Free Devour by Kurt Anderson Page A

first thought? Your job, it be something kinky, but now I see kinky and”—he peered at the brass name tag on her white blouse—“Mizz Destiny, they don’t go hand in hand. Least not on the job.”
    “No, Frankie would have picked a different crew for that.” I hope , she added silently. “He’s got a game set up.”
    “’Course he do. Frankie always got a game set up,” Remy said, his voice dropping down until she had to lean closer, smelling rich coffee, dark rum, his light aftershave. “Always working something. This something maybe a bit more on the hush-hush. Word from the crew is we running out thirty-five mile, twenty past the Line.” His eyes went thoughtful, then cleared and he straightened. “But we ain’t gonna talk about all that crud. He paying us good, and I ain’t asking nothing.”
    “How far are we out now?”
    Remy shrugged. “Been moving for two hours, we out in it.” He pointed with his chin toward the table. “Go on, girl, be nice. Them boys look like tippers, especially the old dude with the cane. You want, feel free to share with your Uncle Remy.”
    * * *
    “Tell me again how it goes,” Hamilton Prower said. “I want everything to be perfectly clear in my mind.” He had his cane clasped between his knees and was leaning forward, his expression open and frank.
    Frankie nodded, leaned forward. To his side, Latham’s face flickered with annoyance.
    Well, no wonder the bent-nosed prick was annoyed, Frankie thought. They had been over the rules several times before they boarded, even signed a contract that Frankie knew would never show up, much less hold up, in any court of law. The format and structure of the game was his design, tweaked by Latham and Prower, yes, but simple to the point of banality. He’d run other games other ways, depending on his clientele, sometimes with exotic stakes or conditions. This one was as straightforward as it got. Cash for chips, and they played until the chips were gone. The chips winner got the pot, and the loser . . .
    That was always the question, what the loser was going to do.
    “We’ll cross the international line about five o’clock,” Frankie said. “That’s fifteen minutes from now. You’ll hear the captain send a message over the intercom, hear the rubes cheering upstairs. After that the party gets going upstairs. It’ll probably go on until two, three in the morning.”
    “And our game starts at seven,” Prower said. And ahh game stahts at seven. Frankie wondered if the accent was real. It was the kind of Nor’eastern drawl you expected to hear in a backwater tavern, not from a partner in one of Boston’s top legal firms.
    “Seven sharp,” Frankie said. “We’ll be well out to sea, no Coast Guard to worry about. The game is five-card draw, no wild cards. I got both your antes in my account.” He swallowed the last of his drink, jingling the ice cubes to signal he wanted another. He wanted another look at the girl he’d hired, too. “There’s a thousand dollars in chips for your initial stake. You get one buy-in, at the same cash-to-chips ratio, a thousand-toone. No minimum, but we set the max at two grand, got to vote it in. You can buy in a third time, but that’s it.”
    “Agreed,” Prower said. “And the dealer? You said there would be a dealer. Impartial.”
    “I did,” Frankie said, leaning forward as if this were the best question yet. As if they had not already discussed it several times. “The man flaked out, didn’t pass the background check. Of course, you get that money refunded.” Frankie paused, set his glass down gently. “He lied to me, gentlemen,” he said. “He didn’t mention his stint at a certain casino that was shut down by the Nevada State Gaming Commission for fraud, or that he was indicted and pled down to conspiracy to commit. He wasted my time, and yours. He is resting uncomfortably at the moment.”
    Prower’s eyes opened slightly at this, in consternation or admiration