Brand New Me (35 page)

The problem was that chief of police they had in Konigsburg who was blowing a bar fight into some kind of felony. Hardesty had managed to give him a call on his way out of state, and he hadn’t been encouraging. Still, Craig figured most people in town would recognize the cop’s campaign for the exaggeration it was. Hell, from what Craig had heard, that bar had a reputation for being broken up. He’d just helped things along a little. He figured Big John could take care of it with a few well-placed lawyers and some pointed references to lawsuits for wrongful arrest if worse came to worst. And Craig could always supply a couple of autographed game balls to sooth any hurt feelings among the police force.

Of course, Big John would only help him out if he brought Dee-Dee back to Houston. If he came up empty-handed again, there was always the chance that the big man would cut him loose. The acid in Craig’s stomach felt like a tidal wave. Without Big John’s support, Craig wouldn’t have the money to pay off the bookies who kept leaving nasty messages on his voice mail. And not paying his bookies could have all kinds of unpleasant results, results he really didn’t want to contemplate just now.

He turned onto Highway 281 heading toward Konigsburg. All of this could be taken care of easily enough. Dee-Dee had to see reason. She had to leave Konigsburg and go back to Houston. When she did, she’d realize that Craig was actually the man she was supposed to end up with, the only man who actually made sense. She was Dee-Dee Brandenburg, for Christ’s sake, daughter of one of the richest men in Texas, a freakin’ millionaire in her own right. How could she even consider some asshole nobody in a dead-end tourist trap?

Craig blew out a breath, pushing the accelerator down to pass a couple of semis. Dee-Dee just had to get her head screwed on straight and all of this would go away.

Of course, if Dee-Dee had her head screwed on straight, none of this would have happened in the first place. And no way was he losing out to a goddamn bartender.

Nando showed up at the Faro just after lunch. “Where’s Deirdre? I thought she’d like to know what happened with Broadus and Seifert.”

“She’s off pricing coffee roasters on her computer.” At least that’s what Tom thought she’d said. Right now he and Chico were trying to set up a makeshift bar out of whiskey barrels and an old door, so he wasn’t exactly thinking about it.

“Oh. Well, tell her the powers that be still can’t decide who gets to try those idiots, but they all agreed it wouldn’t be us. Anyway, they’re on their way to Austin. Eventually, she’ll have to testify, but my guess is it won’t be for a while. And if Broadus’s lawyer has any sense they’ll plead him out.”

“Broadus has a lawyer?”

“Appointed by the court. Ol’ Milam’s still refusing to talk to anybody who isn’t ready to secede. Sounds like a great basis for an insanity plea.”

Tom sighed. “Tell that to the governor.”

Nando leaned back against the doorway to the beer garden, surveying the few remaining lunch customers in the main room. “Heard anything more from Dempsey?”

Tom shook his head. “Maybe the kidnapping scared him off.”
But probably not.

“Right. Well, Toleffson’s still looking for him. If he shows up, give us a call.”

“Will do.”
Right after I convert him into a lawn ornament.

Deirdre arrived just before the evening rush while he was tapping a new keg, so he didn’t get a chance to pass on Nando’s news. He figured it was just as well. She seemed to have gotten over Broadus and Seifert, and he didn’t particularly want to bring them up again.

The evening wasn’t that busy. He sent Harry home early since he’d been working extra hours, then he sent Marilyn off at eleven. Sylvia took Chico home at eleven-thirty after she and Deirdre had finished serving the last remaining customers.

Tom wiped down the bar and stacked some empties in the kitchen as Deirdre cleaned the tables. “Quiet night,” he said.

“So far.” She bit her lip.

Tom narrowed his eyes. “So far? What do you know that I don’t? Should I call Chico back?”

Deirdre shook her head. “No. You won’t need him.”

Behind her, the door swung open and Craig Dempsey walked into the Faro.

Tom grabbed his sawed-off pool cue, flipping up the gate at the end of the bar to let himself out. Dempsey braced himself, grinning.

“C’mon, bartender,” he growled. “You think you can take me? Let’s do it.”

Deirdre stepped in front of him. “Stop it. Both of you. There’s nobody here but me and I’m not impressed.” She turned to Tom. “I told him to come here.”

Tom stared at her, trying to sort out all the questions that suddenly flooded his brain. “You knew where he was?”

