Final Table Read online

  FINAL

  TABLE

  Copyright © 2021 Dan Schorr

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or

  portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,

  A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC

  Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007

  www.gosparkpress.com

  Published 2021

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68463-107-0

  E-ISBN: 978-1-68463-108-7 (e-bk)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021909386

  Formatting by Kiran Spees

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Gambler

  Words and Music by Don Schlitz

  Copyright (c) 1977 Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

  Copyright Renewed

  All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church

  Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219

  International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved Reprinted by

  Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

  For Aunt Judy

  Part One

  1

  KYLER DAWSON closed his eyes tightly, breathed deeply, and tilted his head downward in a brief, remarkably unsuccessful attempt to compose himself. Last time, he had been incredibly embarrassed—mortified—and his life and career were savagely disrupted. Now, the consequences would be even worse. If people believed what was currently being said about him, he was finished.

  He felt the chaotic rush of people around him, scrambling to their boarding gates and dashing to the ride-share station. Carts loaded with elderly and disabled passengers careened through the crowds as their beep beep beep warning noises ordered the able-bodied out of the way.

  Most of those who were not moving through the busy airport were standing or sitting, looking at their phones and tablets—posting on social media, checking bank accounts, responding to emails, video chatting, texting, sexting, reading the news, playing mindless games, so absorbed and seemingly oblivious to those around them. A few were probably even playing poker, trying to win a few dollars before boarding time.

  He desperately wanted time to pause, to give him a chance to collect himself and decide what to do. But the latest news about him was spreading online with merciless speed, and he needed to act fast. He knew all too well how savage an online hit job could be. He had experienced it before when it incinerated the last strings holding together his relationship with his then-wife. And that time he learned a big lesson: passively ignoring the issue and hoping it would fade as the next social media news scandal emerged was a huge mistake. Without a real response, the allegations would become indelible. He couldn’t let that happen again.

  This time he would respond immediately—clearly, forcefully, and without reservation. But what should he say?

  With every second, the story gained more shares, more retweets, more comments, and thus more credibility. So he steadied the phone in his trembling hands and began to tap out his answer to the world.

  Be assertive. But don’t sound angry or defensive. Stay positive.

  As he had been preparing to board his first-class seat, the online world had just been told that he had no money—that he had, unfathomably, lost it all. If true, it would be a stunning development. Blowing through all the money could only mean that he’d be perceived as a complete failure, a colossal loser. And in his world, that kind of perception quickly became reality. No opportunities to earn. Severance of all available roads to make a living, pay his bills, live his life, and provide child support—including the crucial opportunity that was awaiting him at the other end of his flight.

  He didn’t want to be cast away as a failure. He didn’t want to be a dead-beat dad. This was not about just preserving his reputation and avoiding embarrassment. This was about survival.

  So he tweeted:

  “I can’t believe I even need to write this, but I am NOT broke. Please don’t believe lies of a jealous blogger. I’m so grateful and happy with my life and success. #blessed”

  He read it a few more times, wondering if each phrase and sentence carried the meaning and nuance that he intended. It didn’t matter that it was already forever in the public domain now—he still questioned every word as his stomach rumbled, his chest rose and fell quickly and repeatedly, and his head struggled to focus.

  Was it clear enough? Strong enough? Positive enough? Maybe he shouldn’t have acknowledged the anonymous blogger, giving him or her or them unnecessary attention and driving more readers to the story. Was the capitalization of “not” too much? Tweets in all caps were annoying—but this was just one upper case word, so it was okay. Right?

  #blessed

  He liked that hashtag. There was a time when he really, really had been #blessed, and hopefully he would be #blessed again very soon. One thing he knew for sure: he should NOT look at the Twitter replies (yes, NOT in all caps).

  His phone quickly populated with a flood of retweets and comments. He knew that social media was ready to mock and desecrate him, and reading brutal comments by a bunch of terrible people hiding in the shadows would serve no purpose. It certainly wouldn’t help him calm down and concentrate.

  But there were so many of them …

  What were they saying?

  Were any positive? Maybe there was a pocket of support for him. Maybe that would give him the strength to board his flight and, after landing, emerge as if nothing was wrong.

  “Final boarding call for American Airlines flight 5282 to Washington, DC …”

  He needed to put the phone away and get moving.

  But wasn’t there time to look at just one response?

  @vegaslife1968: “I don’t care if ur broke or not. I care that ur fellow poker pro is missing & shes maybe dead and ur just selfish AF thinking about urself #sixofdiamondsontheriver #ezpass”

  Of course, he recognized the two hashtags, but he had no idea anyone was missing. He would have to look online and see what he could learn. Beyond that confusion, he just felt fury.

