by James Swain
“Exactly,” Gerry said. “And Fred Friendly’s gang discovered the flaw. But instead of making the company update the machines, they keep it a secret, just waiting for the day when they knew they could screw the casinos with it.”
Valentine sensed where his son was headed. “If that was true, it would mean that those video poker machines could be scammed if a player played at a certain time, and a certain way. Just like the e-mail is telling them.”
Bill’s face had turned ashen, and he clenched both his hands into fists. Out on the boulevard, traffic had gotten worse, the angry blare of car horns echoing across town. “How far are Fred Friendly’s offices from here?” Valentine asked.
“A couple of miles,” Bill said.
“We need to pay them a visit.”
Chapter 56
The Electronic Systems Division of the Nevada Gaming Control Board was headquartered in a nondescript three-story building on Sahara boulevard, two blocks off the strip. At a quarter of two, Bill pulled into the parking lot with Valentine and Gerry, and braked by the front doors. Bill had taken back roads, and it still took twenty minutes. Bill used his pass to enter the building’s elaborate security system, and they took an elevator to the third floor, where the ESD managers worked. The gang’s offices were at the end of a hallway, and stood side-by-side. Each had a brass name plate on their door. Haskell, Robinson, Lacross, Dolan, Howard, Ortiz, and Friendly.
Bill did a quick check of each office. Their personal belongings were gone from their desks, and their computer screens were blank. Fred Friendly occupied the corner office, and Bill sat down at his desk, and rifled the drawers. His elbow touched the keyboard for the computer, and the screen came to life.
“What is this?” Bill muttered.
Valentine edged up to the computer to have a look. On the screen was a spread sheet with a heading that said LV/VIDEO POKER. He touched the keyboard, and began to scroll through the document. “It’s all the video poker machines in Las Vegas.”
“Do you think Fred left this for us to see?”
“Sure looks that way. Looks like he highlighted some of them.”
They brought their faces up to the screen. Friendly had highlighted a quarter of the machines on the spread sheet. Each highlighted machine had a notation that said UNV. Valentine thought he knew what it meant, but asked anyway.
“It means Universal,” Bill said softly.
“Universal makes video poker machines, too?”
“Yes. They’re responsible for a quarter of the machines in town.”
Valentine drew back from the computer screen. The realization of what Friendly’s gang had done hit him over the head like a lead pipe. Friendly’s gang hadn’t corrupted five Universal video poker machines to pay out jackpots at 3:00 o’clock; they’d corrupted hundreds of them to pay out jackpots, then sent out emails to insure that the machines got played. Las Vegas’s casinos were about to lose hundreds of millions of dollars.
“What are we going to do?” Bill said.
“Run them down, and find out how to reverse what they’ve done.”
Bill looked at his watch. “It’s almost two. We’ve got an hour.”
“Piece of cake.”
Bill glanced up at him, and smiled grimly.
Valentine gathered the garbage pails from each office, dumped them on the carpet in Friendly’s office, and with Bill kneeling beside him, went through their contents. His guess was, the gang had split up, and taken different routes out of town. That was the smart thing to do, and these guys were as smart as they came.
The garbage didn’t say much, but then he found a coffee-stained receipt in the bottom of the pail that had come from the office of Janet Haskell, one of the two women in the gang. The receipt was for three paperback books purchased at the nearby Borders, and was from yesterday afternoon. Two of the books were mysteries by Valentine’s favorite authors, Michael Connelly and Elmore “Dutch” Leonard. The third book was a Fodor’s Guide to Acapulco. He showed it to Bill.
“You’re a genius,” Bill said.
Clutching the receipt in his hand, Valentine walked down the hallway to the empty office where Gerry had parked himself behind a desk, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he tried to access the computer. His son looked up expectantly.
“You find something?” Valentine asked.
His son nodded. “I think this was left for us. I’m printing it now.”
