Grift Sense

by James Swain

  “A detective over at Metro is interrogating her right now,” Higgins said. “That's where I'm heading after I drop you off. You can join me if you want.”

  “Sounds great,” Valentine said.

  They had reached the Acropolis's front entrance. Years ago, it had been something special, but now it was a borderline dump. Higgins leaned forward and spoke to the driver. He retraced their route and soon they were back on the Maryland Parkway.

  “You miss the work, don't you?” Higgins asked.

  “Every goddamn day,” Valentine replied.

  For someone who'd never been arrested, spending twenty-four hours in a holding cell in the bowels of Metro LVPD headquarters was a nightmare with no point of reference. It did not compare to a rotten day at work or getting fired or a head-splitting hangover. It was more like all of those experiences rolled together and then doused with gasoline and lit on fire. And because Nola Briggs didn't know better, she'd allowed a slinky black transvestite named Jewel to befriend her.

  “This your first time, ain't it, honey?” Jewel had asked, her homespun Southern drawl dripping sincerity.

  They sat on a bench in a steel cage with eleven other desperate-looking women. Nola nodded her head.

  “Well,” Jewel went on, “these bitches might look mean, but we're all the same deep down inside. You understand what I'm saying?”

  “I guess,” Nola mumbled.

  “You keep your chin up,” Jewel said, patting Nola's knee. “To survive in here, you got to be strong.”

  Nola nodded, fingering the tiny St. Christopher's medallion the police had missed during her strip-down. It had been her mother's and her mother's before her.

  “Who's the little guy?” Jewel asked.

  “My bodyguard,” Nola said, pulling the pendant from her shirt so Jewel could have a look. “He goes wherever I go.”

  “He sure is pretty,” the transvestite said, nearly drooling.

  Hooking her manicured forefinger around the pendant, Jewel popped the chain, tossed St. Christopher into her mouth, and swallowed him. The cell erupted in jeers and catcalls.

  “Give it back,” Nola cried, bouncing her tiny fists against Jewel's chest. “Goddamn it, give it back!”

  “Next time I shit,” Jewel said, hopping off the bench.

  A short time later, a bald detective led Nola upstairs to a windowless interrogation room and handcuffed her to a steel chair bolted to the floor. She laid her head on the pocked table and cried herself to sleep.

  When the detective returned, Nola's boyfriend Raul was with him, his arms and legs manacled together. Raul's cocoa-brown eyes briefly met hers, then stared gloomily at the floor. A second chair was brought in. The detective handcuffed Raul to it, then departed without a word, slamming the door loudly.

  Nola leaned on the table, trying to get as close to Raul as possible. He was the prettiest man she'd ever known, with high, sensual cheekbones and skin the color of toffee, as good outside of bed as he was in it, with a smile for any occasion and a laugh as uplifting as a hit song on the radio. So what if he wasn't educated and made his living washing dishes for five-fifty an hour? Let her friends make all the fun of Raul they wanted: He was the real thing, an honest-to-goodness man who treated her with respect and kindness and constant affection, and she was going to hold onto him as long as she could.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “What happened?”

  She saw his feminine eyes well up with tears.

  “I'm screwed,” he said.

  “Why? What on earth did they say?”

  “They're going to deport me,” he moaned.

  Nola nearly bit her tongue.

  “I went to your place after work,” he explained. “The cops were there. They sat me down, started asking questions. One of them wanted to see my papers. I showed him, and he saw my green card had expired.”

  “You let it expire?” Nola said, starting to cry. “No! No! No!”

  “He said you cheated the casino,” Raul went on, “and if you didn't come clean, they were going to screw me.”

  “It's a lie,” Nola spit angrily, her tears bouncing off the table like drops of rain. “I didn't cheat anybody. How can they say such a thing? I've worked there for ten goddamn years.”

