"Or maybe it's a matter of gender." Hahaha.

Fortunately I was out of earshot before the commentary descended any further. I found my table, introduced myself around, sat in my free seat and thanked the dealer for being there. The 2008 World Series of Poker was about to begin, and I couldn't be dreading it more.

I'd been dealt three combination hands in a row and it was giving me a headache. Players like Ben relished combo hands as energetically as I despised them. They just presented so many opportunities for self-made failure. You couldn't get by without counting cards at each street and even when you did, played tight, played smart, you still got stung in the end. It was the close-but-no-cigar hand that tempted you with the possibilities only to leave you wanting.

I peeked at my pocket of 9 of clubs, 7 of clubs once more. A fish move, I knew, but since I was the big blind and the dealer was letting the table nap in between bets and I had been watching Ben, I'd needed a refresher as the dealer burned a card. Since no one raised Preflop, I didn't have a decision until the first three cards went faceup.

Since I was well on my way to my fourth combo in a row, I sucked in a breath, praying for a clean trio of nines to fall on The Flop. Wasn't my life difficult enough? Fate must not have thought so, because 8 of clubs, 7 of hearts and 10 of clubs flopped. So now I had a flush draw for a golf bag (club flush), a straight draw and a pair of sevens. Wow, this could go to my head. Except for all the outs for the others-including the real possibility that I would end up drawing dead twice and a pair of tens would beat me.

Ack. In first position, I couldn't even wait to see some bets. I checked. The chair to my right was empty-a Saudi Arabian oil prince without a head for numbers and without a lick of sense had busted out in the second hand after going all in on a 2-Ace-7 off-suit Flop with sailboats (pair of 4s). The next six were a racehorse jockey from Ecuador who was an emotive jackal, a staid banker who had done nothing but check so far, a couple of lotto player (play any hand) college kids, an off-duty dealer from the Flynn who played like he shouldn't give up his day job and a stay-at-home mother of five who'd won her seat in an Internet tourney. To my left was a woman who was so wrapped up and covered up it was amazing she could breathe. She wore b.u.t.ter-plate-size black Diors, her hair wound up under a turban and a feather-plumed hat a la Dorothy Lamour, a black dress that went from floor to chin and shockingly white satin gloves. She hadn't spoken-to anyone-and I, frankly, was kind of scared to talk to her. I didn't think anyone had anything, even the jockey was being conservative. Then ole Blackie, as I'd come to call her, pushed in a raise of a thousand. Of course.

She was impossible to read with only a four-inch strip of skin showing on her whole body and absolutely still countenance. Then I saw her lower lip twitch. Just barely. I called.

The jockey did too. I think just for the h.e.l.l of it. "Jou remind me of my fav-o-rite chestnut 'orse. Fire on outside, ice on inside. Sizz..." he said as he pushed his chips across the felt.

The Turn came an Ace of hearts, a blank for me. Could be a homerun for her, a pair of Aces, trips, a possible heart flush draw. But if she'd had less than a heart flush draw a card ago why would she have raised then? On a bluff? Blackie's lip twitched again as she pushed in another raise.

She'd won two hands so far and I hadn't noticed the twitch. I had to go with my gut. I raised her. Everyone else fell off the board, even the lotto players. But Blackie reraised, no twitch, dammit.

I called. A 7 of spades fell on The River, wiping out the heart flush draw, turning my candy canes into trips. If she had Ace trips or trips with any other card on the board, I was sunk. Her lip wasn't twitching anymore. Shoot. I ought to fold. My gut told me to quit even though I was pot committed.

I didn't.

She turned over her pocket rockets and still didn't smile.

I'd lost all but three thousand dollars in chips. My cell phone vibrated with a text message. As the dealer let the machine in front of him shuffle the cards, I read: Frank called us with your new number. No word from Affie. Good luck at the Main Event. Love, Mom and Dad. I'd just slipped it back into my pocket when it vibrated again. The dealer spent the burn card and began pa.s.sing out our pockets. I glanced down at the screen on my phone: Remember: If you bust out, so does she.

Gasping, I looked around frantically-for what? An answer? Help? Someone to tell me how these guys had found my new phone number so quickly?

"Are you okay, Miss Cooley?" the dealer asked.

Then I saw him, over the hundreds of tables, behind the tape. Dragsnashark drilled me with a look, then turned around and disappeared behind a tall, leggy woman who was waving. Her face came into focus and I smiled, waving back. Carey, my old pal who'd literally saved my life at my last Vegas tournament. She c.o.c.ked her head and looked at Dragsnashark's back as he disappeared. She raised her palms in question. I nodded. She took off after him.

