Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [105]
“It feels pretty good,” DeMarco admitted.
“You predicted you’d win the tournament, and you did. Did you come here believing you were the favorite?”
“If I did, I was mistaken,” DeMarco said.
The CEO lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise.
“Really?”
“There were plenty of players in the event who could have won.”
“Sounds like winning has humbled you.”
DeMarco tilted his head almost imperceptibly.
“One of the players you knocked out called you a cheater and challenged you to play heads up,” the CEO said. “His name is Rufus Steele, and you agreed to play Steele if he could raise a million dollars. I’m told that Steele has raised the money and is itching to take you on. Are you still up for playing him?”
DeMarco straightened in his chair and his face turned expressionless. He’d just beaten the best players in the world, and adrenaline was pumping through his veins. But Steele was a different animal. Steele didn’t want his money. He wanted revenge.
“Bring him on,” DeMarco said, the swagger returning to his voice.
“When?”
“How about right now?”
“You sound ready for a fight,” the CEO said.
“No disrespect, but Rufus Steele is past his prime, and I’m entering mine,” DeMarco said. “I’ll play him anytime, anywhere.”
“Eieee!” Gloria said, jumping up from her chair at the bar. The color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes were blazing. “This is my story! Come on!”
They were speeding down the highway toward Celebrity when Valentine’s cell phone started vibrating. He’d been the last person he knew to buy a cell phone, and now he couldn’t live without one. He stared at the phone’s face. CALLER UNKNOWN.
“Valentine here,” he answered.
“Hey pardner,” Rufus Steele’s voice rang out. “You anywhere near the hotel?”
“I’m about five minutes away.”
“Good,” Steele said. “I just agreed to play that punk DeMarco. I threw in a little stipulation, just to keep things honest.”
“What kind of stipulation?”
“You’re the dealer,” Steele said.
49
Gloria Curtis hadn’t lasted twenty-five years as a newscaster by being a wallflower. Upon reaching the hotel, she cornered the tournament director and convinced him to let her announce DeMarco and Steele’s showdown, then persuaded the hotel’s general manager to let the event be played in the poker room. Once that was arranged, she hit every bar and restaurant in the hotel, rustled up a few dozen well-known players still hanging around, and talked them into sitting ringside.
“You really know how to set a stage,” Valentine said, shuffling the cards at the table where the match was to be held.
Gloria stood beside him with a pencil stuck between her teeth, studying the room. Removing the pencil, she said, “There’s something still missing.”
“What’s that?”
“Steele will be dressed up, and so will DeMarco. I think you need to be dressed up as well.”
With the tournament now over, he’d switched out of his geezer disguise and was wearing his last clean shirt and sports jacket. “What do you want me to change into?”
“A dealer’s uniform,” she said.
A dealer’s uniform consisted of a white ruffled tuxedo shirt, a black bow tie, and a black vest. It was a monkey suit, sans the jacket.
“You’re going to be on television and need to look the part,” she added.
“You’re the boss,” he said.
He left the table and found the tournament director, and got directions to the employee dressing rooms, which were at the far end of the lobby behind an unmarked door. He knocked loudly, and a male dealer opened the door. The dealer was about his size but heavier, and Valentine asked him if he’d be interested in renting his uniform. The dealer seemed amused by his request.
“You doing this on a bet?” the dealer asked.
“To impress a woman,” Valentine said.
“I figured it was one or the other. Sure, I’ll rent you my uniform.”
Valentine paid the dealer a hundred bucks, and the dealer took him to his locker, where a fresh set of clothes hung. Valentine stripped and put the dealer’s clothes on, then looked at himself in a mirror. The vest was too large, the