Chapter Eight
The taxi stopped out front a bar called The Giant Head. Teresa frowned as Patrick paid the driver and got out. She followed as quickly as she could, but he was enough taller than her and walking fast enough that she had to take two steps for every one of his. The name of the club sounded familiar, but it'd be hard to forget had it been mentioned in everyday conversation, so she didn't give it much thought
She caught up with him as he was allowed past the velvet rope, past the line, and into the club.
"Patrick, do you really think you should be drinking?" She yelled over the pounding music. People crowded in, making it nearly impossible to keep some from going right through her. Each time, nausea would hit and retreat, like waves against the sand. After it happened three times, she fell in step behind him as they swerved through the mass of undulating bodies, using his larger frame as a shield.
He ignored her just as he had on the cab ride over. She couldn't really blame him. From having grown up with an alcoholic, she could never condone drinking and shutting yourself off from the world as a way to deal with death. Her dad had done that and had eventually ended his own life. But, now she understood Patrick more. He had suffered a real tragedy, and the last thing she wanted to do was drudge up those feelings of loss.
He made his way down the hall to a door with several locks on it and knocked.
The door swung open, and Patrick went in. She followed, staying close by his side. Three men sat at a round table with green felt on it, one sat with his back to the door and was smoking a cigar, wisps of smoke hung in the air like clouds on a foggy day. The other two men each had respectably sized piles of chips. The taller and lankier of the two men, grabbed two black chips, and tossed them in the middle of the table below a low hung light, the only light in the entire room.
She got a closer look and gasped. "Thousand dollar chips, what the hell?" Just how wealthy was Patrick?
Patrick took a seat and the men nodded to him.
"Yeah, I'm not sure replacing one vice for another is a great idea," she said. "You shouldn't be here, Patrick. We should go."
The one smoking the cigar leaned forward into the light showcasing an ugly thick mustache—her brothers would've called it a Flavor savor. Yuck.
"How good to see you. After last time, I wasn't sure you'd ever come back." The man reached to his right hand ring finger and twisted a gold band there.
Teresa furrowed her brow and glanced down at Patrick's ring finger—empty aside from a little tan line where a ring used to be. Her eyes bulged, and she pointed. "Is that your ring?"
His jaw clenched, the muscles there tightening.
"You bet your ring?" How could he do that? Was he really that unhinged?
Opening his wallet, Patrick produced a wad of cash. "In case you've forgotten, DeAngelo, last time you told me not to come back."
DeAngelo? Why did that sound so familiar too?
Flavor savor lifted his cigar and signaled to Patrick. "I said not to come back until you'd pulled yourself together. You look like your old self again."
Teresa glanced down at him. Sure, he looked better, much better, than he had the last three days they'd been together. A shower, a clean change of clothes, and getting out had been just what the doctor ordered. She'd even say he looked handsome, but he was also upset and falling back into bad habits. She couldn't remember how many times her dad had promised to get sober. The road Patrick was on was a slippery slope.
The dealer tossed Patrick his cards, along with five black chips, ten red and twenty blue. Had Patrick really had that much money on him while they'd been out and about? Yikes. One thing was certain, he'd planned on coming here when they'd left earlier.
"If you're here to win back your ring, you can forget it." Flavor Savor placed his cigar on a crystal ashtray. "I've grown quite fond of the thing. It's plain, humble appearance suits me."
Patrick picked up his cards and starting rearranging them. "What you mean to say is its hold over me pleases you."
The man chuckled. "Yes, that too." He chewed on the end of his cigar. "I am a man who likes power. What can I say?"
"Are we here to chat or play poker?" Patrick looked over his cards at Flavor Savor man, irritation evident in his tone. The man paused, seemingly caught off guard by Patrick's tone.
A moment later a small smile crossed Flavor Savor's face. "But of course. On with the game."
Teresa sucked in a deep breath and dropped her head in her hand. This was not going to end well. She reached for her mother's cross, remembering it wasn't there anymore too late to stop herself. Feeling her hair tickle at the back of her neck, she glanced down to find Patrick staring at her, at her hand as she lowered it.
