The Return of Betty Snickerdoodle Page 2

  Chapter Two

  Three days passed with no return visit from Cash. His visit had so disrupted her routine that Bea felt a nudge to perform her version of deep cleaning. First, she restored the tall piles of crap Cash had upended, so that they were once again “organized” according to her proprietary “system.” Then she opened a window, and the crisp autumn breezes swept away a little of the mustiness and tobacco odor. My house smells so fresh! Bea thought, quite satisfied with her efforts. Any other human’s nose would surely disagree, thanks to the lingering aroma of cigarettes, degrading papers, and old furniture.

  The distraction of “cleaning” helped Bea think through how she would deal with the goon. As she re-stacked reams of old pages, a strategy took form in her mind. Bea was surprisingly exhilarated by the prospect of outwitting Cash. What fun it would be to kick that big oaf’s ass! Figuring out how to do it gave her a new energy and sense of purpose.

  It bothered her, though, that Charlie still hadn’t called back. The more she thought about it, the more impossible it seemed that Cash was Charlie’s son – but what if he was? She didn’t want to launch her secret plan without being sure Charlie wouldn’t be hurt. Cash might try to strong-arm her again, though — and what if he did before Charlie responded to her call? She decided she had to be prepared to deal with Cash either way.

  Bea thought about leaving Charlie another message, but “The Price Is Right” was starting. What the heck, she thought, the call could wait an hour. Plus, Angela would arrive soon. Bea had already decided to start the groundwork of her plan today. Hopefully, Angela was up for a field trip.

  Bea heard keys jangling at the back door, but she didn’t bother getting up from the couch. No need to miss a moment of her show, since Angela had her own key. She was looking forward to seeing Angela, of course – there weren’t many humans Bea was interested in seeing, but Angela was at the top of that short list. Angela was like family, if Bea could have picked her own family. But that didn’t mean greeting her couldn’t wait for a commercial.

  “Bea? I’m here,” Angela called as she walked in from the back of Bea’s little house. She looked crisp and pretty in jeans, flats, and a white shirt, her lush brown hair pulled into a long, loose braid.

  Angela was the picture of effortless sex appeal. But did she know it? Did men drive her crazy? It could be good fun to attract male attention, Bea remembered, yet sometimes it was just a pain in the rear. Did lustful men ever test Angie’s patience? Bea generally believed old hagdom was a much more enjoyable time of life. Knowing no one gave a hoot about your looks meant you didn’t have to, either. The more invisible I am, the better, Bea thought. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Bea had complete independence, and tastes so cheap her pile of money could last a dozen lifetimes.

  “Knowing you, you probably haven’t had a good meal in a while, so I brought your favorite,” Angela said, handing over one of two sacks from Bea’s preferred fast-food emporium.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I actually had some potato chips last night. And a pizza delivered a night or two before that. But thank you – I’ll never turn down my number one sandwich,” Bea replied. “Did you bring the nectar of the gods, too, Angie?”

  “Of course, how could I forget?” Angela passed Bea an iced coffee as big as the old woman’s head.

  “Hot damn! My day keeps getting better. Aaaahhh,” said Bea, taking a long draw on the straw before setting the cup down on the ring-stained end table. She put out her cigarette, then reached eagerly into the bag for her beloved culinary delight: an English muffin sandwich, stuffed with egg and Canadian bacon, both of which were somehow perfectly sized to the muffin’s dimensions. Atop the circular proteins was an unnaturally smooth and melty cheesy substance. It was a thing of beauty.

  Bea took a bite. “So much joy and the power to sustain life, too. If only they delivered.” Bea shot Angela a wide smile, wet muffin sandwich scraps filling gaps where a few teeth were missing. “How much do I owe you, Angie?”

  “Don’t be cray,” Angela replied, averting her gaze slightly to avoid seeing Bea’s half-chewed sandwich blobs. “You’re my best client. And for a richy-rich lady, you’re an awfully cheap date.”

  “Hmmm. And here I thought I was your only client. Well, whatever you’re doing with that Bookspace and Chatter social stuff, it’s keeping the royalties rolling in. I definitely should be buying you lunch. And what’s ‘cray’?”

