by James Swain
Exhausted, he went to bed early and slept as soundly as he had in a long time. The next morning, a Mexican busboy appeared at his door at eight A.M. with scrambled eggs, toast, fresh OJ, a pot of coffee, and the local paper. He had finished reading the box scores when there was a tapping at his door. He opened it to find a grinning Sammy Mann.
"Remember me?" the head of security asked.
Old age had robbed Sammy of his debonair good looks, his face gaunt and unhealthy. Gone, too, were the tailored clothes and silk neckties, replaced by beltless polyester slacks and a tacky madras shirt.
"If it isn't Sammy 'The Whammy' Mann, last of the red-hot deck switchers," Valentine greeted him. "Come on in."
Sammy limped in and took a seat at the head of the dining-room table, a chrome-and-glass monster big enough to seat twelve. As he got settled, Valentine poured two cups of coffee and pulled up a chair. Sammy tipped his cup, his dark eyes twinkling. They seemed to be saying, Isn't life filled with little ironies? Sammy was one of the classier cheats Valentine had ever arrested, and for a while they reminisced about the old days and the various hustlers they'd both known.
Their mutual acquaintances were many. Like most hustlers, Sammy had switched partners as often as he changed shirts, and the array of talent he'd plied his trade with was a venerable Who's Who of Sleaze. Jake "the Snake" Roberts, Whitey Martindale, Larry the Lightbulb, Sonny Fontana, Big J.P., and on and on.
"I probably ran with every great hustler of the last twenty-five years," Sammy boasted, working on his third cup.
"Who was the best?"
"Sonny Fontana, hands down."
"They ever catch the guy who murdered him?"
"Not yet."
"Looking back, you have any regrets?"
"I just wish I'd gotten to Atlantic City sooner."
It was a common lament. In the late seventies, Atlantic City had put a new rule into play at its blackjack tables. It was called Surrender and allowed players to look at their cards, and if they had a bad hand, surrender half their bet. Someone had forgotten to do the math, as Surrender actually put the odds in favor of the players, especially those who knew how to card-count. Overnight, the word went out that the little city on the Jersey shore was a candy store, and hustlers from around the globe had come running. Surrender was eventually banned, but by then the damage was done. The casinos had lost millions.
"A lot of boys retired after visiting Atlantic City," Valentine said.
"Until you came along," Sammy said ruefully.
"Someone had to stop them."
Soon the conversation drifted to the topic of Sammy's bribing a judge. He was not ashamed to talk about it. "I was scared as hell of going to prison. You hear stories. Every prison has a crime boss. If the boss finds out you're a hustler, he puts you to work. Believe me, I wasn't about to start cheating other criminals."
"That could prove hazardous to your health."
"No kidding."
"How much did it end up costing you?" Valentine asked.
"Thirty grand and a condo I owned down in the Caymans. I was facing five years minimum, so I didn't mind paying."
Valentine topped off Sammy's cup with the last of the coffee. He'd heard the same complaint from hustlers over the years: Prison was tougher on cheats than other criminals. "So tell me about this Fontaine character. Wily says you know him."
Sammy corrected him. "I think I know him. His play reminds me of someone from a long time ago. His attitude strikes a nerve."
"How so?"
"He's arrogant. Like he's daring us to catch him."
"Think about what you just said," Valentine said, passing the cream. "You paid a judge a small fortune to avoid prison, and this joker Fontaine dares you to nab him. Doesn't make sense."
"I know," Sammy said. "Wily told me you keep profiles of every hustler you've ever arrested. Maybe Fontaine matches one."
"I already tried that," Valentine admitted. "Physically, he doesn't resemble anyone I've got in my computer. That means he probably had plastic surgery. If I'm going to make a match, I need to learn more about him. His habits, the way he dresses, what he drinks, that sort of stuff."
"I'll give you a list of everyone he came into contact with at the casino. Wily had a lot of interaction with him."
"Good."
Across the street, the volcano at the Mirage blew its stack, sending a giant doughnut of black smoke into the humid summer air. They watched it float lazily over their heads and burn a hole in the simmering sky.
"You've seen a lot of hustlers over the years," Valentine said. "How would you rate Fontaine's play?"
