Stacked Deck

“Perfect,” she said. “I want my hair lightened this exact shade of blond and cut in this style.”

“Wish I could see you perform. I bet you’re good.”

“I’m a method actor, dahlin’,” Beth purred. “I scare ’em and excite ’em at the same time.”

Randolph laughed. “Ooh, you play rough.”

“Sometimes, but I’m worth it.”

He stepped back from the chair and gave her the once-over. “Yeah, I can see it. You’ve got that edge to you. Like you’re hiding a tiger under a pink dress.”

They both laughed.

As Randolph worked his magic on her, she thought about how crazy her life had been growing up in Vegas. As a kid, she never felt anger or hatred or even animosity toward her father. She had seen too much of his struggle, his love for her, his ambition—even in hopeless failure—to give her a better life. It was his purpose, his goal. And though he’d died when she was only twelve, without accomplishing that goal in the end, above all else, his love for her was the source of her great inner strength. Because he believed in her, she never doubted who she was beneath the disguises. She merely used them as a means to an end, not as an attempt to erase her true self.

The following day, wearing several thousand dollars’ worth of designer clothes, shoes and obscenely expensive jewelry, carrying Louis Vuitton luggage filled with more of the same, Beth, aka Anne Hurley, rich widow, poker player, businesswoman and passionate lover of open wheel Formula One racing—and the tango—left Dulles International for the four-thousand-mile flight to Nice, France, followed by a seven-minute hop to Monaco by helicopter.

She’d changed her voice, her walk and her attitude to fit her new persona. The next part of the metamorphosis was done at a fabulous villa Delphi had rented for her on a Monaco hillside above the Monte Carlo casino.

She spent much of the next forty-eight hours out on the patio working on her laptop, stopping once in a while to take in the breathtaking view of the French Riviera, while a soft breeze rising from the Mediterranean washed over her.

Periodically she’d look down at the yachts settled like a great flock of white birds on the deep blue sea, the steep hillside covered with pastel villas bathed in the golden sunlight and the endless blue sky above. What could be better, she wondered, than to be filthy rich in Monaco, playground for the rich and the royal?

With her near photographic memory and a capacity to focus for long periods of time, Beth could inculcate volumes of information quickly. To fake a background with success she needed the fine details, the particulars people in the profession paid attention to, the latest jargon.

She listened to dozens of CDs, watched DVDs, read bios of drivers and memorized the complete history of Formula One.

Through a tiny pair of binoculars she carried in her purse, she could see the Sapphire Star Casino on an adjacent hill. It had the look of old Europe to it. Understated. The home of her target: Salvatore Giambi.

We will meet soon, Mister Giambi, she thought. He’d been made aware of her arrival, and had been given advance notice that she was interested in investing in his racing team.

And she knew he was desperate for investors. Not just because of financial problems, but, according to the files she’d been reading, his marquee driver, JD Hawke, had a bad boy history that scared off would be investors. JD’s on-track fights, off-track mouth, and daredevil driving had made him a pariah. Only his great talent, and Giambi’s willingness to gamble, made a comeback possible.

On the fifteenth floor of the Sapphire Star Casino, Salvatore Giambi stormed into his office. He was in a sour mood.

His race driver, JD Hawke, was seated at Giambi’s desk playing a video game on an open laptop.

“To hell with the prince! To hell with Monaco!” Giambi bellowed.

JD nodded without looking up. “What’s going on?”

Giambi stared at him. “JD, when the hell is this Anne Hurley supposed to show up?”

As JD obviously crushed his cyber opponent, he held up his arms in complete victory and looked up, beaming. “I thought you said tonight.”

Giambi stared at JD for a moment, wondering what the hell was so exciting about those damn games. “Can you do that somewhere else, I have work to do.”

“Sure,” JD said as he closed out and stood up.

“Let me know when she gets here.” He walked toward his desk just as JD was leaving it. “How much did I say was transferred to her account with us? I forgot.”

“An even million. If you took that Ginkgo biloba I bought you, your memory would improve.”

“I hate pills.”

“It’s a vitamin.”

“I don’t care what you call it, it’s still a pill.”

