"V" is for Vengeance (3 page)

The next hand, he was dealt pocket aces. The flop came down: 2 of diamonds, then the 10 of diamonds, and the ace of clubs. He and the blonde were suddenly engaged again, upping each other's bets. The turn was the queen of diamonds. The river was the 2 of spades, which put a pair on the board. He figured the woman had pocket kings or queens. If she held a king and a jack or two diamonds, she'd be looking at a straight or a flush.

He had a full house, aces full of 2's, and that hand would beat either. He locked eyes with the blonde. More than anything in the world, he wanted to grind her face into the felt. She was bluffing again. He knew she was. He was right back at the same place he'd been six hours before, only this time his hand was strong.

He sat there trying to anticipate what she held. Any way he looked at it, he was in the superior position. He studied the cards on the table, imagining every possible combination, given what he could see and the pocket aces he knew he had. She was bluffing. She had to be. He raised—nothing dramatic because he didn't want her backing away. She hesitated and then matched his bet and raised him another two hundred. He was going to make a mistake. He could feel it in his bones. But which way would his error lie? Would he fold as he had before and let her take a pot like that with a piss-poor hand? Or would he push her to the wall? Was he underestimating her hand? He didn't see how he could be, but he'd lost touch with his intuition. He couldn't reason. His mind was empty. When he was on a roll he could see the cards. It was like having X-ray vision. The odds would dance in his head like sugarplum fairies and he'd feel the magic at work. Now all he could take in was the green felt and the harsh lights and the cards, which lay there inert and whispered nothing to him. If he picked up this pot he was home free. He could picture it, his holding to etiquette and not reaching for the pot at first even though it was his. The dealer would push the chips in his direction. He wouldn't even look at the blonde, because who cared about her? This was his moment. Doubt had obscured his initial fleeting instincts. He couldn't remember what his gut had been telling him. Time seemed to stretch. She was waiting, and the dealer waited, and the other players measured his chances in the same way he did. If he won the pot, he'd quit. He made a promise to himself. He'd get up, collect his winnings, and walk out a free man.

She was a woman who bluffed. She'd gotten him once and if she was a killer, she'd do it again. What were the chances of the two of them going head-to-head like this and her bluffing a second time? How much nerve did she have? How calculating was she? She wouldn't do that, would she? He had to make a decision. He felt like he was standing on a ten-meter board, teetering on the brink, trying to work up the courage to go flying off the edge.
Fuck it
, he thought, and he went all in. He was not going to let the bitch get the best of him.

He turned over his pocket cards, watching every player at the table put the hand together: pocket aces, plus an ace of clubs and the pair of 2's on the table, giving him his full house. The look she turned on him was odd. He didn't understand until he caught sight of the cards she'd fanned out in front of her. There was a collective intake of breath. She was holding pocket 2's. Adding those to the 2's on the table gave her four of a kind. He stared with disbelief. Pocket deuces? Nobody pushed pre-flop with a pair like that. She had to be insane. But there they sat, four 2's . . . four sharp arrows in his heart.

The dealer said nothing. He pushed the blonde's winnings forward and she gathered them in. Phillip was in shock, so convinced the hand was his that he couldn't absorb the fact of her four of a kind. What kind of lunatic held on to pocket 2's and pushed all the way to the end? His mouth was dry and his hands had started to shake. The gaze she fixed on him was nearly sexual, soft with satisfaction. She'd played him and just as he thought he'd gotten off, she pulled the rug out from under him again. He got up abruptly and left the table. Of his original ten grand, he had four hundred dollars in chips.

He took the elevator to the fourth floor, surprised when he realized it was dark outside. His hands shook so badly, it took him two tries to get his key to work. He locked the door behind him and stripped off his clothes, leaving a trail across the floor: shoes, socks, pants, shirt. He smelled of flop sweat. In the bathroom, he dropped two Alka-Seltzers into a glass of water and drank down the still-fizzing mix. He showered and shaved, then pulled on the hotel robe, a white terry cloth garment that hit him at the knee and gaped unbecomingly when he perched on the edge of the bed. He punched in the number for room service, ordering an Angus steak sandwich, medium rare, hand-cut fries, and two beers.