"One of the best."
"But no one knows who he is."
"Yeah," Sammy said. "Creepy, isn't it?"
The pager clipped to Sammy's belt went off. He checked it, then pulled out a small cell phone and made a call.
"That was Wily," he said, hanging up. "He's down in Nick's office. Looks like we have a breakthrough."
Valentine had never been fond of snitches. Although most law enforcement agencies depended heavily on them for information, they were still parasites, barely human types who spent their lives clawing on the glass, forever on the outside looking in.
The lady sitting in Nick Nicocropolis's lavish office was a perfect example. Her name was Sherry Solomon, and on the surface, she was a real dish-cute face, nice figure, an easy, engaging smile. A pretty nifty package until you looked hard and saw the bags under the eyes and realized she was pushing forty and the charms she'd lived on all her life were starting to fade. She was afraid for her future, so she'd taken to selling out her friends. Before Nick's secretary escorted her in, Nick Nicocropolis asked Wily if he'd ever slept with her.
"Never," the pit boss had replied sharply.
Nick looked relieved. He explained to Valentine that his memory was shot, and that he could no longer rely on it to keep a record of his sexual conquests. The legendary lover Don Juan, Nick's boyhood idol, had died being unable to name a single lover. Nick didn't want that to happen to him, which was why he'd kept Wily around for so long. Hearing this news, the pit boss tugged uncomfortably at his collar.
Valentine nodded and said nothing. Over the years, he had met his share of oddball casino owners, and Nick fit right into that group. A little guy with a Napoleon complex who'd probably jumped on every female who'd ever shown the inclination. Nothing new there.
Sherry played her tape for the four men. Wily sat beside her, nodding his head enthusiastically. Nick sat at his desk, rolling dice on the blotter. He smirked when the tape went silent.
"So?" the casino owner said.
Wily jumped in. "Nola hates you. You can hear it in her voice."
"A lot of people hate me," Nick reminded him.
"It shows motive," Wily said.
"She was laughing at me," Nick said, throwing a seven. "What's this 'yeah, yeah, yeah' crap? Is this some inside joke?"
His employees' faces turned to stone. Standing behind the desk, Sammy cleared his throat. "It's what you say when you get excited, Nick. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah.'"
Nick looked flummoxed. Valentine could tell that he had absolutely no idea what his head of surveillance was talking about. Never tell the emperor that he has no clothes.
Nick looked to Wily for help.
"'Yeah, yeah, yeah,'" Wily chorused like a parrot.
"Why are you saying that?" Nick said, getting furious.
Wily grinned oafishly. "'Yeah, yeah, yeah'. It's what you say when you get riled up."
"I don't say 'yeah, yeah, yeah,'" Nick said heatedly. "I never say 'yeah, yeah, yeah.' That's horseshit. I say 'yeah,' like everyone else. So don't go around saying that anymore, okay?"
"Sure, Nick," they all said.
"Now where were we? Oh yeah, the tape. I think you're going to have to do better, honey."
Wily nudged Sherry Solomon with his elbow. "Sherry, tell Nick what you told me this morning about Nola."
Sherry folded her hands in her lap and looke
d straight ahead, her pose reminiscent of that of a naive schoolgirl.
"Well," she began, "Nola and I roomed together for a while. This was right after you and she split up. I heard her say things that were scary. Nola has it in for you."
Nick's face turned serious. "She does?"
"She wants to ruin you."
Nick gave her a stony look. "Just what did I do to Nola Briggs besides give her a job and try to take care of her that made her want to hurt me?"
"You pierced her soul."
"I did?"
Sherry nodded solemnly. "She wanted to go to a shrink and get it off her chest, but she didn't have any dough, so she spilled her guts to me. Anyway, she talked a lot about paying you back one day. In spades."
"She's got revenge on her mind?"
"Yes. She said there was a flaw in the casino's security system, and if she could figure out a way to exploit it, she was going to take you for a bundle."
"Nola actually said that?"
Sherry Solomon nodded her bleached blond head.
Nick turned and looked at Sammy. "What flaw?"
"I don't know what she's talking about," Sammy replied.
