by James Swain
“Hey, Pops, you got a cigarette to spare?”
The maintenance man shuffled over, dragging a bad leg. He looked about seventy-five, with sagging skin around his mouth and eyes that had seen too much. Probably wasted his retirement money gambling, and been forced to take this crummy job. Las Vegas was filled with a hundred thousand people just like him.
The maintenance man dug out a pack, and threw it at him. Bronco grabbed the pack out of the air, pissed off at first, but then breaking into a smile. The old guy had spunk. “Marlboros, huh,” Bronco said, banging out a smoke.
“That’s all I’ve ever smoked,” the maintenance man said.
“Got a light?”
The maintenance threw a pack of matches and Bronco lit up.
“Look, the place doesn’t officially open until eight, but I won’t say anything if you want to visit,” the maintenance man said. “That’s my policy. Mind your own business.”
“Thanks.”
Bronco handed him the pack and the matches, and the maintenance man pocketed them. He’d left a rake on the ground, and used his foot to right it, then limped away. Bronco puffed on his cigarette and had another look around. Woodlawn was as dead as its inhabitants. He could say his goodbyes, and then be gone.
He finished the cigarette, and ground it out. Marie had hated tobacco, and he hadn’t smoked when they were married. Around Marie, he hadn’t needed to.
He entered the cemetery and walked down a maze of paths until he reached her marker. It wasn’t much, just a simple gray stone with her name, and the dates she’d been born and died. She’d wanted to be cremated, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, wanting a place to visit where he could be sad and then walk away, and not be sad any more.
The ground around her grave site was ragged, the grass unkempt, the flowers he’d brought the time before withered and gone. The rest of the graves didn’t look so crummy, just hers, and it made his blood boil and the anger pulse hot through his veins. His eyes found the gimp maintenance man and he yelled at him coarsely.
“Get your sorry ass over here.”
The maintenance man shuffled over with his rake, a butt dangling from his lip. “Put out that cigarette,” Bronco said. “Show some respect.”
The maintenance man lifted his foot and ground the cigarette into the heel, then pocketed the stub. Then he looked at Bronco with hesitant eyes.
“What do you want, mister? I’ve got work to do.”
Bronco pointed down. “My wife’s grave looks like shit. Fix it.”
The maintenance man stepped forward, and began to rake the dead grass from Marie’s grave, drawing the rake delicately across the parched earth. He was being gentle with her, showing some respect, and Bronco felt himself relax. He pointed at a marker several yards away.
“When you’re done here, I want you to fix that one, too.”
The maintenance man lifted his head. “Which one is that, mister?”
“Michael Marchese. My son.”
“I’m sorry, mister.”
“He died in a foster home,” Bronco said. “My wife was in prison, and the state put him in a foster home, and he died. We never got the complete story. Some bullgarbage about falling down a staircase, and banging his head.”
The maintenance man followed the direction of Bronco’s finger. “I’m sorry, but which one is it?”
Bronco felt the rage build up inside of him. He grabbed the maintenance man by the shoulder, and pulled him close. “You don’t listen too good. It’s right over there, third marker from the end of the path. It’s taller than the others.”
“Oh, that one.”
“Yeah. Make sure you take care of it.”
“I’ll do that.”
The maintenance man dropped his arms, and thrust the rake’s handle squarely into Bronco’s groin. Bronco let out a painful yelp and doubled over in agony, then felt a fist crash down on the back of his neck, sending him face-first to the ground. Before he could react, the maintenance man pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him.
“You’re not the only one good at disguises,” the maintenance man said.
Bronco sat handcuffed in the passenger seat of Tony Valentine’s rental car and slowly got his bearings. His face had hit the ground hard, and two of his front teeth were chipped. Valentine was in the driver’s seat, peeling off his disguise, while his son was over at the Lexus, going through the trunk.
“There’s one part of this whole thing I don’t understand,” Valentine said.
Bronco started laughing. The great thinker was stumped. “Just one thing?”
“Okay, maybe there’s a bunch of things. But there’s one thing about this case.”
“Gimme a cigarette first,” Bronco said.
Valentine banged out a cigarette, put it between his busted lips, and lit it. Bronco took a drag, and blew a purple plume of smoke into Valentine’s face.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why did you kill Bo Farmer in Reno? You knew it would screw things up. Why didn’t you just beat him up?”
Bronco stared through the windshield at the cemetery. He’d asked himself the same question many times. The answer came out slowly. “He was a good-looking kid, had a pretty young wife. I’d lost my wife, and my son. I looked at Bo, and just hated him.”
