Count on Love

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 for his grandfather, so Sam retreated to the end of the long curvy bar, where he could observe Annie without turning. He signaled Tiny for a beer, and to occupy himself, he kept hitting Redial on his cell phone until someone called him.

“Knight, here.”

“Hey, it’s Vince. What’s up?”

This was where Sam admitted he was working for Vince’s grandfather—albeit reluctantly—and Vince, who was about the only friend Sam had left in the world, washed his hands of him.

“I’m working.” Sam glanced over at Annie.

“Want to get a beer tonight at Tassels?”

Vince was obsessively suspicious that the manager of Tassels Galore and his grandfather had conspired to arrange the hit-and-run that had put his grandmother into a coma, despite Sam’s inability to prove anything.

Since Vince was younger than him, Sam often found himself in the awkward position of being the voice of reason. “Maybe we could go somewhere else—”

“She’ll make a mistake,” Vince interrupted. “And I’ll be there.” He hung up before Sam could protest again.

The beer came and did nothing for Sam’s nerves. Normally, the adrenaline rush of intense situations calmed him, focused his mental energy on the job at hand. But he didn’t know anything about the man puffing on a cigar two feet from Annie. Was he a cool gambler or a paranoid cheat? Was Annie in danger? And what was Vince going to do when he found out about this?

Annie peeled off her jacket, revealing skimpy lace and a lot of bare skin.

It’s been far too long since I had sex.

Sam took another sip of his beer and tried to observe the action without letting his mind wander.

He was far enough away that he couldn’t make out the exact cards on the table, but he could see whether the players won or lost, and catch their expressions. The man kept his eyes on the cards the entire time, but still managed to sneak sideways glances at a fidgety Annie.

Jealousy he had no right to tingled in Sam’s veins. Maybe he should rescind that background check and let Carl deal with her. Annie Raye was turning out to be nothing but trouble.

He needed Sabatinni. Sam started dialing through his contact list. Somebody must know where Sabatinni was.

ANNIE STIFLED HER WORRY as she won another hand. The table held a four-dollar minimum bet. The object of her scrutiny was betting ten to fifteen dollars a hand, while Annie was sticking to four dollars. So far, they’d both won just as much as they’d lost, and the dealer hadn’t shuffled. Annie hadn’t seen anything to make her think the guy was counting cards. She was starting to believe that she wouldn’t be able to spot him if he was.

The dealer’s top card was a two. Annie glanced at her cards again, an amateur’s habit. They wouldn’t change. She had a ten and a nine this time. “I’ll stay.”

The smelly man must have liked his hand, too. He waved the dealer off, eyes glued to the dealer’s cards.

The dealer turned over her remaining card. An eight. Adding to her two, it gave the dealer ten points. Not good from where Annie sat. At ten, a face card or ace would beat her hand. So far Annie hadn’t seen too many high cards played, so they were due.

The dealer snapped out another two with barely a change in her expression. Twelve points. Then a four. Sixteen points. Annie tightened her grip on her cards. This was getting better for her and the man who shared the table. The dealer couldn’t hold until seventeen. She had to give herself another card, and she flipped over…a six. Twenty-two.

The nickname for blackjack wasn’t “twenty-one” for nothing. You couldn’t accumulate more than twenty-one points. The house had lost, which meant that the players doubled their money as soon as they proved to the dealer they had twenty-one points or less.

Annie wiped her palms on her skirt and watched the man reveal his cards. A nine and a seven. Any combination from twelve to sixteen was a stiff hand, one that would require taking a chance on another card. Not a smart bet, yet he’d come up a winner this round. That didn’t mean he wasn’t counting. Card counters often lost a little or made intentional mistakes to throw off any suspicions and to reassess the probabilities of the cards.

“If you see a lot of high cards come out—tens, face cards or aces—and you’ve lost count, start betting low,” her father had often said as he snapped cards onto their rickety kitchen table. “Chances are, a lot of low cards will be dealt, and low cards can kill you in blackjack. On the other hand, if you see a lot of low cards being dealt, bet big. That means the big cards are coming out and you’re due for a win.” He’d tugged one of her pigtails gently. “But you don’t lose track, do you, puddin’?”

