by James Swain
Calhoun paused to puff heavily on his cigarette. Gerry was convinced that everyone in America walked around believing they were someone they’d seen on TV. For Calhoun, it was the Marlboro Man.
“And?” Amin said expectantly.
“Ask for a tour of the surveillance control room. This won’t sound unreasonable coming from a job applicant. After all, you have a right to see the work environment.”
“And then you ask them,” Amin interrupted.
“No, no, you don’t ask a thing,” Calhoun said.
“But how—”
“Easy,” Calhoun said. “Ask to see the room where the VCRs are stored. It’s usually pretty big, and kept cool so the tapes won’t spoil. When you go in, glance at the VCRs. On the face is an LED or LCD meter that’s constantly advancing in one-second increments. The casinos all stretch their tapes to eight hours to save money, so look at the meter and remember the time. If the meter says 4:00, you know the tape will be pulled in four hours. Add four hours to the present time, and you’ll have all their tape-change times.”
Amin seemed perplexed. “Please, explain.”
Calhoun looked at his watch. “The present time is eleven AM. Let’s say the time you saw on the LED was 4:00. That means in four hours, the tapes will be changed. Which means the casino changes tapes at three PM, eleven PM, and seven AM. That’s their blind time. Like I said, if it’s a big casino, it’s usually substantial.”
Amin looked at his brother and said something in his native tongue. Pash grinned.
“Very good,” Pash said in English.
Gerry’s cell phone was buzzing. Card-counting was hard enough without having to remember all this crap. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and stared at its face.
It was Yolanda.
He felt himself start to panic. Was she having the baby early? The women in her family had a history of that. What if she was calling to tell him that he was a father, and like a coward he was hiding from her? He’d never live it down.
Gerry looked up and saw his teacher giving him the evil eye. Calhoun hated cell phones almost as much as he hated interruptions. Gerry stood up.
“Excuse me, but I need to take this.”
Then Gerry walked out of the room.
Calhoun ran his classes out of his house, a ramshackle structure on the outskirts of Henderson, a town bordered on three sides by the desert. Gerry walked down the dirt driveway to where his rental car was parked, got in, and fired up the engine.
Out on the open road, he pushed the rental up to ninety and felt his anxiety slip away. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been good at getting out of jams: Why should this time be any different? Pulling into a mini mart, he bought a Slurpee and a bag of chips, then called Yolanda when he was back behind the wheel.
“Hey beautiful,” he said by way of greeting.
“Oh, my God, Gerry, what have you done?” his wife wailed.
He closed his eyes. With his lips he found the Slurpee’s straw and took a deep pull. “I haven’t done anything. What’s wrong? You having the baby?”
“Didn’t you get my messages?”
“I’m incognito, remember?”
“I’m your wife, goddamn it!”
Gerry felt the icy drink shoot up the back of his head. “You’re not having the baby.”
“No.”
“So what’s so catastrophic that you had to call me twelve times?”
The line went quiet. That was a stupid thing to say, he thought. He opened his eyes and stared at the painted landscape. The desert led to mountains, which pointed at the endless sky. He could understand how people fell in love with it out here. Every time he looked out the window, it made him feel better. “Sorry,” he said.
Yolanda said, “I called because a collection agency is calling every hour, and the bank is calling because you bounced ten checks—including one to my mother in San Juan—and I found a stack of bills underneath the bed, and I wanted to know how you planned to support us when the baby is born.”
The straw in his Slurpee made an offensive sound as he sucked his drink dry.
“What was that?” she snapped.
“The car,” he replied. “Look, I spoke to the bank, and I’m going to wire them the money. It’s no big deal. I sent the bill collector the money two weeks ago—why he hasn’t gotten the check, I have no idea.”
“What about all these bills?”
“It’s under control,” he said calmly. “You need to relax, stop worrying about this stuff. I’ll admit things are a little tight, but once I start pulling my weight with my father, we’ll be swimming in dough.”
