Unlucky (3 page)

"Wasn't Harry that confessed."

Mallory studied the man for a minute then sighed. "Stanley's been reading mail again, hasn't he?"

J.T. shrugged. "You know how Stanley is. Leopard ain't gonna change its spots."

"Good God, he's been a postman for over thirty years. Doesn't he have any appreciation for federal law?" Not to mention the privacy issue. She made a mental note to change the mailing address on a recently placed order for a "personal item" she'd bought from a "specialty" store in New Orleans.

"I swear, J.T," she continued, "I sometimes wonder why our government spends so much money on war. If we really wanted to cripple the intelligence of other countries, we'd just send the two of them over."

She was just trying to recall anything damaging or otherwise embarrassing that she might have mentioned to Father Thomas the week before when Scooter clapped her on the back and dropped a hundred in front of her.

"No problem collecting?" she asked. "I figured he'd argue for a rematch."

Scooter grinned. "Idiot claimed his hand went to sleep, then cut out of here with the rest of those Yankees. I asked if he wanted your number, but he didn't even look at me." He poked Mallory in the ribs with his elbow. "Guess that means your date is off." Laughing hysterically at himself, he motioned to J.T. for a beer.

J.T. grabbed a bottle, popped the cap and slid it across the bar to Scooter, then leaned on the bar in front of Mallory. "So if the tax note goes on sale, are you going to buy?"

She downed the remainder of her beer and picked up the hundred-dollar bill Scooter had dropped in front of her. "Fifty thousand dollars? Father Thomas would have to challenge the rest of Louisiana to a pool match for that to happen. Even with all my savings, I'm about ten grand short and no assets for a quick sale, none I can do without, anyway."

J.T. nodded. "I hear ya. Ten Gs is a wad of cash, especially to come up with in such a short time frame."

Scooter turned around on his bar stool and gave her a curious look. "You short on cash, Mai? You can have my other hundred. I was just going to buy new lures with it anyway."

Mallory smiled at Scooter, his offer confirming her opinion that her neighbor was silly as a goose but had a heart the size of the Gulf of Mexico. "I appreciate it, Scooter, really I do, but I need a lot more than a hundred."

Scooter scratched his head for a moment, his eyebrows scrunched together in obvious concentration. "There is probably one way you can make a lot of money fast--next week, as a matter of fact."

Mallory stared at Scooter. "I'm not doing anything illegal," she said, bringing up the only thing she could imagine Scooter would come up with. "Besides, ten grand in two weeks is a lot, even for a New Orleans prostitute. And I don't have the enthusiasm for the job anyway."

J.T. laughed. "She got you there."

Scooter stared at her, a dumbstruck expression on his normally jovial face. "Good God Almighty, Mallory, I never said you should do anything of the sort. I wouldn't even think it."

She narrowed her eyes at Scooter, still waiting for his suggestion. "So if it's not something illegal then why don't you just come out with it?"

Scooter glanced both directions, apparently making sure they couldn't be overheard, then leaned over closer to Mallory. "Your uncle is hosting a high-stakes poker tournament. I bet he'd cough up a pretty penny for you to cool for him."

J.T., who had leaned in to hear what Scooter said, jerked back from the bar, his jaw set in a hard line. "Hell no, Mallory. You're not working that tournament for your uncle. Even if I have to padlock you in the storage room to keep you from it."

Mallory stared at J.T. in surprise, trying to process what Scooter said and the bar owner's unexpected reaction. "What in the world has gotten into you, J.T.? I know Reginald flies on the wrong side of the law sometimes, but I've cooled for him before and you haven't had a problem with it."

"Damn it." J.T. grabbed a rag from the bar and shook it at Scooter. "You want to ask your genius neighbor how he knows about this tournament? Because he's been doing construction at your uncle's floating boat of fun. And do you know what he's been installing, specifically for this tournament?"

"Forget I said anything," Scooter mumbled. He slid off his bar stool and slunk across the bar, away from J.T.'s wrath.

J.T. tossed the rag on the bar and ran one hand across his balding head. "That idiot you live next to has been installing metal detectors at the casino, that's what. This unorthodox tournament of your uncle's is a chance to beat the house. Dealers have been flocking from all over the state to try out for a spot."

"Why would dealers care?"

"Because they're playing on the casino's behalf. They put up ten grand for the spot and get to keep half their winnings, less what Reginald kicks in. Reginald is matching the ten with another forty. He's got several hundred thousand at stake."

Mallory frowned. "Okay, so putting up his money isn't the smartest thing Reginald's ever done, but how do metal detectors fit into it?"

J.T. leaned across the bar, his voice low. "The tournament is invitation only. There's a couple of locals invited for good measure, I suppose, but the rest..."

"The rest what?" Mallory prodded.

"Oh hell," J.T. said finally. "Your uncle has assembled a group of heavy hitters--Mafia, drug dealers, politicians, crooked law enforcement--and not a single one of them worth pulling out of the bayou if they were drowning. He's putting together a floating boat of criminals--hardcore, no-conscience-having, bad guys."

