Count on Love. Melinda Curtis

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СКАЧАТЬ Sabatinni. No answer, and his car wasn’t in the lot. He’d probably chosen today to come out of retirement, and was in some blackjack tournament. Why else would he blow Sam and Mr. Patrizio off? Sam swore and wished the professional gambler bad luck times five.

      “A girl’s allowed to go where she wants. And right now, I want a drink.” Annie pointed at the small casino. “In here.” Then she sauntered in as if she was going to a PTA meeting, leaving Sam no choice but to follow.

      Sam and Annie ended up standing together inside the entrance to Tiny’s, near the obligatory row of slot machines. Four of the seven machines were occupied, and the cacophony of beeping and music annoyed him already. From where they stood they could see a lone player at the blackjack table, his face barely visible across the smoky lounge.

      From behind the long, curving bar, Tiny, a huge, cue ball-headed Hispanic, gave Sam a slight nod, followed by a significant glance in the direction of the card table. Tiny was probably expecting Sam to be fully prepared. Without Sabatinni, this was going to be a royal waste of time.

      As they walked deeper into the lounge, Sam cataloged the distinguishing features of the blackjack player. He wore a nice pair of khakis and a high-end bowling shirt at odds with his scraggly appearance. His frizzy salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a thin ponytail. Mirrored sunglasses with large tortoiseshell rims hid his eyes and much of his face. A shaggy gray mustache sprouted near a liver-colored growth the size of a malted milk ball below his left nostril. As disguises went, it was minimal but effective. The growth alone would keep most attention politely away from his other facial features. Most people wouldn’t look anyone disfigured directly in the face, making recall of the details of his or her appearance difficult.

      “What are we here for?” Annie trotted to keep up with him.

      “None of your business. This isn’t going down as planned. If I were you, I’d leave before Tiny gets angry.” Slowing, Sam indicated with a nod who Tiny was. He’d met the proprietor a few months ago at a back room card game at the Sicilian, after which Tiny had knocked out the man who cleaned him out. With one punch. “I’m going to have to talk fast. Why don’t you go on home to California?”

      “And miss all the fun? Nah.”

      Weighing in at about three hundred pounds and in desperate need of anger management therapy, Tiny wasn’t someone Sam wanted to piss off. He hoped Tiny wasn’t losing enough money to pound his frustration out on Sam. Wouldn’t that cap the day?

      Annie looked worriedly at the large proprietor, at the blackjack table, and then back to Sam. She rubbed a hand over her stomach, as if she wasn’t feeling well. “Does Tiny have a gun?”

      “Guys like him don’t need guns.”

      “You’re joking, right?” she asked, her blue eyes looming large in her pale face as she caught Sam’s arm.

      “Ah, no. When you’ve got fists as big as ham hocks, guns aren’t nearly as scary. Tiny expects results, not excuses. Excuses just make him mad. And when he’s mad…”

      Still holding Sam, Annie’s eyes darted to the player. “Is he counting? Is that why you’re here?”

      “A rocket scientist in the making. Very good. My expert resource is a no-show, so the best I can do is make this guy nervous and follow him to try and find out who he is.” Sam raked a hand through his hair. Worst case? Tiny would pulverize him and spread the word that Sam was worthless. Soon even Carl wouldn’t give him background checks. “This isn’t going to be pretty. Really. Why don’t you wait outside?”

      Biting her lip, Annie stared at Tiny, then the player, then Tiny. Her face was nearly chalk-white now. She turned back toward the door, mumbling something Sam didn’t catch.

      “Are you okay?” Was it too much to hope that the gambler would get up and leave?

      Annie spun back. “Do you have twenty dollars?”

      “What?” Did she want ringside seats? Oh, yeah. She’d come in for a drink, probably a nonalcoholic iced tea, just another attempt to make Sam believe she didn’t have a crafty bone in her body. “If you need a drink that bad, I’ll stop at the liquor store on the way home. I’ll need an ice pack by then anyway.” But Sam took a twenty out of his wallet. “Get me a beer.”

      “Thanks.” Instead of going to the bar, Annie walked over to the blackjack table and sat two seats away from the man. She placed the twenty-dollar bill on the felt and smiled as sweetly as 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 СКАЧАТЬ