“No, I called all the luxury hotels within a fifty-mile radius. He was staying at a resort in Marble Falls.”

Dempsey smirked. “A lot more comfortable than Podunk Center here, believe me.”

Tom gripped the pool cue so tightly his hand ached. “And why exactly is he here?”

Deirdre rested her hands on her hips. “He’s here because I have a proposition for the two of you. A way to settle this thing now.”

Dempsey’s smirk hadn’t altered, but his eyes became watchful. “The only way to settle this thing is for you to come back to Houston. I told you that.”

“That’s one possibility.”

Dempsey narrowed his eyes. “There isn’t any other possibility.”

“Yes, there is. You go back to Houston yourself. Only before you do, you write out a quick statement for the TABC, telling them you were behind the riot here so they don’t take Tom’s liquor license away.”

“And why would I do that?” Dempsey said between gritted teeth.

Deirdre shrugged. “Because you lost the game.”

Tom stared at her. “What game?”

“The game the two of you are going to play tonight. Poker. Blackjack. Best two out of three. I’ll deal.”

Dempsey gave her an incredulous look. “Let me get this straight. We play poker. If he wins, I have to write out a statement for the TABC and head back home. What do I get if I win?”

She took a deep breath. “I go back to Houston with you. And I go to work for my father again.”

Tom felt as if his spine had turned to ice. “You go…”

She nodded. “If he wins.”

Tom stared at her, a cacophony of voices roaring in his head.
I don’t want you to go. I won’t let you go. How can you go?

“Tom?” She licked her lips. “If he wins. Only if he wins.”

Tom blinked. She expected him to win it? He hadn’t looked at a poker hand in three years. And who knew how good Dempsey was?

Dempsey’s smirk spread into a faintly nasty grin. “What’s the matter, Ames? Don’t like poker? Maybe we could play Old Maid instead.”

Tom studied him for a moment. Behind that smirk, his eyes had a familiar avid brightness. A gambler. And maybe not a good one. But he only had three games to find out.

Deirdre was watching him, her shoulders tense. She knew Dempsey better than he did. He met her gaze.

Trust me. Please.

Tom blew out a breath. “Okay, Dempsey. But no blackjack. Five card draw. And two out of three isn’t enough. We go three out of five.”

As he said it, the words of an old David Bromberg song floated through his mind.
A man should never gamble more than he can stand to lose.

Deirdre took the deck out of the box, then shuffled the cards, trying very hard not to drop them. She hadn’t thought she’d be this nervous when they actually sat down to play. She’d even told herself there was nothing to be nervous about. Tom was a professional gambler, or at least he had been. Craig was an amateur who had an inflated opinion of his skills. She knew for a fact he’d dropped thousands playing poker in Vegas.

But he’d won sometimes too. Even Craig wasn’t dumb enough to go on playing if he always lost.

Deirdre didn’t play poker herself, although she knew the basics. She’d been counting on them playing blackjack until Tom had refused. She watched the two men stack the chips she’d given them, shuffling again. Craig pushed his chair in beside her on the left. Tom regarded him stonily. Deirdre didn’t know exactly what he’d done, but she figured he was being an asshole again. Her stomach clenched.

Craig tossed a chip into the pot. So did Tom. Deirdre dealt each man five cards.

Tom’s face was resolutely blank. The corners of Craig’s mouth edged up into the same smirk he’d been wearing all evening. He tossed three chips into the pot. Tom added three of his own.

Craig tossed a card into the discard, then turned to Deirdre. “Give me one.”

Deirdre picked up the deck and started to deal.

“Discard the burn,” Craig snapped.

She stared at him.

“Throw the top card into the discard, then give him one,” Tom explained. His voice was as expressionless as his face. Deirdre did what he told her to do.

Tom tossed three cards into the discard. She gave him three new ones. After a moment, Craig tossed five chips into the pot. Tom threw in five of his own.

“Four sixes.” Craig laid down his hand, still smirking.

Tom studied it, then shrugged. “Pair of queens.”

His face showed nothing. Deirdre’s stomach felt like she was wearing a corset tightened to Scarlett-at-the-barbeque level.

Craig gathered in the chips, his grin so wide that Deirdre felt like kicking him. “One thing you’ll find, Ames. I don’t bluff.”

Tom straightened the stack of chips in front of him. “Usually what a man says right before he bluffs the next hand.” He tossed his ante into the pot after Craig.

