Jackpot (Tony Valentine series)

by James Swain

  Karen swiped at her eyes and nodded stiffly.

  “I’ll give you my half if you dump this loser, and hit the road with me.”

  “What?”

  “The wedding dress is perfect cover. We can hit a couple of casinos a week, make out like bandits.”

  Karen backed away from him with a horrified look on her face. “Get away from me. Bo, make him get away from me.”

  Bronco felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and spin him around. Bo was standing directly behind him, his fist cocked. Bronco tried to duck as the punch connected with the right side of his face. He dropped the briefcase as he fell.

  “You crummy son-of-a-bitch,” Bo said, towering over him. “You think you’re a big shot with your skeleton keys and magnets and your money. Well, you can keep that shit. Just get out of our lives. Understand?”

  Bronco took a deep breath and rose on unsteady legs while staring at Karen. She had that sultry look he’d always liked. As if reading his thoughts, Bo stepped forward and shoved him into the wall. “Stop looking at her like that! She’s mine, understand? I should kill you for looking at her like that.”

  But Bronco couldn’t stop looking. Seeing Karen in her wedding dress yesterday had stirred emotions in him that he’d thought had died long ago. She was too good for this loser, and he said, “She won’t be yours for long.”

  Bo’s mouth dropped open.

  “You lied to her,” Bronco said. “On her wedding day. Think about it.”

  Bo pulled his arm back to strike him. Bronco wasn’t going to eat another punch, and drew a silver-handled gun from his pants pocket, aimed at Bo’s chest, and squeezed the trigger. The shot made a loud Pop!, the bullet passing through Bo’s heart like a tiny meteor. Bo crumpled to the floor and did not move.

  Bronco tossed his money into the cheap briefcase. Opening the door, he glanced back at Karen. She knelt beside her dying husband and was sobbing. She looked at him, as if to say, Why?

  “You deserve better,” Bronco said.

  Chapter 2

  Tampa Bay Downs was the oldest thoroughbred race track on Florida’s laid-back west coat. Located in the sleepy town of Oldsmar, it was far enough away from Tony Valentine’s home in Palm Harbor to be a nuisance to reach, with the last mile a true test of nerve. Called Race Track Road, it had enough crazed drivers to raise any sane person’s blood pressure.

  Valentine didn’t need his blood pressure raised this afternoon; he already had his son, Gerry, to do that for him. They had come to the track to investigate card-cheating in the track’s Silks poker room, only Gerry had disappeared within a few minutes of walking into the joint. His son had never seen a wager he didn’t like, and Valentine guessed he was hanging off the track rail, betting his rent on a nag.

  “Mr. Valentine?” a female voice asked.

  An athletic woman with frosted blond hair, bronzed skin, and a hundred watt smile had materialized beside him. She extended her hand. “Suzie Brinkman, director of security. I called you this morning about the problem in our poker room. Thanks for coming out so fast.”

  She was a dish. Valentine smiled and shook her hand. “My pleasure.”

  “My father says you’re the best in the world at catching cheaters,” she said.

  Suzie’s father owned the track, and had interests in several Nevada casinos. He was also a client, and Valentine felt obligated to make sure his daughter didn’t get ripped off. “How can I help you?” he asked.

  “There’s a rumor floating around that one of our poker dealers is in cahoots with a player. I want to find out if it’s true.”

  “Sounds right up my alley,” Valentine said.

  “Good. I just spoke with my father, and he said it was okay if you went to the surveillance room, and looked at the tapes of the different dealers.”

  They were standing in the bar next to the noisy poker room. Every table was filled, with lines of young men, and an occasional woman, waiting to fill the next available chair. Poker was all the rage, and brought huge business to the track.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk through the room first,” he said.

  “May I accompany you?”

  “Of course.”

  Valentine took a walk through the poker room with Suzie Brinkman glued to his side, stopping at each table to watch the dealer shuffle and deal. The track employed professional dealers who’d been trained in dealer schools. Their actions were uniform in every respect, and Valentine looked for any hesitation on the dealer’s part when they handled the cards. Before any sleight-of-hand move, there was always a tiny, pregnant pause. Hustler’s called these tells. Done, he walked back to the bar with Suzie still beside him.

  “So what do you think?” she asked.

  “Got him,” he said.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  A blush rose beneath her tan. “I mean, be serious. We weren’t in there five minutes.”

  “Yeah, but I know what I’m looking for.”

  She flashed him another smile. He found himself liking her, and pointed into the room at the dealer working Table #6. The man was built like a mailbox, with a thin body and large, square head, and had a way of handling himself that told Valentine he’d been in prison. Most gambling venues didn’t hire ex-cons, but Florida was an exception: The state had six hundred thousand ex-felons, and they needed to work.