"Miss Cooley?" The dealer interrupted sharply. "It's a good thing that didn't take place in the middle of a hand or you'd be called out."

"What?"

"Security has been tightened this year. No talking on phones at the table, no motioning to railbirds behind the tape except on break. I noticed you checking your text messages."

Thank goodness I had an overpair. I bid conservatively and hoped I could afford to protect the nuts. I saw the jockey flirting with the idea of scaring me off the hand, but he must have learned from being burned the few times he'd tried to do that. He folded. Blackie folded with a twitch. d.a.m.n, what did that mean?

In the end, I won barely more than the blinds. At least I was moving in the right direction. The bell rang for our first break. Two hours down, only dozens more to go to the final table. I hoped I could keep it together to make it that far. Or as far as it took to bring Affie home.

I sensed Ben would prefer to avoid me, but too bad. I made my way to his table, which was still in play, having been dealt the last hand just before the bell, apparently. A couple dozen other players stopped to watch too. Ben looked like he was playing as distractedly as I had been, although with much more success. Eyeballing the table, he looked to be the chip leader. It's where I'd fancied myself to be at this point, instead of barely hanging on.

On The Turn of a 4 of diamonds ( joining the Ace of spades, Jack of hearts, 6 of clubs Flop), Ben placed what looked to me like a post oak bluff, raising the couple-thousand-dollar pot by a hundred dollars. He could have a Jordan (two/three) in his pocket hoping for a straight draw or sailboats (four/four) to give him trips but then why not raise more aggressively? Sure enough, all the players who had muck folded. Ben won. The dealer flipped over what would've been The River-a Jack of diamonds-and the guy to Ben's right groaned. Normally, this would have made Ben giddy. Instead he didn't even smile as he raked the chips his way.

The table cleared out for the remainder of the break. Ben stacked his chips. A minute later, he still hadn't looked at me when we were the only two left at the table.

"Ben," I said softly, ready to apologize.

He finally looked at me, the tension lines around his eyes making him appear older but also more mature while still a traffic-stopping ringer for Colin Farrell. His kismet. Mine was to look like Aunt Hilda. The woman walking by behind me sighed. Instead of winking at her, Ben looked back down at his chips. Whoa.

"What is the matter with you?" I demanded in my surprise. Shouldn't I be thrilled? I'd always wanted my brother to grow up. Here it looked like he had, and I was irritated. I suppose I hadn't expected it to happen in twelve hours' time.

"You know what's wrong," he snapped, fiddling with his chips. "This is all my fault."

"You know I really didn't mean that," I pushed out through a tight jaw. I sort of had meant it but took Frank's teamwork message to heart. "Yes, it was your idea to get involved with it, but I play poker because I want to, now. It's my loved one, not yours, these creeps are after. You don't have anything to do with it."

Ben dropped his head and muttered what sounded like, "That's what you think." I opened my mouth to ask him to elaborate when one of the television commentators approached, dragging a cameraman behind him. "It's the Terrific Twins together! What are you two doing, concocting a winning strategy?"

"Yeah, a winning dinner strategy." Ben blew him off. I shook my head. I'd never in my life seen Ben shun the chance to be on camera.

Phil c.o.c.ked his pointer finger and fired at me. "We've got our eyes on you two. Nothing would be more fun than a Twin Terror showdown on the final table. Talk about ratings!"

I smiled as they zeroed in on another victim. Ben bowed his head and fiddled with his chips again.

"Have you heard from Shana?" he asked.

"No, but Mom and Dad texted to report they haven't heard from Affie. And..." I handed him my phone. "I got this."

He read the last message, his jaw bunching as he ground his teeth. His narrowing eyes slowly rose to meet mine. Focus mode. I didn't know what to make of this state of being I recognized my brother adopting, which was typically only in relation to attaining things he wanted-winning the state baseball championship, stealing the biggest pharmaceutical client in the Southwest, discrediting the guy who gave Texas Hold 'Em a bad name on our last trip to Vegas, which incidentally almost got him killed.

For Ben, focus mode meant winning something for himself. What did he hope to win now? What would getting Affie back get him?

Maybe he truly had picked a really weird time to grow up.

The bell rang the tournament back into play before I could make up my mind. I rose from the seat next to Ben and headed back toward my seat. "Bee Bee," he called. "Take care of yourself."