  “I know,” Raul said, his voice a whisper. “I told them: My baby, she's never cheated anybody; her heart's as pure as gold. But they don't want to listen. They say they know you're guilty. They say you're guilty as sin.”

  “I didn't do anything,” Nola screamed defiantly, the tears bursting from her eyes and splashing her lover. “I swear on my mother's grave I wasn't in on it. The guy somehow knew the cards I was holding.” She began to bawl, her chin touching her chest. “I couldn't do anything. Why didn't Wily take me off the table if he thought I was cheating?”

  “I don't know, baby; I don't know,” Raul said, his voice as soothing as a morning dove's coo.

  “He's trying to pin it on me so he can save his ass,” she sobbed, lifting her head and looking at him, her eyes red and distorted. “He's so fucking stupid.”

  “What you going to do?” Raul said.

  “I'm sticking to my story,” Nola replied, her fear turning to rage. “I didn't do anything. I don't hang around with hustlers; my record is clean. I've won Dealer of the Month ten times. They have no evidence, no proof. They let the guy who was doing the cheating go and arrested me. Well, that won't stand up in court.”

  “I already told them all those things,” Raul said.

  “And what did they say?”

  “They said if you don't help them, they're going to screw me.” Raul paused, hoping she'd change her story. Back in Tijuana, he had a mother and two baby sisters who stood by a mailbox each week, awaiting his check. “You sure you don't know this guy?”

  “I swear to God, Raul—I've never seen him before.”

  Her boyfriend found the strength to laugh.

  “Well,” he said, “then I guess it's adios, baby.”

  “You know why a Mexican is like a cue ball?” the Metro LVPD lieutenant handling the investigation asked, his open mouth fogging the interrogation room's two-way mirror. A few feet away, Higgins and Valentine sat on folding metal chairs. Higgins made a face. “Watch it,” the GCB chief said.

  “Because the harder you hit them, the more English you get out of them.”

  The chubby lieutenant's name was Pete Longo, and he was a scumbag. Instead of interrogating Nola properly, he'd chosen to haul in her boyfriend and use him to blackmail her. It was the dirtiest trick in the book and the type of thing that had given the Metro Las Vegas Police Department its sordid reputation.

  “That's not funny,” Higgins said testily. “Maybe I should sign you up for the cultural diversity class my department's conducting.”

  “Fuck cultural diversity,” Longo said. He lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in their direction. He didn't appreciate Higgins's bringing another detective to the interrogation, even though Valentine was retired, and he was intent on showing his displeasure.

  “Your humor is offensive,” Higgins said.

  Longo inhaled pleasurably on his cigarette. “I'm thinking of dropping charges.”

  “Like hell you are,” Higgins snapped.

  “You told me this morning she was innocent,” Longo said.

  “That was this morning,” Higgins replied.

  “Let me get this straight,” the lieutenant said. “This morning you said the GCB wasn't interested in prosecuting Nola Briggs. Now you're telling me to hold her. I don't get it.”

  “I changed my mind,” Higgins said. “You got a problem with that?”

  Longo chuckled. “You're like that song. Should I stay or should I go? Make up your mind.”

  “I just did.”

  “But I don't want to press charges,” Longo said stubbornly. “Your case sucks.”

  Higgins stood up and stuck his face within inches of the chubby lieutenant's. “Stop jerking me around, Pete. I'm telling you to treat this lik
e any other case of cheating. I'll go directly to the judge if I have to.”

  Longo's face turned into one big sneer. In a measured tone, he said, “It's your call, Bill, but let me tell you something. I'm sick and tired of having the likes of Nick Nicocropolis telling us who we should and shouldn't arrest. It's bad enough my people spend their time dealing with crimes the casinos are causing, and not on the street fighting the drug dealers and street gangs that have migrated from L.A. during the past decade. The fact that this case is bullshit doesn't seem to bother you. Well, it bothers me. But, like I said, it's your call, my friend.”

