Читать книгу Count on Love - Melinda Curtis - Страница 7

WHY COULDN’T SAM KNIGHT have been an old, cigarette-smoking P.I. Annie could easily charm? Instead, he was intimidatingly tall, with long limbs that outpaced and outreached a height-challenged woman like herself. His haunted green eyes hid a stubborn streak Annie hadn’t been able to break. And she didn’t want to acknowledge the solid curve of his biceps beneath the short sleeves of his shirt or the way her heart ka-thumped when his studied gaze roved beyond her face.

With one eye on Sam’s big black truck in front of her, Annie dug her phone out of her purse and called her dad. “May I speak to Maddy?”

“We’re doing fine, honey. How are things with you on the job?”

“Fine,” she lied. It wouldn’t be a lie when she convinced Sam to change his mind. “Is that…are you in a car?” Annie had to accelerate to keep up with Sam through a yellow light. “I forbid you to take Maddy to a card game.” Her father knew nothing about parental limits.

“We’re just going for ice cream. No cards for this little girl. I promise. Ain’t that right, puddin’?”

Annie’s heart lurched. He used to call her that. Back then she’d adored her dad and couldn’t wait to do whatever he asked. “Let me talk to Maddy.”

“I can’t turn this girl into a cardsharp in one afternoon, Annie,” he said, as if reading her mind. “And I’m not going to try. Here, talk to her.”

“Mommy, we’re going for ice cream.” Maddy’s excitement bubbled through the cell phone.

“Is everything okay, sweetie?”

“Yes, Mommy. We’re having fun. Grandpa borrowed a car seat from the lady who lives under him.”

Her dad said something Annie didn’t catch.

“Grandpa says I can hold the cell phone and call you anytime, okay?”

He knew just how to reassure Annie that everything was all right. How she wished she could believe him. “That’s great, sweetie. Tell Grandpa I’ll be another hour, maybe two.”

“Bye, Mommy!” And Maddy hung up just like an independent teenager. Annie wanted to call her back just so she could hear her five-year-old’s voice.

“DO I HAVE TO CALL the cops?” Sam demanded when he’d started up the stairs to his garage apartment and realized he had company.

Annie Raye walked up to him with her suit jacket buttoned up to her neck as if she was ready for a business meeting. “All I want is a chance to prove to you that I’m dependable.”

Sam’s cell phone rang. He checked the display but didn’t recognize the local number, and picked up.

“Sam? It’s Tiny Marquez. Aldo Patrizio said I should call. One of those card players just walked in. I’d throw him out but I need proof before I lay a finger on him.” Casinos had been sued for heavy-handed treatment of suspected counters. That’s why independent houses relied on third parties to I.D. and detain sharps.

So much for the small hope that he could wheedle his way out of Mr. Patrizio’s job. If Sam didn’t deliver those card counters’ identities his own name would soon be worth nothing in Vegas.

“I’m there.” Sam disconnected the call and then dialed Rick Sabatinni. When the retired gambler answered, Sam turned away from Annie, lowered his voice and quickly explained the situation.

“A group of card counters?” Sabatinni asked, an odd note in his voice.

“Yeah, why?”

“I’ll call you back.”

Swearing, Sam flipped his phone closed and clipped it to his belt. Something wasn’t right.

Tiny Marquez ran a small casino at the outskirts of the Strip. Vince had told Sam that his grandfather sometimes helped out the mom-and-pop casinos in the area. Sam had no idea why. What with running the Sicilian and taking care of his wife, Mr. Patrizio seemed to have his hands full.

“Where are you going?” Annie sidled between Sam and his truck. “We haven’t settled this.”

Sam refused to look at her, especially her legs. He didn’t like the way Mr. Patrizio had boxed him in, or the way Annie was trying to do the same. “I’ve got business,” Sam snapped. He closed the distance between them by one step.

She didn’t budge. “What about my job?”

“You’re trying my patience,” he warned, taking another step. Another two and he’d be able to touch her.

“Look, I’m nonthreatening. I’ll work for a trial period.” Annie smiled and tilted her head, trying to capture his gaze. With a face like that she could easily con people into believing she was the upstanding citizen she would’ve appeared to be, if it weren’t for the arrest record. “Carl Nunes said all it would take for him to hire me is your approval. I’ll disappear if you give it to me.”

