Betting on Hope

Chapter 3

“Let’s play,” Marty told the dealer. He turned to Hope. “Tanner’s all right, Hope. But he’s a player.”

“I can see that.” Hope glanced over to the table where Tanner was taking a seat. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, all easy animal grace. He had an untamed look about him, with shaggy dark hair worn a little long, and his big body compact with muscle. His hands had been marked with many small scars and nicks. He didn’t stay indoors all the time, and he used his hands for something other than playing cards.

She watched him ante up at the four hundred dollar table before she turned away. In the Hold’em game Tanner had just joined, four hundred dollars was the minimum bet. In the second round of betting, bets doubled. Eight hundred dollars. Just thinking about it made her feel dizzy. She didn’t see how that kind of game could be fun, with so much money riding on each hand.

“I don’t mean he plays cards,” Marty said. “I mean he plays women.”

“Oh.” Hope picked up the two cards the dealer had spun her way, looked at them, and smiled. She turned back to Marty. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t date card players.”

Isaiah, sitting to the left of the dealer, had been watching them. Now he glanced at his cards and tossed them back, folding his hand.

Pete Wisniewski was next. “Fold,” he said.

“He’s never serious,” Marty said.

“Pete?” Hope asked.

“Tanner,” Marty said. “Who we’re talking about. He’s not serious about the women he dates. And you’re a family type of gal. Always were.”

Sharp Eddie tossed his cards in. “Bing, bing, bing,” he said to Hope. “Marty’s right there.”

“Are you taking over Derek’s job now? I’m thirty-two years old, and I don’t date card players,” Hope said. “Thanks for the warning, though.”

Weary tossed his cards in.

“Just so you know,” Marty said, flipping his cards in.

“You’re all folding?” Hope said. “You must have some cards. That’s what you guys do—you bet. You raise. What’s going on here?” It was her turn and she tossed a chip into the pot, the highest allowable bet, three dollars.

“If circumstances were otherwise, I wouldn’t be at all adverse to investigating my potential positive outcome,” Jim Thickpenny said, tossing in his cards. “But in this case, discretion has overcome valor.”

“Jeez, we didn’t even get to the flop, and I had great cards, too,” she said, looking at the tiny pot that the dealer pushed her way.

Marty grinned. “Pair of aces?”

Hope turned to him, her eyes widening. “How did you know?”

“Thought so,” Isaiah said.

Hope jerked her head his way, feeling a sudden rush. These guys were among the best players in the world, and they’d all spotted her first mistake right away. Somehow she’d given away her hand. Even though she’d played badly, the tingle that she’d felt when she used to play cards with Derek so long ago was back. She was getting her game back.

She felt thrilled. Terrified.

“What did I do?” she asked.

“You smiled,” Sharp Eddie said. “When you picked up your cards.”

Hope closed her eyes. The most basic tell in the world. The giveaway that anyone—the rankest beginner—would make and understand.

“That’s stopping right now,” she said. “Thanks.”

Lesson one remembered and relearned.

If she’d played her hand better, they would have stuck in a little longer—made a few bets and fattened the pot—so she’d have earned more when she won. The first rule of card players probably was that winning was good, but winning big was better. And you didn’t even always need the best cards to win. You needed the most confidence. The most courage. To bluff when the chips were down. And you needed to pay attention, figure out what the other players had, and learn their style of play.

In Hold’em, Big Julie’s game, strategy and skill were as important—maybe more important—than luck. And that’s what the uncles were here to help her with.

The dealer swept the cards into a pile, shuffled, and dealt.

This hand, Hope remembered the proper etiquette and left her cards on the table, just lifting the corners to see their number and suit. As she looked at them she spoke to the men. “I appreciate your time for this,” she said. “I know it’s got to be boring for you.”

“Embarrassing, is what it is,” Pete Wisniewski said.

“Yeah, the three-dollar table,” Weary said. “In public.”

Isaiah shook his head. “Could it get any worse?”

“You could lose,” Hope said, scowling at them. “You could lose to a girl.”

They all laughed.

“No chance of that, Little Hope,” Sharp Eddie said, grinning widely.

“The tutoring session is only for a short duration of time,” Jim Thickpenny said soothingly. “We can manage our obligations so that in effect we are engaging in a high-stakes poker vacation. We anticipate that we’ll enjoy the unique Vegas experience. And when you engage in your customary obligations, we’ll play some serious cards.”

