by James Swain
DeMarco was staying at the hallway’s end. Valentine rapped on the door, and stepped back so the person on the other side could see him through the peephole. He heard the door being unlatched, then saw a bodyguard dressed in black standing before him.
“You Valentine?” the bodyguard asked.
Hoods had a tendency to ask ridiculously stupid questions, and Valentine had discovered that he couldn’t answer them without insulting someone. He handed the guy his business card. The bodyguard stared at it in a way that suggested his inability to read had driven him from seeking a higher education, and motioned him inside.
DeMarco was staying in a high-roller suite, and Valentine entered a large living area with ornate furniture that looked straight out of Buckingham Palace and with a view of the city that matched anything he’d ever seen. He wondered how DeMarco rated such digs, as he knew that hotels did not normally rent their high-roller pads, preferring to offer them as freebies to their best customers, called whales. In all his years in the business, he’d never heard of a single poker player getting this kind of treatment.
“You must be Valentine,” a voice said.
An older Italian guy with slicked back hair stood by the window, gazing at him through the reflection. Stocky, about five ten, wearing black slacks and a flowing black shirt that hid his paunch, hands festooned with gold jewelry, mouth retracted in permanent distaste. Valentine assumed this was the Tuna and nodded, then placed the bag of insulin on a chair.
“It probably went bad, you know,” the Tuna said.
He still hadn’t turned around, preferring to let Valentine see the back of his head.
“What went bad?” Valentine asked.
“My nephew’s insulin.”
“I kept it cold for you,” Valentine said.
Valentine could see the Tuna’s face in the reflection. He look surprised.
“I appreciate that,” the Tuna said. “You like something to drink?”
“A glass of water would be fine.”
“You on duty?”
Valentine realized the Tuna thought he was still a cop.
“I’m retired. I don’t drink the hard stuff.”
The Tuna nodded that this was acceptable, then snapped his fingers. The bodyguard went to the bar, which was filled with bottles of top shelf brands. He poured a Scotch for his boss and a glass of tap water for his guest, then delivered them to the two men. The Tuna turned around but remained by the window, as if getting too close to a cop, even a retired one, was not anything he planned on doing in this lifetime.
“Salute,” he said, raising his glass.
Valentine raised his glass and took a sip. He could hear someone in the next room, and glanced over his shoulder through an open door. Skip DeMarco was standing in the next room with his shirt off. He was built like a martial artist, his body lean and sinewy, and he practiced his exercises in slow motion, his movements quick and fluid. Valentine stared at the ugly red scars that marred his arms and chest and spoiled his otherwise perfect physique. He’d seen scars like that before, when he’d been an undercover cop assigned to narcotics in Atlantic City. He’d seen them on little kids whose parents were crackheads. They were cigarette burns. He shifted his gaze to the Tuna, and lowered his glass.
“You once threw me out of a casino in Atlantic City,” the Tuna said.
“When was this?”
“June 7, 1987.”
Valentine tried to remember the incident, but came up blank. The Tuna was good at reading faces, and said, “You said I was an undesirable. You let the niggers and Spics into the casinos, but not me. I always resented that.”
Valentine had heard a lot of hoods use this argument, as if blacks and Hispanics were some social yardstick by which acceptance should be measured, instead of who you were, and what you’d done.
“Just doing my job,” Valentine said.
The Tuna twirled the ice cubes in his drink. “I had you checked out after that. You know, we’re alike in a lot of ways.”
Valentine didn’t think the Tuna could have insulted him any worse than he just had. Nothing about them was alike; not one damn thing.
“How so?”
“We’re Sicilian. Both our fathers were immigrants; both came through Ellis Island. You had a tough upbringing, so did I. You know anything about Sicily’s history?”
Valentine decided to indulge him and nodded.
“For hundreds of years, the Italians treated us like dogs. The island was lawless, people were poor, there was no electricity, no running water, and no one in Rome gave a rat’s ass. Only one thing kept Sicily from falling apart. The dons. They were the law, and everyone respected them.”
“Do you see yourself like a don?” Valentine asked.
The Tuna downed his drink. “Yeah, I do.”
As a child, Valentine’s father had told him about the Sicilian dons who’d traveled to Rome during the early 1900s, and convinced Italy’s leaders to give Sicily food and money to keep its people alive. For the Tuna to liken himself to those men was like comparing the Sistine Chapel to an outhouse.
“Afraid I don’t see it that way,” Valentine said.
“You don’t?”
“No. Those dons saved lives. You destroyed them.”
An ice cube spilled out of his host’s drink. He came forward very quickly, halving the distance between them. But that was as far as he came. Valentine held his ground.
“This isn’t Atlantic City,” the Tuna said. “You watch yourself, Valentine, you hear me?”
Valentine realized he was being threatened, and again found himself looking at the ornate furnishings. DeMarco was getting the royal treatment, which meant that either he, or his uncle, had juice with someone.
“Thanks for the drink and the fun conversation,” Valentine said.
The Tuna turned to the bodyguard. “Guido.”