  What a nice speech, Valentine thought. Longo had probably been waiting a long time to get on his soapbox and use it. The problem was, he had no right giving lectures. Judging by the size of his enormous gut, the lieutenant wasn't spending any more time chasing drug dealers than he had to.

  “I'm glad we agree on something,” Higgins said.

  “Your case sucks.” Longo jabbed his thumb at the sobbing lovebirds next door. “It doesn't add up. She rips off the Acropolis, but does she run? No, she goes home, fixes a sub, and watches the Cartoon Network. Am I the only one seeing an incongruity here?”

  The blood had risen behind Higgins's tan, giving his face a dark, menacing quality. This was about to turn into a first-class pissing contest, and Valentine found himself wishing he'd checked into his hotel and turned on a ball game or, better yet, taken a nap. Smothering a yawn, he stared at Nola Briggs, who was still crying her heart out. She was really pretty, the kind of girl that got the little mouse on the treadmill going. He glanced at the clock hanging over them; her boyfriend had come into the room more than ten minutes earlier.

  Fishing two shiny pennies from his pocket, Valentine tossed them to the floor. Longo looked at him like he wanted to bite his head off. “What?” the detective snarled.

  “I want to say something.”

  “So say it.”

  “I just had an epiphany,” Valentine announced.

  “A what?” Longo said.

  “A vision; a moment of truth.”

  “And you just had one,” the lieutenant snarled.

  “That's correct.”

  “Well, please share your epiphany with us.”

  “Nola is guilty as sin,” he said.

  Longo threw his arms in the air. “How can you know that, sitting there?”

  Valentine got up and went to the mirror, eyeing Nola through the tinted glass. She was still bawling like a kid who'd lost her lunch money. He pointed at her.

  “This isn't how innocent people act,” he explained. “Look at the predicament she's in. Anyone else would be screaming for a lawyer. Not her. She just sits there, knowing we're watching, proclaiming her innocence. Who cares what we think? Telling the police she's innocent won't change her situation one bit. She's trying to convert us. Innocent people never do that.”

  Truth was the great elixir. The anger disappeared from Higgins's and Longo's faces.

  “For argument's sake, let's say you're right,” Longo said, the rancor gone from his voice. “You think the tapes are enough to convict her?”

  “Probably not,” Valentine said.

  “Then I have to drop charges.”

  “Not right away. If I were you, I'd ask a judge to post a reasonable bail. Let her walk and put a tail on her. Fontaine will eventually show his face.”

  “You seem pretty certain about this,” Longo said.

  “I'd bet my reputation on it,” Valentine replied.

  Longo scratched the top of his balding crown. Officers of the law could be led to water but never made to drink. The lieutenant glanced at Higgins and said, “You agree?”

  “If Tony says she's guilty, she's guilty,” Higgins said. “I think it's a darn good idea.”

  Longo snorted contemptuously. “Two minutes ago, you were telling me to hold her. I hope you know what you're doing.”

  Higgins slapped Longo on the arm. The blow did not make a friendly sound. “I do. I want her watched twenty-four hours a day. Anything suspicious, call me. Think you can handle that between drug busts?”

  Longo's face reddened; he knew Higgins was going to make him regret his little speech for a long time.

  “Sure thing,” the chubby lieutenant said.

  6

  The Acropolis was just as Valentine remembered it—an old-fashioned gambling joint with a silly motif that had endeared itself to enough old-timers to keep it afloat. It had nothing to recommend it over the new kids on the block except lots of character, and that didn't count for much these days.

  It was after three when he checked in and found two messages awaiting him at the front desk. He read the first while riding the elevator to the fourth floor, his nose twitching at the fifty-year-old bellman's repugnant cologne. It was from Wily, and his chicken scratch had not improved. From what he could make out, the pit boss wanted him to touch base once he'd gotten settled, and he had left his pager number.