Deirdre shuffled again, her palms sweating, then dealt five more cards to each of them.

Craig studied his cards, then tossed in five chips. Tom tossed in his own five.

Craig’s grin almost split his face. He discarded a single card. Deirdre dealt him another.

Tom tossed two. Deirdre’s heart hammered against her ribs as she dealt him two more.

Craig tossed in another five chips. Tom matched him again. “Call,” he said flatly. Craig checked his cards again, then laid them down on the table. “Three eights.”

Tom shrugged. “Beats my sixes.” He shoveled the cards back to Deirdre.

The pressure around her heart was almost painful. She took a deep breath as she shuffled, trying to remember everything she knew, everything she’d read over the past day, about poker. This game seemed to be going much more quickly than it should be. Shouldn’t they be using more strategy here? Shouldn’t she?

She dealt five more cards to each man, then wiped her hands on her thighs. One more win for Craig and she was back in Houston wearing a suit. And Tom was in Konigsburg running the Faro without her. Deirdre bit her lip. What if he thought that was a good deal? Was that why he was hurrying through the game?

Craig was still grinning. She’d never noticed how annoying his grin was before. Did he really think if she went back to Houston, she’d go back to him? Did Tom? She glanced at him but his face was still blank.

Craig tossed five more chips into the pot. Tom tossed seven. Deirdre’s heart hammered again. Craig threw in two more.

Craig discarded a single card. Tom discarded two. Deirdre dealt with shaking fingers.

Craig threw in seven chips. Tom threw in nine. Craig stared at him for a long moment, then threw in two more chips. “Call.”

He lay down his hand. “Flush,” he said. “Ten high.” Deirdre studied his cards—a ten, nine, six, four, and three of hearts.

Tom smiled slowly. “Interesting. Me, too.” He laid down his cards slowly—ten, nine, seven, five, and two of spades. He pulled the chips toward him.

Craig’s smile dimmed. “You took a hell of a chance.”

“Just lucky I guess.”

Deirdre dealt again, the tightness in her chest easing fractionally.

Craig glanced at his cards, unsmiling. Tom’s expression didn’t change. Craig tossed in his usual five. Tom matched him.

Craig looked at his hand again, then shook his head. “No cards.”

Tom regarded him impassively, then tossed one card into the discard stack. Deirdre picked up the deck again and dealt him one.

Craig tossed nine chips into the pot. Tom tossed ten. Craig scowled at him. “Big spender.”

Tom shrugged.

Craig threw in another chip, then five more. Tom matched him, and added another.

Deirdre could hear the slight whistle of Craig’s inhale. She sat very still, biting her lip.
Houston and suits. Konigsburg and T-shirts.

Craig threw in another chip. He sat holding his cards for a moment, then lay them down on the table in front of him. “Pair of tens.”

Tom smiled slowly, then flipped his own cards face-up. “Three eights.”

Deirdre wiped her hands on her thighs again. One more hand, and it would all be over.

Behind her the door opened and she heard the sound of boot heels on the planked pine floor. “Evening, Ames,” Erik Toleffson said.

Deirdre closed her eyes.
Or not.

Well, crap.
Tom pushed the cards in Deirdre’s direction. There was probably a city ordinance against gambling in a bar, but he could maybe slip by it given that the bar was closed and they weren’t playing for money.

No money. Just Deirdre.

“Evening, Chief,” he said easily.

Dempsey stiffened, licking his lips, which was perceptive of him. In his position, Tom wouldn’t much like meeting the chief of police himself.

He glanced up at Toleffson again. “What can we do for you?”

Toleffson settled on a barstool, leaning his elbows back on the bar as he studied the table. “Who’s ahead?”

“Even at the moment.”

Toleffson nodded absently, then turned to Dempsey. “Don’t believe I know you. I’m Erik Toleffson, chief of police here in Konigsburg.”

Tom was suddenly certain that the chief knew exactly who Dempsey was, but he figured he’d let Dempsey play it his way.

“Dorsey,” he croaked. “Cary Dorsey. From Amarillo.”

Deirdre bit her lips, maybe to keep from snickering. Tom could see her point. As an alias, Cary Dorsey struck him as one step up from I.P. Freely.

Toleffson didn’t blink “Just visiting, Mr. Dorsey?”

Dempsey nodded. “Yeah. Passing through.”

“With enough time for a little poker.”