Dead Beat – Chapter 8.2
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At the same time that Dimitar was questioning Sofia, Serf and Elena were sitting down to dinner in Paris. It should have been a romantic setting, surrounded by couples interlocking their fingers, staring deeply into their partners’ eyes, and sharing coy smiles as thoughts of the future or happy memories danced in their minds. Had she been there with the right person, it would have been, but Elena was there with Peter Serf. She sat clenching her hands tight to her still-healing stomach as her captor, sitting opposite her, forced a smile.
‘Paris is the city of love,’ said Elena, neatly sipping the perfectly chilled champagne that hailed from the region 90 miles east of the capital city. ‘Look around us. It feels like everyone has something to celebrate.’
She glanced around, noticing the CCTV outside the window where they were sitting. The appetizers had already been consumed as their main courses arrived. Peter Serf was quiet as he sliced into his steak au poivre. His somber mood in the streets of Paris had followed him inside.
‘Love is everywhere, in every city.’ said Serf. ‘Just not anymore. Maybe it never was. But I loved my wife. I didn’t deserve what she did to me.’
‘How did you meet her?’ Elena asked as if to change the subject more than anything.
‘On the shop floor. She worked for me. But not for long. I made it big very quickly, and she stopped to run the house. We’d planned to have children. In fact, the last time we were here together, we were planning a family. A dynasty continuing my name. But we couldn’t. Now I’m all that’s left.’
‘You could fall in love again. Start fresh.’
‘After what I’ve done?’
‘You said it was a moment of passion, that you didn’t mean to kill her. The police will understand it.’
‘I don’t believe you mean those words.’
‘Why not? You think I’m trying to escape? I know now that the only way I get back to Dimitar is if he wins enough money to play you.’
A pianist started playing the upright Steinway in the corner of the restaurant. The music was lost on Elena and Peter Serf.
‘What happens if he loses?’
‘You know what happens.’ Serf said, skewering another piece of rare beef, a single bead of red jus dropping onto the plate.
‘OK, what if he beats you? Is it really going to be over?’
‘I’ll play a fair game, but I doubt he’ll be able to raise a million dollars. He will need to be lucky, and extremely dedicated to do so.’
‘Should I believe you?’
‘You must learn to trust me.’ Serf said. ‘So far, Dimitar has €30,000. He is a long way short with a little over a fortnight to catch up. With the money and with us.’
‘How will we travel?’
Serf didn’t answer. They finished their meals in silence and walked back to the hotel. Serf let Elena in first, following her inside the room, which was split into two separate bedrooms with a shared living space and a cooking area. Both of them had their own private rooms in which to sleep. Elena’s room, however, had no access to the outer corridor or the rest of the hotel.
If she wanted to leave, she would have to walk right past Serf’s bed to get to the room’s exterior door.
Elena listened to Serf speak a little more before they agreed it was time for sleep, and the conversation could continue in the morning. Serf was morose. Certainly less celebratory than he had been when discussing Dimitar and how much money he was short. The trip to Paris was supposed to heal him, Elena thought. She wanted him to be calmer, more manageable, easier to survive.
At midnight, she had quietened her breathing sufficiently to be able to hear Serf softly snoring from the adjoining room. She silently opened the door, slipped on a pair of hotel slippers, and eased into his room in her pyjamas, a gift from Serf the day they arrived.
She crept past his bed, just six feet from the hotel door. It was locked from the outside but, like most hotel rooms, would open from the inside without the key.
She trod as softly as she could on the thick carpet. She timed each step with his snores. Deep breath in, left foot down. Guttural breath out, right foot down.
In, left. Out, right.
She needed sixty seconds without him following her, just enough time to reach someone who worked for the hotel.
In, left. Out, right.
Then there was nothing. Silence. Elena froze on the carpet. She could feel her feet sinking into the plush pile of carpet strands. The muscles in her calfs burned.
Then, he suddenly coughed, choking himself awake.
She spun around on the heels of her feet silently but sharply.
‘Elena?’ he snapped. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I…’ she stammered. But she had planned for this outcome. He stood up. She broke down. Tears fell, and she remembered her first time in acting class after school.
Long before she was a dancer, she’d enjoyed acting, mimicking the human emotions others could never replicate. She was a talented actress who could cry on command. She let the tears flow, falling off the bottom of her cheeks onto the thick carpet.
‘I… I just don’t want to be on my own. Can you understand that?’
Serf walked to her and held her head on his chest. She took his hand and led him back to his bed. She slid out of the slippers.
What was it Dimitar used to say about bluffing on the river?
‘If the story doesn’t make any sense, they’ll always know you’re making a move.’
This was part of the story. Part of the long game.
‘Let’s make Paris a city of new memories, Peter.’ She said, smiling her golden smile that had won many hearts over the years.
Serf smiled back as they climbed between the sheets.
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.