“Oh, God, Gerry, I hope you’re telling the truth.”
“Why wouldn’t I be telling you the truth?”
“Gerry, my mother was crying when she called. She lives on the money we send her.”
Gerry stared at the midday sun. It was a pale disk in a creamy vanilla sky. He watched rays of light dance on the snow-covered mountaintops. Yolanda was a doctor. Her parents had nearly gone broke putting her through medical school. By knocking her up, he had inherited her financial obligation to keep them afloat. It hadn’t seemed like such a scary proposition, until now.
“I overnighted you money yesterday,” he said. “When you get it, send some to your mother.”
“Oh, Gerry,” Yolanda said, “what are you doing out there? You don’t return my calls, and now you’re sending money? Where did you get it?”
Gerry felt his cheeks burn. He loved Yolanda more than anything else in the world, but he had to get off the phone right now.
“I’ve got to get back to class.”
“Why won’t you answer me?”
“I did answer you. Everything is under control. You’ve gotta trust me.”
“I love you,” his wife said, suddenly sounding frightened.
“I love you, too. Good-bye.”
He killed the connection. Soon he was on the highway driving back toward Calhoun’s house. This time he kept under the speed limit while his mind wrestled with his situation. In the last six months, he’d maxed out ten different credit cards. On top of that, there was the overdue mortgage and car payments. He guessed he owed fifty grand on top of what he’d sent Yolanda yesterday.
He took a deep breath as he pulled down Calhoun’s bumpy driveway. He could get his hands on the money, but it wouldn’t be easy.
It never was.
7
Wily and Valentine finished their coffee and walked to the front of the Acropolis. By the front doors was the garishly lit alcove that housed One-Armed Billy, the world’s biggest slot machine. A bus tour of blue-hairs stood on line, waiting to take a crack at the thirty-million-dollar jackpot.
“You know,” Wily said, “the best thing that ever happened to us was Nola Briggs and Frank Fontaine trying to rip Billy off.”
“Business that good?”
“Billy’s is. The tour buses bring a thousand retirees a day. You’re a hero to these people.”
Valentine laughed. The attempted heist had been made into an asinine TV movie. A young Hollywood actor with wavy hair and bulging muscles had played Valentine’s role. He had watched half the program before turning it off.
They entered the alcove. Joe Smith—all seven feet, three hundred pounds of him—sat on a stool next to Billy. Joe had been there during the heist and been diverted away from Billy by a staged fight in the casino. Joe had gotten to play himself in the TV movie and looked like he was enjoying his newfound celebrity. Eight-by-ten glossies, signed and framed, were on sale on a table beside him.
“Hey Joe, how’s it going?” he said.
Joe smiled. He was getting his picture taken with an elderly fan. Picking up a mike off a table, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special guest with us. The man responsible for stopping the heist in the movie Grift Sense. The one and only Tony Valentine.”
The line of retirees ohhed and ahhed. The elderly fan clapped her hands together in delight. Brushing past Valen
tine, she disappeared into the casino lobby.
“What brings you to town?” Joe asked.
“He just saved our ass again,” Wily piped in.
Joe scratched his chin like a great thinker. “Let me guess. You stopped the jumper.”
Valentine acknowledged that he had. “You like being famous?”
“Beats working,” Joe replied.
The elderly fan returned to the alcove, looking annoyed. “Tony Valentine wasn’t in the lobby,” she said. “Where is he?”
Joe pointed at the real McCoy. She looked Valentine over from head to toe.
“Really?” she asked skeptically.
“People can be cruel,” Wily said as they walked outside. The fountains had just come on, the statues of Nick’s ex-loves getting their midday shower. Wily’s cell phone went off. Ripping it from his pocket, he stared at its face.
“The boss,” he said. Turning it on, he said, “Hey Nick, what’s up?”