“Not happening.” Sam tried Sabatinni’s number again. Still no answer. This time he left a message. “Knight, here. Meet me ASAP at Tiny House of Cards.”

As he took another step forward, Annie ran to her wreck of a car, leaving a hint of strawberries in the air. His blood pressure soared. It had been too long since he’d been around a woman like her…the woman she appeared to be.

“What?” she asked, holding the car door open when she noticed Sam staring. “I’m leaving just like you asked.” She smiled as if they were best buds.

He wasn’t falling for that act.

“Are you working on a case?” she asked too casually.

Sam grunted.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“No.” Then he was in his truck and gunning it down the street, all thoughts of strawberry scent and blond hair left far behind.

Until he hopped out of his truck at Tiny House of Cards.

“I’m intrigued by what you do,” a familiar voice said behind him.

Annie Raye.

“Go away.” Sam clenched his cell phone before redialing Sabatinni. No answer, and his car wasn’t in the lot. He’d probably chosen today to come out of retirement, and was in some blackjack tournament. Why else would he blow Sam and Mr. Patrizio off? Sam swore and wished the professional gambler bad luck times five.

“A girl’s allowed to go where she wants. And right now, I want a drink.” Annie pointed at the small casino. “In here.” Then she sauntered in as if she was going to a PTA meeting, leaving Sam no choice but to follow.

Sam and Annie ended up standing together inside the entrance to Tiny’s, near the obligatory row of slot machines. Four of the seven machines were occupied, and the cacophony of beeping and music annoyed him already. From where they stood they could see a lone player at the blackjack table, his face barely visible across the smoky lounge.

From behind the long, curving bar, Tiny, a huge, cue ball-headed Hispanic, gave Sam a slight nod, followed by a significant glance in the direction of the card table. Tiny was probably expecting Sam to be fully prepared. Without Sabatinni, this was going to be a royal waste of time.

As they walked deeper into the lounge, Sam cataloged the distinguishing features of the blackjack player. He wore a nice pair of khakis and a high-end bowling shirt at odds with his scraggly appearance. His frizzy salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a thin ponytail. Mirrored sunglasses with large tortoiseshell rims hid his eyes and much of his face. A shaggy gray mustache sprouted near a liver-colored growth the size of a malted milk ball below his left nostril. As disguises went, it was minimal but effective. The growth alone would keep most attention politely away from his other facial features. Most people wouldn’t look anyone disfigured directly in the face, making recall of the details of his or her appearance difficult.

“What are we here for?” Annie trotted to keep up with him.

“None of your business. This isn’t going down as planned. If I were you, I’d leave before Tiny gets angry.” Slowing, Sam indicated with a nod who Tiny was. He’d met the proprietor a few months ago at a back room card game at the Sicilian, after which Tiny had knocked out the man who cleaned him out. With one punch. “I’m going to have to talk fast. Why don’t you go on home to California?”

“And miss all the fun? Nah.”

Weighing in at about three hundred pounds and in desperate need of anger management therapy, Tiny wasn’t someone Sam wanted to piss off. He hoped Tiny wasn’t losing enough money to pound his frustration out on Sam. Wouldn’t that cap the day?

Annie looked worriedly at the large proprietor, at the blackjack table, and then back to Sam. She rubbed a hand over her stomach, as if she wasn’t feeling well. “Does Tiny have a gun?”

“Guys like him don’t need guns.”

“You’re joking, right?” she asked, her blue eyes looming large in her pale face as she caught Sam’s arm.

“Ah, no. When you’ve got fists as big as ham hocks, guns aren’t nearly as scary. Tiny expects results, not excuses. Excuses just make him mad. And when he’s mad…”

Still holding Sam, Annie’s eyes darted to the player. “Is he counting? Is that why you’re here?”

“A rocket scientist in the making. Very good. My expert resource is a no-show, so the best I can do is make this guy nervous and follow him to try and find out who he is.” Sam raked a hand through his hair. Worst case? Tiny would pulverize him and spread the word that Sam was worthless. Soon even Carl wouldn’t give him background checks. “This isn’t going to be pretty. Really. Why don’t you wait outside?”