“It’s your choice, but I—”

“I don’t have time for this.” He waved JD’s statement away. “She didn’t want a comped room. What, my five-star hotel isn’t good enough for her?”

“Apparently she’s got friends to stay with,” JD said, as he tried to leave.

“Don’t get lost. I want you to meet this woman when she gets here.”

JD tossed him a look. He didn’t like being treated as if he was one of Giambi’s assistants, but the way Giambi looked at it, the guy had nothing to do but train with weights, party all night with his friends and wait until he, Giambi, got him a seat in a race car. Nice life if you could get it. “You might as well do something besides play video games and party.”

“Okay, boss,” JD said, with that Tennessee drawl of his.

Giambi didn’t particularly like the way JD called him “boss” like he was making fun of him. Like the way Paul Newman said it in that movie. What was it called? Shit! He couldn’t remember, but it had something to do with prison.

JD left and Giambi settled in behind his desk. He was moving money as fast as he could out of Monaco and out of Europe. He knew he was being targeted by Prince Albert personally in this crusade against money laundering.

No respect.

And after all he’d done protecting the principality and the Grimaldi family over the years.

God he hated that Rainier and his beautiful princess were gone. Those were the days. When they were in power, Monaco was the greatest country on earth.

He blamed the Bush administration’s war on terrorism more than the European Union for the present crackdown.

At the same time he was dodging the new regime, that bitch who was blackmailing him was demanding a bigger piece of his pie. Between her, the Monaco cleanup, and investors in his racing team suddenly getting scarce, Giambi felt the walls closing in. He was being forced to reach out to people he had never done business with and he didn’t like it. You reach out, you don’t know who you’re gonna get.

That tended to kick his normal paranoia up a notch.

Now it was the time of the month, as with every month, that he had to wire the money to the biggest mistake of his life. One that was slowly bleeding him to death. He wanted be rid of her in the worst way, but he’d all but given up trying to kill her. Half the intelligence agencies in the world had been no more successful than he had.

He unlocked the drawer of his desk and pulled it out. The laptop came up into position. He opened up the secret account. The bitch seemed to know exactly what his take was each month and she made sure he handed the lion’s share over to her. It was a double transfer from his bank in Monaco, through an intermediary, and eventually to her accounts in Puerto Isla. She changed numbers and destinations so often he’d begun to think she wasn’t a person but an organization.

Hell, maybe she was dead and he was paying some rogue CIA group!

Giambi made the transfer, then made a call to check on the progress of a Greek shipping magnate’s yacht, which was heading for Monaco. He was a billionaire with an interest in the proposal Giambi had made about building a casino in Kestonia. Giambi was talking up the small, Eastern European country as the next Vegas. It was also a place a man could work his money without worry. If Giambi could bring the Greek on board his casino venture, then get the rich widow to invest in his Formula One team, life might start looking good again.

He had a printout about this rich widow, Anne Hurley. Worth upwards of a hundred million dollars, she definitely could be the solution to some of his immediate problems. He wanted his race team up and running again, but it would take millions to accomplish that and he couldn’t afford to go it alone.

Sometimes, and this was one of them, he’d just stop his mind. Just suddenly stare off into space at the truth. He was seventy-eight years old, and time was shooting by on a fast train to nowhere.

In those few seconds, when he stared that truth dead in the face, it scared him to the quick.

All those vitamins and longevity formulas he tried to down, all the care he took of his body by working out every damn day, none of that could erase the years.

And that reality pushed Giambi to get things done and get them done now. He still had ambitions, big ambitions.

If it weren’t for that damn blackmailer, he’d be one of the truly big players. Steve Wynn and Donald Trump wouldn’t have had anything on him. He’d have been as big as both combined. And as far as racing was concerned, Christ, he could have teamed up with Paul Newman in the Indy league and coaxed him over into Formula One.

One of these days, he promised himself, he was going to hunt that bitch down and put a bullet in her himself. At his age, he was beyond worrying about consequences.

His phone rang. It was the concierge in the lobby. “Anne Hurley just phoned and requested a limo,” the rough voice said. Giambi didn’t know which of his employees was speaking to him, he only knew that at that moment the guy deserved a raise.

