Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(6)

“I’ll be sure the dress is ritually burned in the morning,” Brinkley said, deadpan.

“Can we get back to playing poker?” Crawford said, shuffling the deck. “Deuce! Where are those drinks?”

Al kissed Brink on the cheek. “I’ll burn her dress for you.”

“Yes, I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

“U8 championship coach,” Alejandro said, flopping back into his chair with a grunt.

“Excuse me?” Brinkley tilted his head.

“You said I was your daughter’s soccer coach. I’m clarifying that I’m the under-eight girls’ championship soccer coach. I know that’s what you meant to say.”

“Deuce! Where are those goddamn drinks?” Crawford shouted.

Dennis arrived with the tray of beverages.

“Good Lord! Just in time,” Crawford snatched his Michelob.

“Why do you let him talk to you that way, Brink?” Dennis asked. “I mean, geez, doesn’t it get to you?”

“At Annapolis, Brink never got worked up,” Crawford said, dealing the cards. “He was unflappable. Even the cadet hazing never bothered him.”

“No, sir,” Brinkley said with a mock salute.

“One time, senior midshipmen burst into our room in the middle of the night,” Crawford recounted. “And they stuffed us into duffel bags up to our necks and held us out the third-story window. I was screaming my head off. One of the guys pissed himself. But you know what Brinkley did?”

“What?” Dennis leaned forward in his seat.

“Just dead in the face. No emotion. No expression. No fear.”

“No kidding?” Dennis said.

“Total zombie face,” Crawford said.

“Zombie face—I like that,” Dennis said. “You ever use that move in court, Brink?”

“All the time,” Brinkley said, peeking at his cards.

Alejandro glanced quickly at his cards and announced, “I’m all in.”

Brinkley cocked his head, studying Al.

“I’ll bet you used your zombie face to buy this house,” Dennis said.

“No wonder people hate lawyers,” Al said. “Fucking zombie-McMansion, little-dick lawyers.”

“I’m in,” Brinkley said. “Call.”

“I’m out,” Dennis conceded, flipping his cards into the middle of the table.

“Me too,” Crawford said. “. . . Al, why’re you such an *?”

“It’s what makes me such a good real estate agent,” Al smiled. “Don’t blame me that Brink has to compensate for his little pecker with a trophy wife and this bullshit trophy house.”

“Didn’t you sell him this house, Al?” Dennis asked.

“Let’s just play poker, gentlemen,” Brinkley said.

“Yeah, I made a big f*cking commission on this dump. How else could I afford my fishing boat?” Al smirked.

Crawford flipped over five cards.

“Flush,” Brinkley whispered.

“Puta!” Alejandro erupted. He threw down his cards and drained his drink.

“Darn, you’re lucky, Lord Brinkley Barrymore the Third,” Dennis shook his head. “Why does the rich guy always win?”

“I’m not the rich guy,” Brinkley said, “Al is.”

“Shut the f*ck up!” Alejandro barked, lowering his eyes.

“Come on, Al,” Dennis pleaded, “how many houses can you sell?”

“Oh, he’s not rich from selling houses,” Brinkley said. “Don’t believe that for a second.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alejandro said.

“Go on, Al,” Brinkley insisted, “tell them. Tell them about the diamonds.”

“Diamonds?” Crawford sat up.

“Fuck you, Brink,” Alejandro said.

“Come on, Al! I’ll make you another Bacardi,” Dennis offered. “Really, how on earth are you rich? How do you have diamonds?”

“I don’t,” Al said. “My family has money. Or, my family had money. That’s true. But I can’t touch any of it. I’ve never even seen it.”

“Never seen it?” Dennis scowled.

“Not one dime.”

“How’s that?” Crawford asked.

“Commies.”

“What?” Dennis and Crawford exchanged looks of confusion.

“Nineteen fifty-nine,” Al said. “My grandfather had a diamond-trading business in Cuba when Fulgencio Batista’s government collapsed and everyone had to flee before the commies took over Havana. My family had to leave everything behind to get to Miami. They buried the diamonds underneath the house.”

“Holy cow, Al!” Dennis said.

“That’s unbelievable!” Crawford said.

“Tell them the rest.” Brinkley poked Alejandro in the ribs.

“Mi abuelo is dead now. Mi padre, too. But the diamonds are still there. In a lockbox beneath the house.”

“How many?” Dennis asked.

“Plenty.”

“You know where it is?” Dennis was leaning all the way forward.

“Sure.”