  “Next time, crazy” Angela laughed, “and it’s Facebook and Twitter. I’m not surprised your sales are going strong. Would you believe you’re up to half a million fans, a hundred thousand followers, and several hundred thousand newsletter subscribers, give or take a few? It’s a lot of work feeding those faithful – especially since I’m making up all the new fodder myself now.”

  Angela plopped down on the sofa next to Bea and took a little bite of her own egg sandwich. Angela had dropped making up all the new fodder myself as a hint, but Bea showed no signs of picking it up.

  “They’re dying for a new Treacle Town book,” Angela pushed on, trying the more direct approach. “Any chance Betty might come out of retirement? It’s hard to believe, but it’s been more than three years since It’s Always Christmas in Her Heart.”

  “As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk with you about that today. I think you’ll be pleased. But I’ve got something else I’d like to do first. And I know you wanted to talk about marketing, too, but, honestly, what do I need to hear about it? As long as the royalty checks keep rolling in, I’m happy. Just keep doing what you’re doing. I hope you’re up for an outing instead of talking business.”

  “Of course.” Angela was beaming. She was clearly up for any sort of road trip, especially after the heady promise of a new Treacle Town in the works. “But you’re going to swap the nightie for street clothes, right? And put on a bra?”

  Bea rolled her eyes but nodded her agreement. “I’ll get dressed as soon as ‘The Price Is Right’ is done. It’s almost over. See that girl Evelyn? Her bid’s so good, I think she’s going to win both showcases. Neil’s bid was close, but he’s over. He can’t win.”

  “How do you know these things? You’re a genius and a Renaissance woman,” declared Angela. She smiled at Bea with a mix of awe and appreciation.

  “It ain’t brains, honey, it’s experience. Been watching that show for 30 years. God I love it. And I don’t know for sure, just guessing.”

  Sure enough, though, Evelyn’s bid was within $250, and she took home three vacations, a car, and a boat – more than $50,000 in loot, on top of the $11,000 she’d already won playing Plinko.

  “That show never fails to entertain! Who knew winning an overpriced trip to Toronto could make people so happy?” Bea clicked off the TV and helped herself up from the couch with her cane. “Do me a favor … while I get changed, grab the small purse that’s in the top drawer of the desk. We’ll need it where we’re going.”

  Angela opened the drawer and found the little zippered pouch. It was stuffed with something that felt like gaming chips. “Bea, you mean the little gray bag, right?”

  “Yep. The one stuffed with chips. Time for a little Texas Hold’em.”

  “Poker? You never cease to amaze me. So are we heading to Swooping Falcon Resort?”

  “Nah. Too fancy. Open the purse, you’ll see where we’re going.”

  Inside the overstuffed little bag were 60 or 70 grimy gray-and-black chips, each with “$100” and “Valley Card Room” stamped on them. Valley Card Room was a dumpy little poker-only spot about 15 miles down the road.

  Angela’s eyes widened as she quickly did the math: there must have been nearly $7,000 in that little pouch. “Holy moley, kind of a big bankroll to have in your desk drawer, isn’t it?” She could hardly imagine having that kind of money in a drawer under any circumstances — much less as a fund for casual gambling.

  “Nope, just enough for some fun,” Bea yelled back from her room. “Plus, we’ll need enough to stake you, too. Remember how t
o play, right?” Bea had taught Angela how to play hold‘em years ago – but they’d only played heads up, and only at home. Bea had suggested it after her young associate casually mentioned watching a World Series of Poker broadcast.

  Bea emerged from her bedroom in a vivid asparagus-green velour track suit and teal-colored, Velcro-fastened sneakers. Catching a glimpse of Angela’s raised eyebrow, Bea announced, “I don’t intend to blend.”

  “I’m not complaining. At least you’re conforming with public decency laws.”

  Bea grabbed her cigarettes and stuffed them in one of the suit’s front pockets. “Okay, girlie. Ready to hit the road? Grab those chips and let’s go!”

  Chapter Three

  The duo locked up Bea’s little house and headed out to Angela’s car. Angela opened the passenger side door of her small SUV and helped Bea climb in. She keyed “Valley Card Room” into her navigation system and backed out of Bea’s driveway, then headed toward the main road.