The bodyguard was standing behind the bar with a bored look on his face.
“Yes, Mr. Scalzo,” he said.
“Throw this asshole out of here.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Scalzo.”
Guido came around from behind the minibar and dropped a massive paw on Valentine’s shoulder. Valentine guessed it was his gray hair, or maybe that he’d said he was retired, that had gotten Guido to drop his guard. He kicked Guido in the instep, a spot that people who practiced judo called a vital point. Guido grunted and began to hop around on one leg. Valentine kicked him again, this time in the ass. He put a lot behind the kick, and Guido hurtled across the room, his arms flapping like he was trying to fly.
“What’s going on?” a voice said.
DeMarco appeared in the open doorway separating the rooms, a towel draped across his glistening torso, his walking cane clutched in his right hand. The two men collided with a bang of heads, and DeMarco hit the floor hard.
“Skipper!”
The Tuna ran across the room to his nephew’s aid. Kneeling, he cradled DeMarco’s head in his arms. When he looked up at Valentine, there were tears in his eyes.
“You’ll pay for this,” he said.
32
It was late, and Mabel was still in the office when Tony’s phone rang. One week of mindless inactivity aboard the Love Boat had turned her brain to mush, and when Tony’s computer had frozen right before quitting time, she’d found herself on the phone with a polite but utterly worthless support technician in New Delhi trying to fix it. She’d wanted Tony to get rid of his desktop in favor of a notebook computer, but was now grateful for the bulkier model. It was less tempting to throw out the window.
“Grift Sense,” she answered.
“Is this a rare coin shop?” her boss’s voice rang out.
“Sometimes I wish it was,” she said, staring at the blank screen.
“What are you doing there so late? It’s eleven thirty.”
“I froze your computer, and have been talking on the telephone with a young man named Vijay trying to get it straightened out.”
“Any luck?�
��
“None whatsoever.”
“Try whacking it. That always works for me.”
Whacking things was Tony’s answer to a number of problems that demanded more concrete solutions. Still, it was the one thing Mabel hadn’t tried, and in frustration she whacked the PC with the palm of her hand, and saw a lightning bolt flash across the screen. Moments later, Tony’s screen saver appeared She let out a heavy sigh.
“Oh my,” she said.
“Let me guess,” he said. “It worked.”
“Yes, it did. How’s Las Vegas?”
“Still the fun capital of the United States. I have a job for you. I was going to leave a message. If you want to go home, I can call back, and leave it on voice mail.”
Mabel picked up a pen and notepad lying on the desk. She’d downed several cups of coffee while talking with Vijay, and felt like she had toothpicks holding her eyelids apart. “Fire away.”
“I want you to do a background check on two individuals. One is a mobster out of Newark named George Scalzo, aka the Tuna. The second is Scalzo’s blind nephew named Chris ‘Skip’ DeMarco. I’m interested in finding out what Scalzo’s relationship is with DeMarco. Scalzo might have adopted him, or is the kid’s legal guardian. See what you can find. I’d suggest you start with the FBI first.”
“But they’re always such brats,” Mabel said.
“They are. But the FBI has extensive files on every Mafia boss in the country. The files include a lot of personal information. Some of these guys are followed twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If Scalzo did adopt DeMarco, the bureau would know about it.”
“Not to be a pill, but just exactly how do I convince the FBI to give me this information?” she said, having scribbled down the names. “The last time I checked, the FBI didn’t have a help line you could call.”
“Easy,” Tony said. “On my desk is an overnight envelope from Special Agent Romero of the FBI. He wants my opinion on a cheating case he’s handling. Tell Romero I won’t charge him, provided he lets us see Scalzo’s file.”
“A horse trade?”
“Exactly. If Romero agrees, you’ll need to look at his cheating case, and see what you think. If you can’t figure out what’s going on, send me an e-mail, and I’ll have a crack at it.”
Mabel felt the color in her face change. A few weeks ago, she’d spotted a woman using her coffee cup to filch chips inside a casino. There was a piece of adhesive on the bottom of her cup, allowing her to steal chips from other players while casually chatting with them. Ever since the bust, Tony had been letting her look at cases.
“Do you have any idea what Special Agent Romero’s case is about?” she asked.
“Craps cheating in the basement of a guy’s house. The guy’s attorney claims he had the table there for fun. Romero believes the guy is cheating people, only the victims are too embarrassed to testify, and Romero doesn’t have any solid evidence. He said the craps table’s position in the basement bothered him, and asked me to study some pictures.”
“And by looking at some pictures, you’ll know how this guy was cheating at dice?”
Her boss laughed. “I already think I do.”
Mabel felt the tingle of excitement that came whenever Tony challenged her. Her boss was saying the mystery could be solved by looking at how the craps table was positioned in the basement. Those were all the clues she needed.
“Talk to you later,” she said.
If there was anything about police work that Mabel enjoyed, it was the sense of immediacy the work demanded. It wasn’t like the real world, where people promised to get back to you, and never did. Law enforcement people understood the importance of time when solving a case. Like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, every minute meant something.
