Jackpot (Tony Valentine series)

by James Swain

Still holding the phone, Running Bear said, “The hand-off?”

  “Yes. The man who won the $10,000 will give the dealer his share. Get it on camera so you can show it in court as evidence.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Why else would they be going outside? To exchange recipes?”

  The elders, who’d been silent until now, laughed under their breath.

  Running Bear relayed her instructions, then hung up. Mabel shifted her attention to the monitor showing the casino’s parking lot. She watched the crooked dealer and his partner enter the lot, and stand between a pair of parked cars.

  “Can you get a close-up?” Mabel asked.

  Running Bear played with a toggle switch on the monitor’s keyboard, and a close-up of the two men filled the small screen. They were chatting away, and Mabel brought her face up next to the picture and watched their lips.

  “I wonder what they’re talking about,” Running Bear said.

  “They just introduced themselves to each other,” Mabel said.

  “How can you know that? The film has no sound.”

  “I read lips. Tony taught me. It’s an old cop trick.”

  “But how can these two men be in collusion if they don’t know each other?” Bowlegs asked, clearly confused.

  “Easy. The dealer recruited the player during the game,” Mabel explained. “Maybe he winked at him, or kicked him under the table. We’ll never really know. The important thing is, they’re working together, and have cheated you.”

  “I get it,” Bowlegs said.

  “What are they talking about now?” Running Bear asked.

  The crooked dealer and his partner were having a heated discussion. Mabel resumed watching. “They’re talking about the split. The dealer wants seventy percent of the money. The player is telling him he only deserves half.” She paused. “Looks like they’ve decided to settle on sixty/forty. Are you filming this?”

  “Yes,” Running Bear said.

  They watched the partner remove the $10,000 from his pocket, and give the crooked dealer his share. He took his time counting it, and all Mabel could think of was how terrific this would look in court.

  “I think that’s enough evidence. Wouldn’t you agree?” Mabel said.

  Running Bear called security on the walkie-talkie. On the monitor, they watched the guards run up to the two men, arrest them, and haul them back inside. Mabel felt immensely pleased with herself, and she gave Running Bear a tug on the sleeve.

  “Now you can take me home.”

  Chapter 40

  Valentine and Gerry were leaving the Peppermill’s restaurant when Bill Higgins appeared. The director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board was not happy.

  “Bronco’s flown the coop,” Bill said.

  “He’s gone? I thought the Reno cops had the roads blocked off.”

  “Bronco drove to Klinghoffer’s place, and stole a dirt bike from the garage. Klinghoffer’s kid knows all the paths in the hills, and told Bronco which ones to take. I’m heading out there right now. I figured you and Gerry would want to join me.”

  It had been a long day, and it was about to get a lot longer. Valentine was exhausted, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from running down Bronco. He would go to his grave before he let that happen.

  “We’re in,” he said.

  Bill drove them to the Klinghoffer place on the north side of town. Reno lived for the night, and its sidewalks pulsed with throngs of people, the casinos’ neon lights painting their faces in custom-car colors.

  “How can this son-of-a-bitch be so hard to catch?” Bill asked.

  “Bronco figured out something a long time ago, and it’s what’s kept him out of jail,” Valentine replied.

  “Which is what?”

  “Every cheater gets caught. It’s part of the business. So he prepared himself. I’m sure he’s got storage units all over the state. He’s probably used some of them before. Hustlers call it health insurance.”

  “They all do this?” Bill asked.

  “The smart ones do. I once busted a hustler named Izzie Hirsch. Izzie worked private card games with his brothers. One time, Izzie was playing in a game at a guy’s house. Izzie began to switch a deck for a stacked deck in his lap. Suddenly this little voice says, ‘Daddy, why does that man have cards in his lap?’ It was the owner’s seven-year-old kid, who’d snuck into the room. The game stopped, and everyone stared at Izzie.”

  Gerry leaned through the seats. “What did he do?”

  “Izzie pointed a finger at another player in the game, and said, ‘I was counting them. I think this guy’s holding out cards.’ The other player jumped to his feet, and said, ‘Are you calling me a cheater?’ Izzie says, ‘I sure am.’ And they went outside and started rolling around on the lawn. Then, they jumped into a car, and left.”

  “They jumped into a car?” Bill said.

  “The other player was Izzie’s brother, Josh. They worked together. They’d planned this in case they every got caught.”

  “Health insurance,” Bill said.

  “Yeah. And Bronco has more of it than any cheater in this state.”