I mulled that tender warning over in my head as I scanned the railbirds for Carey. She was nowhere to be found. Carey had proven she could take care of herself but Dragsnashark was scary. I hoped now I hadn't sent her off into some serious trouble. I had enough to worry about without adding my transvest.i.te pal onto the list.

Being scared to death for my G.o.ddaughter had a positive effect on my play. I won the first three hands after the break with marginal cards. I'd finished stacking my last chip when I noticed Ben standing up. Bathroom trip, no doubt, since I hadn't given him the chance during the break. It wasn't until the final round of betting on The River at my table that I saw a figure sitting down in Ben's chair. The three-hundred-pound woman in the muumuu sure wasn't Ben. He'd busted out and they'd filled his seat with a player from a short table.

Chip leader to a bust out in three hands? No way. Ben was too good a tournament player for that. Something bad was definitely up.

Seven.

As if life wasn't complicated enough, I got The Trucker in my pocket in the next deal and half the table folded, tempting me to stay in to see The Flop. The Trucker is probably the worst starting hand in Texas Hold 'Em-a ten/four unsuited. Not much you can make out of that, unless three tens fell on The Flop. I stared at Blackie and saw the lip twitch as she raised the big blind in an early position. Ack.

My phone vibrated just then and I would have to remember to thank Frank later. I folded and walked away from the table to take the call.

"Have you found Affie?" I demanded.

"Wow, you must think I'm Batman. I'm honored," Frank said, just like a man, because if he'd asked me that I would've a.s.sumed guilt for my failure to produce, not a.s.sumed success. I sighed. "Where are you, Not-Even-Robin?"

"Ouch, that hurt. We're just pulling into the Fortune, although it looks like there might not be any parking. We might have to park down The Strip and hoof it back over here."

"Any luck?"

"Nothing to get excited about. How are things going for you?"

"I'm having a hard time concentrating." I paused, unsure of whether to tell him about the text message warning. Sometimes death threats distracted Frank. I was afraid this latest would derail his attempts to run down the freshest leads. And although I was worried for Carey, there wasn't anything Frank could do to find her right now other than put out an APB. Although I was worried for myself, I'd rather he get a line on Aph. I decided to wait to tell him in person, after I heard what he'd learned.

"It's understandable. You're still in it, though."

"Yep," I answered neutrally. "Ben isn't."

"Really? Surprising. So, he's just hanging out around there?"

"Uh, no, he left."

"What?!" Frank hollered into the phone. I held mine away from my ear in case there was more. "He's supposed to be keeping an eye on you."

I heard him yell at Joe to pull over, then I heard street noise, the slamming of the car door and running feet. "Sit tight. I'll be right there."

"Frank, don't kill yourself. I'm in the middle of the game in a ballroom filled with thousands of people."

"Yeah? And that's the same kind of place someone tried to kill you the first time!"

Oops, forgot that little detail. "Okay, see you soon."

I pocketed my phone and headed back to my table. I'd missed another hand, in which one of the college big mouths had been eliminated. Darn, hated to miss that fun. It looked like Blackie had done the deed. I'd probably been dealt a Big Slick on a Royal Flop, with my luck. Oh well, no use crying over cards already in the shuffle box.

My next pocket was a spade-suited Baskin Robbins (Ace/ three, get it?). Not something I would usually stick around for, but since I was in the late position and everybody folded but the blinds, I decided to check to see The Flop. Staying was worth it for a deuce of spades, 4 of spades and 7 of hearts. If it didn't get too expensive, I could hang around for The River. Blackie and the jockey checked. I noticed no twitch. Maybe I should go for it. I'd sure like to lower her stack. A seven of spades fell on Fourth Street. Blackie raised half her pot, which was all in for me. d.a.m.n and double d.a.m.n. The jockey folded. No twitch. What had she gotten, trips? Flush like me? Straight? I counted cards, and decided to go with my gut and push. "All in."

I saw her fingers go tense and suppressed a thrill. The lack of twitch meant she was bluffing!

Fifth Street brought a 5 of spades. Of course, overkill when I had no chips left to force her to fold. Despite the dealer's warning glare, I slow rolled my cards in the hopes she would show hers, but she just shook her head, and hid behind her Diors. Frank showed up at the rail and located me like I was wearing a homing beacon. Hmm. I checked my purse quickly. I wouldn't put it past him.

