Card Sharks (11 page)

“Am I a man player? Are you a man player?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“If I'm a man and you're a man, I'm thinking you're thinking that the cocktail waitress has big tits, which I would know because if I'm a man, that's what I'd be thinking.”

Marianne “arghed” and went back to the book. Her finger slid down the page as she read. “Oh, shit. I
so
do that.” She tapped the page. “Oh, my God. And I
so
do
that.
”

“You're obsessing,” Bijoux said mildly, actually pleased that she liked the book so much.

Marianne pulled a deck of cards from her suitcase and splayed them out on the bed. Then she suddenly leaped up and went to the full-length closet door mirror and made a face. This procedure repeated itself over and over as Bijoux readied herself for the evening.

Marianne would read a passage about a particular “tell” or another, stare at her face in the mirror from a couple of different angles, deal the cards out in a specific situation, and repeat the whole process.

“Um, you know . . . I meant to ask . . . do you mind if I don't watch the whole day tomorrow? I mean, I really have faith in you, which means that you're going to be sitting in that chair playing for hours.”

“Of course not. Go do your thing, too.”

“Cool. I was thinking of maybe getting some sun tomorrow. Just sort of relaxing. I need to get my mind off my money and my money off my mind,” Bijoux said as she whipped her bathing suit out of the drawer. “I'm going to get some sun and relax.”

“There's a pool at this hotel?”

“No, I'm going to Caesar's. I'm going to wallow in the delicious excess of the Roman Empire at the Garden of the Gods Pool Oasis.”

“W
hat, are you insane? You can't wear that.” Bijoux blocked the door, her mouth gaping wide-open.

Marianne looked down at her outfit. She'd worn it to work a million times and had received lots of compliments. True, she was wearing a cardigan. But it was a cardigan with cool beading, a tight fit, and creamy butter-yellow cashmere. “What?”

Bijoux cocked one hip and glared at her. “You're the businesswoman. You're supposed to understand image. Or have they pummeled every ounce of creativity and marketing smarts right out of you? Do you want to blend into the crowd? Do you want to be just another amateur?”

“Um . . . no?” Marianne turned and frowned at her reflection, a little taken aback by the uncharacteristic vehemence of Bijoux's feelings. Maybe they
had
pummeled every ounce of creativity and marketing smarts right out of her. She did look a bit . . . timid. “Being underestimated is a kind of strategy, too, though.”

“No. You'll already be underestimated based on the fact that you're female. Don't add a bunch of sappy clothes into the
mix. You'll wash right out. You won't feel powerful and confident. You'll sink yourself. You need to make a statement. A statement that reflects confidence, not . . . conventionality.”

“You've always liked this outfit!” Marianne said as Bijoux took the sides of the cardigan and yanked it backward off Marianne's shoulders. She pointed to the closet. “You know what to do. Go!”

Marianne glared at her friend and opened the closet door. Her glare-worthy feelings vanished as she stared into the candy store of Bijoux's wardrobe. Bijoux's clothes were the best. Marianne's fingers twitched as she reached out and ran her palm across the wild fabrics.

Bijoux crowded up behind her and began to art-direct Marianne's new look. “Take that skirt . . . that sweat—no, the jacket. Take the jacket and wear . . . that . . . underneath. And those shoes. Done. Put the outfit on and we can discuss.”

Marianne changed clothes, not missing how Bijoux immediately tried on the offending cardigan. With her tan and her platinum hair, it looked great, and somehow not so prissy. But the cardigan went in the discard pile anyway, as Bijoux changed into her bathing suit, pulling on a pair of flowing white silk pants over the bikini bottoms. The gold lamé bikini top was covered only by a skimpy turquoise mesh top.

Looking at her watch, Marianne swallowed nervously. “Can we discuss now? I've got to get down there.”

The two girls faced each other. Bijoux had added a gold wristlet and a pair of sunglasses. She raised the sunglasses off her face and examined Marianne's outfit.

“You look . . . way better than I look in that stuff,” she said, not even concealing her surprise. “You always do. It's uncanny. That's exactly what you should be wearing. You'll feel powerful and confident. Clothes matter, Marianne. They really do. I may not know a lot, but this I know.”