Nick looked back at Sherry. "What flaw?"
"She never told me," Sherry explained. "But I do know this: She said you took her up on the catwalk one night, and while you were screwing her, she looked down and saw it. She was going to tell you, but the next day you dumped her."
"You don't think she was just talking tough?" Sammy said, clearly disturbed by this piece of news.
"That's not like Nola," Sherry said.
"But this happened ten years ago," Nick said. "I mean, time heals all wounds, doesn't it? Why now?"
"Something happened to Nola six months ago that triggered it," she explained. "She broke up with a guy and got real depressed. Started missing work, sleeping in all day. I stopped by one afternoon and found a pamphlet from the Hemlock Society in her house. She was thinking of killing herself."
"This is some messed-up chickie," Nick said, his gaze now fixed squarely on Wily. "How come you didn't pick up on any of this?"
"She seemed okay to me," the pit boss said sheepishly.
Nick fixed his gaze on Sherry. "So what happened?"
"She took a Mexican vacation," Sherry replied, "and came back a new person. I asked her what happened, and she told me she'd finally found a way to pay you back."
"Did she say how?" he asked.
"No, sir, she didn't. But then this Fontaine character showed up, and I started to wonder. I mean, he's her type, and it's her table he keeps going to."
"And what type is that?"
"Dark, ethnic, lots of fun."
"That's Nola's type?"
"Yeah. Gets her juices flowing."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Nick said, swiveling his chair around so he was facing the window, his brown and deteriorating empire laid out before him like a faded Hollywood movie set. "So what you're telling me is, she's a threat to me and everyone who works for me."
Sherry began to answer, then halted, her lips trembling. Opening the purse in her lap, she removed a cigarette. By the time it had reached her lips, Wily had a flame waiting for her. She took a deep drag and the tension melted from her face.
"What I'm telling you," she said evenly, "is simply this. Nola hates you. It's the kind of hatred men don't understand. You pierced her soul. She told me she could never look in the mirror after what you said and see herself the same way. So now she's paying you back."
Nick spun around, not appreciating his employee's lecturing tone. The dice hit the wall and came to rest on the carpeted floor at Valentine's feet. Snake eyes.
"For what?" he said angrily. "What did I do? Tell her she had bad breath? Call my bookie after I had my orgasm? You're killing me, honey. What did I do to deserve some chickie holding a grudge against me for ten whole years?"
"You told Nola her tits were too small," Sherry said. "When she wouldn't get implants, you dumped her."
Nick scowled, his darkly tanned face shriveling like a prune. He looked at Wily for help; when none was forthcoming, he stared at Sammy, then at Valentine, who'd been busy scribbling notes on a pad. Finally, in desperation, he looked to Sherry Solomon.
"So?" he said.
"I heard you were the best lawyer in Las Vegas." Nola's knees banged Felix Underman's polished mahogany desk as she pulled up a chair. "That's what everyone says-'Mr. Underman is the best.' Not that I ever needed an attorney before. But now that I have been arrested, well, you were the first person I thought of."
The legendary defense attorney said nothing, his eyes fixed on the attractive woman who'd buffaloed her way past the lobby guard and barged into his office unannounced. Normally, Underman avoided working on Saturdays in observance of the Sabbath, but he'd been in court all week and needed to catch up. He had a mind to show her the door, but her appearance intrigued him. This young lady looked innocent, and that was something he rarely encountered. He nodded for her to continue.
"Anyway, Mr. Underman-"
"Please, call me Felix," he said.
"Sure, Mr. Underman."
Underman frowned. There it was again. For thirty years, he'd practiced criminal law in Las Vegas and everyone in town had called him Felix. Then during a tricky triple-murder trial, he'd grown a goatee and the local newspaper started calling him Mister. The fact that Underman hated it didn't matter. It was who he had become, and he could do nothing to change it.
He watched Nola Briggs take a brown paper bag off the floor and drop it on his desk. She slid the bag toward him, and Underman obliged by opening it and peeking inside.
His breath grew short. Underman was a rich man, with a garage filled with fancy sports cars and a yacht in San Diego and a beach house in Acapulco, yet money still intrigued him. His father had toiled at two jobs all his life, running a synagogue and teaching elementary school, and had died with less money than was in Nola Briggs's paper bag.