He furrowed his brow and turned away.
He really was going to play. Blast him.
#
Patrick was back on his A-game. An hour in and he'd won back every penny he's lost a month ago—minus his wedding ring. The two other players both politely withdrew thirty minutes in, recognizing that Patrick not only wasn't going to lose, but also that it seemed he couldn't. That left the game down to him and DeAngelo.
DeAngelo hadn't been expecting this game. He'd been expecting, like every other time Patrick had played over the last six months, to do well. And if he were counting on Patrick to play as he had last time, he had to be especially sore. He tried to hide it, but Patrick could see. He'd long since placed his Cuban cigar in the ashtray without putting it out and had let the fifty-dollar-a-piece vice burn down. Aside from that, the man's jaw was clenched, when only an hour before it'd been loose. And finally, DeAngelo gripped his cards so tight the tips of his fingers turned white.
"I got to say, I didn't expect you to do this well." Teresa stood behind him. She'd spent half the night pacing the floor behind him, but after his second win, she'd started paying close attention. "Are you cheating?"
He glanced up at her and gave her an oh-please look, which made her smile, and him glad. His cocky confidence did often appeal to women. Even Teresa was impressed, which for some reason made him proud. She seemed like she might be a difficult person to please. He was starting to rethink that, however. In fact, he was starting to rethink most of his first impressions of her. She did not fit easily into any mold.
That fact alone that she was a cop was something special. Of course he'd seen female cops before, but not often. And he'd be willing to bet that she was excellent at her job. Her stick-to-it-ness alone had to be a good thing career wise.
DeAngelo took two cards from the dealer and pursed his lips. That was his tell for when his hand was exactly what he'd hoped for or better. Patrick took one card—not that he needed it. He had four of a kind and the only hand that could beat that, DeAngelo didn't have. Patrick knew because for the first time in months that he'd come here, he was sober, and when he was sober, his mind automatically counted cards. Not that he'd stop it if he could. Especially not now.
Grabbing five black chips from his rapidly declining pile, DeAngelo tossed them to the center of the table, and rubbed his fingers over his mustache. "I raise five thousand."
Patrick glanced down at his cards, then across to DeAngelo and then away. He'd won this game, but what he wanted was his ring. DeAngelo wasn't betting it, so Patrick had to make the man confidant enough to play recklessly. He needed to up the stakes. After a moment, he grabbed five black chips of his own. He then threw in two more. "I see your five thousand and raise two thousand more."
DeAngelo's smile dropped just slightly, his eyes narrowing as he appraised Patrick. It wasn't two seconds later that he took the two remaining chips he had, both only worth five hundred, and threw them into the pot. "You must have a good hand," DeAngelo said, "if you're betting more than I have. The good news is this is my club. I always have extra money somewhere."
He snapped his fingers, and a guy who'd been standing by the door, emerged from the shadows. He left the room.
"Wait, this guy owns Big Head?" Teresa asked.
Without being too obvious about it, he threw a quick glance in her direction.
She blinked those thick lashes rapidly as she thought. "Is his first name Louis?"
Patrick nodded once, curious about how she knew. He didn't know a lot about the man. He did know that he owned this club, that he was an ego maniac, and a criminal of some sort. Patrick also knew that the guy was dangerous, but he hadn't worried about that because he'd never given the guy reason to be mad at him. Even when Patrick had started playing here, even when he'd done well, he'd always kept his winnings to a minimum so as not to attract too much attention.
"Louis DeAngelo?" She repeated.
Patrick kept his gaze on the man grinning in front of him.
She pointed at DeAngelo. "He's in charge of one of the top crime syndicates in Sacramento. We've never been able to do anything to him, despite having ample evidence, because he has diplomatic immunity. He could kill you right now, and there would be nothing anyone could do about it."
The man DeAngelo had sent out returned with a stack of money. DeAngelo threw it out on to the table without looking at it. "That should cover it."
"Who's the confident one now?" Patrick asked.