Marianne looked down at the layers of clothing, from the tips of her black high-heeled boots to the flippy black miniskirt to the irreverent tight glitter-decal T-shirt to the brightly colored deconstructionist puffed-sleeve jacket. She looked . . . badass but feminine. She leaped at Bijoux to give her friend a hug. “You know plenty. This is perfect.” She took a deep breath. “Are we out of here?”

“We're out of here,” Bijoux said.

Okay. Day one of five. Out of a field of over 6,000, I, Marianne Hollingsworth, am randomly listed as number 763 on the board. Number of waters already consumed: two. Number of bathroom breaks likely to be required: seven. Number of hands blatantly groping me in a crowd since I came down this morning: four, plus one brushing of the buttocks with questionable intent and purpose.

This is it, Marianne. This is the big time.

The floor of the casino was packed with poker tables and jammed with spectators probably waiting for a glimpse of the heroes and heroines of the poker world. Moving through the tables was like trying to get to a middle seat in a crowded movie theater.

It looked like the population of a small suburban California town had emptied into the arena. Shorts, sunglasses, baseball caps, for the most part. And it didn't seem glamorous in the least. At least not yet, with all of the riffraff and dead money like herself clogging up the works. Well, the wheat and the chaff would be going their separate ways soon enough. And if Marianne had anything to say about it, she was going to hang with the wheat this week.

As contenders began to fill up the tables, the more famous players began to stand out from the crowd, distributed about room.

Cameras dotted the playing floor and a bleacher area for
spectators. It looked like some people had coaches. Some people had pals. Some people had loved ones. And just about everyone was taking this seriously. Nobody wanted to go out, much less on the first day. But it happened to even the best. For a ten-thousand-dollar entry fee, you just didn't want to have to admit you went out on the first day.

Peter had finagled a press pass somehow. He was talking to one of the cameramen and taking notes again.

Bijoux clutched at Marianne's arm. “This place is packed. Absolutely packed.”

“Ow! Oh, my God. Doyle Brunson just knocked me in the head with his elbow.”

“Who?”

“Doyle Brunson.
Super System
Doyle Brunson. One of the granddaddies of poker. He knocked me in the head with his elbow.”

“I'm sure he didn't mean it.”

“No, I mean, it's a good thing. A good sign.”

Bijoux knocked Marianne upside the head.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“I thought it might help,” she said. “Is that a good sign too?”

“No!”

Bijoux grabbed Marianne by the shoulders and with utter seriousness shook her a bit. “Don't fall into the mystique of all of this. You're here to win. Remember? You're here to win. We've both got a job to do while we're down here. Let's keep the focus and do what we came to do.”

“I know, I know. Sheesh.” Marianne rubbed her temple. “I don't think brain damage is going to help my game any. And let's not even begin to discuss the potential impact of shaken-gambler syndrome.”

“Sorry. I'm suddenly nervous.”

“What are
you
nervous for?”

“Well, look at all these people.”

“So what? They don't know anything you don't know.”

“How do you know what they know?”

“I just know. Where are you going to sit?”

Bijoux chewed on her lower lip and surveyed the bleacher section. “I guess I'll wait and see what table you end up at and then I'll find a seat. . . . I wish I could take pictures.”

“Me too. But I don't think it's allowed. Doesn't this all sort of remind you of standardized testing?”

The tables were strewn with water bottles and snacks. Jittery participants waited with unlit cigarettes and cocktail straws flopping from their mouths. Most wore incredibly bored, jaded expressions on their faces clearly meant to give the impression that they'd done all of this a million times before. Marianne figured that at least half of them were just like her; fresh and new, without big expectations, and really mostly just thrilled even to be here.

Of course, anyone could win this thing. And “anyone” had. Since Chris Moneymaker in 2003, more and more amateurs were entering the game and getting lucky. And that was part of the mystique, that anyone could win. It was the only professional sport in the world where amateurs could regularly sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the best players in the game and make a case for membership in the championship ranks. The World Series of Poker actually had the largest purse of any professional championship, and for as little as her forty-dollar online tournament fee, Marianne had won the opportunity to gun for millions of dollars that would go to somebody in the course of less than a week.

If there really were two different camps, the experienced killer-champion type and the fresh and new low-expectation type, she figured she might as well ally herself with those who'd come here to win. But doing so suddenly made the
entire championship incredibly important to her. She clutched at Bijoux's arm. “I'm nervous.”

