Card Sharks (9 page)

Marianne looked nervously behind her. “I think they're starting.”

“Please don't tell me you want to stay.”

Marianne started backing away. “Just an hour. I only want to stay an hour.”

“Mare! Oh, hell.” There was nothing she could do. Bijoux followed her friend to the poker setup where everyone was taking seats. The men seated themselves right up against the felt. The women scooted chairs up just behind them to drape themselves over the players and pretend to be interested.

Suddenly, Marianne elbowed in between a couple of men carrying a chair, sat down at the table and waited for her cards. When things finally got started, the dealer actually skipped her as he dealt. Marianne's mouth dropped open in disbelief and Bijoux began to feel nervous. She walked up behind Marianne and said, “Maybe you should—”

Marianne huffed and flicked a hundred dollar bill forward on to the table. “Excuse me, I'm in.”

The dealer froze with the cards in midair, apparently uncertain whether or not to take her seriously.

Marianne's shoulders tensed. “I'm playing. I'm in.” She smiled and a murmur of disbelief swept around the table. The dealer dealt her cards.

“You're in,” said the man on Marianne's right in a condescending tone. Bijoux fidgeted nervously, knowing full well that if they pushed her friend too far, Marianne wasn't above taking a stand and making a scene. But Marianne just kept smiling, perhaps a little too sweetly.

“Looks like I'm the big blind. You'd better change that hundred dollars into chips because I'm up.”

Eyebrows went up all around at her mention of the blind, and Bijoux felt a surge of adrenaline as Marianne showed them all up.

“You know, I really like this game,” Marianne said, obviously feeling the same rush. “I like a lot of things about this game.”

The guy next to her leaned over and said, “I like a lot of things about this game, too.”

“Don't be flirting with me,” Marianne said flirtatiously, though Bijoux could see the demonic look in her friend's eyes. “I'm busy trying to win your money, and I don't want to be distracted. Consider yourself warned.”

Oh lord. Bijoux smiled pleasantly at the porn star sitting next to her. The woman seemed nice enough and smiled back. Bijoux smiled back at the smiling back. The porn star smiled back. Great. Now what?

She turned to Marianne. “What do you say to a porn star?” she whispered.

They looked at each other for a moment. “I have to admit that's not a question I expected to be fielding tonight,” Marianne said.

“I just don't think we have much common ground. I don't want to ask her about her career.”

“Ask her what her name is. That's a start.”

Bijoux nodded. She turned back to her neighbor, stuck out her hand, and said, “I'm Bijoux. It's nice to meet you.”

“I'm Fluffy West Third Street. Nice to meet you, too.”

With that, Bijoux opened her purse, removed her sunglasses, put them on, and proceeded to doze off, waking only because of the high-pitched squealing from Fluffy.

The players sat slumped in their chairs, ties askew, hair standing on end, empty glasses on the floor, on the table, cards scattered about everywhere. Except for Marianne, who sat stick straight in her chair with a giant pile of money in front of her.

“Marianne,” Bijoux said. “That's it. We're going home now.”

Marianne stopped counting her money. “Oh. Do we have to?” She looked back at the party. “You're right. This is no way to meet a decent guy. The money's not bad, though.”

“Call Peter and take him up on his offer,” Bijoux said almost desperately. “He said he'd show you how to play online. Seriously, was there even one guy tonight you were really interested in who fit all the criteria? I thought the point was to meet men, not to play poker.”

“It was. But it was clearly a bad idea.” Still, she showed no sign of stopping. She anted up and started counting her money.

“Then can we leave?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm making enough to pay for that spa deluxe package at Belle Fleur we've been wanting to try. For both of us.”

Bijoux sat straight up and leaned over Marianne's shoulder, staring at the stacks of chips. “How much is there?”

“About seven hundred dollars.”

“Oh, quit it.”

Marianne looked her straight in the eye. “I'm not joking.”

Bijoux just gaped at her friend for a moment, and then the two of them started giggling. “Well, I think you probably took all the boys' money,” she whispered. “So we might as well go home.”

“I think they have more of it,” Marianne whispered back conspiratorially. “Do you want me to get you some?”

“Make no mistake. This was a bad idea. I take full responsibility and you'll have to take me to Vegas to ever do anything close to this again . . .”

Bijoux lost her train of thought as Marianne won the latest hand and scooped a pile of chips toward her from the center of the table as the men around her glowered. “On second thought. No need to rush.”

M
arianne certainly meant all that stuff about “being in it to meet men, not to play poker,” but she just couldn't help herself. When she was hooked on something, she didn't go halfway. She went the whole damn way. Which had her cruising down Ventura to meet Peter at Starbucks on the following Friday night. It did occur to her at some point that Peter might actually consider this meeting a date, and she wasn't exactly sure what she felt about that.

Swearing under her breath as a car pulled out suddenly in front of her from the curb, Marianne turned down the radio and eased into the strip-mall parking lot.