Mallory sat back in her chair and stared at J.T, stunned. "You're sure about that?"

"Not a doubt in my mind. The teller down at the bank said Reginald's been in there every day for the past week, depositing cash in fifty-thousand-dollar increments. He listed the name of each player on their deposit, so the teller was real clear on that. This tournament is going to happen all right--they've already bought in."

"What in the world is Reginald thinking?"

J.T. shook his head. "I don't know, and I don't think I want to. Word on the street is that he's into a New Orleans loan shark for a wad of cash. If this is his best idea for getting repayment, I'm afraid Reginald has finally lost his mind."

"Then I guess asking him to loan me the money is probably out of the question, and that was actually my original plan. But if he's really in that much of a bind over money, I'd be a sure bet for him to get a hunk of it back. I bet he'd pay a pretty penny for that guarantee."

J.T. sighed, knowing he was losing the battle. "But at what cost? Cooling for a bunch of bored husbands or businessmen is one thing, but this is an entirely different kettle of fish. Your uncle has been pretty good to you over the years, but that doesn't change what kind of man he is. Do you really want to get in the middle of one of Reginald's schemes--especially if he's as desperate as it appears?"

Mallory stared out the window of the bar, the billboard for Royal Port-A-Johns seeming to taunt her from its roadside perch. "I don't have a choice, J.T. It's the only way."

Jake Randoll looked across the poker table at Reginald St. Claire and hoped like hell the man wasn't holding a flush. Trying to pull an inside straight with the cards he held was risky, but then some might say that most of his choices were. Securing the lead dealer position at St. Claire's poker tournament was a huge gamble, but it was also his only option--his last chance to take down a money launderer who kept getting away. He also hoped to find out what had happened to his partner, Mark, who had been working undercover for the money launderer and had disappeared more than a month ago.

Which left Mark's frantic wife, Janine, and his young son with no answers. And that wasn't good enough for Jake.

Nothing short of beating St. Claire at this round of cards would give Jake the coveted dealer's slot at the lead table--a seat across from the money launderer, Silas Hebert--and he was willing to risk anything for that position.

St. Claire studied his hand with the intensity of a trained pit bull monitoring an intruder. At one time his beefy frame had probably been muscular and toned. But with St. Claire on the other side of fifty, what used to be firm and hard hung loosely on his arms and created jowls on his neck. His face was completely blank, his dark piercing eyes focused on the cards he held, never once even glancing across the table at his opponent. Which was perfectly fine by Jake. He hoped the casino owner was distracted enough by the game to forgo looking too deeply into Jake's background. Oh, he had the usual cover-ups in place, but anyone with determination and a little cleverness could always get through them.

And of all the things people had accused Reginald St. Claire of being, stupid definitely wasn't one of them. Jake didn't for one minute consider St. Claire as anything less than a formidable opponent, despite his less-than-stellar physical fitness.

Jake pulled a single card from his hand and discarded it. Time to let his talent flow. He'd been holding back just a bit from the onset, keeping a low profile to ensure that St. Claire didn't get too interested, but it was time to take the rest of the man's chips and collect his dealer position. Time to get the answers he'd been searching for so that he and Mark's family could face the truth, then get on with the rest of their lives.

He held his breath as he pulled the card Reginald dealt him across the table. Had he misread the other man? Had his card-counting ability lapsed and he'd taken a chance he shouldn't have on the straight? He didn't think so, but there was only one way to find out. Gripping the edge of the card, he turned up the corner, all the while maintaining the blank look he wore so well.

Bingo!

He tossed in a couple of chips, careful not to look St. Claire in the eyes or show any change in expression or body language. A real poker player never gave away his hand.

He could feel Reginald's stare and knew the man was studying him, knowing that a one-card pick usually implied a straight or a flush, and right now, St. Claire was using his considerable people-reading ability to try and determine if Jake had hit his intended mark.

The casino owner must have bought his charade because he upped the bet by over half of his chips and stared at Jake, his calculating eyes taking in every nuance of Jake's expression. Jake pretended to consider the up for a moment, trying to decide if he could increase the stakes one more time but ultimately deciding against it.

He let out a bit of a sigh. Not overly theatrical, because then St. Claire would know for sure he was shamming, but just enough for the man to think it had slipped by unintentionally. Finally, he picked up the chips from the stack in front of him, shook them in his hand for a moment, and tossed them onto the pile in front of them. "Call," he said, knowing this hand was played out and upping the bet any further would be an amateur's mistake.

St. Claire smiled and lowered his cards to the table--a pair of kings and a pair of twos.

"Not bad," Jake said, and returned the smile, "but not enough to beat a straight." He fanned the cards across the table and had the luxury of watching St. Claire scowl at his hand. After a moment, the casino owner looked up at him with begrudging admiration.