“Let’s go over what happened one more time, just so we’re clear.”

It was three in the morning and Sam was exhausted. He’d slept well into the evening before heading to the poker game, preparing for a night where sleep would need to be staved off as he battled to win millions. In Antonio’s dining room, surrounded by five poker players doing the same thing, he was full of energy. In the early hours of the morning, trapped in the central Barcelona police station, he couldn’t have been more exhausted.

“I’ve told you everything. Twice.” grumbled Sam, his patience wearing thin.

“And we listened, but what you say happened is not exactly what the other players say happened. So, Mr. Houston. We need to know the full picture. It’s like a good drawing, take out even two or three strokes of the pencil and it looks very different. Imagine if Mona Lisa had been given a smile.”

The Spanish detective in charge of the case was a walking, talking embodiment of every cliché Sam had ever assumed about a chief investigator in a murder case; slicked-back hair, oily skin, and a sly grin reminiscent of a resting snake. He also had an annoying habit of slowing down the end of each question, making it sound like Sam was interrupting him on the interview recording. Listening carefully to each answer, Detective Garcia sought any hint of mistruth or anomaly in the story, waiting for a chance to pounce.

Sam could have woven a tapestry with his point-by-point breakdown of exactly what happened and Detective Garcia would have pulled it all apart, tugging on the one loose thread, had there been one.

Sam retold the entire story as Detective Garcia listened, his right hand on his chin. His deputy, Detective Lopez, made notes like a court stenographer. Maybe that’s where this would end up, Sam thought, a court case, with him, along with the other players, up on a murder charge, accused of killing Felix Jackson in cold blood.

It was a nightmare and nothing he said seemed to dispel Garcia’s suspicions. As far as the detective was concerned, everyone in the room had a reason to kill Felix and steal the Picasso drawing – or rather, six million reasons. Garcia had explained to Sam that the value of the artwork was a strong motive for all of the poker players in the room.

“It is worth at least double what anyone in the room believed, Mr. Houston,” Garcia had stated when Sam told him that Antonio only paid $3.2 million for it at auction. “Maybe someone knew exactly how much it was worth. It was independently valued at $6.1 million U.S. dollars. That’s what you would be able to sell it for on the open market. And Mr. Houston, you know the art world quite well, according to your background check.”

Sam recognized the line of questioning Garcia was taking. As soon as Antonio called the police, Sam knew that among the five suspects, he would be identified as the one most likely to know the actual value of the artwork. Sam was still curious as to how Antonio managed to buy it at a cut price of $3.2 million.

“It was pure speculation,” said Sam. “We didn’t know it would be worth any more in the future. It was a nice drawing, sure, but I didn’t have any designs on it. I didn’t think anyone thought much of it other than Antonio. He was proud of it.”

Garcia’s smile spread a little closer to his ear as Sam spoke.

“I’m sure he was proud. Maybe he worked the whole thing with you. Took care of the only impartial witness and you all got your stories straight and you split $3 million six ways. Sorry, five ways.”

“Look, I don’t want to cast any accusations against any of the other players. But while there are clearly five suspects, I can tell you that you’re wasting your time with me, I had nothing to do with it.”

“You are wrong, I think,” said the Spanish detective. He was a short man; Sam noticed when the detective stood up and mopped his brow. He couldn’t have been more than 40 with a hairline that was quickly retreating to the back of his head, but already the stocky man looked like a walking advert for Mcdonald’s. “There are not five suspects, but eight, Mr. Houston.”

“Eight? I don’t understand.”

“The two security guards on the gate, one of whom, Miguel Ramos, locked the door behind you as you went up to the penthouse and the other, Luis Hernandez, remained outside in the building next to the locked gate. There is also the waitress, Maria Rodriguez, who was in the other room at the time of the murder, but spoke to you all. She resides at the property.”

A live-in maid, perhaps, thought Sam absently. He took in a breath, the air sinking down into his lungs, coming back out in a ragged, staccato fashion. Garcia had said at the time of the murder.’ Sam was still processing the meaning of those words. It was one thing to be in the room with a dead body – he’d said goodbye to both his parents as they lay in open caskets back in New York – but to be in the room when a human life was snuffed out was something else. There one minute and the next just a collection of memories that would fade, a useless body waiting to be cut up during an autopsy, then buried or burned. He felt sick to his stomach.

“It is late, Mr. Houston. Your story needs to be investigated. Let us not lose focus. You played the game and were winning money from Mr. Jackson, when Mister…” the detective checked his notes, “… Molina showed you his art.”

