Ava McCarthy - Hide Me

The guy’s jaw pulsed a little. Maybe he suspected he was being hustled, but at this point, chances were he thought Marty had botched the deal.

The guy reached for his wallet. ‘One hand.’

The disdain had left his face, replaced now by something craftier. He flicked a fifty-euro note next to Marty’s. Immediately Marty picked it up and used it to cover his own. Another of Riva’s rules: bury the funny money. In case anyone got too curious.

Marty examined his cards and chuckled. ‘So how many d’you want, pal?’

‘I’ll stay pat.’

Marty frowned. ‘No cards?’ He double-checked his own. ‘Alrighty. Well, I’ll take two.’

He discarded two of his cards onto the counter and dealt another couple from the pack. He palmed his five cards and squeezed them into a tight fan. He let out another belly laugh.

‘Woo-hoo! What’d I tell ya? I just can’t lose today.’ He rummaged in his wallet, lurching up against the bar. ‘It’s gonna cost you another hundred to see these babies.’

He smacked two more fifties on top of the others, again covering the duds with his palm. The Englishman glanced at his cards, ground his teeth a little. Then he produced two fifties of his own and tossed them onto the counter.

‘I call your hundred.’ A smile slid over the Englishman’s face. ‘But you won’t top these.’

He spread his cards on the counter with a snap. Four big kings, fat and important-looking. Just the way Marty had dealt them. The English guy reached for the cash, but Marty smacked his hand away.

‘Hold on, not so fast.’ He fanned his cards out on the counter. ‘Where I come from, a straight flush whups four kings every time.’

The English guy’s mouth opened and the woman beside him gasped. For a second, they stared at Marty’s hand: seven, eight, nine, ten and Jack, all in a tidy row. And all of them suited hearts.

Marty gave them another second to take it in, then snatched up the cash, whirled around and shouldered his way to the door.

His heartbeat drummed against his ribs. He raced outside, wheeled left then right, criss-crossing the rabbit warren of streets. Adrenalin blasted through him, dulling the pain in his torso and setting his fingertips tingling.

He ran till he’d put a safe distance behind him, then slowed to a walk to cool down. He glanced over his shoulder, panting hard. Jesus, he was too old for this.

He stepped into a doorway to count his haul of notes, separating out the phonies. The English guy would work it out soon enough. He’d realize Marty hadn’t changed his two odd cards, but had thrown two of his jacks down instead. For a second, he’d probably wonder who the hell would do such a thing. But only for a second. The answer, of course, was a conman who’d stacked the deck.

Marty stowed the genuine notes into his pocket and slipped the duds back into his wallet. Truth was, the guy had been suckered because he thought he’d sneaked a preview of the cards. He’d been happy to fleece an obnoxious drunk, once he thought he had leverage. Marty was with W.C. Fields on this one: you can’t cheat an honest man.

Marty did a few neck rolls to loosen his muscles and felt his spine crunch. Pain lanced across his ribs. Jesus. He’d taken quite a beating to cover up for that bastard Franco. The question was, would it be worth it?

He slumped against a wall, waiting for the spasm to pass. One way or another, he planned on using Franco to generate some cash. He’d work with him or against him, he didn’t care which. Marty sighed. Well, not really.

He patted the remaining decks of cards in his pocket, letting his gaze roll over the drinkers across the alleyway.

Another bar, another sucker.

His limbs felt heavy. He stayed where he was and closed his eyes. An image of Franco’s crew drifted into his head, and for an instant he felt the rush of the glory days when he’d been a part of it all. His pulse thudded. He remembered the exhilaration of pulling a con; the electric highs, the close calls, the camaraderie on the road.

He wondered about the crew Franco worked with now, and whether they were as good as him and Riva. He smiled and shook his head, his eyes still closed. Franco, him and Riva: together, they’d been on fire. No one could touch them without burning.

Marty opened his eyes, readjusted to his surroundings, and felt his shoulders slump. Now he was back where he started: a chip thief and a hustler.

He shrugged himself away from the wall, then trudged across to the bar. A dark-haired girl eyed him from inside the doorway. She was petite and striking, like a lot of these Spanish types, and reminded him of the girl who’d been watching the crew at the casino.

Marty hesitated. Something about that girl had bothered him. She’d seen Fat-boy’s eye-rub, but she’d stood apart, hadn’t blended in like one of the crew. Hadn’t looked much like a real punter, either. The other women had been all gussied up, but she’d been wearing a suit.

Was she working for the casino?

Marty’s skin prickled, and he fingered the paltry fifty-euro notes in his pocket. Maybe Franco would like to hear about her.

Maybe someone should tell him.

Chapter 7

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Hunter said.

Harry bristled at his tone. She switched the phone to her other ear and yanked the satchel higher on her shoulder.

‘Haven’t you been listening?’ She crossed the street and turned left along the beach promenade. ‘I told them I wouldn’t do it.’

‘Then why are you still talking with them?’

‘They want to give me more details, no strings attached. Look, I’m curious, I admit it. But it doesn’t mean I’ll go along with it.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Would it really be so bad if I did? It’s just an in-and-out job. I find out why they want a hacker, then I leave.’

Harry knew she was being contrary; an instinctive buck against his assumption that he had some kind of say.

‘Who’s in charge over there?’ he said.

‘I’m mostly dealing with a Detective Zubiri, but his boss is a guy called Vasco.’

‘That prick. What the hell does he know about undercover operations?’

Harry blinked. ‘Vasco? You know him?’

‘He phoned a couple of days ago, asked a lot of questions. Sounded like a puffed-up desk-jockey to me.’

Harry recalled Vasco’s slick self-importance, and privately she had to agree. She peeked at her watch, then quickened her pace, her shoes scratching against the grit of sand on the pavement. To her left, the grand façades of apartments and hotels lined the shell-shaped coast. To her right, the waves thwacked in a fizz of foam against the sand.

‘Look, it’s a paying job.’ Harry clutched the lapels of her jacket to stop them flapping in the wind. ‘A consultancy gig with the police. You’re always saying I should work more on the side of the angels.’

She heard him exhale a controlled breath, and pictured him massaging tired, hazel eyes. She chewed her bottom lip, regretting her contrariness. Just once, it’d be nice to have a conversation where they didn’t butt heads.

They’d met a few months earlier when one of Harry’s clients had framed her as a suspect in a murder. Hunter had been the lead detective on the case, and right from the get-go, he’d pegged her as a liar, though eventually she’d cleared her name. Well, more or less.

Afterwards, Hunter had seemed to reassess her. He’d vouched for her with the Garda Tech Bureau in Dublin, who’d since hired her twice as a computer forensics consultant. She’d worked alongside Hunter on one occasion, but in spite of the plug he’d given her, she could tell some of his wariness lingered. They’d met for lunch a couple of times, had even gone to dinner when they’d both been working late. But so far, one thing hadn’t led to another, and Harry had to admit she was probably to blame. Then again, he had complications of his own to sort through.