“So, you killed him.”
“Yeah.”
“Any regrets.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“But you had all that money from that jackpot you stole. You could have gone to Mexico or South America, and started over. Why didn’t you?”
Bronco gave Valentine a murderous stare. It was easy to dream about building a new life, easy to dream about a lot of things. But it wasn’t real. He could tell that Valentine didn’t get it, so he explained it to him.
“There’s no such thing as starting over,” he said.
Gerry climbed into the passenger seat of the rental. “I checked his car. It’s not there. He must have hidden it someplace else.”
Bronco twisted uncomfortably. The handcuffs were tight, and starting to cut off the circulation to his hands. Looking into the mirror, he saw Valentine staring at him.
“Want to do a deal?” Valentine asked.
“I ain’t got nothing you want.”
“Yes, you do. I want the tape you secretly made of Fred Friendly talking about all the jackpots he and his gang stole.”
“Who said I had a tape?”
“I did. You told the D.A. in Reno you had evidence that a gaming agent was stealing jackpots. What else could it have been?”
“You’re pretty smart, for a dumb ass cop.”
“Yes or no?”
Bronco’s hands had gone numb. He wanted to ask Valentine to loosen the cuffs, only he knew Valentine wouldn’t do it. Cops liked to treat criminals badly. He knew it would only get worse when he went to prison.
“Yeah, I’ll do a deal.”
Valentine turned in his seat and faced him. “What do you want in return?”
“Put a bullet in my head, and bury me in the desert.”
“You serious?”
“Dead serious.” He laughed at his own joke.
“You’ve got a deal. Where’s the tape?”
“Crawl under my car. It’s stuck to the bottom with a magnet.”
Gerry hopped out and went to fetch the tape. A minute later he returned covered in grime, holding the tape triumphantly in his hand.
“Just don’t make me suffer,” Bronco said.
Leaving the cemetery parking lot, Valentine hung a left on Las Vegas Boulevard, and drove a mile before turning right on Stewart Avenue. The streets were deserted except for a city bus spitting black exhaust a few blocks away. Bronco felt his heart catch in his chest as Valentine pulled into the Las Vegas Metropolitan Sheriff’s Department headquarters, and parked near the gleaming front doors.
“You’re turning me in?”
“That’s right,” Valentine said.
“But
we had a deal. I want to die.”
“You are going to die. But first, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison, thinking about all the rotten things you’ve done.”
Bronco stared at the ugly stucco that defined the building. Like a monster hidden beneath the surface, the fear welled up inside of him, knowing what his life was about to become.
“You bastard,” he swore.
Chapter 62
When Governor Smoltz was not in the state capital in Carson City conducting business, he could be found in his luxurious suite at the Grant Sawyer State Office Building in North Las Vegas, an attractive five-story structure painted in natural earth tones. Valentine entered the building a short while after turning Bronco over to the police, and asked for Smoltz at the reception area. The uniformed security guard, a ham-faced man with no neck, raised a suspicious eyebrow.
“Who are you? What do you want?” the guard said.
Valentine dropped a business card on the desk in front of the guard. “My name’s Tony Valentine. Tell the governor it’s urgent that he speak with me.”
“Is this a joke?”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who jokes?”
The guard studied him like he was in a line-up. “Have a seat.”
Valentine sat on a leather couch facing the window. Out in the parking lot, he could see Gerry sitting in the car, nervously waiting for his return. He had weighed having Gerry with him when he talked with Smoltz, but had decided against it. If Smoltz pitched a fit and threatened him, it would be better if his son wasn’t around.
He had done some stupid things in his life, no question about it. What he was about to do now would get added to the list. But he didn’t see that he had a choice. When he had first gone to work policing the casinos in Atlantic City, he’d discovered how the gambling business preyed on human weakness. It had bothered him to no end. Eventually, he’d decided the only way he could justify his work was to make sure the games were clean and honest. To accept anything else would have made him a hypocrite.
A minute later, the guard called him back to the desk, and handed him a plastic ID tag. “Clip that to your jacket. The governor’s office is on the top floor.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve been working here for a long time, and the governor’s never seen anyone who’s come in off the street. Who are you?”
Valentine hesitated. He could have given the guard several answers. He was a gaming consultant, and also an ex-cop. But that wasn’t why he was here now.
“A concerned citizen,” Valentine said.