"I'll give you ten grand if you'll just consider my case," Nola said. "I need help, Mr. Underman."
Underman closed the paper bag and slid it to a neutral corner of his desk. Over the years, he'd gotten good at visually counting bills, as most of his clients paid him in cash. Nola's bag contained close to fifty thousand dollars.
"I would be happy to discuss your situation," he replied. "If I think I can help, we can then discuss my fee."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Underman, thank you," she gushed. "I've always heard you were a gentleman."
"My upbringing," he confessed. "My father beat it into us with a stick. Now, why don't you start at the beginning."
For the next twenty minutes, Underman let Nola talk. He had heard of her arrest through one of the snitches he employed on the Strip, as he made it his business to know who in Las Vegas was getting arrested, a tactic that allowed him to decide if he wanted a case well before it ever walked through his door. And Underman certainly wanted Nola's case. The crime she was being prosecuted for, called flashing or signaling, was difficult to prove, and the fact that the Acropolis had allowed her alleged accomplice to walk was the kind of hole he could drive a Mack truck through. Underman liked beating the casinos in court, as it was the only place he had an advantage over them.
An excellent witness, he decided when she was finished. Good teeth, soft voice, an engaging smile. Dealer of the month ten times. Perhaps, if he got the charges thrown out, he could convince her to file a libel suit against Nick Nicocropolis and take that little Greek Neanderthal to the cleaners.
"I need to ask you a few questions," Underman said.
"Shoot."
"Any previous disciplinary problems with the casino?"
"None," Nola said proudly.
"Not one?"
"No sir."
"How about the law?"
"Never. I've never even gotten a parking ticket."
"Let me guess," he said. "You don't drive."
Nola's face lit up, and Underman imagined the effect she was going to have on
a jury. No record, a squeaky-clean past, and that wonderful smile. She was almost too perfect.
"Any problems with current or past employees?"
"Problems, no. Relationships, yes."
"You had a relationship with someone at the hotel?"
"I dated Nick Nicocropolis ten years ago."
Underman sat up very straight in his chair. He'd been divorced three times and knew that there was no greater wrath than a woman scorned. He gave his prospective client a hard look.
"And?" he asked.
"And nothing," she said, lighting a cigarette. "It lasted ten glorious days and then Nick dumped me. Later he offered me a job dealing twenty-one. I took it, thanked him, and went on with my life."
"So you don't have an axe to grind with Nick?"
"I wasn't happy then," she admitted. "But it wasn't the first time I'd been dumped. I've been around the carnival a few times, Mr. Underman."
"Haven't we all, Miss Briggs?"
"Please, call me Nola."
"Of course. Nola, I'd like to take your case, but only under one condition."
"Which is?"
"I want you to take a polygraph test. If you pass it, I'll petition the judge who arraigned you. I'll argue that the Acropolis has made a grievous error. In their zeal to nab Frank Fontaine, their security people assumed you were his accomplice, something that often occurs in cases like this. I feel confident the judge will dismiss the case."
"I'll do it," Nola said.
Underman smiled. In his experience, only people with nothing to hide were willing to let themselves be strapped to a polygraph and grilled. This was going to be too easy. Consulting his desk calendar, he said, "Let's see. I have a deposition on Monday, an all-day meeting Tuesday. How about Wednesday morning?"
"I want to do it right now," Nola replied.
"Miss Briggs-"
"It's Nola, Mr. Underman."
Underman made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. "I have other clients, Nola, some of whom are sitting in jail, awaiting my services. I can't let them down."
Nola pulled her chair up, her knees again banging the desk. With trembling lips, she said, "Forgive me for sounding presumptuous, but your other clients are nothing but scumbags and two-time losers who've probably spent the better part of their lives behind bars. They're bad people who need a man of integrity like you to defend them. Well, I'm different. I'm not a bad person. I'm an innocent victim who's being wronged by a system that allows a powerful person like Nick Nicocropolis to trample whoever he pleases. Nick's already hurt me once, Mr. Underman. Please, don't let him do it again."
