The Picasso Flop Page 2

  “I see you, Mike. . . . Gotta get some sleep for tomorrow. Have good time.”

  As the young man walked away, Mike Sexton figured Jimmy Spain had one man beat already. If he and Tabby ended up at the same table, Tabby might be completely psyched out. Right away Sexton decided to stop helping Spain. He was not going to pass the man’s story around anymore. He shouldn’t have told it to Tabby anyway. Whether or not Jimmy Spain was an ex-con and murderer was his business and nobody else’s. Spain did look like he was going to be a force to be reckoned with when the big game started.

  Sexton was glad he was commentating the tournament and not competing. “What a country,” he said under his breath. Gambling with murderers.

  TWO

  The last hand of the night came down to Caveman, Scooter and his dummy, and Jimmy Spain. Woods had already folded. Sabine had gone broke only the hand before but was sticking around.

  Spain noticed that she seemed to have developed a real interest either in him or his play. She was obviously scoping him out—he just didn’t know if her interest was personal or professional.

  Caveman liked his aces and bet them.

  “Two thousand.” With fingers like sausages he moved chips to the center of the table.

  “Well,” Woods said from his seat, “no sixes there.”

  There was some laughter, but it died down quickly as the action continued.

  Spain watched as Caveman eyed Scooter and Skippy, waiting for them to make their decision. Spain knew from all the table talk that night that although the two weren’t friends they knew how the other played. Spain thought they were paying too much attention to each other and not enough to him. That was his advantage.

  Mike Sexton still hovered around as did a solid crowd. Jimmy Spain was content. He played old-school American style, which was solid and tricky, mixing it up between power poker and a little trash-talking. Nothing wrong with trying to psyche out your opponents a bit.

  Spain watched as Scooter and his disturbing dummy stared at Caveman. Spain figured the big man for something strong. Caveman usually didn’t come out raising with anything less than tens. Now Scooter looked over at Spain and tried to read him. But Spain was tougher to read than a Chinese menu.

  Scooter Thompson employed a freaky-deaky style of playing. He let his little friend Skippy do the talking, hoping to distract his opponents by drawing them into his circus.

  “What’s it gonna be, Zip and Pip?” Woods asked, deciding to give the guy a shove. “We’ve all seen enough of this dumb and dumber act.”

  Scooter looked at Spain, then at Caveman’s hairy face, his beard lying on his chest. Spain had known men inside who let their beards get that way, but while those had been virtual rat’s nests, Caveman kept his remarkably clean. And because he wore his sleeves rolled up Spain could see that his hairy arms were clean as well. Oddly, even at a time when some of the other people in the room might be getting a bit rank, the big man wasn’t. Despite his great bulk, he didn’t seem to sweat.

  “The movie star’s right, Scooter,” Caveman said. “You’ve been stalling all night. You creeps gonna bet?”

  The onlookers laughed. Jimmy Spain sat back to observe his opponents objectively as they did the same.

  Scooter and Skippy peeked at their cards—a three and a four, both spades. He liked to play these kinds of hands once in a while because they were complete deception hands. Mix-up plays. If you hit your hand, you could break a player. No one could put you on that kind of hand. And it was costly if you didn’t hit. But this time Heckle and Jeckle had a feeling and decided to gamble. Besides, Caveman was right. It was getting late. There was no point in burning the candle at both ends the night before the big game. Hell, they were up money and were going to splash around and make this call.

  “Okay, we call,” Scooter said.

  Now it was Spain’s turn. He didn’t keep them waiting. He had a pair of deuces, very marginal at best, but this was turning out to be a sideshow where drinking and boasting had become the norm. It had been a weird night at the table. Everyone was gambling, he was up also, so Spain decided to go with the flow.

  “I call,” he said.

  Now it was time for the flop.

  The three cards on the table came up historic—ace, deuce, five, unsuited, but that didn’t matter to Scooter. He’d flopped the cinch straight.

  Caveman had made a set of aces, and Spain a set of deuces. Everyone had improved, to say the least.