Smoltz’s office was befitting the most powerful politician in the state. Wood floors covered with thick Persian rugs, fine antiques, the walls decorated with restored photographs of the city back when it had been run by gangsters and murderers.
Smoltz was on the phone when Valentine came in. His desk was covered with newspapers, and Valentine glanced at the headlines. The media had dubbed yesterday’s fiasco “The Afternoon the Lights Went Out,” and claimed over ten million dollars had been lost in gaming revenues, not to mention all the negative publicity. But in the end, it was nothing compared to the money that the casinos would have lost had the lights stayed on, and Valentine guessed that the next time Smoltz ran for office, the casino owners would happily bankroll his campaign. It was the least they could do to thank him.
Smoltz finished his call. His hair was unkempt, his face flush. He looked like a pressure cooker with too much steam, and glared harshly at Valentine.
“Sit down,” Smoltz said.
Valentine remained standing and crossed his arms. “Tough morning?”
“You have no idea.”
“Let me guess. The media wants a more thorough explanation of how the power went out yesterday. Only you can’t give it to them.”
“They’ll go away. They always do.”
Smoltz poured himself a glass of water, but did not offer his guest a glass. The gesture was not lost on Valentine.
“I need a favor. Actually, several of them,” Valentine said.
“Why should I do you a favor?”
“I caught Bronco Marchese this morning. He’s cooling his heals over at the Stewart Street jail. In Bronco’s car I found a tape he secretly recorded of Fred Friendly, talking about why he ripped off the casinos. It’s pretty heavy.”
“Did you give the tape to the police?”
Valentine shook his head.
“Will you give it to me?”
“Yes. But I want some things in return.”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Actually, I’m doing you a favor. This tape is evidence. By law, I should turn it over to the police, and give a copy to Bronco’s defense attorney. If I did that, it would eventually get played in court. Then you’d have to take the sign on Las Vegas Boulevard that says ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas!’ and replace it with one that says, ‘Hello, Suckers!’ It would be more appropriate.”
“You’re an asshole, Valentine.”
He had Smoltz exactly where he wanted him. He picked up an empty glass off the desk and poured himself some water. It tasted good and cold. A sheet of sweat did a death march down Smoltz’s face, and he stammered like a punk on the witness stand.
“What do you want in exchange for the tape?”
“Give Bill Higgins his job back, with the promise that you’ll let him keep his position until he’s ready for retirement. He did nothing wrong.”
“Very well. Have Bill call me, and I’ll reinstate him.”
“No. You have to call him.”
Smoltz grit his teeth. “You want me to eat crow? All right, I’ll eat crow. What else?”
“There’s a casino owner named Diamond Dave living in California,” Valentine said. “I want you to find a reason to arrest him, and throw his ass in jail. He cheated his customers, and is also responsible for the death of his casino manager.”
“I can’t go after Diamond Dave.”
“Why the hell not?”
“The evidence against him was destroyed. I ordered it.”
“Diamond Dave pocketed several million bucks in illegal winnings. I’m sure he didn’t report it on his income tax return. Sic the IRS on him.”
“You know all the angles, don’t you?”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“I have friends with the IRS. Consider it done. What else?”
“My fee.”
A look of indignation rose in Smoltz’s face.
“You want me to pay you myself?” the governor asked.
“Yes. I don’t work for free.”
“What are the damages?”
“Ten grand.”
Smoltz took a check book from his desk and wrote him a check. Ripping it out, he held it in the air and said, “Where’s the tape?”
Valentine removed the tape from his jacket pocket. They did the exchange. Then Valentine stuck out his hand. Smoltz stared at it.
“We have a deal,” Valentine said. “I don’t talk, and you keep up your end of the bargain. Agreed?”
The best deals were ones that weren’t written on paper. Smoltz stood up and shook his hand.
“Agreed,” the governor replied.
Valentine went to the door, then remembered something. He’d become a cop because he liked helping people. It was the same reason he ran his consulting business. If he could make someone’s life better, then he’d accomplished something far greater than earning a paycheck. Turning around, he walked back to the governor’s desk, and cleared his throat. “I have another request I’d like you to consider.”
“I thought we were done,” Smoltz said.
“This is personal.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s a woman I know who’s in jail here in Nevada. I want you to pardon her.”
Smoltz leaned back in his leather chair and considered the request. “I don’t release criminals on a whim. Why should I help this woman?”
Valentine was s
urprised by his reply. Even Smoltz had his limits.