Biting her lip, Annie stared at Tiny, then the player, then Tiny. Her face was nearly chalk-white now. She turned back toward the door, mumbling something Sam didn’t catch.

“Are you okay?” Was it too much to hope that the gambler would get up and leave?

Annie spun back. “Do you have twenty dollars?”

“What?” Did she want ringside seats? Oh, yeah. She’d come in for a drink, probably a nonalcoholic iced tea, just another attempt to make Sam believe she didn’t have a crafty bone in her body. “If you need a drink that bad, I’ll stop at the liquor store on the way home. I’ll need an ice pack by then anyway.” But Sam took a twenty out of his wallet. “Get me a beer.”

“Thanks.” Instead of going to the bar, Annie walked over to the blackjack table and sat two seats away from the man. She placed the twenty-dollar bill on the felt and smiled as sweetly as a churchgoer at the dealer. The player took one look at her and began coughing on his cigar. Annie hopped off her bar stool and pounded his back like the squeaky-clean Good Samaritan she would have been if her dad wasn’t addicted to risk and her ex hadn’t been so fond of other people’s money.

THE MAN SAM SUSPECTED OF being a card counter smelled oddly familiar, but it was hard to tell with the cyst on his face. Annie didn’t want to embarrass him by looking too closely. The combination of cigar smoke and cheap cologne irritated her nostrils and turned her anxious stomach. She wiggled her nose and tried not to sneeze, sneaking a glance at the man as the dealer, a thin Hispanic woman with sharp, cast-iron features, flicked out cards.

Annie wouldn’t have jumped into this if it hadn’t looked like Tiny might clobber Sam. He might be a sloppy P.I., but no one deserved to be punished like that. Besides, saving him from a beating might just get her that job. Still, she couldn’t look at her cards yet, couldn’t look anywhere but at the green felt in front of her. Annie hadn’t gone near a deck for more than fourteen years and might have lost her touch, might have forgotten what it took to count.

In her dreams.

When she was younger, she’d gained her father’s approval by playing cards for him. She had a knack for numbers, was able to memorize telephone numbers, dollar amounts and cards played with an ease her father envied and bragged about in his little girl. Annie’d spent much of the summer between sixth and seventh grade in smoky back rooms beating card players as much as fifty years her senior. She’d hoped finally having money would make her mother as happy as it seemed to make her father. Unfortunately, her mom had seen things differently. She’d left that summer. Annie hadn’t heard from her since.

Now, as she finally picked them up, the cards felt awkward in her sweaty hands, as if she might drop them at any moment. Why had she jumped in like this? She had no idea when the dealer had last shuffled, and you couldn’t start counting cards midgame.

Her mother’s pearls around her neck were like a choke chain. Was Sam wondering how to get the two of them out of the Tiny House of Cards? Thinking about leaving without her? Or waiting for her to show her stuff? Sam didn’t care that she had a little girl to provide for, that she’d been fired when she and Frank were first arrested. Annie wasn’t getting any child support checks from Frank. If she wanted to eat, she was going to have to get a grip, get a job and get on with her life.

Two tens came reassuringly into focus. A solid hand. Ignoring Sam, Tiny, the smelly man at the table and the all-too-familiar atmosphere around her, Annie concentrated on the game.

SAM COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. What was Annie thinking? For all she knew, this guy was dangerous. But dragging her away now would only tip him off and make it that much harder to nail him when Sabatinni got here. If Sabatinni ever showed. Maybe Sam should call Vince to see if he knew where Sabatinni was.

But Vince would only get annoyed that he was working for his grandfather, so Sam retreated to the end of the long curvy bar, where he could observe Annie without turning. He signaled Tiny for a beer, and to occupy himself, he kept hitting Redial on his cell phone until someone called him.

“Knight, here.”

“Hey, it’s Vince. What’s up?”

This was where Sam admitted he was working for Vince’s grandfather—albeit reluctantly—and Vince, who was about the only friend Sam had left in the world, washed his hands of him.