  Caveman had raised before with his aces, and he went for it. “All in.” He pushed the remainder of his chips to the center. About twenty-two thousand.

  Scooter didn’t hesitate. He said, “I call” without even consulting Skippy and advanced his chips toward the center of the table. He had the Caveman covered with only a couple of thousand left. They’d sort out later if Spain should call.

  Spain, with his low three of a kind, had a feeling he was beat, but there was a reason why he was going to make this call, and it wasn’t just because he had been running extremely lucky all evening. It was because this game was good exposure. The big names in poker were watching this hand. Even if his hand didn’t hold up, it would establish him as an action player. A gambling kind of guy. Good advertisement in the long run.

  “Well, in the interest of getting us all some rest, I call,” he said. “I think we all have about the same amount of chips.” That was correct. The dealer sorted out the difference, which was very minimal.

  The players turned their hands up. Everyone leaned forward to read the cards, and there was a collective gasp. This was a classic battle of hand over hand over hand. Straight over set over set, this didn’t happen very often. A murmur moved throughout the crowd.

  “Freak show flopped the cinch straight,” Woods announced.

  Then Sexton added, “Yeah, and Caveman’s holding the big set over Spain’s little set. Unbelievable.”

  Fourth Street came next. It was a six, which gave Scooter an even higher straight. Caveman and Spain had not improved on their sets.

  “Yer killin’ me,” Caveman said. “How can you fuckin’ call me with three four?”

  Spain had only one out. He needed the fourth deuce to win. Caveman, on the other hand, had seven outs. He could draw the fourth ace or pair the board with the fives or sixes for a full house. Spain could also make a full house, but Caveman’s would be higher. Scooter the puppeteer was absolutely still, and Skippy the puppet was as dead as a block of wood.

  The river card came up. Everyone in the room leaned forward as the dealer burned a card and flipped the last card of the night.

  From the stunned silence came the eerie voice of Skippy the dummy, “Deuce!” And the crowd erupted.

  That hand broke up the game. James Woods looked on in disbelief, shaking his head. Jimmy Spain was the big winner of the night. It was a surprise to most of the people in the room but not to him.

  The players shook hands all around and wished one another luck for the tournament, which would be starting at noon the next day. The exception was Caveman. He’d stood up as the deuce—Spain’s only out card—had been turned over. True to form, he stalked away into the bowels of the Bellagio, cursing loudly on his way out, the others in the room parting to let him by.

  Spain caught Sabine Chevalier staring at him, but when she saw that he noticed, she turned away and headed out with some of the other men. Tonight would not be the night he found out what or where her interest really was.

  Mike Sexton came over to shake Spain’s hand. “Nice job. I had a feeling you were going to do it.” Sexton had the knack of always saying the right thing at the right time.

  “I got lucky,” Spain said. “It’s rare when you outdraw those kinds of players.”

  “These guys?” Sexton said. “Wait until you get goin’ tomorrow—you’ll be playing with all the big names. And I’ll bet a few of them will be surprised to see you back in action. You know both Doyle Brunson and Dallas Jack are here?”

  “Been a lot of yea
rs since I last saw those guys.” Spain shook his head as he realized just how many. “Jesus, I was practically a kid.”

  They walked to the elevator. While winning had not been a surprise to Spain, it was a relief. His intention had been to get his feet wet after so many years away, but this was a solid score. It would help him pay off some of his old debts, which he was sure he’d run into eventually.

  On the way up in the elevator, there was an awkward silence. Mike Sexton seemed a bit nervous.

  Spain asked, “You playin’ tomorrow, Mike?”

  “No, they don’t let me play. Ah’m ridin’ the mike, coverin’ the tournament for the World Poker Tour.” The Southern accent was heavier some times than others.

  “You get to play much at all anymore?”

  “Sometimes,” Sexton said. “Not on the WPT circuit, because ah work for the company, but ah play in a few other major events and side games like this from time to time. Things have really changed, Jimmy. There’s jus’ too many players in the game. Because of the Internet there’s too damn many amateurs. Jesus, dead money players are winning all the time. There’s a lot of luck involved.” “Dead money” meant amateur players. “It’s jus’ not the same world.”