Well, would it be so bad if he did think this was a date? He was attractive. He seemed interesting. He was single. And they seemed to have chemistry.

No sudden moves, Marianne. Don't do something you'll regret. Focus on the cards.

Marianne parked the car and made her way into the coffee shop. Peter was sitting with his laptop in a sea of other people sitting with their laptops, all talking loudly on their cell phones.
The babble mixed in with a backdrop of inane jazz and the delicious smell of freshly roasted coffee.

Starbucks as home office. “Gotta love wireless,” she said, sitting down next to him.

Peter scooted his chair over and gave her some space. “I don't know how people functioned without it in the old days. So. It's good to see you again. How're you doing?”

“I'm great. Can I buy you a refill?”

“I've still got plenty.”

“I'll be right back.” Marianne went up to the counter and ordered her customary nonfat grande cappuccino, watching Peter over her shoulder as she waited for the barista to fix her drink.

So she and Peter were meeting for coffee under the auspices that he was going to show her how to play online tournament poker. Truth be told, the whole thing made Marianne feel a little . . . dirty. A little sleazy. Not the part about meeting Peter; the part about playing poker online.

She returned to the table with her drink and looked at the computer screen over Peter's shoulder. He'd called up an online poker site on his computer.

“You know what?” he said. “We should just get you set up. We'll sign you up for a screen name and get you logged in.”

Marianne frowned. “I don't know what kind of money I want to commit to this, really.”

“It's free.” He typed a bunch of stuff into the computer and looked up at her.

“What do you mean, it's free? How can it be free?”

“You can play with pretend money, and then once you're comfortable you can start an account and play for real money. And then if you get really good online, the next step would be to win an early entry to play onsite in Vegas at the World Series of Poker.” He cooked his head and studied her face. “I could totally see you there. Now that be a story.”

“What?”

“The World Series of Poker. Can't think of too many sports championships where someone like you could play shoulder-to-shoulder with the pros for millions of dollars, can you?”

Marianne's competitive instinct kicked in. “No, I can't . . . millions of dollars?”

“Yep.”

Marianne blinked. “For playing poker?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But that's ridiculous. And kind of . . . fantastic.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I really wish I hadn't gotten involved in this,” Marianne said.

“Why?”

“Because I already like it and I haven't really even started.”

Peter pushed the laptop over in front of her. “You don't seem to have an addictive personality,” he said.

“I don't. But I have an obsessive personality. It's like when Super Breakout first came out on Atari. I don't think I left the house for six consecutive weekends. And that was just colored bricks. You know, Bijoux warned me about you.”

Peter looked surprised. “What did she say?”

“Well, not in quite these words she said you were like a crack dealer.”

He choked on his coffee.

“An enabler,” she continued. “An inciter of chaos. A documentarian of drama.”

“You're making me sound suspicious and evil,” he said with a grin.

“Maybe you are suspicious and evil! You're . . . you're . . . the mystery nephew across the street!”

The two of them had a laugh, and then Marianne said, “So what is it exactly that you are hoping I'm going to do?”

He shrugged. “Girls and poker. That's just hot,” he said, doing a bad Paris Hilton.

Marianne leaned back in the chair. “Are you going to write a story about me?”

“I'd like to,” he said. “We'll have to see what happens, but I'd like to.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. “I'll just have to sit back and watch the story unfold.”

Marianne leaned over at him this time. “I don't think you're hardwired to sit back and watch the story unfold,” she said, studying his face.

A more serious look came over his face. “What did Bijoux tell you about me?”

“What I said before. She basically just said you like to create drama.”

Peter shrugged. “Who doesn't? Don't you?”

They just looked at each other and smiled.

The folders were beginning to pile up on Marianne's desk to the point where her secretary's eyebrows waggled nervously every time she entered the office.

Sheila took the skimpy pile from the outbox and left the room, only to come back five minutes later. She held up a sheet of paper. “Can I assume I wasn't supposed to include this along with the cover sheet from the IRS?”

Marianne blanched. It was a sheet she'd been using to study “pot odds” along with the probabilities of being dealt certain hands. “Um, no. I'll take that.” When she'd warned Peter that she could be a little obsessive, she wasn't kidding. She'd been honing her craft a little more every day since he'd shown her the ropes. She had enough online poker tournament points to prove it.

Sheila smiled and handed the page back over to her. “Only three more years to partner. Us girls are counting on you. There just aren't that many.”

“You won't be here anyways, I expect,” Marianne said. “You'll have moved on.”

“You'd better believe it,” Sheila said. “I'll be long gone. Three years is a lifetime!”

They shared a laugh, because they repeated this same exchange fairly often, and it had become something of a joke between them. Sheila was Marianne's mother's age, and had been her secretary since Marianne had started at the firm. She turned to go and then stopped and turned around, her face suddenly serious. “Marianne, can we speak honestly?”

“Of course. What's the matter?”