  “That guy’s your cheater.”

  “Milo Kelly,” she said, shaking her head. “My dad caught him stealing chips, and gave him another chance. This is how he repays us. What’s he doing?”

  “He’s giving his partner at the table the best cards. It’s called a pick-up stack.”

  “I’ll have him pulled off the game immediately. Can you show me what he’s doing, in case I have to explain it to the police?”

  There was a real hunger in Suzie’s eyes. She knew she was green, and she wanted to learn the ropes. Valentine wished his son had half her enthusiasm.

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  They grabbed a table in the cocktail lounge, and Suzie pulled a deck of cards from her purse. She sat directly across from him, her knees knocking against his. As Valentine dealt seven hands of cards onto the table, he adroitly pulled back his chair.

  “Kelly deals Seven Card Stud, and has seven players at his table. Each player gets seven cards, with five coming faceup.” He pointed at the third, sixth and seven hands. In each hand, the third card showing was an ace. “Let’s say he wants to give these aces to his partner. He scoops the hands up when the game is over, and makes sure they go on the desk last. Then he false shuffles, and deals out seven cards. Voila — his agent, who’s sitting in the third seat, gets three aces.”

  “What’s a false shuffle?”

  “It’s a card-cheating move.”

  “Please show me.”

  The request was delivered with a twinkle in her eye, and he had a feeling that Suzie was enjoying herself. He separated the cards into reds and blacks, and gave the deck a false-shuffle. He’d learned to false-shuffle from a New Jersey wizard named Herb Zarrow, who’d revolutionized card handling with a shuffle which bore his name. Finished, he showed her that the cards were still separated by color. Suzie shook her head helplessly.

  “Is Kelly as good as you?”

  “No, but he doesn’t have to be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he’s the house dealer. Everyone trusts him.”

  Suzie put her elbows on the table and looked into his eyes. She was a hell of a nice woman, only he wasn’t going there right now. Dating at his age was never an easy proposition. “I was thinking of firing Kelly, but now I think he should be arrested,” Suzie said. “Do you agree?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Whose his agent?”

  “The fourth player at the table.”

  “The older woman with the wig? You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m always serious,” Valentine sai
d.

  Gerry the prodigal son had entered the lounge, and was waving to him. There was a panicked look on his face, and Valentine wondered how much money his son had lost.

  “I’ll be happy to be an expert witness, if it comes to trial,” Valentine said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They simultaneously rose from the table and practically banged heads. Without warning, Suzie took his head with her hands and planted a kiss on his cheek. It was his turn to blush, and he caught her winking at him as she walked away.

  “Lose the rent yet?” Valentine asked as Gerry sat down. His son had just turned thirty-six, and with his salt-and-pepper hair, long Italian nose and dark coloring, bore more than a passing resemblance to his father.

  “You know I can’t come to the track and not place a bet,” Gerry said. “Besides, I saw someone I knew at the betting windows.”

  “Was it that stripper you once dated?”

  “Cut it out, Pop, will you? The guy I saw was a crook.”

  “Did you have a nice conversation?”

  Gerry leaned forward. There was a look on his face that Valentine hadn’t seen very many times: His serious look. Lowering his voice, Gerry said, “I think the next race might be fixed.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  With his head, Gerry indicated a couple seated on the opposite side of the lounge. They were straight out of a 1930's gangster movie; the mustachioed man wore a shiny, sharkskin suit, his moll a baby-doll red dress with her face painted like a Kewpie doll. “That guy came into my bar two years ago, tried to place a huge bet on a horse race at Hialeah. I refused. Later, I heard the race was fixed, and he took another bookie for a huge score. Well, I just saw that guy make a huge bet on a loser named Corky’s Boy. Sound suspicious to you?”

  “Fixed the race how?”

  “Silking,” his son said.

  Valentine leaned back in his chair, surprised that his son was willing to rat out another crook. Gerry had been on the wrong side of the law since he was a teenager, and dishonesty was a hard thing to change.

  “What’s silking?” Valentine asked.

  “You’ve never heard of it?”

  Valentine had policed Atlantic City’s casinos for twenty-five years, and knew every casino scam and greasy hustle ever invented. The ponies were a different story, his knowledge limited to things he’d heard about, and not experienced firsthand.

  “No.”

  “The bookie I apprenticed with was named Fred Flammer. The first scam Flam taught me was silking. Said it was invented in England, where it was considered an art among cheaters. Look pop, we need to hurry. Corky’s Boy is in the next race.”

  Valentine rose from his chair. “Did you see the woman I was just talking to?”

  “How could I miss her? She was hot.”

  “She’s the owner’s daughter. You need to tell her what’s going on.”

  “Sure.”

  As Gerry rose, he took a cocktail napkin from a dispenser on the table, and handed it to his father.