  Sexton kind of stopped in his tracks. The dead-money line coming out of his mouth reminded him that the man with him had killed someone, if the rumors were true.

  “I’ll find that out for myself,” Spain said. “Well, guess I’ll turn in.”

  “Good luck tomorrow,” Sexton said.

  “Thanks.”

  Spain stepped out. The doors started to close, but Sexton stopped them and called Spain’s name.

  “Yeah, Mike?”

  “Ah heard—well, ah mean—some stories . . . you know . . . about why you were away.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well . . . I just wondered, is all.” Sexton couldn’t spit it out.

  Spain turned to face him squarely. “Is this for TV?”

  “Aw, no,” Sexton said. “No, Jimmy, this is just . . . well . . . mah own curiosity.”

  “I was inside, Mike,” Spain said. “Is that what you heard?”

  “Uh, well, yeah . . .” Sexton tried to get the words out to ask if it was murder but couldn’t.

  Spain shrugged and said, “It’s true. Maybe another time I’ll tell you the whole story. Okay?”

  “Sure, Jimmy, sure,” Sexton said. He released the elevator doors. “Good night.”

  But it wasn’t really okay. Sexton was upset with himself that he hadn’t been more forward. He really wanted to know the details but decided his gut was correct.

  “Damn, just shared an elevator with a murderer.”

  Jimmy Spain walked down the hall to his room. When he got inside he opened the safe in the closet and put his winnings away. In the morning, he’d take it downstairs and put it in one of the hotel’s safety deposit boxes reserved for high rollers.

  With the funds safely tucked away, he took a quick shower, grabbed a beer from the honor bar, and then used the remote to turn on the TV. He immediately muted it. All he wanted was the movement, not the sound. He left it tuned to the casino channel, where lessons on how to play the table games ran on a loop.

  He felt calm inside, at peace, but knew he’d be nervous the next morning. Standing at the window, he pulled aside the heavy drapes and looked out at Vegas. His room overlooked the fountain with the dancing waters. Across the street he could see Harrah’s, the Imperial Palace, a small casino called O’Shea’s, and the Paris; but the casino that caught his eye was the Flamingo, representing Bugsy Siegel’s dream in the desert. Bright orange neon that could be seen for miles. Not one of the fanciest joints on the strip, but it had the most history. The Dunes, the Sands, they were gone, but the Flamingo went on.

  Jimmy figured it had been fourteen or fifteen years since he’d last seen Vegas. The changes didn’t thrill him, but he did appreciate what had remained the same—the lights, marquees announcing spectacular acts—he liked that Tom Jones was still there and Wayne Newton—the food, the waitresses and showgirls. He also liked feeling that same old thrill in the pit of his stomach; he could still feel the pulse of the place.

  In that six-by-nine cell, he’d become so aware of his own pulse beating in his ears that night after night he’d expected to have a heart attack. Usually, by around 2 A.M., whenever the yelling or crying or screaming died down, there it was.

  The quiet.

  And his heart beating, pounding.

  He’d been out two years but still hated the quiet that came only in the middle of the night. With his eyes closed, he could’ve still been in his cell.

  He turned away from the window, leaving the heavy drapes open. Most people wouldn’t have been able to sleep, but he wanted the neon to keep him company. He wanted it to remind him of where he was—but mostly, he needed it to remind him where he wasn’t.

  THREE

  When Jimmy Spain came out of the elevator the next morning, he paused to drink in the chaos. It was fairly early—9 A.M.—but time had no meaning in Las Vegas. The place was as busy now as it would be at 8 P.M.

  He stood in the midst of the lights, the noise, the smells, the grandeur that was the Bellagio. A waitress walked by carrying a tray of drinks, and he had to admire the way her uniform hugged every curve of her full breasts and butt, making her charms very evident to everyone. Even though he’d been out of the joint for two years now, beautiful women still made his breath catch. He appreciated them a helluva lot more than he had before. He watched her until she was out of sight.