Her friend wheeled around, her eyes like saucers. “What are you talking about? You don't get nervous.”

“Well, I'm nervous now.”

“Don't panic. Whatever you do, don't panic,” Bijoux said, clearly panicking on Marianne's behalf. “Remember what you told me. You said that the first strategy is to sit back and let all the idiots lose their chips in the first moments. Don't let anybody rile you up or tinker with your strategy. Just play your own game and let the idiots shake out. Remember that? You don't even have to play that many hands to make it through. So just sit back and let the idiots shake out.”

“Huh. Now that you mention it, that mantra actually sounds like something that could be useful in many facets of our lives.”

“Good, then. Just keep repeating your mantra. Let me hear you say it.”

“Let the idiots shake out.” Marianne said robotically.

“Perfect. You're ready. And for God's sake, whatever you do, don't be one of the idiots. At least make it to day two.”

Marianne stared at her. “Are you doubting? Are you doubting that I'll make it to day two? I thought we agreed there was no way I'd lose on day one. Are we suddenly doubting? Should we be nervous?”

“Okay, deep breath. Deep, cleansing breath. And let's hear the mantra.”

“Let the idiots shake out.”

“Great.” Bijoux took Marianne by the shoulders and turned her around to face the tournament tables. “Now go find your seat.”

Marianne steeled herself, stiffening her posture. “I'm going to find my seat.”

Bijoux gave her a little push and she was off. She suddenly
turned around. Her friend was still standing there, and gave a little wave. “Have a great day, Bij. Good luck to you, too!”

Bijoux smiled and blended into the crowd.

Marianne checked in with one of the tournament staff and received what seemed to be a randomly assigned seat number, but on her way over she was stopped by a guy wearing a headset, an ESPN baseball cap, and a clipboard full of dog-eared pages.

“Yes?”

Gripping her arm with one hand, he hadn't even turned and spoken to her yet, engaged as he was in a fierce whispered conversation with a tournament seating official and another ESPN baseball-cap guy.

Suddenly she was magically (and not quite so randomly) reassigned to a table in the center of the room located directly behind the table where TJ Cloutier already sat waiting patiently as a couple of techs set up camera lighting.

She searched out Bijoux, who'd found Peter in the crowd and was following him to the seats behind the roped spectator area. Bijoux looked up, and Marianne pointed to the rigged lighting and mouthed,
ESPN!

Donny would totally freak if he could see her now. The table being set up in front of her was the ESPN “featured table.” She'd be in the background of any of Cloutier's shots; ESPN obviously had liked her look. Marianne silently thanked Bijoux, who had put together the outfit this morning and insisted on extra makeup.

Marianne moved her chair just slightly to the left to give the camera a better view over Cloutier's shoulder. Her heart started pounding as she watched the camera assistants scurry to and fro. She'd never felt more ready for a close-up in her life.

Her hand automatically went up to fluff her hair before she remembered that real women probably didn't fluff their hair for ESPN. Not that she was a religious viewer of the channel, but
Marianne couldn't remember ever seeing Venus or Annika fluff their hair for ESPN.

Marianne looked over her shoulder into the stands. Bijoux stood up and flapped her arms madly just in case she hadn't been spotted. It was absolute bedlam back there.

Spectators sat in chairs or hung over the cords and railings separating them from the playing field. Globe lights hung from the rafters, along with security monitors and cameras. Closer inspection revealed that aside from the inherent excitement and glitz of the normal playing areas of the casino, the tournament itself had all the atmosphere of a low budget Hollywood film set. Cameramen and tournament officials scampered along the worn scarlet carpeting, dodging wastebaskets already overflowing with coffee cups, bottles, cans, and napkins and paper plates.

It was almost impossible to believe that this was a sport with prize money of over $8 million.

Marianne settled into her chair, slinging her purse over the back of it and trying to relax. A couple of players who knew each other from a prior tournament were reliving old times behind the back of a rumpled fellow wearing square prescription glasses and a green tracksuit who was delicately arranging his apparently lucky orange, fingernail-gored Johnny Chang–style, in the mouth of a shredded Styrofoam cup. The orange looked as though it had been lucky for some time now, and was beginning to develop a slight green fuzz along the rind.