Count on Love. Melinda Curtis
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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