  He turned his head when he heard a slot machine making fake coin noises. During his stretch the casinos had gone to the TITO system—ticket in, ticket out. He missed the days when the real coins clattered out, making a racket falling into the trays. Aside from the slots, though, word on the street was that Vegas was starting to realize its mistake. Roller coasters and other rides, family package deals—the huge resorts were bringing people in all right, but those people weren’t plunking their money down. The gamblers still came and played, but they were pissed off about all the families passing through the casinos on the playing floor—fathers and mothers pushing strollers, gawking, getting in the way, and then moving on. The casino owners were pissed about it, too, and apparently were making moves to change it all back before it was too late.

  That was fine with Jimmy Spain. Change it all back, he thought. Put it back the way it used to be—and while they were at it, maybe somebody could give him back the nine years and eleven months—call it an even ten years—he’d spent in the penitentiary in Marion.

  Shaking his head to dispel the fantasy and bring himself back to reality, he checked his watch. He was supposed to meet the kid in the coffee shop for breakfast at nine. He was going to be a few minutes late.

  Kat Landrigan had been in Las Vegas barely twelve hours and already she’d been carded four times. Each time, though, she happily showed her driver’s license, which revealed her to be twenty-two. She had, in fact, turned twenty-two only the week before. And she was happy because, not only was she in Vegas for the first time in her life but she was there to play in the WPT Five Diamond tournament. Nothing could dim her spirits, not even being asked constantly to prove she was old enough to gamble.

  The other thing that made Kat Landrigan smile was that she had laid down the cash to play. She wasn’t one of those Internet yuppies who had paid forty dollars to enter an online tournament and beaten a bunch of other computer geeks to get in. There were only two ways to earn your spot here: win a satellite tournament or pay the buy in and entry fee.

  Of course, the fifteen-grand entry fee had come from an inheritance from her mother, not from the guilt money her old man sent each month. She’d banked his money, only used it for emergencies. Her plan was to win enough on the circuit to pay it back and more—toss it right into his face. Dear old dad had earned that by being a monumental asshole.

  While she waited for her breakfast companion to arrive, she star
ed at the casino floor, at the people, the lights, and knew she was gawking. She’d started at the airport when she’d had to walk past rows of slot machines to get to the luggage area, continued when she’d first entered the front doors of the Bellagio, and went right on doing it now. Previously, she had played in some of the poker rooms in California, and she’d been to some smaller casinos, but this . . . this was gambling Mecca! Las Vegas! The Bellagio! This was where the big boys played, and she was there to play with them.

  She caught sight of Jimmy Spain walking across the casino floor toward the restaurant and resisted the urge to wave. She didn’t want to look uncool, like a starstruck geek in front of Jimmy, because she owed all this to Spain’s tutelage. Having Jimmy Spain move into the same condo building a year ago had been the best thing that had happened to her in her whole life. The older man had taken a liking to her and she’d welcomed the friendship—especially when she’d learned Jimmy Spain was a professional poker player. At the time she’d felt that what he could teach her was worth hanging out with the old dude, but then something unexpected happened. Turned out she liked the guy. And best of all, there wasn’t anything sexual about their relationship. Jimmy was almost like a big brother to her. He was pretty good-looking for an older guy, and at first she’d even wondered why he hadn’t made a pass at her, but it all worked out better than she could have hoped.

  Kat wasn’t sure why Jimmy had wanted them to arrive separately, but it was no skin off her nose to give in to her tutor’s wishes. Apparently Jimmy felt it was okay for them to have breakfast together—probably because other competitors socialized, which Kat only noticed when Jimmy reached her table.

  “God, do you know who that is?” she asked as he sat across from her.

  “Do I know who who is?”

  “There,” Kat said, trying not to point, “right there, the table by the door.”

  Spain turned, saw two young men eating breakfast together. “Are you gonna tell me who they are, or do I have to guess?”