by James Swain
Valentine looked at the clock on Bill’s desk. It was a few minutes past nine. It was going to take fifteen minutes to reach the Jokers Wild, and he didn’t want to be late. His son had gotten into trouble before, but never anything like this.
He rose from his chair. Bill stood as well, and handed him the surveillance photograph taken outside the Excalibur.
“You didn’t get that from me,” he said.
Valentine folded the photograph and put it in his pocket. “The FBI think I’m somehow involved because I wrote that letter two years ago, and then my son shows up with this guy.”
“I told Fuller it was a coincidence.”
“Did he believe you?”
Bill shrugged. “Hard to say what Fuller believes. He’s paranoid. He’s gotten the bureau all screwed up because of it.”
“You’re telling me,” Valentine said.
Bill started to walk him out of the study. Valentine stopped in the doorway. The frozen face on Bill’s TV had finally struck a bell.
“That’s Karl King,” he said.
Bill walked back into the room. “Know him?”
“He’s a card-counter. One of the best.”
“You’re kidding. He hardly ever looks at his cards.”
Valentine found the remote and resumed the tape. He stared at the other players, then the spectators standing behind the table. A regular joe smoking a cigar caught his eye. He stood behind King stiff as a statue. Counters had come up with many ways to camouflage their skills. Valentine said, “The guy with the cigar is doing the counting and passing the information to King.”
“How?”
“He has a computer strapped to his leg. See how he’s got his hand stuck in his pocket? He’s entering the cards’ values into the computer.”
Bill stared at the screen. “How’s he passing the information?”
“The computer does that with a radio signal. King wears a transmitter in his ear. The information is sent by Morse code.”
“But the casino’s RF detector didn’t pick anything up,” Bill said.
Every casino had an RF detector. Used to detect illegal radio frequencies on the casino floor, they were pointed down at the players from the ceiling.
“The signal is going through the back of King’s chair,” Valentine explained. “That’s why the RF detector isn’t catching it. The frequency is too short.”
“How do you know so much about this?”
“I busted King’s students a few months ago.”
“His students?”
“He’s a professor at MIT.”
Bill walked him to the front door of the house. They shook hands, and Valentine thanked him for his help. Bill had a funny look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Valentine said.
“How do I stop King?” Bill said, clearly exasperated. “I can’t tell the casinos to have security walk the floor and point RF detectors at everyone.”
Valentine slapped his friend on the back. Sometimes the most obvious solutions were the ones everybody missed.
“Change the chairs the players sit in to ones with solid backs,” he said. “That should put an end to it.”
35
Leaving Bill’s neighborhood, Valentine turned his rental rightonto Las Vegas Boulevard. In the distance, he could see the neon spectacle that was Las Vegas at night, the casinos burning up hundreds of thousands of kilowatts trying to outshine each other.
Traffic was bumper to bumper, and he crawled ahead while staring at a green laser beam coming out of the tip of a pyramid-shaped casino called Luxor, the light ruining an otherwise flawless sky. Turning on the car’s interior light, he removed the surveillance picture from his pocket and drove with it on the steering wheel.
Was it his fault that this guy hadn’t been caught? He hated to think that it was, but still didn’t believe the FBI’s approach had been the correct one. Profiling people based on skin color was a throwback to the dark ages. There were better ways to catch criminals.
He drove with the picture on the steering wheel, staring him in the face.
At nine twenty-five he pulled into the Jokers Wild parking lot. The casino sat on a deserted stretch of the Boulder Highway. A rinky-dink marquee boasted nickel slot machines and single-deck blackjack.
He ventured inside. There was a theater just off the lobby. People were lined up for the nine-thirty show. Had Gerry said he’d meet him by the theater, or inside? He didn’t remember, and decided to stick his head inside the casino.
The gaming area was a low-ceilinged room with enough cigarette smoke to make breathing dangerous. It was packed, and he elbowed his way through to a pair of double doors. Opening them, he entered a bingo parlor. A caller in a plaid jacket stood on the stage.