Hope smiled at him fondly. Jim had never really gotten over being a politician. She glanced at her cards again, seeing a five of spades and a two of clubs. The only thing she could do with small, unsuited cards was fold, taking herself out of play and losing the chance to win the pot.

She tossed in her cards when her turn came.

She watched the play develop, trying to assess what the other players had and why they’d played their cards the way they did. She knew that on a given day, bad luck and bad cards could bring down a good player. But over time, a good player would make money playing cards because skill eventually and regularly trumped luck.

The dealer shoved the pot over to Marty.

“You looked at your cards twice,” he said. “And you had a bad hand. You didn’t look twice when you had a good hand. It’s too soon to know if that’s another tell, but watch out for that, Hope.”

“Maybe she should wear bracelets,” Isaiah suggested. “So that when she moves her hands, they’ll jingle and she’ll remember to hold still.”

“Good idea,” Pete Wisniewski said. “Maybe a hat, too. Or sunglasses. Something to hide the eyes.”

“Do my eyes give me away?” Hope asked.

“Not that we can see,” Sharp Eddie said. “Not yet. Just saying. Common problem. Eyes give away a lot of people. Eyes and hands.”

The dealer scooped up the cards and shuffled, and Hope sat back, waiting for her two cards. A skitter of nerves ran through her fingers. She had a lot to learn—and a lot to shop for—before she’d be ready to play Big Julie for the ranch.

But she’d get there if she had to work twenty-four hours a day and buy out Las Vegas’s entire stock of sunglasses, hats, and bracelets. Because she wasn’t letting a little thing like accessories keep her from getting the ranch back.



By late afternoon Tanner was slumped in a chair in the interview room of the FBI’s Las Vegas bureau, watching his future fade before his eyes. After the last time he’d worked for the agency, he’d hoped he’d never have to do another job for these hapless twerps. FBI demands didn’t come often, but when they came he could never say no. Today his luck had run out, so here he was. Deep in the belly of the beast, with no chance of getting out or getting off.

“Face it, Wingate,” Special Agent Roy Frelly said to him now. “We got you.” He sat across from Tanner and leaned back in satisfaction. He was a big guy, with a spongy pot belly, beefy shoulders, heavy jowls, and short hair gone gray. Judging from his appearance, he was looking at retirement in two weeks at the most.

He’s showing extreme confidence, Tanner thought. Can’t be good.

“Yeah, I’m unclear exactly what you think you’ve got,” he said. Where the hell was his lawyer? He’d called Jack a half-hour ago. But maybe traffic had held him up. Traffic could be a killer any time of day.

“We got a gig for you,” agent Lee Gauger said. He was shorter, stringier, and younger than Frelly, but his hair was just as short, his confidence just as annoying. “You’ll love it, because you love cheating at poker.”

“I haven’t cheated in almost twenty years, which you know,” Tanner said, wondering what the agents wanted and not liking any of the possibilities.

“Tanner, not another word.” Jack Sievers, his best friend since kindergarten and his lawyer since he graduated law school, breezed into the interview room and plunked his briefcase on the table. “Now, what’s this supposed to be about?”

“Your client.” Frelly stabbed a pencil in Tanner’s direction. “We got a job for him. He’s uniquely qualified because he cheats at cards. That’s why we been enjoying his free consulting services for the last almost twenty years. Probation. Gotta love it.” He chuckled, a sound Tanner found really irritating.

Just then the woman he remembered from last night’s card game walked into the room. Last night she’d worn a tight, white dress, short, shimmery, and backless. Practically frontless, too. She’d sat next to him and leaned over one too many times and Tanner’s brains had scrambled a little, but nothing that affected his play. There was something about her he didn’t trust, and he’d wondered then if she was law enforcement.

Today he had his answer. Today she was wearing a suit with a white shirt buttoned high, and her dark hair was twisted up, not down. No danger his brains would scramble today.

“Hey, Darla,” he said. “Or is your name really Darla?”

“It’s Darla.” She smiled at him. “Nice to see you again, Tanner.”

“Just one question. I’ve been thinking about where you could have hidden the camera. Can you help me out?”

Darla’s smile thinned. “Keep dreaming, wiseguy.”

So she didn’t really like him after all. Well, not much of a loss. She had that body, but she didn’t have much conversation. Keep dreaming, wiseguy? Who talked like that?

