Page 121 of Brazen Mistakes

Could I be any more needy?

Instead of letting my thoughts pull me under, I inspect his mask. The sweep of gold and black is similar to Walker’s, as it’s also built to cover one side of his face, only the opposite side of Walker’s. That’s where the similarities end. It looks like there’s a start of a beak and a curved almost horn reaching up and back. It must have been made after Walker finished his, because this one covers nearly all the forehead, and I can imagine it on him, giving him a dignified, owlish appearance.

Hopefully, it can give me wisdom tonight. I’m going to need it. Better yet, maybe it’ll fly RJ back from wherever he went.

Jansen hovers at the top of the stairs, and I want to gesture him over. Just for comfort, which is why I keep my hands down. A guest stops him, saying something, and Jansen shakes his head at the man, then tilts his head like he’s thinking. This guest is a little taller than Jansen, with broad shoulders and closely cut natural hair creased by the band of his mask.

Jansen gestures with his hands, and the man’s shoulders slump a bit before he turns away, walking to a gorgeous middle-aged Black woman. He takes her arm, but she looks around like she’s uncomfortable before she goes with him.

Huh.

I glance at the time; the game is supposed to start in less than five minutes. With Trips missing, who gets the ball rolling?

Walker seems to notice our missing illegal poker master, and after a quick consult with Jansen, pulls a glass out and taps it, and it rings like a wedding request for newlywed kisses. The interruption works, and he directs everyone to the table.

One by one, the players take their seats as the dealer the guys pay well to work the games opens a fresh deck of cards.

The gorgeous woman I noted earlier goes to take her seat, but the man she was with stops her. After a whispered conversation, she steps away, letting the man take her seat, and she moves to the bar, Walker handing her a glass of white wine as she stares at the man, something apprehensive in her eyes. The man, however, looks happy to be at the table, excited, laughing with the woman beside him. Somethingabout him feels familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe he’s been to the coffee shop?

Jansen must have gone to consult with Trips, because he comes up the stairs right as the dealer wishes everyone good luck and starts the game.

They collected the buy-ins as the guests entered the attic, so each player already has an epic stack of chips to work with. No one told me what the amount was, but I can see how this cash business helps the guys get clean-ish money in their accounts.

Cash is almost impossible to trace. And if you don’t move around too much of it at once, no one bothers to try.

Hands are played, bets made, but without Trips to guide Jansen’s lifts, he comes to feed me another morsel before perching on the arm of my chair. “What happened with Trips?” I whisper, not wanting to be accused of distracting anyone.

“He got a call but hasn’t told me what it’s about. He looks stressed, though, so it’s probably not good.”

Maybe his vibe check was right, just pointed in the wrong direction. My own gut twists, and I don’t know if it’s from sympathy or from forcing myself to eat. Instead, I watch the players, my gaze pulled back to the older Black man, so familiar but unknown. “Say, what do you know about that guy?” I ask, pointing from behind my laptop so it’s not rude.

Jansen shakes his head. “Nothing. He’s not even supposed to be playing. He was a plus-one. That’s Donna’s seat, and the guy was supposed to wait for me to talk to Trips before he took it.”

“Donna didn’t look like she wanted to let him take her spot, but he talked her into it.”

We both turn to Donna. She’s still by the bar, an empty wine glass beside her as Walker hands her another, whisking the dirty one away.

“Donna’s been a reliable player. She doesn’t come often, but she always follows the rules. And she’s never brought a plus-one that I remember.”

I look back at the man. “Does he feel familiar to you?”

Jansen looks at him for a beat. “Nope. But during the first break, I’ll lift his wallet, and then we’ll figure out who’s at our table.”

We’re silent the rest of the first section, and when the dealer calls for a break, cordoning off the table, a few players have much smaller piles of chips, while a few others have noticeably larger piles. The unknown man is one of those with a bigger pile.

Trips still hasn’t returned.

Jansen hops up, weaving through the crowd, grabbing the wallets of the two players who are losing the fastest, glancing through them before slipping them back in their pockets. I learned enough from my pick-pocketing lesson to understand exactly how hard that was. He does it effortlessly. When he gets to our newcomer, he lifts the wallet right after the man bought a drink, amber liquid in a tumbler, so he shouldn’t miss it for a while.

Once back, Jansen gives me the names of the two losing guys, and I mark them in the spreadsheet RJ shared with me so I can look them up after we deal withthe new man.

Jansen drops the wallet into my hand, and I can immediately tell that it’s not what I’d expect at this kind of event. It’s canvas, not leather, the stitching stretched and frayed. Opening it up, there are a bunch of store credit cards and one unbranded Visa. Things aren’t looking good for Donna’s plus-one if he ends up needing a loan.

Sliding the ID from the pouch, I begin to type it into the search, then pause. “Jansen, this guy’s last name is Moore, the same as RJ. You don’t think…”

We stare at each other. Then we stare at the man, inspecting him more closely as the players settle back at the table.

“Maybe?” he says, squinting across the room.

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