Terry Watkins - Stacked Deck

Beth looked around at the surrounding closed doors. “I see you even have the rooms where the prostitutes served the needs of the clients. I presume they aren’t in operation.”

“Not exactly. These are private dining rooms for the players. Very private dining rooms.”

Beth caught his eye and then glanced at the older men at the tables surrounded by a few women not much younger than Beth. “Some things never change,” she said.

JD smiled, then laughed lightly. “Makes life more interesting, don’t you agree?”

She found herself smiling. “Yes. There’s something to be said for tradition.”

“Yes, ma’am, there sure is.”

They both smiled slyly at the same time, and instantly Beth knew this guy was going to be way too easy. And maybe just a little too much fun.

Several of the men at the tables wore ten-gallon cowboy hats. Beth said, as they walked around the outside of the railing, “If Vegas recreates everything that is classically European, why not return the favor with a little bit of the Old West in Monaco. Giambi is obviously a shrewd businessman.”

“One of the best.”

She noticed the players using the large, square Monaco-style chips. They were difficult to riffle, but Beth had mastered the technique and was anxious to hold those chips once again.

Soon enough, she thought.

They walked away from the tables and past a packed restaurant tucked behind a small piano bar. Beth decided to open a new conversation. “I’ve seen you race and you’re one of the top-rated talents out there who doesn’t currently have a ride.”

He looked over at her, wounded pride showing on his face. “Hopefully I’ll have one soon.”

“Monaco Grand Prix is only a few weeks away. Any chance?”

With a note of bummed frustration, he said, “Not likely this year.”

They encountered Giambi sitting alone at a back table of the piano bar. The casino owner rose when he spotted them and stretched his six-two frame, which appeared to have withstood gravity very well. He had a neat shock of white hair and excellent taste in clothes: dark, pin-striped suit, wingtip shoes and a tiny pink rose pinned to his lapel.

As if making an announcement, he said, “I’m Salvatore Giambi, proprietor of this fine establishment,” and stuck out his hand to meet hers.

His hand felt warm, and his eyes were ice-chip gray with no sign of melt in them. She knew plenty of eyes like that in Vegas. They reminded her of tiny gun portals, the eyes of a man forever under siege.

They sat down at his table and chatted amicably for a minute or two about the weather and poker. JD kept quiet, his eyes rarely leaving her.

The waitress took her drink order, a green apple martini. When she left, Giambi got right to the point. “An intriguing rumor has reached me that you are looking to invest in a Formula One team. Any truth to that?”

“Quite a bit of truth.” She made herself comfortable in her chair, knowing this might take a while.

They discussed his race team, who his other drivers might be, the cars he was building and his search for sponsors. Giambi seemed quick and sharp, despite his age.

By her second martini she was telling them about the Formula One race she’d seen right there in Monaco when she was six. She told lies with great conviction and flair, a talent that every good poker player must possess.

“I still have Alain Prost’s autograph after he won that race. He set the record before the new chicane at one-thirty-eight kilometers. The lap record was a Ferrari, Michele Alboreto, over one forty-four. I actually got a ride in his car. Not very far, but it was one of the most exciting moments in my life.”

The two men exchanged surreptitious glances.

When she was telling them about how she not only loved the races, but the endless work in designing and building cars, Giambi suggested she should have a look at his new race shop and the cars he was building.

She said, “I’d love a tour.”

“JD will be happy to give you a tour anytime. Won’t you, JD?” Giambi gazed over at JD.

JD looked a little startled, as if he hadn’t been listening to what was being said. “Be my pleasure. Tomorrow I’ll give you the grand tour. L’excursion grande.”

His Southern accent obliterated his attempt at French, and brought a smile to her face. Cute. Time for a test. “That’s great, but the night is young for nocturnal creatures like me. Why waste it?”

“True,” JD said, “but I’m afraid I already have plans for this evening, and I don’t think I can get out of them.”

She watched Giambi’s head snap around. “If the lady wants to see the shop tonight, then tonight it is.”

JD looked at Beth for salvation, but she decided that Anne couldn’t afford to give in to his gorgeous, pleading eyes. She said, “Then tonight it is.” She was interested in seeing how Giambi would relate to JD’s comment. It was a good time to start gathering tells.

JD glanced at his watch. “Maybe I could make a quick run to the Monte Carlo and—”

Giambi rose abruptly from his seat. “Excuse us a minute.” He motioned for JD to follow him.

JD turned, gave her a shrug and walked off.

Beth sipped her drink then smiled at the sight of the old guy hustling his young stud driver out to the woodshed for an earful. The whole scene revealed a great deal.

Giambi had taken the bait and he seemed anxious. Maybe this little operation wouldn’t take too long after all. She sat back to await the outcome of their mano a mano.

Giambi couldn’t believe JD had tried to blow her off. When they were out of her earshot, he said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“You know I promised to meet some people from Hollywood, and I—”

“To hell with them. This woman has deep pockets. Did you not hear me earlier about taking care of this woman, Mister Southern Charm? She loves drivers. Her type always does.”

“So, now I’m an escort service?” As soon as the words tumbled out of JD’s mouth, Giambi could see JD was wishing he could take them back.

“I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a top-notch driver, unemployed, living free on the top floor of this establishment at my expense. A man whose future depends on my getting a racing team up and running. And that costs many millions, my friend.”

He watched as JD stood a little straighter, visibly preparing to stand his ground. It was something Giambi liked about the man. “These people I’m meeting are potential investors. I’m trying to line things up.”

“To hell with these Hollywood types. They’re fickle. Look, right now I need you to find out if Anne Hurley is the real deal.”

JD paused a moment, then said, “I thought you already ran a background on her.”

“Electronic data can be faked and I don’t have time to run hard verification on her. She might be who she says she is, but I need to know for certain. If she really knows racing, nobody better to find out than you.”

JD’s expression softened as he accepted the compliment. “I’m no detective.”

“You’ll know a false note when you hear it. Get close to her. Do what you have to do.”

JD’s lips curved up in a knowing smile. “Ah, you want me to seduce her.”

“Like most men wouldn’t give their left nut for a shot at something like that. This is your life we’re talking about here. You want to drive a race car or a garbage truck?”

JD frowned, but nodded his acquiescence. “You know I don’t like blowing people off when I’ve made arrangements with them.”

“Call them and make your apologies. Then get in there and make this young woman happy.”

JD nodded, his face showing he was back on track. “Fine, but I’m taking the Bugatti.”