by James Swain
“But how do you convince claimers to work with you?” Bronco asked one night.
They were eating spaghetti and meatballs at a dump on Fremont Street, and Glenn put his fork down and stared him in the eye.
“You don’t,” his teacher said.
Bronco put his elbows on the table, and stared his teacher in the eye.
“You don’t convince them,” Glenn said. “That’s the secret to this business, kid.”
Bronco looked at his plate of food. He knew everything about rigging slot machines but the important part, and felt defeated. After a moment he lifted his head, and saw a softening in his teacher’s face, and realized Glenn was going to tell him.
“They convince themselves,” his teacher said.
“Hey, punk. Wake up.”
Bronco’s eyes snapped open. A hulking guard stood outside his cell door.
“You the pizza guy?”
“Very funny,” the guard said. “Your lawyer’s here.”
Bronco rose from the cot and held his hands out. The guard entered and handcuffed him, then led Bronco down a hallway to the visitor’s room.
The room was small and stunk of sweat. Garrow stood behind a pocked table wearing a concerned look on his face. Bronco sat down behind the table, and was handcuffed to the leg of his chair, which was hex-bolted to the floor. Garrow remained standing, his hands clasped in front of his chest.
“How you doing?” his lawyer asked.
“Having the time of my fucking life.”
“You’ve opened up Pandora’s box, Bronco.”
“I don’t know any broad named Pandora,” Bronco said.
Garrow unclasped his hands and stepped closer. He was small and greasy and knew how to get under people’s skin. “It’s a figure of speech. You’ve created a shit storm, in case you didn’t know it.”
Bronco knew exactly what he’d created. He stared down at the pocked table. In blue ink someone had scratched the words NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE into the wood. No one but me, he thought.
“Good,” he said.
Garrow gave him a no-nonsense stare. “Listen to what I’m saying. Governor Smoltz has put half the cops in the state on the case. He’s also bringing in outside help. And, he’s putting heat on me.”
“He can’t do that, can he?” Bronco said.
“You’re threatening the state’s livelihood. Smoltz will do whatever he wants.”
Bronco used his free hand to scratch his chin. He enjoyed seeing Garrow sweat; it brought the relationship back to a normal level.
“What kind of outside help?”
“Some casino dick named Valentine.”
“Tony Valentine?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell me you know the guy.”
Bronco dropped his head, and stared at the words written on the table. Not a joke, but a premonition. He wasn’t getting out of here alive if Valentine was involved. “Afraid so.”
Garrow gestured nervously with his hands. “Let me guess. He hates your guts.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do to him?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Then we’re sunk.”
Bronco stared up at him. “I can still go to the media. I’ll tell them the name of the crooked Gaming Control Board agent, and the casinos will be fucked.”
Garrow lowered his body so his chin was a few inches from Bronco’s face. “What if the police don’t let you talk to the media? What if they keep you locked up in this stinking jail until they figure out who it is. What then?”
“But I’ve got rights,” Bronco said.
“You’re holding them hostage,” his lawyer said. “Smoltz will do whatever it takes to keep you muzzled. Think about it.”
“Then you talk to the media, and tell them the agent’s name,” Bronco said.
Garrow pulled back. “Me? Are you insane? I’ll be run out of the state. No thanks.”
“So you’re saying I’m on my own.”
“I’m saying give them the agent’s name, and we’ll ask the judge to go lenient on you for shooting Bo Farmer, claim it was self-defense.”
“What kind of sentence are you talking about?”
“Six to eight years, with time off for good behavior. I’ve already talked to the D.A. about it.”
Bronco glanced at the big clock hanging on the wall. The second hand was sweeping in twelve noon. Less than ten minutes had passed since he’d entered the visitor’s room, and his high-priced lawyer had already sold him down the river.
“Listen to me,” Bronco said in a whisper. “If you don’t help me get out of this fucking place, I’ll tell the D.A. about all the crooked shit you’ve done, like laundering money, and hiring hit men for clients. You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life.”
Garrow looked stricken. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“Do more. I need time so I can figure a way to get out of here.”
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it,” his attorney said.
Bronco stared at the pocked table. This whole conversation had started because Tony Valentine was involved in the case. That gave him an idea.
“Take Valentine out of the picture.”
“But he’s a cop.”
“Ex-cop. Nobody cares about them.”
“You want him whacked?”
“You’re a mind reader.”
Garrow understood what his client was saying, and nodded solemnly.
“Consider it done,” the lawyer said.
Walking back to his cell, Bronco glanced over his shoulder at the guard who was escorting him. His name was Karl Klinghoffer, and he was as big as a mule and half as smart. As they reached his cell, Bronco said, “You married?”
Klinghoffer lifted his bovine eyes. “What if I was?”
“Want to make your wife happy?”
“Don’t go there,” Klinghoffer warned.