  Sergeant O’Sullivan met them in the driveway of Klinghoffer’s place. A group of TV reporters stood nearby, waiting to get a statement from the sheriff, and O’Sullivan pulled them out of the reporters earshot. In a hushed voice he said, “Rebecca Klinghoffer just came clean with us. Yesterday, her husband stole a jackpot from a casino in Reno using information Bronco gave him. Bronco used that to extort Rebecca. That’s why she stole the jackpot from the Peppermill.”

  O’Sullivan was breathing heavily, and Valentine saw a line of sweat dotting his upper lip. He had good reason to be nervous: Not only had Bronco escaped from his jail, he’d also corrupted one of his jailers. The sergeant’s head was on the chopping block, and Valentine put his hand on O’Sullivan’s shoulder.

  “Want us to keep this under our hats?”

  “There’s nothing I’d like more,” O’Sullivan said.

  “Your secret is safe with us. I need to talk to Rebecca and her son. Is there some place I can do that in private?”

  The sergeant’s eyes indicated the second floor of the garage in the back of the property. “She’s upstairs, in the kitchen. I think she took a Valium for her nerves. The boy is lying down. You won’t get anything out of him.”

  Valentine lifted his eyebrows in a question mark.

  “I tried,” O’Sullivan explained. “He’s home-schooled, doesn’t communicate well with strangers. I think it’s the mother’s doing.”

  Valentine thought back to the boy in the Peppermill eating an ice cream while holding Bronco’s hand. If Bronco could figure out how to soften the kid up, so could he.

  “What’s the boy’s name?”

  “Karl, Junior.”

  “I’ll let you know if he says anything.”

  Valentine took his time going up the stairs to the second floor apartment above the garage. In his younger days, he would have taken the steps three-at-a-time, the image of Bronco riding a dirt bike to freedom gnawing a hole in him. If growing older had taught him anything, it was that nothing got accomplished from rushing. Bronco had won this round, and working himself into a lather over it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

  He rapped on the door and went in. A uniformed cop sat at the kitchen table with Rebecca Klinghoffer, who was blowing her nose into a Kleenex. In the table’s center was a topographical map of Reno, and Rebecca was using a pencil to draw the path she believed Bronco had taken to escape.

  Valentine introduced himself while looking around the kitchen. The appliances were old, the furniture mis-matched and unattractive. It was the kitchen of a couple just starting out, living from paycheck to paycheck.

  His eyes fell upon the glittering diamond hanging around Rebecca’s neck. For the first ten years of his marriage, Valentine had tried to buy a diamond like that for his wife, and never been able to scrape the money together. He saw Rebecca avert h
er eyes in shame. Had her husband bought the diamond for her with his jackpot winnings?

  “How’s it going?” Valentine asked.

  Rebecca stared at the table like he wasn’t there. The uniform looked at Valentine, and shook his head. Valentine got the picture. Rebecca had talked herself out.

  “May I speak with your son?” he asked.

  Rebecca lifted her gaze. “You’re not going to upset him, are you?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ll be as gentle as a lamb.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The uniform said, “Down the hall, first door on the left.”

  Valentine nosed around the counter for candy or something he could take the boy. He settled on an apple, and walked to the bedroom holding it in his hand. Knocking softly, he cracked the door, and saw a small room illuminated by a nightlight, Karl Junior fast asleep in a bed carved to look like a race car. He entered and sat down on the edge of the bed. The boy did not stir, the covers pulled up protectively beneath his chin.

  “Hey,” Valentine said softly.

  The boy’s lips moved, and Valentine realized he was talking in his dreams. He placed the apple beside a Mickey Mouse clock and rose from the bed. As he started to leave, he picked up Karl Junior’s clothes from the floor and draped them over a chair. In the pocket of Karl Junior’s shirt he spied several crumpled bills, and out of curiosity pulled them out. Three hundred dollar bills.

  He stared at the money. Had Bronco given it to the boy in a moment of weakness? It was the only logical explanation, and he stuffed the bills into Karl Junior’s shirt, and again sat on the edge of the bed. Karl Junior stirred, and his eyelids snapped open.

  “Hi. My name’s Tony. I need to talk to you. Your mom said it was okay.”

  The boy nodded but said nothing. He looked scared.

  Valentine leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Some night, huh?”

  Karl Junior lowered the sheet a few inches. “It was scary.”

  “But you’re okay now.”

  “I guess.” The boy hesitated. “Is my mommy in trouble?”

  Valentine blew out his cheeks. “Yes, she is. But you can help her.”

  “How.”

  “Tell me about the man who bought you the ice cream cone.”

  “Okay.”

  “You gave him your dirt bike. You must have liked him.”

  “He was okay. I didn’t like the way he drove mommy’s car.”

  Me neither, Valentine nearly said. “Did he say anything to you? Like where he was going? Try to remember. It’s really important.”

