Death Plays Poker Read Online Free PDF

over you. You just have to come up to me the odd time, maybe rub my shoulders —”
    “I’m not rubbing your shoulders.”
    “You don’t gotta be so cold about it.” Mickey brushed his arms and shivered as if it was forty below.
    Clare put a hand on her hip. “Condition two: if anyone asks, we’re there as friends.”
    “Ah, come on. Why can’t we say we’re on a date?”
    “Because you’re thirty years older than me, and if I meet someone I do want to date, it won’t be worth any poker lessons if I have to turn down real romance.”
    “Fine,” Mickey said, glancing down as if she’d hurt his feelings. “We’ll say we’re friends. But only if we’re asked directly.”
    “Deal. So why is your ex such a . . .” Clare wasn’t prudish, but Tiffany wouldn’t repeat Mickey’s epithet. “. . . bitch?”
    “You mean besides the million bucks she convinced the judge to award her in our divorce, which I’m still fucking paying in installments?” Mickey scowled at the lobby carpet. “I’m not worth a million bucks. Don’t know why she should be.”
    “Maybe the judge went by income instead of net worth,” Clare said.
    “Fucking hell. You on her side already?”
    “Would I have to change clothes for the party?” By her own standards, Clare was dressed up already, but she had a whole new wardrobe in her hotel room, courtesy of the RCMP .
    “Up to you,” Mickey said. He was in dress pants and a pressed shirt, which seemed to be his everyday attire. “You’d be sexier than Loni if you wore a paper sack.”
    “I have this blue D&G dress I’ve been dying for an excuse to wear.” Clare might as well do this wholeheartedly. She had to show Cloutier she was serious. “I’ll meet you back in the lobby in ten minutes.”

SIX

    NOAH
    Noah Walker frowned as he glanced around the bar. The room was filled with loud, ugly white trash, and he was supposed to make these people think he was their new fucking best friend. Good thing he liked challenges.
    It was an odd room, with cheap wood paneling and swanky new lighting, like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be rustic or modern. Maybe ownership had changed recently. Maybe ownership just didn’t give a shit.
    The two poker tables were already full and the rest of the room was filling fast. Great White North — yeah, right. More than half the people there were American, like Noah. Hoping to cash in on what they thought was weak play, given the Canadians’ reputation for reticence and politeness. Please. The Canadians were a savvy crowd. They might smile and act polite, but they knew how to hold onto their money.
    Noah had crashed the party. It hadn’t been hard to find, with all those players yammering about seeing each other later in the back room at MacCauley’s. Wink wink, bring money for gambling. Like the cops cared about busting up their stupid side games. And like that should be the players’ biggest fear, with a killer basically picking them off, one by one, with some rope around their throats as they lay sleeping in their hotel rooms.
    Noah willed a smile onto his face. You didn’t get anywhere good being negative. He only needed to think of his mother to remember that. She’d spent most of his childhood brooding around in depression, nursing her moods like she was a martyr to so much affliction.
    Joe Mangan set his Coke on the bar rail beside Noah.
    “Hey,” Noah said, seizing the chance to talk to one of the few people there who didn’t look like he’d just rolled in from a long shift in the scrapyard. Joe, though he had a small scar on his otherwise baby-smooth face that indicated he’d likely fare just fine in the scrapyard, at least took the time to gel up his hair and wear decent shoes. Most of the other clowns wore discount store jeans and old sneakers.
    “Hey back,” Joe said. “Doesn’t look like this is your scene.”
    Noah shrugged. “Why not? I like to win money.”
    “Against this crowd?” Joe’s eyebrows lifted.