“Folks,” the caller said, “it’s time to get up from your seats. Come on, you can do it. Don’t want the support hose to cut off our circulation!”
Valentine returned to the lobby. Gerry had said that he wanted him to see an act in the theater. He’d made it sound like something special. Was his son already inside, waiting for him? He bought a ticket and went in.
The theater was filled with rough-looking people chugging beers. He walked up and down the aisles but didn’t see his son. The lights dimmed, and he went and stood by the exit. Over the PA, a man’s booming voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Jokers Wild, the entertainment capital of Las Vegas—”
“Right!” a guy in the audience with a ponytail yelled.
“—and maybe the world. Tonight we’re proud to introduce two premier novelty acts. Get ready to laugh and be amazed, to hold your sides and not believe your eyes. The show is about to begin!”
“Get on with it,” Ponytail yelled.
“Our first act is a man who needs no introduction. You’ve seen him on Johnny Carson, heard his voice in a hundred TV commercials. Here he is, the master of mirth, the one, the only . . . Hambone!”
A spotlight hit center stage. The crowd did its best to make some noise. An old guy with a face like a basset hound shuffled out. Walking into the spotlight, he shielded his eyes with his hand.
“Turn that fucking thing down,” he hollered.
The spotlight dimmed, and the old guy lowered his hand. He wore a tuxedo, or rather the tuxedo wore him, his shoulders sagging so badly that it seemed his clothes were the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.
“So how you folks doing this evening?” he asked.
“Better than you,” Ponytail replied.
Hambone threw his arms out in surprise. “Holy cow! I didn’t know this was Jerry Springer! Hey buddy, you ever help a comic before?”
“No!”
“Well, you’re not helping one now. Shut up!”
The crowd started laughing. Valentine saw a man enter the theater, and he tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around. It wasn’t Gerry.
“Sorry.”
“A funny thing happened on the way to the show,” Hambone said. “I got here! But seriously folks, it’s tough when you’ve got Celine Dion singing down the street. Anyone know how much money she’s making a week?”
“Two million bucks,” someone said.
“Two million bucks,” Hambone repeated. “But it’s not steady!”
A woman in a red dress appeared on stage. She wore her hair like Snow White and weighed about two hundred pounds. Holding up an envelope, she said, “Telegram for Hambone!”
“That’s me,” the comic said. Snatching the envelope, he tore it open. “It’s from the William Morris Agency. Oh, boy. It says, Hambone—stop. Saw the act—stop, stop, stop, stop . . .” He crunched the telegram into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. “Everyone’s a comic!” Turning to his assistant, he said, “What’s your name?”
“Twiggy.” She had a voice like air slowly escaping from a balloon. “Hambone, is it true you were once a boxer?”
“That’s right.”
“How many fights did you have?”
“A hund
red and one.”
“How many did you win?”
“All but a hundred.”
“Ever make any extra money boxing?”
“Sure. I sold advertising space on the soles of my shoes.”
“I heard you had back trouble.”
“It’s true. I had a yellow streak up and down my back.”
“Why did you quit?”
“Couldn’t make hospital expenses.”
It wasn’t long before the crowd turned hostile. Arm in arm with his assistant, Hambone shuffled off stage, immune to the audience’s taunts and jeering. Valentine checked the time. Nine forty-five. He would give his son fifteen more minutes, then drive to Henderson and start looking for him.
There was something wrong with the curtains, and the next act had to set up in front of the audience. Valentine found himself smiling as Ray Hicks and Mr. Beauregard, the world’s smartest chimpanzee, came on stage. Two months ago, Hicks had saved his life in Florida, and they had become friends. This was why Gerry had picked the Jokers Wild to meet, he realized. To surprise him.