  “So, while we’re driving, refresh my memory. I kind of remember how it works, but it’s been a while. What do I need to know about poker?”

  Bea reviewed the rules of Texas Hold’em as they drove, reminding Angela about some of the nuances of card room behavior, too – spotting tells, reading the board, how to check-raise, and of course, the poker face. “But the main thing to know is just don’t question anything I do. No matter what. Even if it seems weird. Just go with the flow – and keep working that poker face,” Bea said.

  “Got it,” Angela replied. She pulled into the casino’s dusty gravel parking lot and helped Bea out of the car.

  “Now when they ask what game we want to play, they’ll assume we want small stakes. You know, because we’re ladies,” Bea said, stressing the absurdity of the idea with a head cock and eye roll. “You tell them we want their biggest no-limit table. It’ll be better if you do the talking. Make sure they put us on the same table. Buy us in for at least twice the minimum. And if anyone asks for our names, we’re Mabel and Penelope.” Bea rarely gave up her real name unless she had to. Her commitment to anonymity was just good policy for any single lady, she thought, but especially for a rich, old one.

  Angela yanked the handle of the cardroom’s battered wooden door. Five of the room’s dozen or so tables had players seated under unflattering fluorescent lights; a few other players were scattered around the dingy, wood-paneled room, waiting their turn. The floor manager spotted Angela’s pretty silhouette in the doorway and immediately rushed over to assist.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. 3-6 limit? What are your names? I can put you on the list.”

  “Puh-leeze!” blurted Bea. She couldn’t help herself. Just as she’d predicted, the floor man assumed the two women would want a limit game at the lowest available stakes.

  Good grief, Bea thought, I’m rusty. Displays of emotion were a bad idea in a card room. She discreetly cast an apologetic look at Angela, hoping the floor man wouldn’t notice their unspoken communication. But neither Bea’s lapse of control nor her meaningful glances at Angela mattered in the least. The floor man didn’t notice anything, nor did any other man in the room. They were too distracted by Angela. Royal flushes were more common than the sight of such a young, beautiful, clean-looking woman in the Valley Card Room.

  “We’re Mabel and Penelope,” Angela declared earnestly, returning to the plan. “And we want to play no-limit. What’s your biggest game?” Bea looked down and smiled. Good job, girlie!

  The floor man raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, we’ve got a 5-10 going right now. Minimum buy-in is $400. Course, we could get a 10-20 going later, depending on who shows up.” He smirked as if he thought the idea ridiculous, but Angela didn’t react.

  “We don’t want to wait, so 5-10 it is. Can you seat us both? We’ve brought chips, and we’ll each play $1,000.” Angela confidently handed the floor man 20 of the chips from Bea’s old purse.

  “Right this way, ladies.”

  As Angela headed across the grungy carpet to the table, Bea lagged behind. Angela noticed her leaning more heavily on her cane than she normally would. She had adopted a dazed look instead of her typical alert expression. She even motioned frailly to Angela that she needed her arm for support. Every player at the 5-10 table stared, bemused and curious, as the odd pair approached and took their seats.

  Bea made a big production about adjusting herself in her chair and craned her neck in an exaggerated way whenever anyone spoke. “Huh?” she honked loudly at the dealer when he asked her to put out her big blind. “My big what?” Angela was sure Bea could hear the dealer just fine, and that Bea knew perfectly well that it was her turn to put out a chip for a blind bet.

  Their all-male opponents were thrown by the presence of a beautiful young woman and a little old one. But since the old one seemed to have a nice supply of $100 chips – and appeared to be nearly deaf, possibly senile, and unclear on the rules of poker – they were also excited by the possibilities. Bea noticed right away that the grinders, grizzled pros eking out their living in the cardroom, were practically licking their chops at the sight of her bankroll. She wasted no time in winding them up.

  She played every one of the first seven hands, calling every bet and showing down worthless hands while squawking “Did I win?” at a painful volume. She’d ask how much she could raise, and when the dealer explained again and again that there was no limit, she’d overbet by preposterous margins. Bea was motioning to Angela to pass her another $1,000 in chips before Angela had even played her first hand.