  He fantasized slamming @vegaslife1968’s head into a wall. Kyler was a big guy. Maybe not as muscular as he used to be, but he was strong enough that odds were he would win a physical fight against an anonymous tweeter.

  He thought about reading one more comment—maybe the next one would be supportive—but instead he shut down his phone and boarded his flight to Washington, hoping that his first ever trip to DC would save his life.

  2

  Three days earlier.

  IN HER THIRTY YEARS as a local television news reporter in the nation’s capital, Tori Kinum had covered too many horrific stories to count. The nursing home fire that resulted in twenty-five assisted living residents burning to death. The mentally ill man who stabbed his six-year-old neighbor twenty times and then drowned him in a swimming pool because the kid had accidentally kicked a soccer ball through the man’s glass window. The combat veterans returning from service with missing limbs and other physical and mental wounds.

  Local news lived in tragedy, and she reported it daily. How many times had she been yelled at by a grieving family member?

  “Get that fucking camera away from my home. My child is dead! Are you inhuman?”

  None of that experience with the dreadful and grotesque prepared her for the sight of her sister’s murdered body.

  “Emily …
”

  Her lungs heaved, and she released a scream of agony. Scars covered Emily’s body, bruises darkened her face—the face that in so many ways had been her face, too. The short black hair, the hazel eyes, the self-assured, commanding smile. Now the right eye area was swollen and disfigured. The once-perfect teeth were each now broken, crooked, or missing.

  Her sister was her hero, her inspiration for being a journalist and so much more. Emily’s content went way beyond the local tragedies that Tori was stuck in. Her sister traveled the world and lived in the most repressive and dangerous societies. Her journalism was world-renowned—winning countless awards and, more importantly, helping to expose corrupt, brutal leaders and governments. As she risked her life to uncover and document oppression, her investigative journalism about the barbaric treatment of women, child slavery, religious persecution, human trafficking, torture and murder of opposition figures, and so many other human rights issues galvanized the free world time and again to support local activists who brought about real change. Her writing shone a light on the world’s cruelest practices, and, because of her work, countless people lived better, freer lives.

  While most of humanity threw up its hands in exasperation about the impossibility of helping to improve “hopeless” situations, Emily faced unthinkable risks, wrote shocking truths, and never viewed a human life as expendable.

  Now Tori needed to muster her sister’s strength and determination. Tori’s lifelong symbol of strength, vitality, and justice lay dead before her. But she was not going to be hopeless. She was going to fight back, in every way that she could.

  She ran her right hand over her sister’s forehead.

  “I love you so much, Emily,” she sobbed. They tortured her, she thought, agonizing over what she imagined her sister went through during her final hours.

  As a journalist, Tori chased down every hot tip and relished the opportunity to obtain a precious nugget before the rest of the pack, especially when she successfully scooped her national media competitors. Now she had ultimate insider access to the most explosive, confidential story of her life—but this time she and her journalist sister were the subjects of this soon-to-be media feeding frenzy.

  She looked around the small, dark room, which contained no furniture except for the table that supported her sister inside a zipped open body bag. There was one other living person in the room, and she turned to face him.

  “You can’t let them get away with this,” she ordered as her voice cracked.

  Bryce Kirkwood gave her a sensitive nod. He appeared to be about to reach out to provide a hug or some other physical display of compassion but then paused uncomfortably. Thirty-one years old, he looked twenty-six at most, way too young for the job. He was handsome and determined in a youthful way, like a former college athlete now working his ass off as a junior associate in a prestigious law firm.

  But this was no newbie attorney sentenced by a senior partner to hours and days and weeks of document review. This young man had rapidly risen in the cutthroat world of DC politics and now stood before her on his third day as White House chief of staff.

  “They won’t,” he replied with assurance in his eyes. “We won’t let them.”

  “Look at her!” she exclaimed, even though she now barely could. “They tortured my sister! They murdered her because she was going to expose them. Promise me you won’t just respond with more bull-shit sanctions. They need to pay with their lives.”

  “Tori, we’re 100 percent going to get vengeance. The people who did this don’t deserve to live another second. But we don’t know for sure who killed her yet. We don’t know how high up this goes. The crown prince is saying he knew nothing about it and that he’s doing his own investigation—”

  “You’re not going to trust—”

  “Of course not. Whether he was involved or not, and he probably was, he’ll do whatever he can to cover it up, find a scapegoat. We’re using our own sources, but our intel in the Kingdom is weak. We don’t have all the facts yet.”

  She looked back in the direction of her sister, unfocused so that she could avoid revisiting the heart-wrenching details. I can’t handle what they did to you. And your killers aren’t suffering real consequences yet, so I’m already failing you. But I will be relentless.

  She stared back at Bryce, the man who spoke for the president.