Roy Frelly leaned forward again. “So here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said.

Extreme confidence, Tanner thought again. It looked like the feds planned to have their way with him.

“We want to get Big Julie Saladino,” Frelly said.

Hell, Tanner thought. And they picked me to lead the suicide squadron.

Guilio “Big Julie” Saladino was the biggest crook in New Jersey—a Mafioso with a major influence on most of the traditional Sicilian businesses—and, now that he was on an extended vacation, the richest card player in Vegas. Big Julie played only high stakes, no limit Texas Hold’em in venues where players could be assured that they’d be free of all the pesky surveillance and rules you found in the big gaming houses. That meant that Big Julie played in his suite—the penthouse suite, the five-thousand-square-foot, Polynesian-style, high-roller suite, with the hot tub and view and nothing-is-too-good-for-Mr.-Saladino room service.

Playing Big Julie would be fun, in a weird, once-in-a-lifetime way, but it was an experience Tanner was willing to sacrifice to keep all his body parts. He also had Troy to think of. His daughter, now eighteen, was leaving for college next week. She had realized long ago that the kinds of people the FBI put in her father’s path could be violent as well as bent, and she didn’t like the FBI working requirements one bit.

I’ll go down big time on this gig, Tanner thought. Just my luck.

“Big Julie’s wanted on sixteen counts of murder and extortion,” Frelly said now. “But to get Big Julie, we need somebody who can play cards and cheat. That’s you.”

No. Not this time. He didn’t want to set Big Julie up for a fall. He’d be in trouble with the Mob for the rest of his life—his guaranteed short life. Next week Troy would be at UCLA, in eight months his probation would finally be over, and he’d have a whole new life to start.

He’d wondered what that new life would look like. He hadn’t made any plans, but dying—even losing a limb—was definitely not on his personal menu of choices.

“Why don’t you just arrest Big Julie?” Jack Sievers asked. “He’s staying at the Desert Dunes. You’ve got the sixteen counts. Why does my client have to play cards with him?”

Frelly rubbed the back of head.

Distress. Tanner looked up. Frelly didn’t like that question. And suddenly Tanner knew the answer.

“There’s no charges against him,” Tanner told Jack. “I bet there’s no arrest warrants out on Big Julie at all. Right, Agent Frelly? You’re just trying to fool me into going along with you. You can’t make an extortion and murder case against Big Julie, so you want to get him on gambling charges.”

Frelly leaned his head into his hand.

Very distressed. I was right.

“And you can’t even get him on gambling without outside help,” Tanner added. “So you’re putting the squeeze on me. Not that I’m unwilling to do my patriotic duty, but why not Darla, here? You want somebody to nail him? She seems more than competent.” And that way the FBI can worry about Mafia dons. He smiled cheerfully at the female agent, trying to beam confident support.

Darla gave him a thin-lipped sneer. Funny how great legs and big breasts just didn’t compensate for a bad attitude.

“We tried that,” Lee Gauger said from his stance in the corner. “Darla. Last week. Big Julie made her. Last night you, on the other hand, were clueless.”

“He just looked down my dress all night,” Darla agreed.

“You made it so easy to do,” Tanner said. “But you notice I passed on the merchandise.”

“The point,” Frelly said as Darla opened her mouth in outrage, “is that Darla can’t work Big Julie. He knows she’s FBI.”

Tanner shook his head. “Say what you will, the Mafia is smart. Smarter, evidently, than Darla. Not to mention, the rest of you.”

“So what we’re gonna do,” Frelly broke in, “is this.”

Everyone looked at him expectantly.

Frelly leaned forward and jabbed his finger at Tanner.

Committed to plan of action, Tanner thought.

“You are gonna play cards with Big Julie,” Frelly said. “He is gonna win big. You will tape him. Then we got him.”

“Yeah, not so much,” Tanner said. “Even if he cheats, it’s not a federal crime to cheat in a card game. You play anywhere—private game, card room, casino—and somebody cheats, management just throws him out and bars him from coming back. No arrests. No prison time.”

“We’re not talking about him cheating,” Gauger said. “We’re talking about you cheating—if you have to, to get Big Julie to win. The goal is to get him to win big. However it has to happen.”

“Because?” Tanner asked. “I’m not following.”

