Cashed In Part 1

CASHED IN.

Chance, Jackie.

This is for my G.o.dparents, my aunt and uncle, Ann and Bob Coleman.

The poker player learns that sometimes both science and common sense are wrong; that the b.u.mblebee can fly; that, perhaps, one should never trust an expert; that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of by those with an academic bent.

-David Mamet.

Prologue.

You know it has been said that money creates more problems than it solves. I never believed that. Until now.

One.

s.e.xy mama!"

I looked up not because I was either s.e.xy or anyone's mama, but because I recognized the voice of my reprobate twin. He waved at me over the hordes of people between us on the s.h.i.+p dock then paused to wink at a truly s.e.xy mama-an Angelina Jolieish siren complete with big lips and big b.o.o.bs but skinny everywhere else, holding a s.h.i.+loh-looking baby on her hip. I glanced back down at the envelope the travel agency had sent that proved I'd paid a small fortune to be in this sweaty cast of thousands waiting to be cleared to get on a chunk of metal bobbing around in the Gulf of Mexico. This was part of the reason I now believed that money causes more problems than it solves. At first, I foresaw the three hundred and fifty thousand I'd lucked into six months ago by winning Vegas' Big Kahuna-the Lanai casino's Pro-Am Texas Hold 'Em Tournament-as a ticket to a new life. I'd just turned forty, lost my fiance, my career and almost my life. In the rush of adrenaline following the tournament, murders and Sin City, I'd agreed to take my brother and my potential significant other, aka lifesaver, with me on a poker cruise. Already, that was going to h.e.l.l-the significant other hadn't shown, my parents had, and now I had to share a room with a modern day Don Juan. Nothing could be worse than a guy on the make when that guy was your brother and, when he made his make, you had to sleep on the pool deck. This was going to be one heck of a cruise.

I watched as Ben threaded his way to me, greatly enjoying the appreciative glances of 93 percent of the women he pa.s.sed (the other 7 percent being obviously vision impaired or related to him), and reviewed another reason money had created more problems than it had solved for me. It had given me the opportunity to tear up my resume, allowing me to start my own business as an advertising consultant. To be my own boss meant more to me than most, since my old boss had been my fiance who I'd caught doing the nasty on top of one of my ad campaigns with his executive a.s.sistant. Freedom on two fronts. I should have known better. Instead, one of my first big jobs was with an airline that hired me as a creative adjunct to my former advertising firm. Yes, you guessed it, my ex-fiance, Toby McKnight, was head of the account. I had to see him and his twenty-year-old, gum-smacking, booty-wiggling floozie nearly every day in the heat of the campaign-the airline's, not theirs. Or maybe both, except now I was trying not to notice theirs.

Have I mentioned I have really bad karma?

And it was just getting worse.

"Bee-Bee," Ben finally sidled up to me, slid his arm around my waist and squeezed as he whispered in my ear. "I'm next in line, so I'll check out the room and catch up with you later."

I was about 1,042 in line and since he'd been 1,043 until he'd left to go to the restroom ten minutes ago, I c.o.c.ked my head at him and raised my eyebrows. He shook his just-a-little-bit-too-long black hair out of his face. His green eyes twinkled. A woman walking past sighed.

"Ingrid talked me into joining her in line." He flashed a grin toward the head of the line. A six-foot-tall Scandinavian princess, surrounded by a dozen other college coeds, all shorter but no less nubile, waved at him to hurry back.

"Is Ingrid over eighteen?" I muttered, fanning myself with the s.h.i.+p map. It had to be one hundred degrees in the shade here at the Port of Galveston.

"What kind of question is that? She was just being kind, letting me in like that."

"Uh-huh," I muttered, frowning at the lithe Amazon.

"You old worrywart." Ben gave me a noogie. "Live a little. Have fun. Oops, I forgot. You wouldn't know fun if it slapped you on the b.u.t.t."

The tanned, s.e.xy Marlboro Man I'd been admiring in line behind me snorted in disgust. Probably at my un-fun-loving rear end. I resisted the urge to tuck my heinie behind a nearby potted palm. Ben grabbed for my braid. I was a forty-year-old worrywart on a cruise with a twin who acted liked Dennis the Menace. I might start to get depressed. And that was before I'd even begun to contemplate what the aforementioned heinie looked like from behind.