Sheila swallowed hard, staring at the table. She seemed to gain strength. “I just wanted you to know . . . that if you have a gambling problem, I can get you some help.”

“What?!”

“There's no reason to feel ashamed. It's like snorting cocaine or smoking weed. It's an addiction, and it's not your fault, and you can get better.”

Marianne stared at her, unable to quite process what her secretary was saying. “Um, could you not use the phrase ‘snorting cocaine or smoking weed' quite so loosely with the head of the partnership walking around the offices today?”

“Sorry.”

“What could possibly make you say that?”

Sheila left the room and came back with another file. “These are, um, clippings and things you've accidentally left in your client files and attached to outgoing memos. I didn't want to embarrass you . . . though that's a rather good doodle on that one there.” She gave Marianne a kindly look. “Seriously, honey. If you want to talk or perhaps speak to a priest, I'm happy to
help. You have only three years before you'll be a partner. That's three years before you have enough job security to justify getting high and sitting in your office pretending to work while actually doing nothing all day. Think about it, honey.” She reached over, patted Marianne on the arm, and walked out.

Marianne stared thoughtfully after her as she walked out of the room. She picked up the phone. “Bijoux, it's me.”

“Oh, hi.”

“What's after partner?”

“What do you mean?”

“What's after partner? In three years I make partner and then what?”

“And then you can relax into it. Enjoy the beaucoup bucks you're making and treat me to facials, because I'll probably be living in the streets by then.”

“But where's the thrill? What happened to the thrill?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “There never was a thrill.”

Through the glass walls of her office, Marianne watched people mill about the open floor plan. “No, there never was.”

“But you've always been okay with that. You stand to make a lot of money, Marianne. Don't blow it. You took the job for what it was. You're bringing home a fat paycheck as it is; multiply it by a hundred and call me back.”

“Wait, don't hang up.” Marianne multiplied her paycheck by one hundred. “You're right. I remember now. That's a lot of money. And yet . . .”

“Oh, no. Oh, no. I don't want to hear any ifs, ands, buts, or and-yets. Don't do this to me, Marianne. Don't do this to me. We always said we were in this life together. One of us has got to make it big and pull the other one up. And with my track record, we're both counting on you. Keep your eyes on the prize.”

“Right. Eyes on the prize.” Marianne hung up and glanced at the clock. Almost time.

Periodically through the year, just before the major individual, partnership, and corporate tax return due dates, Marianne's firm held two-day training sessions for the junior staff.

As a junior member of the senior staff, Marianne instructed several of these classes. It wasn't a big deal. A little PowerPoint, a stack of handouts, some coffee delivered from Starbucks . . . It was the sort of thing where you'd just glance at your desk clock, notice it was time to give your spiel, and would get up, do the training, and get back to whatever you'd been doing at the time.

There was none of that ridiculousness sometimes associated with these types of presentations involving excessive perspiration, toilet paper on the shoe, or face-plants in front of large audiences. None of that.

The only thing Marianne had anxiety about today was the fact that the online poker tournament in which she was playing during her lunch hour was taking longer than expected, and she was going to have to quit the game in order to make the training on time.

“Damn,” she muttered as yet another competitor went all-in and lost, making her one of only six remaining players. She actually had a chance to win this thing. Glancing at the clock, however, she could see it wasn't going to happen. With a sigh, she went to log out from the tournament and picked up the phone as it rang.

“It's Ilsa. Where are you? We're starting. It doesn't look good to be late.”

“I'll be right there. Sorry.”

She closed her laptop, unplugged it from the network, walked it down the hall to the training room, and plugged it into a network drop to be projected on the massive screen.

She turned to face the classroom of freshly scrubbed recent college graduates. “Today I'll be going over what is and what isn't deductible on Schedule C. Ah, yes, Ted, I see you looking unto the heavens for a reprieve from this session. But it isn't as obvious as we've been led to believe. Can you deduct a Hollywood producer's wife's manicures and massages? Are an actor's purchases of gum deductible if he considers it part of his image to always be chewing it in interviews?”

The audience laughed, right where they always did. Without even having to look at the screen, Marianne pressed her space bar to wake up her computer and clicked on the training file she kept on her desktop.

“Schedule C is one of the hairiest schedules imaginable when it comes to accidentally red-flagging a creative artist's individual tax return for the IRS. . . .”

She paused. Her audience didn't seem to quite be responding the way she was used to. They were fixated on the screen and seemed to be laughing in spite of the fact that her next funny statement wasn't for at least three more sentences.

Marianne cleared her throat. “Schedule C . . .”

The trainees were snickering. Hands covering mouths. Bodies slumping down in chairs. She looked to the back of the room where the other trainers were sitting. They were gesticulating wildly to the screen behind her.

Marianne exhaled. “Right, okay.” She turned around to find that her poker tournament was still going on behind her.

“Huh. I wonder where that came from. Someone must have hacked into the network,” Marianne said with totally overdramatized indignation.
Shit, shit, shit.