Bronco dropped his voice. “I’m talking about buying her a fancy appliance, or a big diamond. Think she’d like that?”
Klinghoffer unlocked the cell door, and brusquely shoved him in. Then, he closed the door and started to walk away. It was a slow walk, and Bronco knew that he’d taken the bait.
“This isn’t a bribe,” he called after him.
Klinghoffer shuffled back to Bronco’s cell. His shoes were at least a size fourteen and he couldn’t walk without scuffing the floor.
“Then what is it?”
“Free money.”
“Ain’t no such thing.”
“Yes there is.” Bronco pressed his face against the bars. “There’s a casino in Reno called the Gold Rush. You know it?”
“Sure.”
“Go inside, and go to the first row of slot machines you see.”
“Front door or back?”
“Front. Third machine from the end is a Quarter Mania. Put three quarters into the machine, and pull the handle. Then put in two, and pull the handle. Then put in one, and pull the handle. Then you’re set. Make sure you bet the maximum amount of coins after that.”
Klinghoffer stared at him. There was a security camera watching them, and he was smart enough to answer while barely moving his lips.
“Why should I do that.”
“Because you’ll win a jackpot.”
“Machine rigged?”
“Never been touched.”
“Then how?”
Bronco pulled away from the bars and lay down on his cot. He propped his pillow against the wall, and lay on it with his arms behind his head. “It’s free money, my friend. I have the keys to the kingdom, and I’m willing to share them with you.”
Klinghoffer’s mouth twisted in confusion, his conscience battling with the devil called greed. He started to walk away, then halted, and turned to stare at his prisoner.
“Three, two and one?”
“That’s right. Make sure you buy your wife something nice.”
Chapter 8
The next day, Valentine and Gerry flew to La
s Vegas to meet up with Bill Higgins. It was six hours of flying with all the stops, and when they got off at McCarren International Airport in Las Vegas, Bill was waiting for them outside the terminal. A Navajo by birth, Bill’s dark suit complimented his jet black hair and steely disposition.
“I’ve got some good news,” Bill said.
“Let me guess,” Valentine said. “You found the bad agent in your department, and we can go home.”
“No, but we did find Bronco’s apartment. He’s been living in Henderson under an alias. I figured you’d want to be there when we searched it.”
“Who’s we?” Valentine asked.
“Two of my best field agents, plus two detectives with the Metro LVPD.”
“And the three of us?”
“Correct.”
Bill was the smartest law enforcement agent Valentine knew who’d never been a cop. But there was something missing from not having that cop experience. As a cop, you got to learn how bad people could really be. Valentine fished a piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth.
“Governor Smoltz said this was my investigation.”
“That’s right,” Bill said. “Smoltz gave you carte blanche.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you can boss around whoever you want to.”
“Including yourself?”
Bill swallowed a lump in his throat. They’d been friends for more than twenty-five years, only Valentine wasn’t going to let that stand in the way of handling the investigation. Gerry excused himself, and ducked into a Men’s Room.
“Including me,” Bill replied.
“If you don’t mind, I want to excuse your two agents and two detectives, and search Bronco’s place ourselves.”
Bill’s face turned to stone. He didn’t like it, and Valentine fished another piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket, and handed it to him.
“Try this.”
“What for?”
“It helps control your temper.”
Bill popped the gum into his mouth and made a face. “That tastes terrible.”
“See, it’s working already. You’ve got your mind on other things.”
Dozens of people were swirling around them in the terminal, and Valentine lowered his voice. “Look, Bill, who’s to say your two field agents aren’t working with Bronco, or that Bronco doesn’t have cops on the police force in his back pocket? I know it’s a stretch, but why take risks?”
“You’ve got a point.”
“Besides the one on top of my head?”
Bill smiled, no longer pissed off. “Besides that one.”
“One more thing,” Valentine said. “I want some form of identification that will let me do this job.”
Bill thought it over. “How about a Nevada Gaming Control Board shield?”
“Beautiful. I’ll also need an ID for my son.”
“Isn’t he here on vacation?”
Gerry had come off the plane wearing khakis and a loud Hawaiian shirt, and had looked like every other person ready to have a good time.
“No. He’s working with me.”
Bill started to protest, then clamped his mouth shut. Bill had come close to having Gerry arrested six months ago, and was not a member of his son’s fan club.
“It’s your show,” Bill said.
Henderson was a bedroom community twenty minutes outside Las Vegas, and had everything the neon city had — casinos, nightlife, good restaurants — but a lot less tourists. As a result, it had less problems, and Valentine had always considered it one of Nevada’s better places to live. Bronco lived in an older housing development on the outskirts of town. The development’s name was plastered on a sign by the entrance, and Valentine forgot it the moment Bill drove past. Inside were endless rows of one-story, sun-bleached houses on streets with names like Whispering Hills and Emerald Greens, even though there were no hills for fifty miles, and nothing was green.
