Lee Child - First Thrills

“No way,” he said. “Hell, I got you pegged. You’re a player. I’ve gotta hang with you, man. You think you can teach this old dog a few Vegas tricks so I don’t get my clock cleaned all week?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Grove said.

“It’s Bobby,” I said. “Bobby Tomlinson.”

Grove and I spent the rest of the conference as inseparable gambling buddies. It helped that he shared my conferencing habits, which involved attending a morning session or two, skipping the afternoon sessions entirely to hit the tables, and breaking briefly for dinner, with more gambling until well past the witching hour. I shared all my trade secrets for blackjack (best odds for the player) and craps (a game I’ve affectionately renamed, “Lose All Your Money Fast”). By the week’s end, I was up over fifteen-hundred and Grove, good God, had socked away almost four grand thanks to his willingness to place bets that doubled mine.

We were drinking vodka tonics, lounging on a couple of cushy chairs, and watching an array of forty television sets broadcasting what seemed to be every sporting event taking place in the world at that moment. Of course, we could bet on all of them, which we did for some. Grove won five-hundred bucks when Baltimore returned a punt for a touchdown.

“Hey, G.P.,” he said, jabbing at my specialty, “didn’t your mama ever tell you that the real money’s in surgery?”

I guess I invited that taunt. All week long I had complained about not having deep pockets-the kind that would let me make the sort of bets Grove made without batting an eye.

“My wife is scared to death of the tables,” I said. “I thought it might be a good idea to stay married and see my two kids through college.” Each time I said something even half-funny, Grove laughed roundly and pounded my back.

“I like you, Bobby,” he said. “I wish we could keep playing.”

“Got to get back to reality.”

“You know,” Grove said. “You’re a really great player. A gamer’s gamer. You’re like a craftsman on those tables.”

“Hardly. I just helped educate you about some commonly held beliefs.”

I took an extra long sip of my vodka because I wanted Grove to think I was that casual about my skill.

“If you’re as good a doc as you are a gambler, you could make a killing in our club.”

He voiced the thought almost as an aside, but he got my attention.

“What club?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud.”

“Yeah? What club?”

Grove shifted his weight in his chair, glancing about as if the security cameras were as interested in his mysterious club as they were in the blackjack card counters.

“It’s sort of a private club for doctors,” Grove said, in a conspiratorial whisper. Then he added, “Doctors who like to gamble.”

“I’m a doctor and I like to gamble.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t bet on cards.”

“Yeah? What do you bet on, death?”

I laughed. Grove didn’t even break a smile.

“Holy shit,” I said. “Is that what you really do?”

Grove shifted his gaze down to his feet and spoke even softer.

“It’s not exactly what you think. It’s not even really illegal or anything. But ethically, well, it would be a bit awkward if word ever got out.”

“I think I want to know more.”

“Look, I’ll tell you,” Grove said, “but I need you to swear, Bobby, I mean swear to me, that you’ll never breathe a word of this to anybody. Heck, I might even be able to sponsor you if you want in. That’s how much I like you. We haven’t admitted a new member in over five years.”

“So what’s the club?”

“It’s called ‘The Dead Club.’ ”

“Sounds sinister. Tell me more.”

“Okay, here’s how it works. Each month you get an email with a link. The link is to a password protected website. You’ll have to download an application first before you can use the site. That way we can erase any record of the club on your computer in case of emergency.”

“By emergency I assume you mean detection. What’s on the site?”

“Each month there’s a new medical file for a terminally ill patient in some hospital somewhere in the world.”

“The world?”

“It’s sort of a global club.”

“And you’re all betting on terminally ill patients?”

“That’s right. We’re using our considerable doctoring skills to wager, based solely on the information in their medical records. Like I said, we bet on precisely when they’re going to die.”

“That’s a quite a new twist on the old line, ‘I’m sorry Mrs. Smith, but I regret to inform you you’ve only got six months to live.’ ”

Grove’s smile was far from his signature warm grin. This one was etched with profound mischievousness.

“See, that’s how the club started, Bobby,” he said. “A bet between two docs on just that and, well, it’s sort of grown from there.”

Right then and there I wished I had introduced myself as Robert, or at least Bob. But I kept thinking- How can I get in on this action?

“How many in the club?” I asked.

“I have no idea. Don’t even know how long the club has existed. Membership is on a trial basis and you have to be nominated by an existing member to be considered. Then you get vetted by a committee, all secret stuff, don’t ask me how they do it and if you make it past them, which apparently few do, your name goes before the board for approval.”

Grove was shockingly cavalier describing the club, given that it crossed fairly broad ethical lines.

“Where do the records come from?” I asked.

“Member-supplied. I have put up a few records myself. Of course you can’t bet on your own.”

I wanted to say something, but I was too stunned to speak. Grove continued.

“When you break the club down, there’s really nothing wrong with what we do. It’s all anonymous, supervised by the competition committee, which changes members every four months. We take pains to remove anything that could tie a record to the actual patient. No names, addresses, hospital, next of kin, exact birthday-none of it. All of that information is removed before it gets posted.”

“How much have you won?” I asked.

“Let’s just say if, like you say, you’re worried about college tuition, a few winning bets in The Dead Club could take care of all that-all four years, both kids.”

“Sounds intriguing,” I said. “But what if the patient dies of something else. A slip and fall, say.”

“Hey, in our world, dead is dead.”

Fast-forward now. Two months slip by since I met Grove and his twisted little club. I had sunk back into my life dominated by sore throats, snoring problems, unexplained and unexplainable chest pains, equally mysterious muscle and joint aches and of course, parents concerned about their teenagers’ smoking and pill-popping habits, refusing to look at their own.

Lee Anne and I fell back into step; that lost week in Vegas is now just a fuzzy memory, made even fuzzier by the routines of life-household duties and shuttling our children (Jake twelve and Max ten) to and from basketball practice, piano lessons, and the like. Then, on Christmas morning, no less, I get this email from tdc0529@aol.com. The message simply read: “YOU’RE IN” and there was a link for me to click. By this time, I had pushed Grove and his crazy betting pool to the back of my mind. I clicked the link anyway, and then panicked when it was clear some application was being installed on my computer. I was about to power off the machine when a Web browser popped open and the Web page that loaded read:

THE DEAD CLUB

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