“What time will she be here?”

“Around nine-thirty, sir.”

“Let me know the minute she arrives.”

“Will do.”

He hung up, and downed three extra-strength Tums to neutralize some of the acid in his stomach. Then he walked over to his bar to pour himself a scotch and get a cigar.

I still have a good fifteen years, Giambi thought, and Ms. Hurley is going to help me enjoy every damn minute of it.

He lit his cigar and gazed out the window. “Cool Hand Luke! That was the name of that damn Paul Newman film. Ginkgo biloba my ass.”

Chapter 5

While waiting for the limo, Beth checked her Judith Leiber bag to ensure that the cloner and tiny antenna were in the right pocket. This was her means to pick up a signal from a smart-card badge. She would catch the signal emitted from the badge and download the data onto her cloner, then later make the transfer to her computer. She had other B&E tools for getting in and out of secure places, and she’d been provided instructions, but not a lot of practice. Her main means of entry, she hoped, would be JD Hawke, once she figured out how to get some leverage with him.

The limo picked her up at 9:15 p.m. On the way to Giambi’s place the limo passed Le Grand Casino on 1 Ave Princess Grace, then over to the Sun Casino on 12 Ave des Spelugues, and, of course, the Monte Carlo Sporting Club.

The playboys and playgirls of the moneyed world were out and about cruising in their Mercedes, BMWs and Ferraris.

Beth had had a great time here several years ago, gambling and dancing at Jimmy Z Dance, mingling with the trendsetters at this premier hot spot on the French Riviera.

When the limo pulled up in front of Sapphire Star, a dapper casino valet dressed in a red shirt, black vest and black pants opened her door.

“C’est avec le grand plaisir that we welcome you to the Sapphire Star Casino, Monaco.”

She nodded as if her entire life was an entrance to sumptuous digs and servile attention. “Merci beaucoup.”

She stepped out of the limo wearing a hot blue, butterfly-lace dress with black trim that hugged all the right places on her toned body; her bling bag dangled from her shoulder, and Manolo pumps on her feet gave a feminine look to her long, athletic legs.

Before she went two steps a gorgeous hunk of a man emerged from the casino wearing casual slacks, a tan shirt and a cream-colored leather sports jacket. Wow.

He headed toward her like a radar-guided, heat-seeking missile, and even though he was taller than she’d imagined, at least six feet, she recognized him instantly—JD Hawke. He walked with that cocky Saturday Night Fever Travolta strut, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips and every bit the cat on the prowl. Maybe mixing business and pleasure would be a nice advantage. Her body was already reacting to the guy, and she kind of liked how her heartbeat quickened as he strode toward her.

This Tennessee racecar driver, her initial target, looked like very delicious trouble. Bring it on.

She suppressed a grin.

She watched as he took her in from top to bottom, then locked eyes with her. “Miss Hurley, welcome to the Sapphire Star. I’m Mister Giambi’s associate. He would like to invite you to have a drink with him.” A warm smile followed his rich Southern drawl.

“Right now?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He had an engaging smile, big and handsome enough to paint a blush on a teenage girl’s face. She felt her own cheeks heat up after his intimate stare. C’mon, Beth, time to get a grip.

“Aren’t you the racecar driver, John Davis Hawke?” She made sure there was just a touch of awe in her voice.

He nodded as they shook hands. “Yes, ma’am. But people generally call me JD. At least those who like me.”

Beth smiled a slow smile back at him, then followed JD into the elegant, soft ambiance of Giambi’s casino. She couldn’t wait to meet the man who was able to establish a casino in Monaco, a major accomplishment in and of itself. Monaco was a very protective place and this ex-Boston Wise Guy was, apparently, part of that protection.

“If you want to play some poker,” JD said as they stepped inside a private elevator, “we have a unique poker room for special guests.”

“And what makes it unique?” She liked the smell of him, clean and fresh. As if he’d just taken a bath, a long, leisurely bath. A bath where he lounged in an oversized tub, his long finger beckoning her to join him. She liked the image. Too much. She forced the picture out of her mind.

