Luke Murphy - Dead Man's Hand

“What the hell are you doing here?” Doug asked with malevolence in his voice.

Sanders studied the office before answering. “I just stopped by for a chat. I think you should listen this time and consider what I have to say.”

Doug stayed seated in his desk chair. Not again! “How did you get up here without an appointment?”

Sanders’ chuckle was thick with sarcasm. “Same way I got through the front door. Please, Douglas. I’m Ace Sanders. I can do whatever I want in this city. Enough small talk. I want your casino and I’m willing to up my price.”

“We’ve been over this before—too many times. I won’t have this discussion with you again. I’ll never sell this casino. Ever! Most of all not to you. This place was my father’s, now it’s mine and it will be Shawn’s. And I hope that when he has children, one of them will want to be a fourth-generation owner.”

“$250 million!” Sanders shouted the number as if it were a revelation. “Which is $50 million more than my last offer.”

“No.”

“You’re making a mistake, old man. At least think about the offer.” Sanders’ voice remained even and calm.

Doug looked at him through tired eyes. Sanders kept increasing the offer and was wearing him down.

“No!” Doug’s heart was beginning to race. “Listen to me. Don’t ever come back here again. You hear me? Now get out .”

“This is a mistake.” Sanders got up. He reached inside his coat and pulled something out.

Doug froze for an instant. But it wasn’t a gun.

Sanders had pulled out a round plastic piece and he flipped it onto Doug’s desk. The coin spun on edge before falling. Doug picked up the poker chip and studied it.

“That is a ten-thousand-dollar Golden Horseshoe betting chip,” Sanders said. “A token of my kindness. Come by some time and have some fun. On me, of course. What do you have to lose?”

Sanders headed for the door, shaking his head and grinning the whole way. Before exiting, he turned. “And Douglas, this is far from over.”

Doug rose and pointed a crooked finger. “Get out. Now!”

As Sanders left, Doug felt a sharp pain in his chest. He sat down, clutching his left pectoral. He took a few deep breaths and regained his composure as the pain subsided.

Studying the casino chip, he thought he might just take Sanders up on his offer. But that would be another time. He slipped the chip into his desk drawer and went back to his usual routine. He was not going to let Sanders ruin his day.

Chapter 4

The dream woke him again. Why was it tormenting him?

He opened his eyes and a dim light across the room caught his attention. He saw Rachel seated at the little table, writing vigorously in a notebook, her face a mask of concentration. Books, pens and paper were scattered across the tabletop.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped at his voice. “You startled me.”

“Sorry.” He slid off the bed and crossed the room, his eyes still adjusting to the light.

With the speed of a high-school student hearing the bell, Rachel threw a few items into her knapsack and closed it.

“What are those?”

“Nothing.”

Calvin grabbed the bag. “What are you hiding from me?”

He opened the knapsack and removed a stack of textbooks. “What are these?” He picked up the top one. “ Understanding Human Behavior . Where’d these come from?”

“They’re for school.” Her face reddened. She pulled the books from his hands and shoved them in the bag.

“School?”

“Yeah, school. That big brick building where you gain knowledge. Ever hear of it?”

“Why are you getting so defensive?”

“I didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

“About what?”

She exhaled out loud. “I’m taking online courses at CSN. Okay?”

“Since when are you a student at the College of Southern Nevada?”

“This is my second year in a two-year psychology program.” She pursed her lips. “I want more for my life, Calvin. So far, it hasn’t been like I dreamed.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “I think that’s great. I’m so proud of you.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled him closer. “I want more.”

He took her by the hand and led her back to bed. “Me too, Rachel. Me too.”

Calvin woke up squinting at the blinding sun shining through the window. The curtains had been pulled back and tied with the strings. He took a moment to shake the cobwebs and then reached across the bed. Rachel was gone.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up on the edge. He tested his knee for stability and flexibility. It would never get any stronger. He had severely torn the anterior cruciate ligament in his right knee. Reconstructive surgery had replaced the ligament and two arthroscopic surgeries were necessary before he could walk. Even with the plates and rods, he was thankful when he made it through a day without agonizing pain.

He used the muscles in his arms to heave himself off the bed, rising to his feet and stretching his long, muscular body. He began his ritual knee workout, easing into each exercise, holding at the first point of discomfort. Using light enough resistance, he performed three sets of twenty repetitions of the various exercises. This was the most important time of the day for his knee and he couldn’t overdo it.

First, he lay on the floor, raising his leg up and down doing hamstring stretches. Placing a hand against the wall, he performed some quadriceps stretches, then moved to strengthening exercises—leg extensions, straight leg raises, buttock tucks, quarter squats (both single and double leg) and forward and lateral step-ups.

For three straight years at college, he’d been awarded the ‘Hard Hat’ award for the team’s hardest worker on and off the field. The amount of time and hard work he had put into preparing for football was still paying off now.

After twenty-five minutes, he was satisfied, though perspiration ran down the back of his neck. He showered and dressed, then strolled across the street to Ed’s Breakfast Grill. He’d wait until he had returned to his apartment to run the stairs, first walking and then progressing into a quick jog. His weightlifting was done at night before bed.

It was past the morning breakfast rush, so he sat down at a booth in the half- empty diner. A scowling, uniformed waitress set a fresh mug of coffee in front of him and slid the morning paper across the table.

“Good morning, Calvin. What’ll you have today, honey?” Her pen hovered over a notepad.

“The usual, I guess.” He tossed the menu down on the table.

She snatched up the menu and headed back to the counter. Calvin was no longer alarmed by how she screamed his order out through the window into the kitchen.

“Hey, Calvin!” Ed, owner and cook, nodded in Calvin’s direction.

He was a big man who sweated a lot, but Calvin thought of him as a friend, not just someone who was good to his steady customers.

Calvin gave a quick salute and turned to the morning paper. As he always did, he skimmed the news to the sports section first. He enjoyed keeping up with some of the players that he’d once played against and dominated in college. He couldn’t believe the money that players made in the NFL. Players with half his talent were making millions.

Should be me.

The slamming of a plate brought him back from the past. The waitress pulled some silverware from her apron and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” Calvin said. He always felt that eating was wasting time, so he gobbled it, paid his bill and left a modest tip.

He checked out of the motel, paying cash. He was part of the cash-only economy—no banks, no government and underreported income. To keep the IRS off his back, he did file taxes for a third of what he made and listed himself as a “freelance messenger.” Close enough.