“I’m working.” Sam glanced over at Annie.

“Want to get a beer tonight at Tassels?”

Vince was obsessively suspicious that the manager of Tassels Galore and his grandfather had conspired to arrange the hit-and-run that had put his grandmother into a coma, despite Sam’s inability to prove anything.

Since Vince was younger than him, Sam often found himself in the awkward position of being the voice of reason. “Maybe we could go somewhere else—”

“She’ll make a mistake,” Vince interrupted. “And I’ll be there.” He hung up before Sam could protest again.

The beer came and did nothing for Sam’s nerves. Normally, the adrenaline rush of intense situations calmed him, focused his mental energy on the job at hand. But he didn’t know anything about the man puffing on a cigar two feet from Annie. Was he a cool gambler or a paranoid cheat? Was Annie in danger? And what was Vince going to do when he found out about this?

Annie peeled off her jacket, revealing skimpy lace and a lot of bare skin.

It’s been far too long since I had sex.

Sam took another sip of his beer and tried to observe the action without letting his mind wander.

He was far enough away that he couldn’t make out the exact cards on the table, but he could see whether the players won or lost, and catch their expressions. The man kept his eyes on the cards the entire time, but still managed to sneak sideways glances at a fidgety Annie.

Jealousy he had no right to tingled in Sam’s veins. Maybe he should rescind that background check and let Carl deal with her. Annie Raye was turning out to be nothing but trouble.

He needed Sabatinni. Sam started dialing through his contact list. Somebody must know where Sabatinni was.

ANNIE STIFLED HER WORRY as she won another hand. The table held a four-dollar minimum bet. The object of her scrutiny was betting ten to fifteen dollars a hand, while Annie was sticking to four dollars. So far, they’d both won just as much as they’d lost, and the dealer hadn’t shuffled. Annie hadn’t seen anything to make her think the guy was counting cards. She was starting to believe that she wouldn’t be able to spot him if he was.

The dealer’s top card was a two. Annie glanced at her cards again, an amateur’s habit. They wouldn’t change. She had a ten and a nine this time. “I’ll stay.”

The smelly man must have liked his hand, too. He waved the dealer off, eyes glued to the dealer’s cards.

The dealer turned over her remaining card. An eight. Adding to her two, it gave the dealer ten points. Not good from where Annie sat. At ten, a face card or ace would beat her hand. So far Annie hadn’t seen too many high cards played, so they were due.

The dealer snapped out another two with barely a change in her expression. Twelve points. Then a four. Sixteen points. Annie tightened her grip on her cards. This was getting better for her and the man who shared the table. The dealer couldn’t hold until seventeen. She had to give herself another card, and she flipped over…a six. Twenty-two.

The nickname for blackjack wasn’t “twenty-one” for nothing. You couldn’t accumulate more than twenty-one points. The house had lost, which meant that the players doubled their money as soon as they proved to the dealer they had twenty-one points or less.

Annie wiped her palms on her skirt and watched the man reveal his cards. A nine and a seven. Any combination from twelve to sixteen was a stiff hand, one that would require taking a chance on another card. Not a smart bet, yet he’d come up a winner this round. That didn’t mean he wasn’t counting. Card counters often lost a little or made intentional mistakes to throw off any suspicions and to reassess the probabilities of the cards.

“If you see a lot of high cards come out—tens, face cards or aces—and you’ve lost count, start betting low,” her father had often said as he snapped cards onto their rickety kitchen table. “Chances are, a lot of low cards will be dealt, and low cards can kill you in blackjack. On the other hand, if you see a lot of low cards being dealt, bet big. That means the big cards are coming out and you’re due for a win.” He’d tugged one of her pigtails gently. “But you don’t lose track, do you, puddin’?”

Since Annie had sat down, there had been only seven significant high cards dealt. If this guy knew anything about gambling, he’d increase his bet. If he’d been counting cards and calculating probabilities, he’d start firing chips onto the table.

After a quick glance around, the dealer looked sourly at the deck, probably trying to decide if she should shuffle or deal another hand. If she shuffled, the odds favored the house, because the card counter would have to start a new tally. With a put-upon sigh, she chose not to shuffle. The hair on the back of Annie’s neck prickled.