She found Special Agent Romero’s overnight envelope within a stack of mail on Tony’s desk. The envelope contained a typed letter, and a manila file folder stuffed with crime scene photographs. She read the letter first, and learned the suspect had also been transporting illegal gambling equipment across state lines, which was against federal law and probably why the FBI had gotten involved. Romero also mentioned finding a great deal of money in the house, several hundred thousand dollars.
Finishing the letter, she opened the file folder, and stared at the eight-by-ten glossy on top. The suspect’s basement was decorated like a nightclub, and she immediately found herself disliking the suspect’s defense attorney. Any dimwit could see that his client had pumped a small fortune into turning his basement into a gambling den.
She focused her attention on the craps table in the photograph. It was shaped like a tub, and positioned in the rear of the room, backed up to the wall. The basement was good-sized, and there was no reason the craps table should be in such tight quarters. She flipped through several other photographs. The table was definitely in a strange spot.
Tony had taught her a thing or two about craps cheating. When the house cheated, it was with crooked dice, called bust outs. Bust outs were either shaved dice, which rolled more unfavorable combinations than normal, or loaded dice, which had mercury loads hidden in the numbers, and were controlled by electromagnets in the table. Shaved dice beat the unsuspecting players gradually; loaded dice took their money right away.
She closed the folder and leaned back in her chair. The last time she’d spoken to Tony, he’d explained why casinos on cruise ships were more susceptible to losses because their hours were limited. She guessed the same time restraints applied to casinos that cheated. The fewer hours you were open, the more blatant the cheating had to be. If the cheating wasn’t blatant, you still might lose money. Which led to her next conclusion. The casino in his basement was using loaded dice.
She found herself smiling. Tony was fond of saying that the toughest scams often had the simplest solutions. She picked up the photograph, and instantly understood why the craps table had been positioned near the wall. It was the only way the loaded dice would work.
She picked up Romero’s letter, and looked to see if it had an e-mail address. It didn’t, but Romero had included his phone number. Mabel decided to call it, and leave a message. She punched the number in, and was surprised when a person answered her call.
“Hello,” a man said.
“I’m sorry,” Mabel said. “I was calling to leave a message.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Mabel Struck and I’m with Grift Sense. Are you the cleaning man?”
“This is Special Agent Romero of the FBI,” the voice said curtly.
Mabel brought her hand up to her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the FBI worked so late.”
“We do when it’s an emergency,” Romero said. “I hope you’re calling about the case I wrote to your boss about.”
“Why yes, I am.”
“Good, because a judge is going to let our suspect walk if we can’t come up with any evidence, and six months of work will go down the drain.”
“The FBI spent six months investigating a man running a casino in his basement?”
“He runs two dozen of these operations around the country,” Romero said. “His net worth is in the neighborhood of twenty million dollars a year.”
“You’re saying this man’s a public menace.”
“That’s a polite term for him.”
“I think I can help you,” Mabel said. “Do you have any agents near the suspect’s house?”
“There are a team of agents there right now,” Romero said. “They’re combing the basement for clues we may have missed. We had the craps table taken out, and examined by our forensics lab. The table was absolutely clean.”
“That doesn’t mean a magnet wasn’t in play,” Mabel said.
“It doesn’t?”
“No. Would your agents by chance have a mallet handy?”
“You mean to break down a door?”
“A wall, actually. They’ll need something with a little heft.”
“They have
a battering ram in the trunk of their car,” Romero said. “It’s standard equipment. I’d like to put you on speakerphone with Special Agent Darling who’s in charge at the house. I want him to hear this directly from you.”
“Certainly.”
Romero put her on hold. Mabel took the top glossy off the stack, and stared at it once again. The electromagnet used to control the loaded dice was hidden behind the wall the craps table had been so auspiciously shoved up against. Somewhere in the room was a switch that activated the magnet. With a simple flip, the dice could be made to roll losers. That was how the suspect was making twenty million dollars a year.
Romero came back on the line, and introduced Special Agent Darling. Holding the glossy up to her face, Mabel told Darling which wall in the basement needed to be knocked down.
33
Valentine lay in his hotel bed staring at the ceiling. The drapes in his room wouldn’t properly close and tiny neon angels danced above his head. One of the great injustices of old age was the mind’s unwillingness to do what the body told it to. In this case, it was not falling asleep, even though he was exhausted. Something was bothering him, and no amount of counting sheep was going to let him rest until he figured out what it was.
He climbed out of bed and heard his joints creak. He still took judo classes three days a week, and did exercises every day at home, but some days he felt like he was fooling himself, and that his body kept going on memory.
He slipped into a bathrobe supplied by the hotel. It was a size too small, and felt like a straitjacket. He went into the living room, and not seeing Rufus, parked his tired bones on the living room couch. The casino’s giant neon sign was directly below the room’s window, and bathed him in a rainbow of garish colors. He stared into space, trying to put his finger on what was wrong.