“If that’s Antonio, then yes. I took one look then sat down to play. The next time I rose, it was missing.”

“You were the last person to see the artwork?” asked Garcia, one eyebrow arching in the futile direction of his hairline.

They went through it all again. Sam’s arrival, taking his seat in the game, playing, winning, the discovery of each of the two separate crimes. They trod the same footsteps as they already had twice since midnight, every interaction and every word that he could remember exchanging with each of the players. It was monotonous, repetitive, and draining. Sam considered them friends when he sat down at the poker table, but the process of a police interview had reduced them to acquaintances. It was natural. He knew one of them was a murderer.

Sam was taken to the police cells. He was told that he would be needed for further questioning soon, but Sam knew enough to assume that “soon” would be some time from now. If Garcia was as single-minded as he seemed, he would interview each of the suspects personally. After Antonio – or rather Mr. Molina – Sam thought they’d started with him. It would make sense. He was the last person to see the drawing… other than Antonio.

Sam would be alone for a while, so he decided to get some sleep. The mattress was paper-thin and the single pillow was not much thicker than a folded sweatshirt, all standard for a Spanish police cell and quite a bit different than his hotel penthouse suite. Any sleep he could get would not be good, but something told him he would need the rest.

As exhausted as he was; however, sleep just wouldn’t come. He lay in the bed, as still as he could, slowing his breathing down while staring up at the gray ceiling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t switch off his mind. A man was dead and Sam had been inches away from where it happened. Inches from the sharp end of the steel blade that ended the life of his fellow American. Why was Felix killed? It was like taking out a person who owes you money – he was the whale in the game. Or was he?

Sam tried to imagine what the next few hours would entail. Each suspect would be spoken to at length. Sam had been detained by Garcia and his guard dogs for around two hours, approximately the same length of time they’d been playing poker at Antonio’s. Yet as the time passed, their durations felt very different. The time at the poker table had passed like a dream, a series of flickering images in fast-forward. By comparison, the last two hours felt more like half a day: the questions, the inquisition, the subtle but insistent prods in the direction of guilt and culpability. Sam felt the pressure weighing on him.

As his body relaxed a little, he was finally able to feel like sleep was approaching. Would they be watching him in his cell? Almost certainly. Would he be judged worse for sleeping or for staying awake? Which action made him look more guilty? In the end, he thought, what does it matter? He knew that he hadn’t committed any crime. He had been thoroughly searched for the drawing; they all had. It was still missing. And he hadn’t buried a knife in Felix Jackson’s neck. The questions continually spun around his head until sleep finally took him.

If he hadn’t, who had?

Drawing Dead – Chapter 5

For as long as the night was, the morning was that short.

The jail cell wasn’t nearly as dark and foreboding when Sam woke from a fitful sleep. The shadowy gloom of early morning had been replaced by brilliant sunlight. As the sun lit the room, Sam’s mood brightened accordingly. He rose, rubbing his head and cursing the quality of the mattress he’d just endured.

The fact remained that he hadn’t killed Felix Jackson. He hadn’t stolen Antonio’s Picasso drawing nor had he done anything else that might be considered illegal. They’d played an underground poker game, but as much as it was private, it posed no risk to anyone else. It was a home game, just with the kind of buy-in that might have made people around the world blink profusely, considering the amount of money at stake.

That was another thing – the money. Sam’s buy-in would be frozen. Eventually, Antonio would need to return all their entry fees, apart from Felix Jackson’s. But what would happen to Sam’s money? As he pondered on this, he was disturbed by the steel bolt sliding across the door from outside his cell. A meaty hand belonging to a Spanish guard pushed open the door, letting a second policeman into the cell. It was not Garcia, last night’s investigating detective.

“Mister Hoo-stone,” said the unfamiliar officer, glancing down at a list in his hand. “I have spoken to Detective Garcia and you are free to go. Please do not leave the city. We may need to speak to you again, but for now, you may return to your hotel. You are staying at the Majestera?”

“Yes. I mean, si, senor,” said Sam, rubbing his head.

“Then we shall contact you there if you are required. If you were due to leave the country, then cancel your ticket.”

“What about my money?” Sam asked the officer, but the query fell on deaf ears as the officer turned on his heels, leaving the cell guard standing idly by the door waiting for Sam to gather his clothes. The night had been uncomfortably hot and Sam had taken off his light jacket, shoes, and trousers in an attempt to get comfortable. As undignified as it felt to dress in front of his jailor, Sam pulled on his slacks, slipped on his shoes, and zipped up his jacket. The guard moved from the doorway and Sam followed him to the front counter, where Sam reclaimed his possessions with the exception of more than half-million dollars.