  “You’ve got lipstick all over your face,” his son said.

  Suzie Brinkman’s office was located on the top floor of the track’s club house. Valentine rapped on the door and moments later it opened, and a track steward stuck his head out. He wore a blue blazer and a yellow tie, and was as chummy as a marine drill sergeant. Valentine looked over his shoulder, and saw Suzie Brinkman standing by a picture window that overlooked the track, a pair of binoculars in hand.

  “What do you want?” the steward growled.

  “Tony and Gerry Valentine to see Ms. Brinkman.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  Valentine handed him a business card.

  “Grift Sense? What the hell is that?”

  “My company,” Valentine said.

  Hearing his voice, Suzie spun around and smiled. He had become eligible for Social Security a few months ago, and something about that smile told him getting old wasn’t as bad as people thought. Suzie ushered them past the pit bull, and Valentine introduced his son, then asked if there was someplace they could speak in private. Suzie glanced at the steward, who had not taken his eyes off Valentine. “Bern is my father’s right hand. You can say anything you wish around him.”

  “My son spotted a known horse-cheater placing a large bet at one of your cages,” Valentine said. “We think the next race is fixed.”

  Suzie looked startled. “Do you know which horse?”

  “Corky’s Boy in the sixth.”

  “Corky’s Boy?”

  “That’s right. He’s running at 30 to 1 odds —

  “I know which horse he is,” Suzie said, dropping herself in a chair. “That’s Randall’s horse, isn’t it?” she said to her steward.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bern replied. “Came in this morning from Miami.”

  “You know the owner?” Valentine asked.

  Suzie nodded. “Randall is a business associate of my father’s, and owes him a great deal of money. Randall called yesterday, and asked that I let his horse run. He said it would be his final race before he put it out to pasture. And I fell for it.”

  “Where is your father?” Valentine asked.

  “He’s out of the country on business.”

  Some of the greatest scams had occurred when the person in charge was gone, and someone inexperienced was handed the reins. Cheaters called these opportunities magic moments, and there was no doubt in Valentine’s mind that Randall had seen a magic moment in Suzie’s father’s absence, and seized the chance to fleece his partner. Gerry cleared his throat. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “By all means,” Suzie said.

  “I know how to catch these guys red-handed,” Gerry said. “But, it’s going to mean letting the race run, then withholding the purses. You’re also going to have to keep Corky’s Boy in the winning circle so we can expose him.”

  “That sounds risky,” Suzie said.

  “Trust me, it’s the best way to handle it,” Gerry said.

  Suzie put her hand on Gerry’s arm. “You sound like you know what you’re doing. We’ll let the race run.”

  Valentine was so impressed he didn’t know what to say. His son was taking charge, and sounding like a responsible grown-up. Pigs can fly, he thought.

  “Expose him how?” Bern asked. In his hand was a lab report which the track ran on all horses. “We tested Corky’s Boy two hours ago; his blood came up negative for steroids and amphetamines. That horse is one-hundred percent clean.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Gerry said.

  “Then how you going to expose him?”

  “With a garden hose,” Gerry said.

  Chapter 3

  Mabel Struck was in her boss’s study sorting the mail when the phone rang. Tony got a lot of mail, mostly from panicked casino bosses, and as she reached for the phone, a handwritten envelope in the stack caught her eye. It was from an inmate in the Jean Correctional Facility for Women in Las Vegas named Lucy Price.

  “Grift Sense,” she answered cheerfully.

  “Do you sell wrapping paper?”

  “Hi, there. Having fun at the track?”

  “More fun than a barrel of monkeys,” Tony said. “I want you to turn on the TV to the horse-racing channel on cable, and tape the sixth race at Tampa Bay Downs.”

  “Is something special going to happen?”

  “The race is fixed, and Gerry figured it out. My son is going to be a star.”

  Mabel smiled into the receiver. Tony and Gerry fought more than they played, but the relationship was slowly coming around. This was definitely a promising sign.

  “Should I alert Yolanda?”

  “Please. I’ve got to run. The horses are being led around the track.”

  As Mabel dialed Yolanda’s number, she glanced at Lucy Price’s letter. She had never met Lucy Price, and hoped she never would. Lucy was a degenerate gambler, and was in prison going through treatment for her addiction while serving time for vehicular homicide. Ton
y was a magnet for women like this, and they always ended up hurting him. She stuck the letter with the junk mail.

  “Hello?” Yolanda answered.

  “You need to come over,” Mabel said. “Gerry and Tony are going to be on TV.”

  Gerry’s wife appeared at the door a minute later, her baby in her arms. Yolanda wore ragged cut-offs and a tee-shirt smeared with baby spit, yet somehow remained a ravishing young woman. Mabel ushered her inside.