The laser printer sat atop a metal stand in the corner. Valentine grabbed the sheets as they were spit out and quickly read the manuscript. It had been co-authored by the gang, and explained in detail why they’d gone bad. Every criminal had a “reason” for committing crimes, and the reasons were all bogus. Everyone on the planet knew the difference between right and wrong; even the severely retarded. But this gang surprised him. They weren’t saying they weren’t guilty. They simply stated in plain English that they were fed up with how justice was administered in Las Vegas.
A hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned to face Bill.
“There’s an American Airlines flight to Acapulco out of McCarren that leaves at two-thirty, ” Bill said. “I called TSA, and told them to ground that plane.”
They went downstairs and climbed into Bill’s car. Bill started to pull the vehicle onto the street, then jammed on the brakes. Traffic had reached critical mass on Sahara, and the cars looked glued together. Bill called the Metro Las Vegas police on his cell phone. They weren’t much help, and he cursed after hanging up.
“The city’s roads and highways are at a standstill,” he said.
Valentine was riding shotgun. “Where are the cops?”
“The cops have been dispensed to the casinos to keep things under control,” Bill said. “Thousands of people have come in for the promotion. They’re fighting over seats at video poker machines.”
Valentine tapped his fingers on the dashboard, then turned around and looked at Gerry in the backseat. “How did you leave things with Nick?”
“What do you mean?” his son asked.
“You didn’t ogle his wife’s breasts or anything, did you?”
“Come on, Pop. I didn’t even meet her.”
“So you left on good terms?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Valentine took out his cell phone, and dialed Nick Nicocropolis’s direct line from memory. Twice in the past four years he’d saved Nick from going under, and he didn’t feel ashamed to call in a favor. The little Greek answered on the third ring.
“I need help,” Valentine said.
“Name it,” Nick said.
Nick showed up fifteen minutes driving a personalized white golf cart that looked like a pimp-mobile, with a frilly white curtain with pom-poms around the interior, and a shiny gold hood ornament of a naked woman leaning forward in a provocative pose. Valentine knew that Nick’s wife was six months pregnant, and could only wonder when fatherhood was going to catch up to the little Greek.
“Hop in, boys,” Nick said.
“I thought you were bringing your chopper,” Valentine said, climbing into the front.
“My pilot used it to take some big shots to the Boulder Dam,” Nick explained, flooring the accelerator once they were settled in. “Besides, this will get us there faster.”
“It will?”
“Yeah. It’s got a real tiger in the engine.”
Nick drove the golf cart onto the sidewalk and headed for the strip, his hand on the Harpo Marx horn hidden beneath the hood. The sidewalks were filled with tourists who didn’t seem to care if they got run over, and Nick screamed at anyone who stood in their path. Some people jumped out of the way, others didn’t, and more than once Valentine thought they were going to run somebody over.
“Slow down before you kill someone,” Bill yelled from the back.
“There’s plenty more where they came from,” Nick replied.
McCarren International Airport was a few short miles from the strip, its main runway visible to most hotel ro
oms on the south end of town. Nick drove his golf cart down the sidewalk on Tropicana Boulevard which ran parallel to the airport, then pulled into a gated entrance marked RESTRICTED/Airport Employees Only. As Valentine hopped out of the golf cart, he banged the hood with his hand.
“Thanks for the save.”
“All in a day’s work,” Nick replied. To Bill he said, “Mr. Higgins?”
“Yes, Mr. Nicocropolis,” Bill replied.
“You owe me, pal,” Nick said, then drove away.
Bill showed his laminated ID to the man in the guardhouse, and the gate was raised. They drove to Terminal A where a team of TSA agents were waiting for them. The agent in charge had straw-colored hair that he wore in a military buzz cut.
“Mr. Higgins, we’ve detained the American Airlines flight for Acapulco, per your request,” buzz cut said. “It’s at the gate loaded with passengers.”
“What reason did the pilot give for the delay?” Valentine asked.