Bronco’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and was cordoned off with yellow police tape. A pair of Metro LVPD’s finest stood in the shade of the front porch, their thumbs hooked in their belts. Bill got out, and flashed his ID.
“We’re here to search the house,” he said. “I want one of you in front, the other in back. If you see anyone come up, yell.”
“Yes, sir,” the officers replied.
Valentine followed Bill across the front lawn with the sun burning on his neck. Gerry walked beside his father, ignoring the two cops’ stares.
“Next time, wear regular clothes,” Valentine said.
Bill used a crow bar to break down the front door. Then, he stepped aside. “It’s all yours,” he said.
Valentine entered and waited for his eyes to adjust, then stared at a living room straight out of a college frat house. On every table were empty beer bottles and plastic ashtrays overflowing with stale cigarette butts. On the floor were piles of newspapers and magazines that dated back several months. Gerry whistled under his breath.
“Reminds me of my room when I was growing up.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Valentine said. He watched his son head toward the kitchen. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
Valentine cased the living room. An 58" plasma screen TV hung from the wall. He had been thinking about getting a new TV, and had priced the same model at Best Buy, then decided he could live without it. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford to spend five thousand bucks for a TV; there was simply nothing on TV worth spending five grand for. In front of the TV was a cracked leather chair that looked really comfortable. Next to it, a small table on which sat an empty fifth of Jack Daniels and three ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. It reminded Valentine of his father, who killed his evenings in front of the tube, smoking and drinking. He noticed a DVD on the table and picked it up. The writing on the DVD said, MARIE/FIRST DATE.
The remote control sat on the chair’s arm. Valentine powered up the TV, and the screen came to life. He inserted the DVD and hit play. A surveillance tape appeared on the screen, showing a group of people playing craps inside a casino. One woman stood out. Short, dark-haired and vivacious, with a melt-your heart smile. She was throwing the dice, and appeared to be winning.
“Hey Pop, in here,” Gerry called from the back of the house.
“You find something?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what it is.”
“You didn’t touch it, did you?”
His son didn’t reply, leaving Valentine to believe that he had. As Valentine crossed the room, he saw Bill leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“He’s learning,” Valentine said.
He walked through the kitchen. It was a disaster area, the sink overflowing with dirty dishes that looked like science experiments, the counter tops covered with empty beer bottles. Most hustlers tried to stay away from the sauce; it was bad for business. Bronco obviously had a problem he couldn’t control.
“Where are you?” Valentine called out.
“In the garage.”
He found a short hallway that led to the garage. He stuck his head in, and saw Gerry standing at a work table that ran the length of the wall. The garage had been converted into a workshop, and contained every power tool ever invented. Gerry pointed at several boxes filled with rings of keys.
“What are these?”
Valentine walked over and pulled a ring from one of the boxes. There was a tag attached to it that said Harrah’s. He pulled out another. The tag on it said Caesars.
“They’re skeleton keys to slot machines. Bronco can see a key once, and make a duplicate. At one time, he probably could open half the slot machines in Las Vegas,” Valentine explained.
“What happened?”
“The casinos changed all their machines.”
“Because of him?”
“He was one of the reasons.”
Gerry moved down the table. A hundred metal devices that looked like reading ligh
ts lay stacked in another box. “What are these?”
Valentine stared into the box. A wireless transmitter lay on top of the stack. He pressed the power button, and the lights on every device began flicking on and off. “Strobes,” he said.
“You going to fill me in, or do I have to hold my breath?”
Valentine turned the transmitter off, and the devices stopped blinking. “They’re called monkey’s paws. Every slot machine has an optical sensor to count payouts. The monkey’s paw is inserted up the payout chute, and causes the sensor to overpay. Slot machines also have anti-runaway relays to stop overpayments. My guess is, the strobe light defeats the anti-runaway relay.”
“But why so many of them?” Gerry asked.
That was a good question. Picking up one of the devices, Valentine noticed two tiny magnets, one glued to the top, the other to the bottom. Smiling, he showed them to his son. “Bronco is leaving the monkey’s paws inside the slot machines. Someone inspecting the machine won’t see it, unless they know what to look for. Bronco picks up money whenever he needs it.”
Gerry shook his head in wonder.
“Sweet,” he said.
Valentine returned to the living room. The surveillance tape in the VCR was still playing, the woman with the great smile still shooting craps. She was on a roll, and everyone at the table was reveling in her good fortune. Valentine guessed this was Marie, whose name was written on the DVD.
He watched Marie throw the dice. His gut told him she was your everyday, average player. He wondered why Bronco would watch a tape of her. Had she been a member of one of his gangs? She was wholesome looking, and didn’t seem the type. Gerry and Bill entered the living room.
“We’re going to search the bedrooms,” his son said. “I know, don’t touch anything I’m not supposed to.”
“Keeping your hands in your pockets will do the trick.”