Well, this was one way of getting them to stay in town Sam thought. The funds couldn’t be freed up until someone admitted to the murder and the burglary. The police were funny like that.

When Sam got outside, the sun felt almost painfully bright. Bereft of sleep, Sam was finding his bearings when he recognized another man being shown out of the police station behind him. It was Carlos, the young aggressive player from the game.

“They let you out too, huh?” Sam asked.

“They let all us out. Only not Antonio,  he still inside.”

“Antonio? Why him?”

“He bought the drawing. He knew how much is worth. And he make the game. He bring us here. Must be for this.”

“But he was showing us that the drawing was missing when Felix still had all of his blood inside his body. We turned around and Felix was dead.”

“All I say is don’t trust Antonio as much like you do.”

“What do you mean? You played in the game too. You must trust him.”

“No. I play Antonio in other game in Spain. He was no nice to play. He take every angle. I watch him, I was waiter. I was still learning the game. But he took a young man for every penny as you say in England.”

“I’m American.”

“Every cent. He took the shirts off his back then leave him to rot. He cleaned him out and walk away. This is no man. I swore I would not be this boy.”

“You knew the man he did this to?”

“He was my brother,” said Carlos, his square jaw flexing. “Five years ago.”

“You learn quick,” said Sam, genuinely impressed that Carlos could become a proficient high-stakes player within that time. “Where is your brother now?”

“Back home, Madrid. He do not play poker now. I do. I was taking his money back. Now I cannot if he kill the Felix man. Why he did it last night? I would win the game.”

“We all had a chance. Even Felix. Poker is a mixture of luck and skill. Unless you know of any angles I wasn’t taking when I took the lead?”

Carlos stood implacably in the midday sun. The rays seemed to bounce off his tanned skin. His hair was starting to get sticky with the sweat that was running down his brow, but it didn’t look like he noticed or even cared.

“You not be the winning.” Carlos said with an air of finality that Sam thought was unwarranted.

“Maybe, if we have to stick around in this city for a few days, we should play again. Have you ever play cash at Casino Barcelona?”

“I think I play higher than you.”

Almost in frustration at the antagonistic atmosphere emanating from Carlos, Sam looked behind them at the police station doors.

Out into the sunlight walked Mohammed and Sofia. They were chatting like two friends who had just enjoyed a coffee and a slice of cake, rather than having spent a night in the drab and uncomfortable jail cells. Sofia slipped her arm into Mohammed’s as they almost literally bumped into Carlos and Sam.

“You guys are released too?” asked Mohammed. He was actually smiling, which took Sam a little by surprise. A man was dead.

“We just got out,” said Sam. “Not soon enough. The bed was almost as bad as the floor.”

“I am used to better,” said Sofia, glancing up at the sun before flicking on a pair of sunglasses that cost more than any of the men’s outfits.

“Carlos was just telling me he plays cash at Casino Barcelona. Might I suggest we meet?” said Sam.

“To play?” inquired Mohammed.

“Of course, Mohammed?”

“Please, call me Mo.”

“All right, Mo. When the game was broken up early last night, I was well ahead. Young Carlos here thinks it has nothing to do with my skill. It would be helpful for us all to talk about what happened. If Antonio killed Felix Jackson, then he did it with an incredible display of sleight of hand that I didn’t see, and I don’t miss much. I don’t think any of us do. But if he didn’t…”

“Then one of us must have keeled him?” said Sofia, her accent cutting through the central word. She wrinkled her nose.

The question hung in the air, and none of them had the answer. They all agreed to play at Casino Barcelona. They either audibly swapped numbers or bumped phones and arranged to meet when evening rolled around.

“Until then, rest well,” said Carlos as he left, rather aimlessly, crossing the road one way, then the other, before wandering off towards the restaurants Barcelona is famed for. Sofia hailed a cab and bade Mo and Sam farewell, leaving them on the corner.

“I’ve never played with any of you before, but I was enjoying the game,” he said in a quiet voice that seemed inappropriate. Mo didn’t seem a loud or brash man like Felix, but, to Sam, there was always a feeling that Mo was acting or speaking within himself.

“I was too. You play a lot in other cities?”

“Not really. I’m a businessman. I move chips around in offices, not at poker tables, but I love the game.”

