Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [63]
“What’s so funny?” his uncle asked, drawing close.
“This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Uncle George,” DeMarco said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a joke, Uncle George. Lighten up.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” his uncle snapped.
DeMarco pushed himself away from the wall. He could vividly remember the day his uncle had come to him with his scheme about scamming the World Poker Showdown. Winning would be child’s play, his uncle had said, and would make DeMarco the most famous poker player in the world. Only it wasn’t turning out that way, and DeMarco sensed they were about to get beaten at their own game.
“Where you going?” his uncle asked.
“To take a leak,” DeMarco said.
“Have Guido walk with you.”
“Whatever you want, Uncle George.”
DeMarco felt his uncle’s hand on his wrist.
“You sure you’re okay, Skipper?” his uncle asked.
“I’m great, Uncle George. Just great.”
For as long as he could remember, DeMarco had hated to lose. It didn’t matter what the game was, or the stakes: if he didn’t end up on the winning end, he lost his temper, and sulked for days. He had to win, just as some guys had to be the best at a particular sport. As he’d gotten older, he’d wondered if it had something to do with being blind, as if winning put him on a level playing field with everyone else.
Only today had been different. He’d lost a monster pot, and it hadn’t fazed him. The surprise of losing had been upsetting, but the actual loss hadn’t affected him the way it normally did. He couldn’t put his finger on why, and as he and Guido walked to the lavatory, he thought about the snapshot he’d been given. He’d studied it between hands, and decided the little boy in the photograph was indeed him, the woman holding his hand, his mother. Everything else was a mystery, and he hoped the woman who’d given him the photograph hadn’t been driven away by his obnoxious behavior.
Guido stopped. “We’re here. Want me to go inside with you?”
“No, Guido. Go watch my uncle. He’s acting strange.”
“I can’t just leave you here,” the bodyguard said.
“It’s okay. I’ll get one of the players to walk me back.”
“You sure, Skipper?”
There was real concern in Guido’s voice. As nannies went, Guido had always been there for him. “Yeah, Guido. I’m sure. Thanks. I’ll see you in a few.”
The bodyguard walked away, and DeMarco went into the lavatory. When he emerged a minute later, he smelled lilac-scented perfume, and offered a smile when he felt a woman’s hand on his arm. “I need to talk to you,” a familiar voice said.
“Sure,” DeMarco said.
The woman led him to a corner table and they both sat down. She positioned her chair so their knees were touching. “Did you look at the photograph I gave you?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s of me and my mother, isn’t it?” DeMarco said.
She placed her hand on his wrist, her grip strong and firm. “That’s right.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your mother’s younger sister, your aunt.”
And where have you been for the past twenty years? he nearly asked.
“What’s your name?” he asked instead.
“Marie DeMarco.”
It felt like a scene out of a daytime soap opera, and DeMarco guessed he’d be dealing with plenty of people like her, now that he was famous. Out of curiosity, he leaned forward and brought his eyes a few inches from the woman’s face. The resemblance to his late mother was slight. He leaned back.
“Why did you come here?” he asked.
“I wanted to see you,” she said. “Your father also wanted to come. He lives in Philadelphia, not far from where I live.”
“My father?”
“That’s right.”
DeMarco removed her hand from his wrist. His father had abandoned him and his mother a long time ago. His uncle had told him so, and he’d accepted the explanation, simply because he’d never heard from his father. “I don’t know what your angle is, but I’m not giving you any money. You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, and pulling this shit.”
He heard