Hicks wore a canary-yellow sports jacket, baggy black pants, and a porkpie hat. He was funny looking, only no one in the audience was paying attention to him. They were looking at Mr. Beauregard, who wore a magnificent tux with a shiny satin cummerbund. As the chimp glided across the stage on roller skates, his eyes settled on Valentine’s face. A happy noise came out of his mouth.
“Good evening,” Hicks said, holding a microphone. “My name is Ray Hicks, and this is Mister Beauregard. Several years ago, while traveling with my carnival in Louisiana, I found Mister Beauregard in a pet shop, abused and underfed. I bought him for five hundred dollars.”
“Louisiana?” Ponytail shouted. “They shoot mad dogs there, don’t they?”
“I planned to teach Mister Beauregard a few simple tricks,” Hicks went on, “and put him in my carnival. But when I tried to train him, I discovered that Mister Beauregard had already been to school.”
A large chest sat stage center. It was the act’s only prop, and the chimp flipped open the lid and removed a beat-up ukulele. He strummed the instrument with his thumbless hand.
“Someone name a song, any song,” Hicks proclaimed.
“Free Bird,” Ponytail called out.
Mr. Beauregard started playing really fast, the music instantly familiar. Ponytail and his girlfriend stomped their feet, as did others in the crowd. “He’s good,” someone said.
“Another song,” Hicks said.
“The theme from Friends,” someone called out.
Hicks said, “Mr. Beauregard, do you know the theme from Friends?”
The chimp skated to the edge of the stage. Suddenly there was music.
“Yeah,” the person who made the request said.
“It has often been said that animals communicate on a different level than humans, and perhaps can tap into thoughts,” Hicks said. “Impossible? Just watch. May I have a volunteer from the audience?”
Ponytail hoisted his girlfriend’s arm into the air. The spotlight found her, and she reluctantly went up. She was a big woman, and looked like she slept in the road. Hicks coaxed her into revealing her name.
“Bitch,” she said.
A chalkboard was wheeled out. Hicks positioned the chalkboard so it was out of Mr. Beauregard’s line of vision, then handed Bitch a piece of chalk.
“Please write the name of a song on the chalkboard,” he said.
Bitch wrote KNOCKING ON HEAVEN’S DOOR.
Mr. Beauregard was playing the song before the last letters were on the board. It had a slow, easy pace, and someone in the audience clapped along.
“Another, please,” Hicks said.
Bitch wrote COCAINE. Mr. Beauregard nailed it again. This time, there was real applause. Ponytail stood up in his seat and said, “Give that woman a sugar cube!”
Bitch jumped off the stage like she was diving into a mosh pit. She ran after her boyfriend with tears streaming down her face and the audience howling. It was an ugly scene, and Valentine heard a voice over the PA announce that the show was over.
“I thought I saw your face in the audience,” Hicks said, ushering Valentine into his dressing room a few minutes later. “Like my dear mother was fond of saying, it ain’t much, but we call it home.”
The dressing room was a pit, the plaster walls so badly pocked it looked like they’d been riddled with a machine gun. Mr. Beauregard sat in a leather director’s chair. He had his skates off and was puffing on a cigarette.
“I’m looking for my son,” Valentine said. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“Gerry?” Hicks tossed his porkpie hat on a chair, revealing a few loosely combed strands of white hair across his freckled scalp. “He came by the other day with his two friends. They didn’t stay very long.”
“Something happen?”
“Mr. Beauregard did not like your son’s friends. I believe the feeling was mutual.”
Valentine looked at the chimp. Hicks claimed he had special powers. Valentine didn’t believe that, but he knew that the night Hicks had saved his life, Mr. Beauregard was involved. He’d smelled him standing nearby, only Hicks had later told the police otherwise, and Valentine had gone along with him. He removed the surveillance photo from the Excalibur, and showed it to Hicks. “This one of my son’s friends?”
Hicks squinted. “My vision is not what it used to be.” Taking the photo from Valentine’s hand, he showed it to the chimp. “Mister Beauregard, was this one of them?”
The chimp looked at the photo and hissed.