“Let me show you.”

She mentally shook herself as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor and the doors opened onto a piece of the old American West.

JD said, “This is a duplicate of the poker room underneath the famous Bird Cage Theater in Tombstone, Arizona.”

“I’ve seen the original,” Beth said. “That’s where Wyatt Earp played poker and where he met his third wife.”

JD gave her a glance. “You are exactly right.”

They walked past the tiny poker room with its three tables nestled behind a railing. “Everything’s to scale,” JD said. “The exact lampshades and chairs, even right down to the bullet holes in the walls and cigarette burns on the tables.”

Beth looked around at the surrounding closed doors. “I see you even have the rooms where the prostitutes served the needs of the clients. I presume they aren’t in operation.”

“Not exactly. These are private dining rooms for the players. Very private dining rooms.”

Beth caught his eye and then glanced at the older men at the tables surrounded by a few women not much younger than Beth. “Some things never change,” she said.

JD smiled, then laughed lightly. “Makes life more interesting, don’t you agree?”

She found herself smiling. “Yes. There’s something to be said for tradition.”

“Yes, ma’am, there sure is.”

They both smiled slyly at the same time, and instantly Beth knew this guy was going to be way too easy. And maybe just a little too much fun.

Several of the men at the tables wore ten-gallon cowboy hats. Beth said, as they walked around the outside of the railing, “If Vegas recreates everything that is classically European, why not return the favor with a little bit of the Old West in Monaco. Giambi is obviously a shrewd businessman.”

“One of the best.”

She noticed the players using the large, square Monaco-style chips. They were difficult to riffle, but Beth had mastered the technique and was anxious to hold those chips once again.

Soon enough, she thought.

They walked away from the tables and past a packed restaurant tucked behind a small piano bar. Beth decided to open a new conversation. “I’ve seen you race and you’re one of the top-rated talents out there who doesn’t currently have a ride.”

He looked over at her, wounded pride showing on his face. “Hopefully I’ll have one soon.”

“Monaco Grand Prix is only a few weeks away. Any chance?”

With a note of bummed frustration, he said, “Not likely this year.”

They encountered Giambi sitting alone at a back table of the piano bar. The casino owner rose when he spotted them and stretched his six-two frame, which appeared to have withstood gravity very well. He had a neat shock of white hair and excellent taste in clothes: dark, pin-striped suit, wingtip shoes and a tiny pink rose pinned to his lapel.

As if making an announcement, he said, “I’m Salvatore Giambi, proprietor of this fine establishment,” and stuck out his hand to meet hers.

His hand felt warm, and his eyes were ice-chip gray with no sign of melt in them. She knew plenty of eyes like that in Vegas. They reminded her of tiny gun portals, the eyes of a man forever under siege.

They sat down at his table and chatted amicably for a minute or two about the weather and poker. JD kept quiet, his eyes rarely leaving her.

The waitress took her drink order, a green apple martini. When she left, Giambi got right to the point. “An intriguing rumor has reached me that you are looking to invest in a Formula One team. Any truth to that?”

“Quite a bit of truth.” She made herself comfortable in her chair, knowing this might take a while.

They discussed his race team, who his other drivers might be, the cars he was building and his search for sponsors. Giambi seemed quick and sharp, despite his age.

By her second martini she was telling them about the Formula One race she’d seen right there in Monaco when she was six. She told lies with great conviction and flair, a talent that every good poker player must possess.

“I still have Alain Prost’s autograph after he won that race. He set the record before the new chicane at one-thirty-eight kilometers. The lap record was a Ferrari, Michele Alboreto, over one forty-four. I actually got a ride in his car. Not very far, but it was one of the most exciting moments in my life.”

The two men exchanged surreptitious glances.

When she was telling them about how she not only loved the races, but the endless work in designing and building cars, Giambi suggested she should have a look at his new race shop and the cars he was building.

She said, “I’d love a tour.”

“JD will be happy to give you a tour anytime. Won’t you, JD?” Giambi gazed over at JD.

JD looked a little startled, as if he hadn’t been listening to what was being said. “Be my pleasure. Tomorrow I’ll give you the grand tour. L’excursion grande.”