“Felix was a businessman too, right?”

Mo suddenly went very quiet. He knew what he was being asked.

“He was. I had met him through some mutual contacts and some deals, but I’d never played poker with him. I don’t think I’m ever been in the same room as him. Believe it or not, as a face on the screen, he was an OK guy.”

Mo hailed the next cab while Sam preferred the fresh air and walked back to the hotel. On the way, he called Twigs to update her on what happened.

“I’m going to be here for a few days longer,” he said. “There’s something weird about the guy. Everyone seems to have a reason to kill him apart from me… and Sofia.”

“Maybe she does and you just don’t know it yet.”

“Great, so there’s me and four killers in a room playing poker for millions of dollars. I’m starting to miss The Vic.”

“Look, you can take their money when you get home. But you’ve got to get home. I’ll take a look into this Felix Jackson guy for you, try to find out a bit more about him. You know Hunter, he’s an amateur detective if someone moves our recycling bin.”

“Thanks Twigs. I’ll call you.”

Sam was mentally exhausted and physically shattered. He’d traveled the world playing poker against the best of the best for days on end without tiring out, but one night in a police cell was more than enough to do him in. He spent the rest of his walk musing on why and how so many people with a motive to kill Felix Jackson had ended up at the same table. He needed to speak with Sofia, the only player other than Antonio he’d met before.

When he arrived at his hotel room, Sam was weary. He swiped the key and stepped inside. There, on the soft cotton sheets, Sofia was waiting for him. She was wearing an outfit that would steer that natural flow away from any intelligent conversation.

“Sammy,” she purred as she crawled towards him, “we need to have a talk, but… something else first.” Sofia’s voice trailed off and Sam let the door swing shut, a smile finally finding its way to his face in Barcelona.

Drawing Dead – Chapter 6

They woke mid-afternoon, having earned the kind of sleep only lovers do.

“Sammy, why do we meet like this?” Sofia asked as she sat at the gilt-edged make-up desk, blinking slowly into the mirror as she reapplied mascara.

“In Barcelona or in bed? I think we both know the reason we end up in bed together.”

There was an indescribable attraction between them, yet no desire to turn their obvious sexual chemistry into any kind of relationship. The situation suited them both. Neither of them ever felt a need to change it.

“Who invited you to the game, Sammy? Antonio?’

“Of course. What about you?”

“The same. So, there is no difference there. There must be a reason that he brought the others into the game, though.”

“I agree. I flew from London. You from Bulgaria, right?”

Sofia paused while powdering her nose, nodding. Her hair was already pulled back into the tight ponytail that acted as her centerpiece. She could feel Sam’s eyes watching her. She liked how it felt.

“But Carlos was local to Spain,” Sam went on. “He’s from Madrid. We both flew in a couple of days ago. Mo came from Algeria, I presume.”

“Algeria? He’s not Algerian. He told me he was from Saudi Arabia when we met at the game. Anyway, he was in Spain already. That’s what he was telling me when we got released.”

“I thought you just liked him.”

“Jealousy? Sammy, I’m flattered.”

“Not like that. I thought he seemed like a decent guy. But then he mentioned the business link and… I don’t know. There’s something about him.”

“I feel like I seen him before, Sammy. Like, on the news or something.”

Sofia perfected her look, putting hard edges on her naturally soft eyes, tightening and splaying her naturally loose hair. She slipped her petite feet into tall, pointed stilettos. Sam searched for Mo’s full name, but found far too many Google entries to whittle them down.

“Try putting Felix Jackson with him in the search, Sammy.”

Sam typed in the other name, and sure enough, the top entry was instantly recognizable. The headline was even more so.

“HIGH STAKES BUSINESS IS LIKE POKER –  

ONE WRONG MOVE CAN BE YOUR LAST.”

The world of big business is just like a poker game. This week, all the chips were pulled out of a key for the future of cryptocurrency and ‘ghost’ investments. 

By Michael Smith

New businesses are commonplace in the world of cryptocurrency and so-called ‘ghost’ investments of various companies and individuals. Famous for mushrooming up one minute and being chopped up the next, akin to the diminutive but adaptable vegetable, cryptos are the new universal currency in the next age of corporate trade.

This week saw a blow-up in the boardroom, in a deal led by Felix Jackson’s FTU Stocks brand. FTU built its fortune in the 1980s, investing in offshore vacation properties, only to sell up, quadrupling their assets with cryptocurrency, jumping in near the infancy of the now-booming digital coin.