“Yes,” Hicks said.
Valentine put the photo away and looked at his watch. It was just before ten. Maybe Gerry had gotten stuck in traffic and was out in the lobby. “I need to run. How long you in town for?”
“Until we decide to leave, “ Hicks said. “We’re four-walling.”
“What’s that?”
“We rent the theater, then set our ticket price based upon a certain number of people coming to each show. Unfortunately, I did not factor in the drawing power of Celine Dion. Did I, Mr. Beauregard?”
The chimp removed a rubber knife from his jacket and plunged it into his heart. Falling back on his chair, he let his tongue hang out the side of his mouth. Hicks said, “I have my carnival to return to if we decide show business isn’t to our liking.”
Valentine said good-bye and shook his hand. Mr. Beauregard was still playing dead. Hicks said, “Mr. Valentine is leaving. Let’s not be rude.”
Mr. Beauregard sat up in his chair. Reaching into his jacket, he removed a cigar wrapped in plastic and offered it to Valentine. Valentine had always enjoyed a good smoke, and slipped it into his pocket. He watched the chimp dig out a pack of matches and hand them over as well.
“I guess he wants me to smoke it right away,” Valentine said.
“I believe he does,” Hicks said.
36
Valentine checked the lobby. Then he walked through the casino and got readdicted to smoking without having to light up. He even looked inside the bingo parlor again. His son had pulled a no-show.
He walked outside to the parking lot. It was nothing new. Gerry had been breaking his promises to him for as long as he could remember.
He got into his rental and saw his cell phone lying on the passenger seat. He’d left it on, and the phone was blinking and beeping. He grabbed it off the seat and went into voice mail.
“Hey, Dad, Wonder Boy here,” his son’s voice rang out. “Look, something’s come up. I can’t make it over tonight. I’ll call you later, Dad. Bye.”
Valentine took the cell phone away from his ear and stared at it, his anger clouding his vision. Something’s come up? What the hell was Gerry thinking? His son knew the FBI was looking for him, and that he’d put his ass on the line to help him out. If he’d been sitting beside him, Valentine would have strangled him.
A car’s horn made him jump. The parking lot was packed, and in his mirror he saw a burl
y guy in a pickup truck, hoping to grab his spot.
“Hey Pop, you leaving?” the guy asked.
Valentine shook his head and watched the pickup drive away. The guy had called him Pop. Gerry called him Pop, just like he’d called his own father Pop. Gerry never called him Dad.
Valentine replayed the message.
“Hey, Dad, Wonder Boy here . . .”
His son was trying to tell him something. He thought back to the code they’d used in the Second Sight act when Gerry was a kid. Then he remembered: Dad had been part of the code. Dad meant Gerry hadn’t understood him, and needed help.
Dad meant trouble.
He burned down the Boulder Highway to Henderson where his son was staying. Digging out his wallet, he extracted the slip of paper with the Red Roost Inn’s phone number and punched it into his cell phone. The night clerk answered. Valentine asked to be transferred to his son’s room.
“He checked out,” the night clerk said. “Actually, his buddy checked out for him.”
“Describe the guy who checked my son out,” Valentine said, standing in the motel’s dingy office ten minutes later, having broken every speed limit and run every red light on the drive over.
The night clerk was walking testimony to the evils of alcohol, his face a mosaic of busted gin blossoms, his eyes runny and dispirited. He scratched his unshaven chin, thinking. Valentine tossed down twenty bucks to prod his memory along.
“Middle Eastern, five-ten, about a hundred and seventy pounds,” the clerk said. “Not a bad-looking guy, except he was always scowling. He and his brother shared a room.”
“How long they been here?”
“Couple of weeks.”
Valentine removed the surveillance photo from the Excalibur and laid it on the desk.
“That him?”
The clerk gave it a hard look. “Yup.”
A ledger sat on the desk. Valentine flipped it open and heard the clerk squawk.
“That could get me fired,” the clerk said.
