Count on Love. Melinda Curtis
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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.”