Valentine mouthed the words See you and started to walk away. Wily motioned with his hand for him to stop. “Yeah, Valentine’s right here,” he said into the phone. “I know he saved the day. You want him to come over?” Wily covered the mouthpiece. “Nick wants to thank you in person.”
“I need to go find my son.”
“Nick’s got spies all over town,” Wily said. “If anyone can track Bart Calhoun down, it’s him. Come on.”
Valentine considered it. Nick had been in Las Vegas forever and knew everybody. He was also usually good for a few laughs.
“For lunch?” he asked.
Wily took his hand away from the phone. “Valentine wants to know if you’re going to feed him.” The head of security covered the phone. “Nick says sure, if you’ll promise to tell the story of how you caught Nola and Frank Fontaine.”
“To who?” Valentine asked.
“Nick’s new wife.”
Nick’s bride was named Wanda Lovesong. According to Wily, the English language did not contain enough adjectives to describe what she looked like. Driving to Nick’s palatial estate on the outskirts of town, Wily explained how she and Nick had met.
“You know how Nick’s a sucker for beautiful women,” Wily said.
“His Achilles’ heel,” Valentine said.
“There you go. Well, he gets a distress call a few months ago from a promoter named Santo Bruno. Seems Santo is staging the Miss Nude World contest, and his venue backed out on him at the last minute.”
“The Miss what?”
“You heard me,” Wily said, grinning as he stared at the highway. “The hundred best strippers and exotic dancers in the country compete for prizes. It’s a real scene.”
“What’s the grand prize? A new wardrobe?”
Wily slapped the wheel. “That’s a good one. Anyway, Santo asked Nick to hold the event at the Acropolis, and be a judge. Well, you know Nick’s weakness for naked broads. He said yeah, and we got to host the event. Craziest weekend of my entire life.”
“Did you see the contest?”
“Wouldn’t have missed it if the place was on fire. The talent show was amazing.”
Nick’s place was up ahead, a lush, sprawling estate surrounded by other sprawling estates, all in the middle of nowhere. That was the thing about Las Vegas: Being in the desert, everything was in the middle of nowhere.
Wily drove down the elongated driveway without slowing down. Two cars sat beneath the pillared front entrance: Nick’s black Cadillac and a pink Jaguar convertible with a vanity plate that said LITLMISS. As they approached the front door, Valentine said, “So how did Nick end up getting hitched?”
Wily pressed the front doorbell. Moments later, the door buzzed, and Wily grabbed the handle then glanced at him. “One hundred of the best strippers in America were at the Acropolis. Wanda stayed.”
They entered the ten-thousand-square-foot monstrosity that Nick had salvaged through six messy divorces. The place had changed, the paintings of nymphs engaged in orgies replaced with classic English landscapes. Gone, too, were the anatomically enhanced statues of the famous Greek gods. Valentine’s favorite piece of furniture—the marble bar shaped like a cock—had been whittled down, and now resembled a lima bean. Grabbing two sodas from the bar, Wily headed down a long hallway toward the back.
“Nick’s in the bedroom. He’s always in the bedroom.”
“One question,” Valentine said.
“Shoot.”
“Did Wanda win the contest?”
Wily stopped at the double mahogany doors to Nick’s bedroom. Lifting his hand to knock, he said, “You’re kidding, right?” and rapped loudly.
“We’re all friends here,” a voice called from within.
They entered the master bedroom. Nick’s bachelor pad had been transformed into a Laura Ashley showroom, and the little Greek lay propped up on pillows on his gigantic bed. He was dressed in a satin robe, and as he jumped out of bed, his manhood was displayed for all the world to see.
“Tony, how you been?” he said, whacking Valentine on the arm while pulling his robe together. He smelled like cheap perfume, and Valentine gagged on his reply.
“No complaints. I hear you tied the knot.”
“Yeah. They say number seven’s the charm.”