Ben winked and sauntered off as if he were doing the Earth a favor by being on it. Most women wouldn't argue with his supposition. G.o.d may have shorted him in maturity but more than made up for it in looks.

"Belinda!" Another unfortunately all-too-familiar voice shouted above the din.

Ack. In my peripheral vision, I could see them coming up on my right.

I turned left, trying to strike up a conversation with the Marlboro Man, but he was already talking to the bodacious blonde behind him. That noogie really turned him off. d.a.m.n Ben.

"Howard, is it really Belinda? It looks like her, but I didn't think she'd look quite so frumpy."

Frumpy? My hands reached to smooth my khaki capris. Oh dear. I'd imagined poor form but not that poor.

"See, Howard, she is our girl. Come to think of it, I think it's those ridiculous high water pants that make her look like she's packing two half-full water balloons."

I'd been hoping to avoid my parents. This was why.

"Look, Howard, she's smiling. I told you she'd be happy to see us. She just didn't hear me calling earlier, did you, pookie?"

"What?" I fanned my hot face as I forced a smile. "Of course not, Mom. Were you calling?"

Unbelievable as it may seem, it hadn't been difficult to talk me into letting my parents have my cabin on the s.h.i.+p. It all happened during one of Frank's half-dozen visits to Houston, a really, really nice weekend.

He was the one who'd convinced me to make a family vacation of the poker cruise. He said he liked my parents. I think he was just entertained by my reaction to them, most especially to my mom, Elva. I didn't fight it because I thought it would be a good excuse to spend a lot of time together, in his cabin. My parents would have to take mine, since the inaugural cruise of the Sea Gambler was full . . .

And where was Frank now?

I had no idea, actually. He'd called my cell phone and left a message this morning saying he was so sorry. He had a "crisis" with a job and told us not to wait on him at the port. He said he would make it up to me. Uh-huh. Frank was in the "security" business and despite the time we'd spent together since Vegas, I knew no more about what he did for a living than the first day in a Vegas bar when he'd handed me his card. He carried a gun and sometimes handcuffs. He lived in L.A. but didn't have a home phone, so I had been given only a cell number. He had an ex-wife and two kids I'd never met, who he rarely talked about. He was a recovering alcoholic who still occasionally fell off the wagon. He would leave unexpectedly on jobs and sometimes go days before returning a phone call.

Frank Gilbert didn't sound like the kind of guy that could engender trust, but somehow he did.

Or maybe I was just desperate.

Or maybe I just remembered that weekend in May all too well . . .

My first goal on this trip was to find someone to make new memories, so I could forget steaming up gla.s.s elevators. Forget slow dancing in the rain. Forget where champagne tasted best.

"Belinda, are you alright?" Mom slapped her hand on my forehead. "You are very red, and you're breathing hard."

I cleared my throat and snapped the stretchy beaded bracelet around my wrist, then used it to wrap my braid up into a bun. "It's just a little warm out here, Mom."

She eyed me suspiciously, but nodded and changed the subject. Or so she thought. "We saw Ben with his new women friends. They're quite taken with our boy." She paused proudly before nosing on ahead. She looked around at the ma.s.ses surrounding us. "Where's Frank?"

Oh dear. I cleared my throat and tried for nonchalant, blowing a curl of hair out of my face to buy a bit more time.

"Well?" Elva demanded.

I forced a cheery tone. "He called and said he had an emergency. It sounds like he won't make it before we shove off."

"Humph. Sounds fishy to me. I bet he found a new girl. You should have dragged him down the aisle when you had the chance. Now you've lost the best catch you've had in years." Mom tsked. Behind her, Marlboro Man and the blonde both tsked. Super.

"When did I have the chance, Mom?" I asked, staring at the s.h.i.+ny head of the bald man in front of me, willing the line to move faster.

"You were in Vegas, weren't you?" Mom was aghast, liver-spotted hands flying around, cherry red lipsticked lips pursing and moving soundlessly with my failure.

