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Authors: Robin Spano
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about?”
“Oh,” George said. “A writer never talks about his current work.”
Totally not true. Noah’s mother had a million writer friends, most of whom had verbal diarrhea when it came to their current work. But Noah respected George’s right to silence. And he was just as happy not to hear a long-winded saga.
Noah switched topics. “You’re dating Fiona Gallagher, right?”
George shook his head. “We broke up a few months ago.”
Shit. The guy looked really sad about it. “Sorry, man. Is it hard to be on the same scene? You must see her every day.”
George shrugged. “We’re adults.”
Noah went in for the kill. “So where’s Fiona while the tournament is playing? Does she sit in her booth and watch the hidden cameras?”
“Her techie does that. A kid called Oliver. She hates his guts, actually. Don’t know why she doesn’t fire the guy. Fiona stays out front and does exit interviews as people bust out of the game.”
Noah nodded. His questioning line may have sounded clumsy, but he had the answer he’d been after: Oliver the techie had the hole card signal live. Was he the only person who did?
Noah folded his queen-ten. In late position, the hand was playable, but he wanted to play safe. Even if a timid game was unlikely to net him first place, it would keep him in the game longer. And until he found this signal, he was going to learn more at the table than away from it.
FIFTEEN
CLARE
Clare scowled at her reflection in the casino bathroom mirror. She’d busted out in thirty-eighth place: two off the bubble. If she’d been smart and played conservatively — if she hadn’t been suckered into going all in with her aces — she would have finished in the money. And followed the tour to Vancouver. Now she was going home to boredom.
She hadn’t even played the hand badly and that’s what was so fucking unfair. Poker was luck at least half the time. So because of rotten luck, Clare’s career was basically over. Fucking Cloutier. Clare could do this job if he wasn’t always standing in her way telling her she couldn’t.
She had one night left in the hotel. Cloutier the giant asshole had said she could check out the next morning — probably because it was too late to cancel the room without a penalty. So Clare had one night to find a critical piece of information from someone on this scene — something, anything, that would render Clare invaluable to the case, so that pulling her would be to the case’s detriment.
She tugged her cosmetic bag from her fuschia leather purse. As she unscrewed the cap on her mineral foundation, a tall redhead strode into the washroom and set her purse on the sink two over from Clare’s.
“Fiona, right?” Clare said.
The woman turned, gave a small smile, and nodded.
“I love your exit interviews,” Clare said. “How do you come up with those hilarious questions on the spot like that?”
Fiona squirted soap onto her hands and lathered them intensely. “I pretend we’re at a party that the audience is getting an exclusive glimpse of. Everyone likes to feel like they’re in on the action. Are you playing in the tournament?”
“I was,” Clare said. “Until Joe Mangan took all my chips an hour ago.”
“Yeah, Joe can be a bitch.” Fiona dried her hands on a paper towel and pulled a small round brush from her purse.
“It’s cool,” Clare said. “It’s my first tournament. I can’t expect to win right away.”
“Right on.” Fiona nodded. “The Zen approach.”
Clare wasn’t sure what was Zen about being realistic. Maybe Fiona had just smoked a joint and thought everything was Zen. She didn’t smell like she had, though — she smelled like expensive perfume.
“How did you get into poker broadcasting?” Clare dabbed liquid blush along her cheekbones with the sponge, like her new handler Amanda had shown her. “Did you go to journalism school?”
“Ha ha. No. I started podcasting one summer with my friend at home in
“Oh,” George said. “A writer never talks about his current work.”
Totally not true. Noah’s mother had a million writer friends, most of whom had verbal diarrhea when it came to their current work. But Noah respected George’s right to silence. And he was just as happy not to hear a long-winded saga.
Noah switched topics. “You’re dating Fiona Gallagher, right?”
George shook his head. “We broke up a few months ago.”
Shit. The guy looked really sad about it. “Sorry, man. Is it hard to be on the same scene? You must see her every day.”
George shrugged. “We’re adults.”
Noah went in for the kill. “So where’s Fiona while the tournament is playing? Does she sit in her booth and watch the hidden cameras?”
“Her techie does that. A kid called Oliver. She hates his guts, actually. Don’t know why she doesn’t fire the guy. Fiona stays out front and does exit interviews as people bust out of the game.”
Noah nodded. His questioning line may have sounded clumsy, but he had the answer he’d been after: Oliver the techie had the hole card signal live. Was he the only person who did?
Noah folded his queen-ten. In late position, the hand was playable, but he wanted to play safe. Even if a timid game was unlikely to net him first place, it would keep him in the game longer. And until he found this signal, he was going to learn more at the table than away from it.
FIFTEEN
CLARE
Clare scowled at her reflection in the casino bathroom mirror. She’d busted out in thirty-eighth place: two off the bubble. If she’d been smart and played conservatively — if she hadn’t been suckered into going all in with her aces — she would have finished in the money. And followed the tour to Vancouver. Now she was going home to boredom.
She hadn’t even played the hand badly and that’s what was so fucking unfair. Poker was luck at least half the time. So because of rotten luck, Clare’s career was basically over. Fucking Cloutier. Clare could do this job if he wasn’t always standing in her way telling her she couldn’t.
She had one night left in the hotel. Cloutier the giant asshole had said she could check out the next morning — probably because it was too late to cancel the room without a penalty. So Clare had one night to find a critical piece of information from someone on this scene — something, anything, that would render Clare invaluable to the case, so that pulling her would be to the case’s detriment.
She tugged her cosmetic bag from her fuschia leather purse. As she unscrewed the cap on her mineral foundation, a tall redhead strode into the washroom and set her purse on the sink two over from Clare’s.
“Fiona, right?” Clare said.
The woman turned, gave a small smile, and nodded.
“I love your exit interviews,” Clare said. “How do you come up with those hilarious questions on the spot like that?”
Fiona squirted soap onto her hands and lathered them intensely. “I pretend we’re at a party that the audience is getting an exclusive glimpse of. Everyone likes to feel like they’re in on the action. Are you playing in the tournament?”
“I was,” Clare said. “Until Joe Mangan took all my chips an hour ago.”
“Yeah, Joe can be a bitch.” Fiona dried her hands on a paper towel and pulled a small round brush from her purse.
“It’s cool,” Clare said. “It’s my first tournament. I can’t expect to win right away.”
“Right on.” Fiona nodded. “The Zen approach.”
Clare wasn’t sure what was Zen about being realistic. Maybe Fiona had just smoked a joint and thought everything was Zen. She didn’t smell like she had, though — she smelled like expensive perfume.
“How did you get into poker broadcasting?” Clare dabbed liquid blush along her cheekbones with the sponge, like her new handler Amanda had shown her. “Did you go to journalism school?”
“Ha ha. No. I started podcasting one summer with my friend at home in
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