Since Annie had sat down, there had been only seven significant high cards dealt. If this guy knew anything about gambling, he’d increase his bet. If he’d been counting cards and calculating probabilities, he’d start firing chips onto the table.

After a quick glance around, the dealer looked sourly at the deck, probably trying to decide if she should shuffle or deal another hand. If she shuffled, the odds favored the house, because the card counter would have to start a new tally. With a put-upon sigh, she chose not to shuffle. The hair on the back of Annie’s neck prickled.

Annie’s eight dollars in chips still sat in the betting area. The other player bumped his bet to an uncharacteristic forty. Annie cast a worried glance at Sam. Though she didn’t think what this guy was doing was wrong, she had to signal Sam so that Tiny’s fist wouldn’t end up in his face, and she’d get that job at Slotto.

But what would happen to this man if she did finger him? Annie couldn’t repress the memory of fists pummeling her father’s flesh, accented by her own terrified screams. She’d vowed to never let her gambling skills be responsible for someone else’s welfare again.

Staring into his beer, Sam took no notice of Annie. His lips were moving. Was he singing? No. Talking on his cell phone. Tiny’s dark eyes, on the other hand, bored into Annie, a shot glass barely visible in his fist.

The dealer flicked cards out onto the table. Annie didn’t touch hers. She willed Sam to look at her, but he didn’t as much as glance her way to settle her nerves.

“Taking one?” the older woman asked, her voice raspy. It was the first time she’d spoken since Annie had sat down.

“What? Oh, sorry. I need a drink,” Annie mumbled, stalling as she looked at her cards for the first time. A jack and an ace, twenty-one in a natural hand that was unbeatable. The ace could count as one or eleven. Annie flipped her cards faceup. She didn’t need to play anymore.

The dealer stacked eight dollars in chips in front of Annie. The remaining player chewed on his cigar and brushed his cards across the felt to indicate he wanted another one. The dealer snapped out a seven. He laid his cards down. No smile, no frown. Cool as an ice cube. Annie could remember playing with that kind of composure when she was twelve and thought she was invincible. At twenty-six, she knew every decision came with a risk and a price.

She shot another nervous look Sam’s way. From here he looked gorgeous, the trace of sadness in his eyes not evident. He gave no sign that he was aware of her predicament. She was on her own. Next time she’d pick a man who was a good protector and good father material.

Next time? Annie’s breath came in near panicked pants. She couldn’t wait for a next time. Maddy’s toothy grin came to mind, a calming beacon. Annie inhaled deeply.

The dealer had an eight showing, and flicked her hole card over. A six, giving her a stiff fourteen. The rules dictated she had to take another card, and she snapped one down. Another eight. Once again she was busted.

The guy beside Annie turned over his two original cards with a puff of smoke from his cigar. A seven and a five added to the seven dealt him gave nineteen. He gathered up his chips, tossed one to the dealer and headed to the cashier window.

Annie slipped her jacket on, collected her winnings and followed him, curious as to how much he’d won. She tried to stand unobtrusively behind him in the cashier’s line, but had to step closer to hear the attendant count out his money. A quick glance showed her Sam was still engrossed in his call.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight hundred and eighty-five dollars.”

That much? He’d either been slipping his winnings into his pockets or he’d started out with a lot of chips. Only fifty dollars in chips had been out on the green felt. He hadn’t bragged or otherwise given away in the least the fact that he’d won and won big. Only disciplined pros gambled like that. They had to be if they wanted to remain inconspicuous. Occasional players couldn’t keep their good fortune to themselves. At a larger casino with extensive video cameras and pit bosses, the man’s image would have been compared to a bank of known card counters and if a match was made, he’d be escorted out soon after his next win. The gambler certainly knew casino limits.

Moving quickly, he stepped back, almost on top of Annie. She scrambled out of the way and dropped some of her chips.

“Excuse me,” she said as she crouched to pick them up, avoiding looking into his eyes.

His penny loafers paused too close in front of her face. She just knew that he knew that she knew what he’d been doing. At any moment, Annie expected him to drag her up by her hair and use her for a shield as he made his escape, or knock her aside so that she wouldn’t follow him.