"We were in Vegas when we'd only known each other three days." I pointed out. Why I continued to justify this vein of conversation, I don't know. A lot must be said for underage brainwas.h.i.+ng. Be respectful of your elders, Belinda . I knew she'd had an ulterior motive with that life lesson drilled into my brain from birth.

"That's longer than a lot of people know each other before they get married in Sin City. Who was that star who only knew her husband something like an hour before they tied the knot?"

"Mom, they got an annulment three days later."

"So? You'd never agree to something like that. Neither would Frank. He's a guy who keeps a promise. He'd stand by you even if he had second thoughts. Get him to say 'I do' and you're in like Flynn." Mom nodded once decisively.

Great, how romantic. Anyhow, both of us were so far away from thinking about marriage that if the altar were in Boise, we were in Siberia, or maybe Mars. And what about the promise to go on the poker cruise with me? He sure hadn't fulfilled that one, had he?

"So." Mom rushed on. "Call him and tell him you'll meet him in Vegas. Get him a little tipsy and haul him in front of an Elvis preacher and get it done."

Mom didn't know about the alcoholism. Maybe I should tell her and derail her train. I didn't have the heart to do that to Frank, even though he'd ditched me. With my parents to boot. I sighed. "I'll think about it, Mom."

With that she gave a sharp, satisfied nod. "Good."

"Hey, girlie, how's that house coming along? I thought you might not make the cruise, what with having to ride herd on all those subcontractors." Dad chuckled, waiting entirely too long to change the subject.

Which brings me to yet another reason why I think money causes more problems than it solves. The house I bought. The house that may not be finished until I retire. I love old historic homes and there are some terribly cute ones with great character in University Oaks. But being properly mature and wise, I resisted because I didn't want to be constantly working on something already on its way down-if it wasn't the plumbing, it would be electrical, or the lead-based paint would start peeling, or asbestos would need eradicating. I thought I'd be smart and build a brand-new house, getting the mess all over with before I moved in. Now it's if I move in. So much for wise. Two weeks after they poured the foundation, the day after they began the framing, my contractor disappeared with half the money for the house. No licensed contractor worth his salt in Houston would take the job before sometime next year, so I got my contractor's license and hired the plumbers, the painters and the electricians to name a few. And what I've learned is that they show up when they are supposed to about 10 percent of the time. They do what they are supposed to about 5 percent of that time. At this rate, I've calculated the house will be finished when I am sixty-four years and two months old.

"I told them not to come back for a week," I answered. "Which probably means they will all show up every day, on time, and put the stove in the bathroom and carpet on the ceiling."

Dad chuckled. "It would go a lot faster and easier for you if you'd agree to let me go crack the whip."

I didn't miss the warning look from Mom. A regular checkup had surprised Dad with a 90 percent blocked artery and he'd had a shunt put in his heart a month ago. "Thanks, Dad, but you need to enjoy your retirement."

He pulled a face and turned to look at an exotic Polynesian model walking through the crowd in a string bikini. Smiling to show a row of brilliant, capped teeth, she pa.s.sed him a card. "Remember to shop in our gift shop on board. We have great prices on everything from lingerie to jewels-and, remember, once in international waters, everything is duty free! And I can tell"-pause for heavy lidded look down his form-"you're going to win a lot at the Hold 'Em tables, handsome, so get ready to spend it on your special lady or anyone you choose." With a wink she was gone. He looked like he wanted to chase her and, since his heart operation, I was repeatedly worried he would do just that. He'd gone from perpetually tired to perpetually peppy. I hoped Mom could keep up.

"Really, Howard, it's rude to stare."

"Is it rude to touch?"

My mouth dropped open, the blonde stifled a gasp and Marlboro Man looked like he wanted to puke. My mother just giggled and swung at his shoulder with the coral and green scarf around her neck. "You rascal."

For the first time in forty years, I could begin to see evidence of the genes that showed up in Ben. Oh, Lord, save me. It was going to be a long four days.

Two.