Valentine heard the bathroom door open, and a pair of feet approach. He turned slowly, expecting to be overwhelmed, and was not disappointed when he laid eyes on Nick’s bride. Wanda Lovesong was a shade under six feet, with flaxen blond hair, too much makeup, and a body worth fighting a war over. That she wore a toga like the women in Nick’s casino only added to the allure. Valentine realized his mouth was hanging open, and he snapped it shut. Wanda demurely offered her hand. He took it.
“I saw you on TV earlier,” she said breathlessly. “That took courage to do what you did.”
She flashed a smile, and Valentine smiled back. It was shameless flirting, and it helped erase the sting of the woman at the Acropolis who’d found him too old. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nick grimace, not enjoying being upstaged.
“A real hero, except his pants fell down,” Nick said.
“Airline lost his luggage,” Wily explained.
“You need pants, I’ve got pants,” Nick said. Crossing the room, he flung open the door to his clothes closet and motioned for Valentine to follow him inside. Nick was short, and Valentine didn’t think he’d have anything that fit, but saw no point in rubbing it in. As he entered, Nick said, “What’s your waist size?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Stop bragging.”
Nick nosed around his seemingly endless collection of clothes, then stuck his head through the open closet door. “We may be a few minutes,” he told Wanda. “Why don’t you and Wily go whip something up.”
“You hungry, honey?” his bride asked.
“Just for you, baby.”
“Want a Wanda sandwich?”
Nick said Heh, heh, heh under his breath. As they departed and Valentine started to look through the pants, he heard Nick come up behind him.
“Hey,” Nick said.
Valentine turned and found his host standing next to him. The fun had gone out of the little Greek’s eyes. “None of these clothes fit you,” he said.
Valentine nearly said No kidding but decided to shelve it.
“You going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Valentine said.
Nick stuck his arm behind a rack of silk jackets and pulled out a baseball bat. It was a Louisville Slugger, and had Mark McGwire’s name on the throat. Nick gripped the bat with both hands, his eyes never leaving Valentine’s face.
“Want me to beat it out of you?”
“You’re serious,” Valentine said.
“Dead serious,” his host replied.
8
As a cop, Valentine had never done well with threats. People brandishing weapons particularly annoyed him. Knives, guns, baseball bats, they were all throwbacks to the go
od old days when people lived in caves and settled their differences through violence and bloodshed.
Stepping forward, he grabbed Nick’s wrists, wrenched the baseball bat from his grasp, and within seconds had him writhing on the closet floor.
“Let me go! Let me go!” Nick begged, gnashing his teeth.
“Promise you won’t threaten me again.”
“I promise I won’t threaten you again!”
Of all the casino owners in Las Vegas, Nick’s word meant something. Valentine released him, and Nick sat on the floor rubbing his wrists. Then he tried to stand, only his balance wasn’t there. Agewise, they were about the same, only Nick hid his through dyed hair, dyed eyebrows, and cosmetic surgery that made his face look like he’d gotten caught in a wind tunnel. Valentine pulled him to his feet.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, still holding the bat.
“It’s a long story,” Nick replied.
“I love long stories.”
They went into the bedroom. Nick pointed at the couch in the room’s main sitting area. Valentine lay the bat on the floor, then sat down and watched his host pull up a chair. When Nick spoke, his tone was somber. “Things have been kind of hairy lately.”
“Is that an apology?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind explaining?”
Nick leaned in close. “I got a call this morning from the FBI. A stripper at the Pink Pony got murdered last night. She used to come into my casino and cash in chips. Claimed guys gave them to her for dances.
“FBI says they want to come in and review all my surveillance tapes, which means closing down my surveillance control room for a few days. They specifically want to see if this stripper ever cashed in a chocolate chip.”
“A five-thousand-dollar chip?”
“Yeah. The Acropolis doesn’t hand many of those out. I told the FBI that. Know what they said? If I didn’t cooperate, they’d take my gaming license away.”
