred chip again and didn't try to hide my once-over. The gentleman was the one player to look like he might be a professional. He wore a wide-brim Stetson, perfectly reasonable for San Antonio, but we were in a midtown Manhattan high-rise. In his sixties, he was the oldest player, too, and gave off an oil-tycoon vibe. To his right was Sybil, a foul-mouthed, whiskey-drinking forty-year-old who, if I had to guess, had earned her money rather than inherited. It was hard not to compare her to the polished pinstriped fellow who had grunted at me instead of introducing himself. I'd dubbed him Mr. Manners. When it was his turn, he called, and everyone followed, waiting to see what the communal cards offered.

The dealer was skinny as a piece of lettuce, but undeniably handsome. His back was to the parrotlets, and they seemed to like him, alighting on the rung closest to his chair most often. When they chirped, he called back to them in a soothing voice, “
mis dulzuras
.” He was well-dressed, his shirt crisp and tucked in, but didn't seem like a high roller himself. Someone on his way up, but not up.

The flop pulled my attention away from my companions, and I noted the three, ten, and additional jack. My heart sped up at the last card, and I realized that I was having fun, though fun was hardly the point. Mr. Manners didn't call this time, but raised the bet by a hundred.

“Will this be a one-time visit, Mrs. Vanders?” the Texan asked. He'd been reticent to share his name, too, and I tried to weasel a proper introduction from him.

“Please, call me Kennedy.” I waited for him to respond in kind, but was disappointed. When the pause stretched on too long, I tried a smile just shy of flirtatious. “I hope this isn't my only appearance. I'll raise you five hundred.” I threw my chip in, and the Texan met me. So did the others, and I prayed my wager hadn't been too small. I was fairly confident that this hand was mine, and a few extra thousands would make the evening easier.

“Is this the usual crowd?” I fished. I was thinking about Eva, looking for more than a casual name drop. Her husband had been her ticket out, and she had made the most of it. The restaurant was clearly hers in more than name and doing very well at that. At least now when Signora Costa said her children were in the restaurant business, she wouldn't have any lies to confess at mass. Even so I would guess Signora Costa was pretty close-lipped, even with Father Ignatius.

“There are a few others who stop by when the mood strikes them.” Lars glanced at his cards again, and I decided he probably didn't
have anything promising. It's easier to remember your hand when it's good. I looked at my own for show and watched the dealer flip over a ten for the turn. That card made the game a little more interesting, but even if someone had a ten already, my three jacks would win. I added another five hundred, and Lars folded as expected. The Texan did, as well, which was a bit more surprising. I probably wouldn't be able to read him for awhile, if ever.

That left Mr. Manners and Sybil, who paused before matching my bet then refilling her whiskey glass. She could reach the bottle without being accused of card snooping, and I decided she chose her seat with that goal in mind. It would be a shame to leave a glass empty for a whole hand.

Now that he had folded, Lars was downright chatty, asking me about my fake neighborhood and fake career. I thought perhaps he was playing with me, testing the extent of my rehearsal. Perhaps he didn't realize how dangerous my exposure would be. I was grateful to Ellis for not giving him the full details. And a brother who would do a favor without needing an explanation? That was sibling loyalty I could get behind. Most nights, I improvised my characters, but I'd given Kennedy some thought, so his inquiries didn't unnerve me much.

“Charity work mostly nowadays,” I said in answer to Lars's latest question.

“Like handing over your money to us,” Mr. Manners said too loudly, his first contribution to the conversation. He guffawed, and I felt myself bristle as he tossed his chips to the middle.

“Like stray kittens and puppies, but I could be persuaded to support other lost causes.”

Only Sybil laughed, but I caught Lars smiling. Mr. Manners didn't respond, but the dealer joked about everyone playing nice. Then he threw down the last card of the hand, a
young-looking lad sporting an axe and a funny hat. It was the fourth jack.

Only years of practice kept me from revealing my disbelief. I knew the odds of getting four of a kind were ridiculously low, four in something like two or three million. When I hazarded a glance at the dealer, he squinted his left eye in a sort of half-wink. He had set me up, but why? I raced through the possibilities as quickly as I could manage, stalling as I considered my bet. Part of me wanted to fold rather than face the fallout, but then the dealer would know I wasn't there to play poker. Or at least not to win. Was that his job? To suss out spies? That meant The Skyview had something to hide beyond a small, illegal gaming room, a slap-on-the-wrist crime as likely ignored as prosecuted.