Felix Jackson has a reputation as a volatile CEO who more than matches the markets he trades in. Jackson was unable to reach an agreement after an 11th-hour standoff reached window-shattering proportions – literally – with the Cairo-based company g1z4 (formerly Pyramid Holdings). After deciding to pull out from a two-company part-merger, Jackson provided scathing comments about his counterpart, Emir M. Hussain.

“I did not agree with the gentleman’s colleagues on the viability of transferring assets,” said Jackson to this reporter. “In particular, the numbers did not add up with relation to merger turnaround times. This is a fast-moving business, and time is literally money. The gentleman’s chief accountant would do well to make sure the numbers add up for both parties when speaking with moving targets.”

The chief accountant in question, Mohammed Soliman, was unavailable for comment after the meeting or in the following hours, as…

“This is massive,” Sam said after reading the article aloud to Sofia. She nodded.

“He had a reason to want revenge on him because he was blamed for losing business for his boss. Does Mohammed…”

“Mo. He told me to call him Mo,” said Sam.

“He told me he was from Algeria. He told you he was from Saudi Arabia. He’s Egyptian. I’m calling him Mohammed.”

Sofia was angry, and her Bulgarian accent came through whenever she got mad. Sam found it intoxicating. He sat up on the bed, and Sofia was jabbing her finger in his face.

“He had a reason to kill him, Sammy. More than anyone. Does he come here to kill Felix?”

“What about Carlos?” asked Sam. “He humiliated his brother and potentially ruined his poker career.”

“Who cares? Is that worse than losing that kind of money?! We need to talk to Mohammed at the casino. We only have a couple of hours; let’s get ready to find out whether Carlos or Mohammed wanted to kill Felix Jackson.”

Sam inched a little closer to Sofia. He looked at down her body and she looked down at his.

“We could use our time now to look up more of Mohammed’s business dealings.”

“Yes, Sammy…”

“Maybe even look up Carlos and his online poker results…”

“Yes, Sammy…”

They’d slept well, still had plenty of time and definitely had an inclination. Sofia suddenly looked very annoyed.

“What’s the matter?” said Sam with a smile, the one she could never resist.

“I’m going to have to do my make-up and hair all over again…”

*     *     *

Outside the hotel, the two conspirators met for a coffee. They could hear every word that Sam and Sofia were saying.

“Things are going to plan,” said the woman. “I’m impressed.”

“Just like I told you,” laughed the man. “The best bluff has to be believable from the very first move, but you must adapt along the way. The bug works well. They’re coming through loud and clear.”

“You knowing the hotel manager helps. Now we just need to watch and wait.”

The man took the AirPod out of his left ear. She wore the right one in hers. He sat back on the bench, watching the street artists.

“I don’t know him. I just blackmailed him. What are they saying – anything more?” he asked, stroking her arm tenderly as he watched a robotic silver-painted man jerking his joints around to music.

“They’re not saying any more words. You know what they are like from here.”

She stood up, pulling him up too.

“Come on. Casino Barcelona is often full. We need to find a seat at two different tables for this to work.”

“Yes. We’ve got some poker to play. I’m really looking forward to it.”

*     *     *

Sam and Sofia were finally ready for the casino after enjoying the hours before meeting with Carlos and Mohammed. They caught a taxi, their minds were fully focused on what they needed to do.

They pulled up outside Casino Barcelona, the taxi stopping at the end of the horseshoe-shaped bay. Sofia stepped out first. Sam paid. As they passed through the security checks, they saw Mo taking a call on the other side. He was partially shielded by the fruit machines between the entrance and the stairs to what was easily the poker room in southern Spain. Mo did not notice them.

Sofia and Sam exchanged a glance, a look up the stairs, and a nod, silently communicating their next steps.

Sofia breezed past Mo, waving at him. He absently waved back, hushing his voice until she had passed. Believing he was in the clear, he began talking again.

“It is all in the muck if they release him,” he whispered. “I need Antonio to be in jail for us to have a chance. Don’t you understand that? Yes, Garcia. I know. OK. Look, I must keep up appearances. Yes, yes. I must go.”

Mo nervously glanced toward the entrance, presumably looking for Sam, the last to arrive. Sam waited for Mo to disappear from sight and emerged from behind one of the fruit machines, aptly named Honey Hustle.

Sam held back for a few minutes before ascending the stairs to the Poker Room.

Chapter 5                                  Chapter 7

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.

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Edited by Maury Orton and Shawn A.