Alessandro
The organizers of the poker tournament certainly made sure they keep the identity of the players a secret.
I get out of the car and look toward the scantly lit one-story house. There are no other vehicles around, so I assume that each player was scheduled to arrive at a different time. A man waiting at the front door escorts me inside, across the unfurnished hall, and into a small room on the left side of the building where another man, wearing a three-piece suit and black gloves, is seated behind a desk covered in a black tablecloth. I guess that makes him an inspector.
“Quality check,” he says and taps the surface of the desk with his palm.
I reach into my pocket for the velvet pouch, undo the string, and let the contents spill over the ebony surface.
The inspector gr