“All in,” I finally said, shoving my pile into the center and carefully avoiding further eye contact with the dealer. It was an apt metaphor for my life. All in. I could taste vomit in the back of my throat. There was no way anyone had a better hand than me based on the five visible cards, but more importantly, if everyone folded, I wouldn't have to show my cards. What could go wrong?

Sybil whistled, and the Texan took off his hat to wipe his brow. His bald spot was sprouting a few stray hairs, and I knew that the hat wasn't intended solely for intimidation. Mr. Manners seemed downright pissed, grumbling about inexperienced players. It was the worst time for Eva to make her appearance, but in she marched.

“Hello, lovies,” she began, squeezing Sybil on her shoulder and smiling broadly at the Texan. She paid the most attention to the dealer, draping her arm around him before kissing him on the temple. She whispered something into his ear, and he flushed. “Everyone have everything they need? Ms. Vanders?”

The moment of truth had arrived, and I played my part with as much aplomb as Mrs. Salvatore Magrelli.

“
Oh, quite. Your guests have been welcoming to say the least. I think they're about to give me their shirts.”

“Beginner's luck?”

“Something like that.”

When she smiled, I let out the breath that I had been holding. She whispered into the dealer's ear once more, sliding her hand up his chest, almost as if making sure we knew he belonged to her. It was a possessive gesture, but the young man didn't seem to mind. The parrotlets twittered, jumping from rung to rung in their excitement.

“If you need anything, please don't hesitate to let me know. I'll have some champagne brought in, shall I?” Eva asked.

The “shall” signaled what I already suspected; she had erased her past life. I wondered briefly if Salvatore had Eliza Doolittled her or if this was the role she was born to play. Part of me envied her full immersion. I wanted a character of my own to keep, too.

Eva slipped out of the room, presumably to alert a staff member then maybe visit her office. That was the behind-the-scene location that interested me the most, but moving from dining room to gaming room in one night wasn't bad. How many more visits would it take to slip unnoticed through the hallways? Of course, I doubted I would be welcome back at all if I laid down my jacks. The dealer might be fired, as well, unless he was in cahoots with his boss.
With his lover?
Maybe they wanted me gone and fast.

“What'll it be,” I prompted. Sybil threw in the towel, and I turned my attention to Mr. Manners, who popped some Nicorette gum into his mouth. He shook his head slightly and pushed his cards away while I managed not to faint in relief. I was pretty sure that I had just cheated some very powerful people, but I wasn't about to complain about my extra three grand. Besides, I needed it more than they did.
Oh, Kennedy,
how many falls have started with such a thought?
And, yet, that wasn't a Kennedy S. Vanders thought so much as a Kathleen Stone one. I didn't know who was playing whom at the moment, which was dangerous. The Dom Pérignon arrived as I raked my winnings toward me and tried to decide when pleasure became a problem.

“To the winner, the spoils,” Sybil said, handing me the champagne to uncork. My life hadn't given me many opportunities to open a three-hundred-dollar bottle of anything, but I knew that hosing down the crowd was for NASCAR and strip clubs. I twisted the bottle slowly until I felt the cork pop out, then filled the '20s-style glasses that the waiter had set out. Had it been Gustav? He had moved with such precision that I had hardly noticed his presence at all. Mr. Manners shook his glass away, and Sybil gamely grabbed two, passing one along to the dealer.

“Drink up, kid,” she said, swallowing a gulp. I held my glass toward him to express my thanks for the cards, and he did one of those half-winks again. This time, I was almost sure Sybil saw him, but all she said was, “Fast before I change my mind.”

The young man grinned and drained his glass before moving it out of his way and breaking open a new deck.
A new deck for each hand?
I wondered if the group had reason to be mistrustful. Or was wastefulness part of the appeal. How long would it take to become bored with a life of luxury? My idea of a night out involved a whole pizza to myself as I sat in the back of a rented Honda Civic. And I wasn't sure what people meant by “a night off.”

“Refill, Kennedy?” I blinked back into reality and glanced at my now empty glass. Lars was already pouring the last few drops into it, and I thanked him aloud for his effort and silently for snapping me out of my daydreams. Of course, I would have been brought around soon enough when the dealer started shrieking. He was foaming at the mouth, clutching his throat
while his face turned from pink to red. When blood mixed with the foam, terror filled the room. I jerked out of my chair as did everyone at the table, the Texan taking charge as if he'd been elected to the post.