DeAngelo smiled. "I call."
"I don't like this, Patrick." Teresa planted herself at his side.
The man who'd brought the money stood behind DeAngelo, his hands clasped in front of him. Patrick didn't find that at all encouraging. In all the times he'd played here, he'd never sent for cash, had never had a man standing behind him like that before. Something felt off.
Teresa reached down to him, stopping her fingers a hair's breadth away from his hand. And he felt it like a shock of electricity, only without the pain. He glanced up at her, at the little line that had formed between her brows and the tight line of her lips.
She pulled her fingers back. "Be careful. Please."
Patrick laid out his cards—four fives—and waited.
DeAngelo's smug grin fell. "You cheated. You must have cheated."
Patrick pointed to himself and furrowed his brow. "Do you think I have a death wish? Come on, DeAngelo. I'm not stupid enough to cheat. All I want is my ring. You can keep your money. The ring is worth a fraction of what's in the pot."
DeAngelo's gaze went from the pot in the center of the table to the ring on his right hand ring finger. He splayed his hand in front of him, staring at the ring, then slowly twisted the thing off and tossed it across to Patrick.
Patrick picked it up and almost slid it on before changing his mind and placing it in his vest pocket. He grabbed the stack of bills sitting directly in front of him. There was no point in trying to take the chips; he wasn't leaving here with any of their money. In fact, judging by the scowl on DeAngelo's face, he was fairly certain he'd be lucky if he got out of here with his life.
He stood and nodded to DeAngelo. "Good game."
He made his way around the table, and then just before he turned to go to the door, he tossed the bills into the face of the man standing behind DeAngelo. The bills fluttered apart in a big green poof and Patrick sprinted for the door.
He was halfway down the hall to the club when a bullet pierced the wall to the right of him. Four more paces and he was out of the hall. The club patrons started screaming and running around like ants in an ant farm. Patrick ducked before plunging into the hysteria of the crowd and pushing his way through.
Then Teresa was there, at his side. "Not the front door," she directed. "Too many people trying to get out there. Try the exit back by the bathrooms."
Patrick deviated courses and ran for the other exit. She was right, there weren't as many people trying to get out here. He pushed through the door as another shot sounded from behind. He made for an alley around the side.
"He's coming," she warned him.
Patrick ducked behind a dumpster while Teresa stood watch.
"No, it's not going to work," she said.
"What's not going to work," he whispered back.
"Shhhhh!" She put her fingers to her lips. "You're going to have to get under the dumpster."
"What?" The ground was wet, and there was a large pile of mysterious goo by one of the wheels. "I'm not going under there." Besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn't fit even if he wanted to.
She faced him. "You either go under the dumpster or in it after he shoots you; it's your choice."
He huffed, scooted between the back of the dumpster and the wall, and slid through the wetness and muck, until he was totally concealed. One of his cheeks was pressed against the back of the dumpster the other against the gooey pavement. Patrick held his breath people ran by screaming and shouting. He waited several minutes before saying anything. He plugged his nose against the putrid smell and tried to ignore the wetness seeping through his clothes. "Is it clear?"
Teresa said nothing.
He tried again. "Teresa?"
"Yeah, you're good."
He shimmied out and stood. Glancing down at his now sullied clothes, he sighed. "This was my favorite suit."
Giving him a once over, she concealed a grin by letting her hair fall in her face. "Come on. We need to get out of here before they decide to do another sweep."
They ran to the end of the building and turned the corner, coming face to face with the man with the gun. Patrick flinched to the side out of instinct. Teresa pulled her fist back and punched the man square in the nose. The punch landed, her hand made contact, like it had when she'd hit the flowers in the market and his and Zak's foreheads. The man went cross eyed before dropping like a sack of turnips.
Patrick blinked.
"Did you see that?" she stared at her hand. "I'm starting to get good at that."
"Did you just save my life?" Patrick said at the same time Teresa said, "Save your life?"
She glanced at him and grinned. "Yeah, I did. Now let's get out of here."