  By her third buy in, Bea had convinced everyone she was a crazy old lady with more money than brains. The other players grew desperate to get a piece of her before she ran out of money.

  The timing worked out perfectly for Bea, who picked up a string of premium hands in short order and then enjoyed herself while the “professionals” called and blew all their chips. “Boy am I lucky today!” she cackled as she raked the huge pots. The men couldn’t conceal their escalating irritation.

  “Ha! Send it!” yelled Zeke, a 20-something dude in an Oakland Raiders hoodie and baseball hat. He’d jumped out of his chair and slammed his cards onto the table face up: the ace of spades and the jack of hearts. Together with the board cards – ace of clubs, ten of clubs, jack of diamonds, and two red rags – his hand made the top two pair. Not the nuts, but tough to beat. Sure that he’d finally stomped the old lady, he rubbed his hands together, chuckling and bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation of scooping up the giant pile of chips in the middle of the table.

  “Huh?” Bea honked abrasively. She looked around as if totally confused. “Send what? What’s he talking about, dealer?”

  “He means he thinks he won, ma’am,” said the dealer dispassionately. He was keeping one eye on the young grinder, who was getting increasingly agitated. Angela bowed her head to keep from laughing.

  “Muck your hand, lady! If you’re not showing your hand, muck it!” Zeke shouted aggressively.

  “Well I don’t see what you’re so angry about,” Bea said. “If you wanted me to show my hand, you could have asked nicely.”

  Slowly, Bea turned over the first of her two cards. The king of hearts. Zeke’s face hardened and he was suddenly quiet. Bea tried to turn her second card over, but somehow kept failing to grab hold of it. Zeke grew visibly impatient. Finally, she managed to turn it over: the queen of hearts. Bea had an ace-high straight, otherwise known as Broadway. And, in this case, otherwise known as the nuts: the best possible hand.

  “You crazy old bag,” Zeke shrieked. He lunged toward Bea, overturning his chair and rattling the table. The other players grabbed him to hold him back. “You slow-rolled me! You slow-rolled me!”

  Zeke might have had a point. Slow-rolling – stalling, instead of immediately showing the winning hand – was considered a serious breach of poker etiquette. But then again, slamming the table and yelling “Send it” was not recommended in any book of manners, either.

  “Floor!” Bea s
houted. “I guess I have to leave now. It’s not safe for me and my friend. Classy place you got here!” Of course, Bea hardly looked afraid. She looked like she could barely conceal her glee.

  “You’ll have to help me bring this big pile of chips to the cage,” Bea continued at a deliberately obnoxious volume. “I can’t count it by myself.” The grinders’ faces fell into their laps. Bea had more than tripled her money, and now she was taking all that dough off the table.

  “Wasn’t that fun?” Bea said to Angela as they made their way to the cage to cash out. Bea was walking briskly, not leaning on Angela at all now, and barely even using her cane. Her hearing had miraculously improved as well. “Those losers are so tilted. They’re all warmed up for those lucky ducks that got our seats. We ought to have charged them for our spots. Now Angela, will you help me out with one more thing? Go to the counter and ask if Perry’s in the back.”

  Angela complied, smiling ear-to-ear. She didn’t feel the slightest bit bad about Bea’s ruse. Those grinders would have used any trick in the book to snag Bea’s money. Watching Bea outsmart them was a rush. Plus, she was excited to have caught a couple of hands of her own. She was carrying her stack from the table in a plastic tray, and it held $500 more in chips than she’d started with.

  “You keep your upside, Angie,” Bea told her. “Buy yourself something special!”

  Chapter Four

  A tall, slightly droopy man in his early 60s emerged from the casino’s back room to join the two ladies. He wore a faded button-down shirt and worn twill slacks. “Well if it isn’t my old pal ‘Mabel,’’’ Perry said. His smile revealed his unexpected pleasure at seeing Bea, as well as the classic features of a once-hunky face.

  “How have you been, Bea? Long time no see. It’s been at least a few years, hasn’t it?”