I maintained pretty well for the next three hands. The fourth was a killer, though. I lost about a quarter of what I'd earned from Blackie. One of the railbirds hollered, "That's not like you, Bee Cool. You'd better play better than that for a happy ending."

What I'd have usually taken as harmless jibe took on a whole new meaning under my current circ.u.mstances. I spun in my seat to look behind me and to the left, and saw a clean-cut twentysomething man in a pressed plaid b.u.t.ton-down shirt and starched khakis retreating through the crowd. Frank was making a beeline to him from the opposite side of the rail. The dealer called my attention back to the next hand. I peeked at the two cards on the felt in front of me: a beer hand (two/seven off-suit). I folded.

At the next break, Frank pulled me into the hallway where Carey stood with Joe aka the Marlboro Man. Joe was Frank's a.s.sistant in his mystery job and I desperately wanted to fall in love with him. He was drop-dead gorgeous in a rugged "I can carry you across the desert with one hand tied behind my back" kinda way, really nice, humble and, although I didn't know him well, seemed to come with a lot less baggage than Frank. Love's a b.i.t.c.h, though. My heart just couldn't do it. I sighed.

"Honey Bee," Frank whispered in my ear as we approached the pair. Patience strained his tone. "I wish you'd told me you sent Carey off after the bad guy."

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Wouldn't you rather me be worried than angry?"

"Hmm..." I paused to think about that. Frank's glare deepened the longer the seconds ticked by. "No, not really," I finally decided.

"Girlfrien'!" Carey grabbed me in a bear hug, putting an end to what was warming up to be a bit of a lover's spat.

I'd met Carey Beckwith on my first trip to Vegas. We had shared a brush with death and been fast friends ever since. We text messaged all the time, but I hadn't seen her in a long time. She was a star of Wall Street Women, one of the most popular transvest.i.te shows on The Strip. Carey was a he but thought of herself as a she and, therefore, so did I.

"You look fabulous," I told her, waggling my eyebrows at her silver spandex minidress and some Christine LoPresti open-toed boots I'd die for. It was seriously wrong that a man could have legs better than mine, by the way.

"You know, girlfrien', I just get so sick of wearing that suit for the show that I go a little overboard when I'm out of costume."

"Not all your costume is a suit," Joe blurted out. We all stopped to look at him. He shrugged. "I've seen the show. It was good."

"Thanks, Big Boy." Carey winked at Joe, who nodded and shrugged at Frank. "Well, it was. You should see it."

Their interaction was cute, but I thought Frank was going to be sick. Have I mentioned, he is rather macho and very old-fashioned?

"What did you find out?" I asked, putting my pointer finger over Frank's lips as he opened his mouth to say something likely to be inappropriate.

"I was just telling Big Boy here that I followed the dude just south of the Aladdin where he met a woman and traded off an envelope for another. Then he went on to an office building on West Crandall, the only twenty story on the street. I got into the elevator with him-"

"Carey!" I interrupted. "That guy is scary. I didn't want you to get hurt."

"I didn't." She did a little pirouette. "Thing is, dressed like this I can act like a wh.o.r.e and get away with it." She giggled.

"He knew I'd been following him, obviously, and the best thing to do was to confirm who he thought I was, or he might have gotten suspicious."

Frank nodded, impressed despite himself. "You've got a knack for surveillance, Carey."

"Anyhow, I told him he looked like the best money on The Strip, so I was after him. That part definitely flattered him, but he said he was working and maybe we could get together later."

"What would you have done if he'd taken you up on it?"

"That's the best part, girlfrien', when they really think you are a wh.o.r.e and you turn out to be a man, you're off the hook immediately-in more ways than one!"

"Ingenious," Joe murmured.

"That's not the best part," Carey continued. "He got off on the fifteenth floor and gave me his card."

"What?" Frank blurted out.

"Wow," Joe said, looking suddenly insecure about his job. I couldn't suppress the smile at the image of Carey as Frank's right-hand woman.

"What are you smiling about?" Frank muttered in my ear as he s.n.a.t.c.hed the card out of Carey's hand. It was fancy-gold with black lettering-but didn't say much. J. Nunez. A toll-free phone number. No address. No profession.

"Colleague of yours?" I asked snidely of Frank. His card was almost as cryptic, with only the word "security" to narrow things down for the ignorant.

"Very funny," he snapped. Frank seemed a little out of sorts. "Can I keep this?" he asked Carey.

"And what am I going to do with it? I don't think this dude was my type."