I've heard that Texas Hold 'Em was a much smaller world until just a handful of years ago. Used to be that there were just a few greats, and everyone knew who they were, sort of like Hollywood in the 40s, before TV changed the complexion of the entertainment industry. Now, the Internet has done the same for this most popular game of poker. While there are still a few Cary Grants of poker out there-the Phil h.e.l.lmuths and the Doyle Brunsons-like today's Hollywood and its plethora of flash-in-the-pan stars, there are so many so-called champion poker players around it's hard to keep track. That was fortunate for me, because although the tournament I had won had been televised and rife with melodrama, I doubted many people in the general public would recognize me. I test as an introvert on those personality quizzes; I like people I already know and love my privacy. Flying below the radar is just the way I like it.

But like I said, my karma stinks.

"Bee Cool, is that you?" I felt a hand at the crook of my elbow and looked down to my right to see a balding man with kind eyes grinning up at me.

"Ringo?" I gave him a quick hug as he pointed shyly at the top of my head. "You still have them."

My fingers reached for my silver reflective Gargoyle sungla.s.ses, the same ones Ringo had given me when I first met him in Vegas. "Why do you sound surprised? These are my lucky charms. I couldn't have won that tournament without them."

Ringo's face glowed rosy in just a few seconds. "I saw that you were doing this tournament on board the Gambler and so my poker group signed up for the cruise."

"Really? You came all the way from Nova Scotia for this? How did you see I was coming?"

Ringo blinked. "The cruise line advertised it. Your picture was pasted up on the Internet with some of the other big guys-Rawhide Jones, Rick Santobella, Denton Ferris to name a few."

I'm in advertising, so on one hand, I was impressed that someone had noticed that some no-name like me had bought a ticket on their poker cruise and had thought to use it to beef up sales. On the other hand, I thought Ringo had handed me the perfect way to get my own free cabin out of these cruise s.h.i.+p geeks. Right now, haunted by the idea of sleeping on a pool lounge for the entire cruise to avoid Ben's hijinks, that cheered me more than the highly unauthorized use of my name angered me.

"Ringo, I don't know why you'd want to come see me play. You know I don't know what I'm doing."

"Are you kidding? You're better than the greats in the game. You just go out there and do it, you feel the game, you are the game instead of a master of the game. You don't use a standard strategy. You act like a Mouse one minute and a Maniac the next. You flow, you intuit, and you win."

I shook my head. I wished I thought as much about my game as he did, I might get better at it. "Ringo, it's called luck. I won one major tournament which I had unusually strong incentive to win. I might totally tank on this cruise."

We both shared a wry look at my accidentally poor play on words, then Ringo patted my hand and, as is his way, made me feel less like a goober. "You're too modest for your own good. Get out there and blast them out of the water."

He giggled and wandered off before I could offer to repay him for the sungla.s.ses, which truly had been a G.o.dsend during my Big Kahuna tournament. All I'd really cared about was saving my brother's life, which required winning, or at least making it to the final table, and the shades really helped.

A pleasant looking man wearing a cruise s.h.i.+p uniform and a half smile pa.s.sed me. Speaking of luck, his was bad today. I grabbed his arm and read his nametag. "Solis, from Ecuador, where can I find the Hold 'Em tournament director?"

"We're not in international waters, yet, ma'am, we can't gamble yet. Besides, the tournament doesn't begin until this evening."

"Yes, I am aware of that."

"Still you want the director?"

"Yes."

"Why do you need her?" The half smile was gone, suddenly replaced by a slitty-eyed stare.

For a moment I felt like I was back in Las Vegas, talking to a pit boss. What would the equivalent be on a cruise s.h.i.+p? Raft boss? Float boss? I sighed. "I just want to get something cleared up." Maybe get a free room on board for the cruise line using my name, such as it was, to build up their s.h.i.+p manifest.

Solis frowned suspiciously, and I lost what was left of my patience. "Look, Solis, I'm Belinda Cooley and your cruise line has been using my name and photo advertising the onboard tournament without my permission."

Solis whispered into an invisible communication device under his lapel, or maybe built into his nametag. He turned away when he saw me trying to figure it out. Geez. I guess I was in Vegas on the Gulf after all.