Frelly grinned in triumph. “Because if Big Julie plays regularly, which we know he does, he’s operating a gambling establishment without a license.”

“Class B felony,” Darla said.

“Which the casino hates, not that they’re saying,” Frelly said.

Gauger nodded again. “Then, if you’re operating a gambling establishment with earnings over a couple grand—”

“Which Big Julie is,” Frelly said. “He’s playing in the range of one-two hundred G’s. So at your licensed gambling establishment, if you win big, you gotta report the winnings to the IRS right up front and withhold the taxes on it. Which Big Julie ain’t doing. So now he’s looking at two felonies. Minimum.”

Tanner looked pained. “That old dodge? You’re going to get him on income tax evasion? Come on, Frelly. That is so Al Capone. I expected better from you.”

“Yeah, well, it still works, smartass. We got him for those two felonies for sure, and he’s probably laundering money with the chips, too, if he uses chips. He use chips?” Frelly asked Tanner.

Tanner shrugged. “How would I know? Don’t you know that?” Tanner would be surprised, though, if Big Julie didn’t launder money by using chips. Many people who acquired large sums of money in legally questionable ways went to the casino and bought chips with the dirty money, and then later cashed in the chips, asking for a check or wire transfer. After the money was washed through the casino’s accounts, it was perfectly clean and legal.

“So we probably got him on money laundering, too,” Frelly said. He leaned forward again, stabbing the air as he spoke. “If I get this guy, Wingate, I can look forward to a big retirement bonus, maybe a reward, even a plaque. I want this guy. And you’re gonna get him for me.”

“On income tax evasion,” Tanner said. “You think that will work?”

Frelly nodded. “You know how much federal income tax Big Julie paid last year? We got his ten-forty from the IRS. One hundred six measly bucks. One-oh-six, total. That’s what he paid. He probably earned millions.”

“Man, that’s incredible,” Jack said. “Who’s his accountant?”

“Two smartasses,” Frelly said, leaning back. “I should arrest you both for being a pain in the behind.”

“Tell him the deal,” Gauger said.

“Please,” Jack Sievers said.

“The deal is that your client snitches for us. On Big Julie,” Frelly said.

“For how long?” Jack asked, at the same time that Tanner said, “No deal.”

“No deal,” Tanner repeated. He turned to the lawyer. “Can’t do it, Jack. If I turned on Big Julie, the Mob would kill me.” He turned and smiled winningly at Frelly. “And if I’m dead, I can’t fulfill the terms of my probation.”

Frelly shrugged. “Wouldn’t happen. You might be doing the Mob a favor if you did help put Big Julie behind bars. The way I hear it, Big Julie’s out here to take a break from the turf wars in Jersey. The Russians are trying to take over his territory. He goes to jail, they’ll be grateful, and you’ll be safe.”

“You think his organization won’t be upset if Big Julie got killed or went to jail?”

Frelly sat back and fiddled with his pencil. “You can break your probation and go to prison,” he said finally. “Or you can play cards. Like you always do. Only now, you wear a camera and report back to us. Take your pick.”

Tanner didn’t like it. He didn’t like getting face-to-face with the Mob. All of his assignments for the last nineteen years had been surveillance jobs from security offices, showing the FBI agents how someone was cheating or how a dealer was dirty. Nobody he’d ever turned over to law enforcement had known who he was. No suspect had ever seen him.

This situation was different. Now he’d have to play cards with and snitch on someone who’d be more than happy to do him serious bodily harm.

What were his choices? If he said no, he’d go to prison for twenty years. He didn’t want to go to prison. He’d just have to take his chances that he could outwit the Mafia. If Big Julie was anything like Roy Frelly, maybe that wouldn’t be so hard.

“Any money I win, I keep,” he said.

“If you win it legitimately,” Frelly said. “And pay taxes on it. Sure.”

Tanner sat another minute, trying to think of a different way, a better way to get out of the FBI’s deal. But he couldn’t see it. He looked at Sievers, raising an eyebrow. Jack looked back, pursing his lips.

Pacification maneuver.

“For how long?” Sievers asked.

“Until we get the evidence against Big Julie,” Frelly said. “Or until we say.”

“Until you get the evidence, or one month,” Jack said.

“Until we get the evidence, or three months,” Frelly said.

Jack looked at Tanner, turning palms up. Acceptance.

“Okay,” Tanner said, feeling the noose tighten. “It’s a deal.”