Page 9 of The San Marco Heist

Chapter 4

Malcolm

Saturdaywasanewday.

And with it, a new job.

A woman with long blond hair opened the hotel suite’s door. She wore a black dress so tight it must have been painted on, sky-high stilettos, a polished smile showcasing very expensive teeth, and was holding a tablet.

Behind her, the sound of intensity and the smell of money.

“I’m Malcolm Sharpe. I believe you have a seat for me?”

She tapped the tablet, her long nails clacking against the screen. “Of course, Mr. Sharpe. I see your funds have already been transferred.”

The friendly buy-in to the game was fifty thousand and, win or lose, I intended to gain something more important than money—intel or clients.

“If you’ll follow me?” She turned and walked through the entryway, and I followed, the door closing behind me. No visible security, but the game’s manager undoubtedly had cameras watching her table.

The main room of the suite was large, with pale-blue walls, heavy brocade curtains nearly blocking out the noon sun from the floor-to-ceiling windows. A patio door slid open, then closed, and a man in a sweat-streaked gray polo stepped inside. Doors led off in three directions, while couches and chairs upholstered in cream and black lined the side walls.

Four more women in the tight black dresses watched the game, while three men in dark suits stood vigilant along the perimeter.

At the center of the room… my target.

The green-felt oval table with thick brown leather rail was surrounded by nine chairs, plus the dealer. Five chairs were occupied, and some of the men and women wandering around were likely the other players.

Poker didn’t hold the same thrill as breaking into Phillip Maguire’s mansion, but it paid bills. I almost pulled my hand out of my pocket to feel the lump on the top of my head. That job had gone horribly wrong. If I’d been able to go up to the library when I originally wanted to, instead of being told to slow down and wait, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I would’ve retrieved the Codex and gotten it to the rendezvous point.

But that’s what happened when you worked with other people. They screwed up and you suffered the consequences. I preferred to work alone and depend on myself. All the successes and all the failures were no one’s but mine.

That’s why I normally worked as a private eye. Just me, my business, and clients who came and went.

As the hostess gestured to a seat across from the dealer, the men on either side of it looked up at me. The heavyset one with gray hair gave me a once-over and grunted, returning his focus to his chips.

The other—holy shit, it was Emmett Reynolds—smiled. “I don’t see you in… what’s it been since that Celtics game? Six months? And now it’s twice in two days?”

“Will the coincidences never stop?” I slid off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. Surely, he didn’t have the Codex with him, but would it be nearby? Did I still have a chance to get it? “Did the game bring you down from Boston?”

“A friend of mine’s in Miami and I was thinking about joining him.”

“Playing your way down the eastern seaboard?” I took my seat, the chips appearing in front of me before I landed in the chair.

“You know…” His gaze drifted to the ceiling theatrically and returned to me. “That’s not a half-bad idea.”

After being cut loose from the crew at the Maguire mansion and realizing I wasn’t about to chase Emmett down for the Codex, I’d considered drowning my sorrows at a pub or five in Boston. Instead, I’d received an invite to this game I’d been hearing rumors about for months and hightailed it south. A few hours of shut-eye in the very hotel where we were playing, and I was good as new.

The hostess lingered near the door, as though more players were on their way. Word on the street said this game continued around the clock until Monday morning, with revolving staff and an assortment of players. The table was half-full, and from the smell of the room, several people had been there since before I’d arrived at the Maguire mansion.

A clean separation from last night’s team was what I needed. Hiring on for the occasional contract had its perks. People used fake names, sometimes you met your employer and sometimes you didn’t, and you were free to leave once the job was done. Although our failure to obtain the Codex also meant no payout. I’d wasted a month in preparation. Risked revealing myself when I lifted a phone from someone with the case’s schematics. Endured the loose cannon they’d saddled me with, who ended up in jail a week before the event.

It had to be Emmett Reynolds, didn’t it? Fate kept bringing the two of us together, and he was the closest thing I had to a friend, other than my landlord, and that was only because moving was a hassle. No, the Codex was gone. I wasn’t about to con him out of it. Not him.

The bartender—an older woman with lined skin and adon’t mess with meattitude—came by with drink and cigar selection as the dealer began tossing out hole cards.

The first hour was mostly losses, investments in the bigger game. It was a time to learn tells, watch for tics, and get a feel for the level of skill at the table. Were they gamblers? Or were they poker players? Emmett was clearly the best at the game itself, reading the others with the same mastery I’d noticed in him when we’d met three years ago.

One man boasted incessantly about a tech firm he was getting off the ground. Another spoke about a play he was holding auditions for. And another claimed to be writing the next great American novel.

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