“He told the passengers there was a mechanical malfunction that needed to be fixed,” buzz cut said.
“So no one knows what’s going on?”
Buzz cut shook his head. The key to nabbing Janet Haskell and getting her to talk was going to be the element of surprise: If she knew she was about to be arrested, she’d scream for a lawyer, and Valentine planned to put the fear of God into her before that idea crossed her mind. He said, “Do you have the plane’s manifest?”
The manifest was produced. Valentine opened it on the hood of the cruiser, and scanned the list of names. He didn’t think Janet Haskell was traveling under her own name, and had assumed a false identity.
“How long have you’ve worked with Haskell?” he asked Bill.
“Fifteen years.”
“She married?”
“Divorced a few years back. Why?”
“What’s her maiden name?”
Bill dredged his memory. “I think it was Bowen. No, Brown.”
Valentine ran his finger down the manifest and found Jane Brown. She was sitting in first class, no doubt already enjoying life on the lam.
“Got her. Let’s get her off that plane.”
Buzz cut got Haskell off the flight by having a filght attendant make an announcement over the plane’s P.A. system, and asking Jane Brown to come forward, and claim a personal belonging that had dropped from her handbag while it was being X-rayed. As they waited for Haskell to come down the jetway, buzz cut explained that he’d used this ploy successfully many times before.
“Most ladies have so much stuff in their handbags, that they don’t know when something’s missing,” he said.
Haskell came down the jetway with a bounce in her step and a glassy look in her eye, and Valentine guessed she’d started hitting the sauce the moment she’d boarded. She was dressed for Mexico, with a festive straw hat on her head, and a flowery skirt and matching silk top. A happier crook he’d never seen.
The happy look disappeared when she spied Bill. She did an about-face, and tried to beat it back to first class, only to have two TSA agents run down the jetway, and grab her by the arms. They lifted her clean in the air, and with cries of “Help! No!” coming out of her mouth, carried her off the plane, and into a windowless room beside the screening area.
Valentine entered the room to find Haskell wiping her eyes with a tissue. He started to shut the door, and saw Gerry standing outside.
“Get me two cups of coffee.”
By the time Gerry returned with two cups of Starbucks, Haskell had killed the water works, and was sitting with her back against the wall, her arms crossed defiantly.
“I want a lawyer,” she said.
She was in her late forties, with rings beneath her eyes and a sad face. Valentine guessed that she’d planned to start her life over in Acapulco. First she’d buy all the things that she couldn’t afford before — a sports car, house on the beach, maybe even a water craft — then go hunting for a male. This was the plan of most people who robbed and ran, and Valentine had tracked enough of these people down to know that it rarely panned out. But you couldn’t tell the Janet Haskells of the world that.
He handed her one of the cups.
“I want a lawyer,” she said again.
“Talk to me first.”
“Up yours.”
He leaned against the wall. “You’re the first member of the gang to be caught. That can be either bad for you, or good for you.”
She blew steam off her drink, and said nothing.
“It’s bad for you if we don’t catch Friendly or any of the other members of the gang. Bronco Marchese murdered a man in Lake Tahoe, and just killed another man on Fremont Street. Because your gang was working with Bronco, you’re all responsible for those deaths. If you end up being the only person we catch, you’ll take the rap.”
As she sipped her coffee, tears ran down her cheeks. Valentine believed that when a criminal cried, it meant that deep down, there was still a person left to work with.
She said, “How can it be a good thing?”
“You can play ball with me, and that will be the first thing the judge hears when you go to trial. You’ll do time, but it won’t be as much as the others. And, you won’t get pinned for two murders. Think about it.”
She did. After a long moment, her body started to shudder, her conscience finally starting to win out. Her hands shook so badly that coffee spilled onto the floor. Valentine took the cup from her, then went into a crouch, putting their eyes on an equal plain.
“You going to work with me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s more like it. I need you to tell me something. How many Universal video poker machines did ESD rig to pay off jackpots?”