His Southern accent obliterated his attempt at French, and brought a smile to her face. Cute. Time for a test. “That’s great, but the night is young for nocturnal creatures like me. Why waste it?”

“True,” JD said, “but I’m afraid I already have plans for this evening, and I don’t think I can get out of them.”

She watched Giambi’s head snap around. “If the lady wants to see the shop tonight, then tonight it is.”

JD looked at Beth for salvation, but she decided that Anne couldn’t afford to give in to his gorgeous, pleading eyes. She said, “Then tonight it is.” She was interested in seeing how Giambi would relate to JD’s comment. It was a good time to start gathering tells.

JD glanced at his watch. “Maybe I could make a quick run to the Monte Carlo and—”

Giambi rose abruptly from his seat. “Excuse us a minute.” He motioned for JD to follow him.

JD turned, gave her a shrug and walked off.

Beth sipped her drink then smiled at the sight of the old guy hustling his young stud driver out to the woodshed for an earful. The whole scene revealed a great deal.

Giambi had taken the bait and he seemed anxious. Maybe this little operation wouldn’t take too long after all. She sat back to await the outcome of their mano a mano.

Giambi couldn’t believe JD had tried to blow her off. When they were out of her earshot, he said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“You know I promised to meet some people from Hollywood, and I—”

“To hell with them. This woman has deep pockets. Did you not hear me earlier about taking care of this woman, Mister Southern Charm? She loves drivers. Her type always does.”

“So, now I’m an escort service?” As soon as the words tumbled out of JD’s mouth, Giambi could see JD was wishing he could take them back.

“I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a top-notch driver, unemployed, living free on the top floor of this establishment at my expense. A man whose future depends on my getting a racing team up and running. And that costs many millions, my friend.”

He watched as JD stood a little straighter, visibly preparing to stand his ground. It was something Giambi liked about the man. “These people I’m meeting are potential investors. I’m trying to line things up.”

“To hell with these Hollywood types. They’re fickle. Look, right now I need you to find out if Anne Hurley is the real deal.”

JD paused a moment, then said, “I thought you already ran a background on her.”

“Electronic data can be faked and I don’t have time to run hard verification on her. She might be who she says she is, but I need to know for certain. If she really knows racing, nobody better to find out than you.”

JD’s expression softened as he accepted the compliment. “I’m no detective.”

“You’ll know a false note when you hear it. Get close to her. Do what you have to do.”

JD’s lips curved up in a knowing smile. “Ah, you want me to seduce her.”

“Like most men wouldn’t give their left nut for a shot at something like that. This is your life we’re talking about here. You want to drive a race car or a garbage truck?”

JD frowned, but nodded his acquiescence. “You know I don’t like blowing people off when I’ve made arrangements with them.”

“Call them and make your apologies. Then get in there and make this young woman happy.”

JD nodded, his face showing he was back on track. “Fine, but I’m taking the Bugatti.”

“Like hell you are.”

“I’m taking the Bugatti. She’s class, like you say. First class. So I’m taking a first-class automobile. She deserves a good ride. She’s young, sexy, rich and looking to save our asses. Don’t you agree?”

Giambi couldn’t believe this kid. “You starting to enjoy the idea now?”

“The lady likes racing and gambling and I’ve got a feeling she likes guys about a third your age. The keys, please.”

Giambi shook his head. He handed over the keys. “You better not scratch anything. And don’t be racing. Every cop in France has you on their speed-demon list. You know that.”

“I’ll save it for the track,” JD said, slipping the keys into his pocket.

Beautiful, smart young women are wasted on young guys, Giambi thought with a touch of resentment. Older men know a woman’s value, know how to treat them. That was one of the many things he hated about getting old. Age was a nasty little thief. It robbed you a little each day. First one thing, than another, until you became an empty shell stripped of everything worth living for, then age killed you without dignity.

I have fifteen good years left, he told himself again.

It had been his mantra for years. He borrowed it from some big business guy. Maybe it was the one who once ran GE, but he couldn’t remember the guy’s name because he couldn’t remember anybody’s damn name.