  “You should be telling me how you’re going to use the mighty power and reach of the United State of America to kill the people who did this,” she instructed. “That’s what I want to hear.”

  He looked back at her with understanding.

  She added, “And that’s what the American people are going to want to hear. Promise me you won’t just throw economic sanctions at them. This was a murder, not some trade infraction.”

  “I want what you want,” he said with seemingly sincere compassion. “Sanctions never accomplish anything. They just make us look weak. But between you and me, some in the administration will want them. Brad Connelly is already pushing for that. I’m doing my best. I’m on your side.”

  “The president listens to you. I’m counting on you.”

  “I promise, Tori. As long as the president still takes my advice, once we have the evidence we need, you’ll get the military response you’re looking for. Anything less would be a disgrace. Now that her body’s been returned, we’ll learn a lot more about how she was killed and who's responsible. But we’re not there yet. And remember, they’re probably a nuclear power now. It makes this a lot more complicated than if it was just some shitty third-world country that we could bomb.”

  “Well, I’ll be very vocal about what the US needs to do. And I’ll shame anyone continuing to invest there. She was an expert at that,” Tori explained, glancing at her sister. “And I watched her carefully. So I know how to do this.”

  “I support you completely, Tori. I know there’s nothing more excruciating than what you’re going through. I’m so sorry. The president and I and the whole country are on your side.”

  “We’ll see. When does the public find out?”

  “Whenever you’re ready. Do you want more time? I can step out.”

  She leaned back down and softly kissed her sister’s battered forehead. Then, full of resolve, she turned back to the young man in front of her.

  “I’m ready.”

  3

  “I KNOW UR VERY BUSY but we need to talk about what happened last week”

  Maggie Raster lay on her apartment couch and stared at the text she had sent her former boss the night before. The message showed that it had been read, but there was no reply.

  She was still sorting out what had happened, second-guessing her actions and decisions. She hadn’t confided in anyone about what he had done, fearing that others thinking of her as some kind of “victim” would be worse than the act itself. And as she wrestled with finding the right words to describe it, her ruminating sometimes led to extreme terms that she knew were absurd. Her life would be so much easier if she could just move on.

  But even a week later, she couldn’t.

  There was a lot of drinking by the group that night, although she’d been relatively sober. She remembered how handsome he looked, how excited they all were to celebrate his new position.

  And she recalled the moment in the midst of it all when everyone was toasting and laughing and their eyes met and he smiled and she thought with building excitement and curiosity, Hmmmm … I don’t work for him anymore. We’re both single. There’s really no reason this can’t happen.

  Then they were in the Uber together, heading to her nearby apartment. Her skirt had risen a little, and her bare leg rested against his perfect suit pant. It was a tantalizing physical touch with someone she had been so professional with for so long. She tilted her head up to his face and started to lean in for a kiss, but his hand met her shoulder as he gently guided her away.

  “Wait wait wait. We’re not alone,” he whispered. He saw the disappointment that she couldn
’t avoid expressing and offered her a little smirk. “Yet …” he added flirtatiously with a quick wink from his right eye.

  They simultaneously giggled, and he took her hand in his as the car cruised through the beautiful Washington winter night.

  A few moments later, he released her hand and began lightly stroking the inside of her left thigh, and she took the cue to place a hand on his knee and then slowly start moving it up his pants. He exhaled as she got higher, and for the moment he wasn’t stopping her, so she playfully moved two fingers farther and farther up the inside of his leg and then seductively over his crotch.

  “Wait wait wait,” he then said for the second time.

  “You don’t like that?” she asked with a mischievous tone, as two fingers turned into a whole hand that caressed his dick through his pants.

  “Oh my God,” he sighed. “Wait, stop. Really.” He moved her hand away. “We need to be able to walk out of here in a few minutes. What if someone recognizes me?” he said in a hushed voice, indicating the now noticeable bulge in his pants.

  “Maybe they’ll be impressed?” she asked with a grin.

  “No, really … I can’t have that happen. We’ll be there soon.”

  “Okay,” she whispered, and kissed his neck.

  Finally, the ride ended. They hustled to the elevator and then rode up to her apartment. Once they were inside her place with the door closed, his reticence vanished. He kissed her passionately and quickly unbuttoned her cream-colored blouse. She placed her hands around his waist and then began to unbuckle his belt.

  There was nothing wrong with them being together, but their previous ultra-professional relationship added another degree of excitement and the illusion of taboo, which helped flare their passion.

  Soon they were having sex on her bed, and it was such a welcome, needed escape. Even at the point when she felt like he was fucking her for just a little too long, and she was hoping he would come soon, she felt more blissful than she’d been in a very long time. The terrible stresses of her life seemed to recede, if only for a short while.