“All of them.”
He rocked back on his heels. “What? How many is that?”
“Ten thousand.”
He did the math in his head. Ten thousand jackpots at a million dollars apiece was ten billion dollars. In exactly one hour, Las Vegas was going to be wiped out.
Haskell saw the look of shock on Valentine’s face and let out a bitter laugh. She’d drunk enough alcohol on the plane that it cut right through the coffee.
“And there’s nothing you can do about it,” she added.
Chapter 57
The honorable Franklin E. Smoltz arrived in his private helicopter at McCarren International Airport at two-thirty in the afternoon. To be governor of a state whose tax base came primarily from legalized casinos and prostitution, you had to have a special view of the world, and Smoltz was the right man for the job. A former federal prosecutor, he had never tried a case where he hadn’t considered how its outcome would affect his career. He exited from his chopper spewing obscenities at his two aides.
“How many god damn times do I have to tell you?” Smoltz bellowed, his voice rising over the chopper’s blades. “I am unavailable to the media at the present time. Got it?”
His aides had short haircuts, wore matching pin stripes, and looked like they’d been ordered out of the same catalogue.
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
Smoltz stood on the edge of tarmac as if looking for a cab. Seeing Bill standing nearby with Valentine and Gerry, he hustled over and shook his fist in Bill’s face. The blood in his cheeks had risen to the surface, and he looked ready to explode.
“What the hell is going on? Every casino boss in Las Vegas has called me. They’ve got more video poker players than they can handle. It’s pandemonium.”
“Fred Friendly and his gang corrupted ten thousand video poker machines in Las Vegas,” Bill explained. “In thirty minutes, they’re all going to pay jackpots.”
“That’s horsegarbage!” Smoltz said, breathing down on the shorter man’s head. “Our games can’t be corrupted. What are you doing, drinking your own bathwater?”
Bill jabbed his thumb in Valentine’s direction. “Tony confirmed it.”
Smoltz looked angrily at Valentine. They’d disliked each other since the first time they’
d met, and the governor said, “Is this shit true?”
“Shit’s true,” Valentine said.
Smoltz’s face contorted like he was about to have a seizure. He angrily stomped the ground. “This is your god damn mess, Bill. I wanted to cut a deal with Bronco Marchese from the start. But you said no. Well, your ass is on the line, my friend.”
The wind was blowing off the runway, and it pulled Bill’s eyelids back as he spoke. “Governor, I just told you that a quarter of all the video poker machines in Las Vegas are corrupted. It’s your responsibility to deal with it, not mine.”
“What are you suggesting I do?”
“Las Vegas’s casinos are connected through a special intra-net called Secure Internal Network,” Bill said. “SIN lets the casinos make each other aware when there are gangs of card-counters and cheaters running around. You need to contact the casino owners through SIN, and tell them their video poker machines have been rigged, and not to pay out any jackpots which occur after 2:59 this afternoon.”
“That’s your solution?”
“Yes,” Bill said. “We’ve proven that the video poker machines are corrupted, so it will hold up in court if anyone tries to challenge us.”
Smoltz’s face changed colors. “That’s insane! Do you have any idea what type of shit storm that will cause? I have a better idea, Bill. I want your resignation on my desk tomorrow morning. Now, get out of my face.”
Bill walked away without saying a word. Brushing him off, Smoltz turned to his aides. “We have to keep a lid on this story. If it does leak out, here’s what I want you to tell the media. This afternoon, a major conspiracy was unearthed at the Nevada Gaming Control Board. A gang of GCB agents tried to destroy us. These people are…”
“Traitors?” one of his aides suggested.
Smoltz snapped his fingers. “They’re traitors! But we headed them off at the pass, and averted a disaster. Be sure to tell the media that no video poker machines were corrupted in Las Vegas. Understand?”
One of the aides spoke up. “But Governor, a quarter of the video poker machines were corrupted. Bill Higgins just told you that.”