Forty-five minutes passed before the food arrived and by then both the fries and the steak were cold. The beef was choice instead of prime and too tough to bite through. He'd had to discard the bun and cut the meat with his steak knife. He chewed until the meat was a flavorless wad. He had no appetite. He was sick at heart. He pushed the cart to one side. He'd nap for an hour and then go down to the casino and try his luck again. He really had no choice. With four hundred dollars in chips, he had no idea how he'd get back on top, but there was no way he'd leave town without Dante's money in hand.

There was a knock at the door. He glanced at the clock. 9:25. He'd had the presence of mind to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside knob and he was tempted to ignore the intrusion. Probably a complimentary fruit bowl or a bottle of bad wine. Amenities of that sort were always delivered at odd hours when you had no use for them. The knock came again. He crossed the room and put an eye to the spy hole.

Dante was standing in the corridor. Phillip could see two more men approaching from down the hall. When he'd returned to his room earlier, he'd flipped the dead bolt into the locked position and swung the elongated V of the safety lock into place. What were the chances of the three going away if he didn't answer the door? Dante had no way of knowing he was in his room. He might have gone out without removing the plastic tag that hung over the knob. He debated briefly and decided it was better to face him. His only hope was to ask for an extension. Dante would almost have to agree. What else was he going to do? Phillip didn't have the money and if he didn't have it, he didn't have it.

Phillip undid the locks and opened the door.

Dante said, “I was beginning to think you weren't here.”

“Sorry about that. I was on the phone.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You going to let me in?” Dante asked. His tone was mild, but Phillip detected the edge.

“Of course. Absolutely.”

Phillip stepped back and Dante entered the room, with his two companions sauntering in behind him. The door was left open and Phillip didn't like the feeling that anyone passing down the hall could see in. He felt vulnerable, barefoot, wearing the hotel robe, which barely covered his knees. His clothes were still strewn across the floor. The remains of dinner on his room-service tray smelled strongly of ketchup and cold fries.

Dante wore a dove gray silk shirt, open at the collar, and fawn-colored slacks. His loafers and belt were made of the same honey leather. The two men with him were more casually dressed.

Dante nodded at one. “My brother, Cappi,” he said. “That's Nico. You met him.”

“I remember. Nice seeing you again,” Phillip said. Neither man acknowledged him.

Cappi was in his forties, a good eight years younger than his brother; five foot nine, maybe, to Dante's height of six two. He was fair, his hair an unruly thatch of dark blond, spiked with gel. He had a fashionable two-day growth of beard, light eyes, and a jaw that jutted forward slightly. The malocclusion offset his otherwise good looks. He wasn't the same natty dresser as his brother. Where Dante's clothes were high quality and tailored to fit, Cappi's gray-and-black polyester shirt was worn loose over stone-washed jeans. Phillip wondered if he carried a gun.

Nico, the third guy, was heavyset and soft, wearing jeans and a T-shirt too tight for his bulging gut. Cappi moved to the open door while Nico popped his head into the bathroom, checking to see that it was empty. Dante crossed to the window and turned to survey the accommodations, taking in the eight-foot cottage-cheese ceiling, the furnishings, the drab wall-to-wall carpeting, the fourth-floor view. He said, “Not bad. Wouldn't hurt 'em to sink serious money into the place.”

Phillip said, “It's nice. I appreciate your putting in a good word for me.”

“They treating you well?”

“Great. Couldn't be better.”

“Glad to hear that,” Dante said. “I flew in an hour ago. It's been a while since I was here and I figured as long as I was in the neighborhood, I'd see what you were up to.”

