Hold ’Em Hostage by Jackie Chance

wasn’t going to get the whole story. “You are the highest-profile player being bandied about as being dirty, therefore making you prime game for any publicity-seeking investigator or prosecutor. Unfortunately, there is one of each in Clark County right now, salivating over the possibility you are corrupt.”
    â€œThe cop wouldn’t be Trankosky, would it?”
    Frank shook his head, and stalked off, pacing the room behind me. “That’s not the name I was given.”
    â€œGreat, then I have two enemies in blue now.”
    Sighing, Frank came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my torso. “I wish we could go home.”
    Since our homes were in two different states, I didn’t quite know how to take that so I kept quiet, as uncertain of my safety as I was of my relationship with the man whose chin rested on my shoulder.

Five
    â€œY ou look like the wrath of God,” Ben croaked, stumbling out of the bedroom, rubbing his hands across his face and up through his hair, leaving a disheveled mess that on me would look like hell and on him looked like sex-god heaven.
    â€œYou’re not the only one who thinks so,” I murmured, motioning at the television screen where the morning news was showing a scene outside the Fortune casino that was hosting this year’s World Series of Poker. About a hundred protestors carrying signs decrying gambling, most specifically poker, as the devil’s work, paced the sidewalk. I turned up the volume to hear the reporter. “So according to the Church of the Believers, the longtime poker greats, here to begin the tournament today, like Danny Negreau, the Phils, Jennifer Harman, Annie Duke are committing a sin.” The camera cut to a well-dressed middle-aged man with a thick head of slicked-back silver hair and a self-righteous air. “It is not only their participation in this vile game that we are here to protest, but also their use of their celebrity. They promote this sin against humanity, gambling, making it not only a seemingly sanctioned recreation for our young people to pursue, but also a glorified one. We must save not only America’s youth, but the youth of the world from this dark road into debt and destruction.” The camera cut back to the reporter, who stood before the waving signs. “The Reverend Phineas Paul says his ‘Believers’ are embarking on a religious campaign to push poker from the forefront of international gambling to the backrooms again.”
    The camera zoomed in on a sign that I’d seen in the pan shot at the beginning of the story: “DEALING DESTRUCTION—THE RISE IN POKER SIGNALS THE RISE OF THE DEVIL AND THE IMPENDING END OF THE WORLD.”
    â€œFriendly.” Ben reached over, grabbed my coffee and swigged it. “Welcome to Vegas.”
    â€œI’m glad Frank took off before he could see this,” I murmured, feeling suddenly queasy.
    â€œLook.” Ben pointed at the screen, grinning. A bleach blonde, poured into a silver spandex minidress, pranced across the street in five-inch electric plexiglass platforms, right through the middle of the picketers and into the front door of the Fortune casino. No one even turned to look.
    I had to smile. Only in Vegas would you see a hooker wander through a group of religious protestors, unaccosted as they protested card playing.
    â€œThey certainly are one-track-mind protestors,” Ben observed drily.
    â€œI saw them at the airport too,” Shana’s unusually small voice said from the other bedroom doorway. We all turned to look at her. She always bounced out of bed, looking pert and perfect. I’d never ever seen bags under her eyes before. My heart ached for her.
    I moved to go to her, but Ben had already hurried over and led her to the couch. I cocked my head, still trying to figure out what was going on as they murmured in low tones.
    Frustrated and overwhelmed, I snapped, “Ben, this is all