  The sheet came down further. Karl Junior scrunched up his face in thought.

  “He said he had a bore to settle,” the boy said.

  “A what?”

  “A bore.”

  “Do you mean a score? Did he say he had a score to settle?”

  Karl Junior stared at the apple on the night table. Valentine gave it to him, and the boy took a big bite, causing juice to run down his cheek. “Yeah,” he said.

  “He said he had a score to settle.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Valentine thought back to the ugly exchange between Kyle Garrow and Bronco in the police interrogation room. Bronco had known his lawyer had sold him down the river, and he’d decided he was going to pay him back. Valentine rose from the bed.

  “I’ve got to go. Thanks for your help.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Karl Junior asked.

  Valentine hesitated. The boy was asking about his parents. He knew something bad had happened, and also knew there would be consequences. Even at his age, he knew the difference between right and wrong.

  “It will all work out,” Valentine told him.

  Karl Junior did not look so sure. He took another bite of apple and watched him leave.

  Chapter 41

  Running Bear escorted Mabel to her car in the parking lot. As Mabel fished her keys from her purse, she noticed that her car had shrunk by several inches.

  “Oh no,” she said.

  Her tires had been slashed. Running Bear inspected the damage with an unhappy look on his face. He said the casino would pay to have them replaced, then pointed at a truck parked nearby. It was a Chevy pick-up with bumpers so dented they looked deformed. “Let me give you a lift,” he said.

  Within minutes they were speeding south on 275 toward Mabel’s home in Palm Harbor. Mabel didn’t know what to make of Running Bear. The chief was responsible for native Americans getting casinos on their reservations — he’d taken it to the Supreme Court, and won — and had raised the standard of living for hundreds of tribes, including his own. Yet, none of that showed in the things he owned, or the clothes he wore.

  “Who do you think slashed my tires?” she asked.

  “Our crooked dealer has several relatives employed by the casino,” Running Bear replied. “It was probably one of them.”

  “Am I safe?”

  Running Bear grimaced. “I will protect you, if that’s what you mean.”

  He drove with one eye in his mirror. Mabel tried a couple of stabs at polite conversation and got nowhere . It was like they’d run out of things to discuss.

  She found herself staring at the chief’s hands resting on the wheel. They were covered with hair and quite gnarly. The right one was missing its third finger.

  “Did you lose your finger in Vietnam?”

  “Gator,” he said, getting off I-275 and heading west on Highway 60.

  “An alligator bit it off?”

  “Yes. I was wrestling an alligator for some tourists about thirty years ago, and a woman in the crowd yells out, ‘Smile for the camera, will you?’ I lifted my head like a jackass, and the next thing you know, my finger gets bitten off.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  “Only for a couple of days. I wore it around my neck for a while.”

  Mabel turned sideways in her seat. “Wore what around your neck?”

  He glanced her way, smiled.

  “Not the gator?” she asked.

  Running Bear grinned like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said to him. “Gator was twelve feet long and weighed three hundred pounds.”

  “So, what did you wear?”

  “My finger.”

  She started to bring her hand to her mouth, then caught herself in the act.

  “Why, pray tell, did you do that?”

  “That’s a good question,” he said. “I was a dang fool back then. I think I was also trying to impress a girl I liked.”

  “Did she fall for it?”

  “No, she ran like hell.”

  Mabel’s street in Palm Harbor was lined with New England-style clapboard houses that looked the same as they had a half-century ago. Running Bear eased the truck up the gravel driveway and killed the engine. They listened to the engine sputter and whirr. Then the chief climbed out.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He disappeared around the side of the house. Mabel rolled her window down, and listened to his footsteps. He was about six-four and easily weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, yet his feet were as light as a squirrel’s. If she ever got to know him better, she was going to ask him how he did that.

  Running Bear returned a minute later and got behind the wheel. The only light was coming off a corner streetlight, and Mabel looked at his profile and tried to read his thoughts. “All safe?” she asked.

  “All safe. Do you have any protection inside your house?”

  “I have a gun, which Tony has taught me how to use,” Mabel said. “He takes me to a gun range twice a week, and makes me practice.”

  “Tony is a wise man.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Running Bear watched a car pass on the street. Only when it was gone did he get out of the car, and escort Mabel to her front door. Going inside, Mabel turned several house lights on, then returned to the stoop.

  “Thank you for driving me home.”

  “My pleasure. I will call you, and let you know how this
works out, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like that very much, chief.”

  Running Bear hesitated. Standing beneath the moth-encrusted porch light with his hat in his hand, the chief wore a pained expression on his face, like there was something that he wished to say, but didn’t know how to say it. Embarrassed, he walked to his truck, and got in.