Annie’s eight dollars in chips still sat in the betting area. The other player bumped his bet to an uncharacteristic forty. Annie cast a worried glance at Sam. Though she didn’t think what this guy was doing was wrong, she had to signal Sam so that Tiny’s fist wouldn’t end up in his face, and she’d get that job at Slotto.

But what would happen to this man if she did finger him? Annie couldn’t repress the memory of fists pummeling her father’s flesh, accented by her own terrified screams. She’d vowed to never let her gambling skills be responsible for someone else’s welfare again.

Staring into his beer, Sam took no notice of Annie. His lips were moving. Was he singing? No. Talking on his cell phone. Tiny’s dark eyes, on the other hand, bored into Annie, a shot glass barely visible in his fist.

The dealer flicked cards out onto the table. Annie didn’t touch hers. She willed Sam to look at her, but he didn’t as much as glance her way to settle her nerves.

“Taking one?” the older woman asked, her voice raspy. It was the first time she’d spoken since Annie had sat down.

“What? Oh, sorry. I need a drink,” Annie mumbled, stalling as she looked at her cards for the first time. A jack and an ace, twenty-one in a natural hand that was unbeatable. The ace could count as one or eleven. Annie flipped her cards faceup. She didn’t need to play anymore.

The dealer stacked eight dollars in chips in front of Annie. The remaining player chewed on his cigar and brushed his cards across the felt to indicate he wanted another one. The dealer snapped out a seven. He laid his cards down. No smile, no frown. Cool as an ice cube. Annie could remember playing with that kind of composure when she was twelve and thought she was invincible. At twenty-six, she knew every decision came with a risk and a price.

She shot another nervous look Sam’s way. From here he looked gorgeous, the trace of sadness in his eyes not evident. He gave no sign that he was aware of her predicament. She was on her own. Next time she’d pick a man who was a good protector and good father material.

Next time? Annie’s breath came in near panicked pants. She couldn’t wait for a next time. Maddy’s toothy grin came to mind, a calming beacon. Annie inhaled deeply.

The dealer had an eight showing, and flicked her hole card over. A six, giving her a stiff fourteen. The rules dictated she had to take another card, and she snapped one down. Another eight. Once again she was busted.

The guy beside Annie turned over his two original cards with a puff of smoke from his cigar. A seven and a five added to the seven dealt him gave nineteen. He gathered up his chips, tossed one to the dealer and headed to the cashier window.

Annie slipped her jacket on, collected her winnings and followed him, curious as to how much he’d won. She tried to stand unobtrusively behind him in the cashier’s line, but had to step closer to hear the attendant count out his money. A quick glance showed her Sam was still engrossed in his call.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight hundred and eighty-five dollars.”

That much? He’d either been slipping his winnings into his pockets or he’d started out with a lot of chips. Only fifty dollars in chips had been out on the green felt. He hadn’t bragged or otherwise given away in the least the fact that he’d won and won big. Only disciplined pros gambled like that. They had to be if they wanted to remain inconspicuous. Occasional players couldn’t keep their good fortune to themselves. At a larger casino with extensive video cameras and pit bosses, the man’s image would have been compared to a bank of known card counters and if a match was made, he’d be escorted out soon after his next win. The gambler certainly knew casino limits.

Moving quickly, he stepped back, almost on top of Annie. She scrambled out of the way and dropped some of her chips.

“Excuse me,” she said as she crouched to pick them up, avoiding looking into his eyes.

His penny loafers paused too close in front of her face. She just knew that he knew that she knew what he’d been doing. At any moment, Annie expected him to drag her up by her hair and use her for a shield as he made his escape, or knock her aside so that she wouldn’t follow him.

As if she had the courage to stop him. Annie’s heart hammered. She crouched, frozen.

The brown loafers shifted, then quickly moved away.

Annie sighed and stood, knees spongy with relief, forcing herself not to turn around to see where the man had gone. That was Sam’s job.

She poured her chips out to the cashier, who frowned at the obvious breach in protocol.

“Sorry,” Annie said with an apologetic smile, helping the woman stack the chips.