Dead Beat – Chapter 7.1
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Dimitar’s cabin was in the first-class section, and it looked like it was worth every penny Sam had paid for it. The four-poster bed with a mattress that was so high it invaded the personal space of the ceiling fan. The bedclothes were a blend of brilliant white and golden silk, and Dimitar dropped backward onto them, feeling his legs and mind finally relax.
Seeing Jeremy Rundle as the cruise ship pulled away from the dock worried Dimitar, who considered sending Sam a message to let him know. In the end, he abandoned the idea, so Serf knew he was on The Ambassador. So what? Serf wanted to take him on, to show Dimitar that he is the better player, even when a life is on the line – and a million dollars. Moving to the future, Dimitar decided he would ignore the threat of Peter Serf. His girlfriend’s captor will only come into play when he buys into the million-dollar ransom stake.
As the giant ship eased away from Southampton, the sun came out to remind Dimitar that he was leaving Britain. From there, they would make a trip around the North Coast of France until they stopped in the capital of Portugal, Lisbon. Dimitar opened the internet page he had loaded before leaving England, the tournament page for The World of Poker ‘Cruise to a Million’ Main Event. Taking place on The Ambassador, it would start tomorrow and run for three days, the same length as the trip to Lisbon. The event was €5,000 to play, and only one re-entry was permitted per player.
Win it, and a six-figure sum would be guaranteed. From there, he could plan an assault on the million dollars he needed. The sun’s warmth hit the bed, and Dimitar, for the first time since making the final day of the golf club tournament, fell asleep.
Two hours later, he jolted awake, a bad dream – he was being chased by Serf in the endless corridors of the ship – shaking him out of his slumber. The sun was lower on the horizon, the dim sunbeam outside his porthole-style window barely lighting his room. He quickly showered, dressed in fresh clothes – purchased by Sam – and a few minutes later left for the bar, his keycard in his pocket along with the buy-in (and single permitted rebuy) for the live poker tournament – €10,000 in total. The rest of his money was in the safe in his room, but with only €20,000 of it left, this tournament had to go his way if he was to get anywhere near the million dollars he needed by the end of the month.
The ship was stunning. Not only did the white walls and gold-framed artwork seem to attract the sunlight, but the accommodation and surroundings were clearly five star. As he made his way to the bar, Dimitar saw the casino adjacent to the bar and headed to the roulette table.
Two other men were at the wheel, one older, wearing a beige lounge suit and loafers, who was already covering three spots with chunky bets. The second was a larger man wearing a Panama hat, light slacks, and a loud neon pink jacket over a dark grey shirt on the older man’s left. A red carnation, carefully positioned in his pocket, he turned to see Dimitar arrive at the wheel.
‘Just in time, young man. I was going to make a single bet before dinner. Care to join me.’ The older man said, welcoming Dimitar to the table.
Dimitar smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Is the man another of Peter Serf’s connections? Dimitar knew he couldn’t trust anyone, suspecting that Serf’s contacts were all over the ship. Jeremy Rundle was watching him on the jetty, so why couldn’t Serf have people on the ship? On the other hand, why would Rundle be watching unless no one else was on board? Maybe Serf was on board himself.
With Elena.
‘Sure – just one bet.’
‘So, what’s your lucky number, son?’
‘I don’t have a lucky number.’
‘Well, I do – thirteen.’
‘Any more bets?’ says the croupier. Dimitar looked up for the first time. The name tag, catching the Bulgarian’s eye, read ‘Simone.’ She had dark brown hair, cut almost savagely at the neck, a feathered fringe hanging just above deep brown eyes that Dimitar could hardly pull away from. If Serf could have designed a person to draw Dimitar in, it would look like Simone.
‘I’ll wait,’ Dimitar declared, watching as the lounge suit leaned over him and the man in the loud jacket, adding two more bets to the numbers thirteen and fourteen.
‘Just in case it misses,’ he winked.
‘I’ll wait for the next round, too,’ the large man in the pink jacket stated as he turned to introduce himself to Dimitar.
‘I’m Donald McCoy. My friends call me ‘Bones.’
‘Dimitar.’ The two men said, shaking hands. Dimitar wondered just how cruel the friends of ‘Bones’ had to be to give him that nickname when he must weigh upwards of 130 kilos. The older man watched as the little silver ball spun around the wheel, landing with a clank against one of the numbered beds. It bounced six more times before spinning to a stop inside the 16 bed. The croupier nimbly put down the glass marker and, in one swift movement, pulled all of the lounge suit man’s chips towards her with the small casino rake. She then paid out the small amount he’d won by backing the colour red.
‘Wins on red,’ she said with a thin smile. The man had lost ten times the amount by betting incorrectly on individual numbers. He took his chips and wandered off to play three-card poker.
‘Any bets, gentlemen?’ the croupier asked, and Dimitar sat down.
Bones McCoy splashed a $1,000 chip onto the 13 spot. It spun neatly and stopped dead in the centre of the square. Dimitar smiled, removing a $100 bill from his wallet.
‘Can I change this with you… Simone?’
Bones McCoy took the note from him and handed him a chip.
Simone smiled in response as Dimitar put his $100 chip on the six. No one else came to the table as Simone spun the wheel. Dimitar wasn’t watching the wheel at all, he was looking directly at Simone as she moved the silver ball onto the tips of her top two fingers and flicked it around the top of the wheel in one smooth motion.
‘No more bets, gentlemen.’
The silver ball spun around the wheel half a dozen times before clanging off the metal frets and coming to rest on the 13.
‘Never fails.’
‘The gentleman wins on 13.’ Said Simone with a warm smile. ‘Will you take this bet home, sir?’
‘Not tonight, Simone. You know what to do with it,’ replied Bones McCoy.
‘$35,000 and you don’t fancy taking it home?’ Dimitar queried.
‘I don’t. Young man, let’s have a drink.’
About the Author: Paul Seaton has written about poker for over 10 years, interviewing some of the best players ever to play the game such as Daniel Negreanu, Johnny Chan and Phil Hellmuth. Over the years, Paul has reported live from tournaments such as the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas and the European Poker Tour. He has also written for other poker brands where he was Head of Media, as well as BLUFF magazine, where he was Editor.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