Phillip couldn't think of an appropriate response so he said nothing. He watched to see which Dante was in evidence, the kind man or the hidden one with his malicious heart and dead eyes. He thought the good one was in charge, but he knew better than to make assumptions.

Dante leaned against the chest of drawers. “So how's it going? You said you'd be coming in to see me. We had a date. What was it, August 11? Day before yesterday.”

“I know. Sorry I didn't make it, but something came up.”

There was a moment's pause while Dante absorbed the news. He didn't seem upset. “Happens to all of us. A phone call would have been nice, but here you are.” His manner was casual, as though he couldn't have cared less. Phillip felt a cautious relief. He'd been aware of the deadline he'd missed and half expected Dante to make a fuss.

He said, “I appreciate your understanding.”

“Would you quit with the fucking appreciation? It's getting on my nerves.”

“Sorry.”

Dante moved away from the chest of drawers. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and ambled along the periphery of the room, checking the room-service menu still sitting on top of the television set. “What exactly
came up
? You had a social engagement, something you couldn't tear yourself away from?”

“I meant to call, but I got sidetracked.”

“Well, that explains everything,” Dante said. “So how's it going now that you're on point? You don't look happy.”

“I played well at first, but I've had a stretch of bad luck. I didn't want to short you so I was waiting until I had the full amount.”

“Fair enough. Which is when?”

“I was just on my way down to the casino. I was at the table all day and came up to rest, you know, freshen up . . .”

“Empty your pockets and let's see what you've got.”

“This is it for now.” He picked up his chips and held them out to Dante, who stared.

“Four hundred dollars' worth? Out of the ten grand I trusted you with—you got four hundred left? Are you out of your mind? I made you a loan. I told you how much it was going to cost you. Any ambiguity? I don't think so. You're into week two and the vig's up to five grand. What am I supposed to do with
this
?”

“That's all I have. I can get the rest of it in a week.”

“I didn't offer you a layaway plan. You knew the terms of the deal. I did what I could to help you. Now you help me.”

“I'm not able to do that, Mr. Dante. I'm sorry, but I can't. I feel terrible.”

“As well you should. How do you propose to raise the rest of it? You've got no credit left.”

“I was hoping you'd give me an extension.”

“I already did that and this is what I get. You told your parents about the money you owe me?”

“Oh, no, sir. Absolutely not. I promised to give up gambling after they bailed me out last time. I'll tell 'em if I have to, but I'd prefer not.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“I told her I was going camping with a friend.”

“You call this camping?” Dante shook his head. “What am I going to do with you? You're a moron, you know that? Big ego, hot talk, but in the end you're a putz. You pissed all your money away and now it's my money you've blown. And for what? You think you're a poker champ? There's no way. You don't have the skill, the talent, or the brains. You owe me twenty-six grand.”

Phillip said, “No, no. That's not right. Is that right?”

“You're on the hook for my expenses getting over here.”

“Why?”

“Because I came on your account. How else am I going to talk to you when you don't show up when you said you would? You missed our appointment so I had to come on short notice, which meant chartering a flight. Plus, I got these two goons to pay.”

“I can't do it. You told me twenty-five dollars per hundred on ten grand . . .”

“Per week.”

“I understand, but that's only five grand. You just said so yourself.”

“Plus interest on the interest, plus the late fees, plus expenses.”

“I don't have it.”

“You don't have it. You have nothing of value anywhere in the world. You own nothing. Is that what you're telling me?”

“I could give you my car.”

“Do I look like a guy who owns a used-car lot?”

“Not at all.”

Dante stared at him. “What's the make and model?”

“1985 Porsche 911, red. It's worth over thirty thousand dollars. It's in pristine condition. Perfect.”

“I know the definition of ‘pristine,' you asshole. What do you owe on it?”

“Nothing. It's paid for. My parents gave it to me for graduation. I'll sign the pink slip right now and hand it over to you.”