  The elevator doors parted and he followed the bellman down a twisting hallway with as many turns as a carnival fun house. His room was adjacent to the service elevators, and as the bellman unlocked the door, Valentine peered over his shoulder into a depressingly dark space with as much charm as a cave.

  Valentine parted the blinds as the bellman described the amenities. He had a wonderful view of a gray concrete wall.

  “Where's the toilet?” he inquired.

  “You're in it,” the bellman replied.

  “What are you, a comedian?”

  “Right,” the bellman said. “I carry bags for exercise.”

  He was funny in a pathetic way, so Valentine tossed him a five-dollar bill. The bellman stuffed it into his vest without a hint of gratitude. After chaining the door, Valentine peeled off his clothes and took a shower.

  There was a special ugly to Las Vegas, and his bathroom was a monument to it. Neon blue walls clashed with a urine-colored sink and john, the moldy shower curtain a map of ancient Greece. After a few minutes, the hot water ran out and he found himself dancing under the bone-chilling spray. Getting out, he heard the phone.

  He took his time getting dressed. Being retired had its privileges; not hurrying was certainly one of them. When he went into the bedroom, the message light on the phone on the bedside table was blinking like a beacon on a stormy night. He sat down on the rock-hard bed and dialed voice mail. An automated voice greeted him and soon he was listening to his message.

  “Hi, Tony. It's Mabel. Glad to see you made it in one piece! I know how you hate flying. Listen—Gerry came by earlier, and he was hopping mad when I told him you'd flown the coop. I guess he had a big weekend planned with his father. . . . Anyway, to make a long story short, I'm going to the ball game with your son this afternoon. He was going to scalp the tickets, and I said hey, I'm great company. So we're going. I hope you don't mind.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Valentine muttered. Gerry and Mabel on a date. The thought made him shudder.

  “I like your son, I really do,” she went on, as if anticipating his reaction. “I know he's put you through a lot of grief, but I just can't be mean to him. I hope you understand.”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Anyway, the real reason I called is, I'm going to scrap the ‘die broke' ad. You were right—it doesn't work. I mean, it's clever, but so are most five-year-olds. The good news is, I've come up with something really funny. By the time you get this message, I'll have faxed it to the hotel, so if you don't mind, I'd like you to take a look at it and give me a call. I'll be waiting by the phone. Ta ta.”

  Valentine hung up remembering the time he'd tried to take Gerry to see the Yankees in the play-offs only to have his son say no and go off with his dope-smoking friends. It had been some of the bitterest rejection he'd ever tasted. What goes around comes around, he supposed.

  He felt the room tremble as the service elevator docked next door. Two Mexican chambermaids got out, chattering loudly as they pushed a squeaky laundry cart down
the hall. He could hear every syllable. The phone rang again.

  “Mr. Valentine, this is Roxanne at the front desk,” a friendly female voice said. “I have a fax for you.”

  “I'll be right down,” he said. “And Roxanne, I need to be put into a new room.”

  “New room?” She sounded offended. “What's wrong with the room you're in?”

  He lowered his voice. “I found a body under the bed.”

  “A body?”

  “Yeah. I think it's Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “Well,” she said, her fingers tapping a computer keyboard, “let me see what I can do.”

  On the long walk back to the elevator Valentine took stock of the carpet's muted orange and red checkerboard design. He'd read several studies conducted by casinos to quantify the effects of really bad carpet. The goal was to find out which patterns were so upsetting to the human eye that it actually coaxed a customer into looking up from the floor and into the eyes of a dealer or gleaming slot machine. The idea was to trigger impulse play. No one had ever determined if it really worked.

  On the way down, he remembered the second message in his pocket, and he unfolded the fax that had been given to him when he'd checked in.

  Valentine,

  You old fuck.

  Take some advice from a friend and stay retired.

  No job is worth dying over, is it, pal?

  “What the hell,” he said aloud.

  The elevator doors parted, but Valentine did not get out. Over the years, he'd been threatened by several hustlers, and a couple had actually tried to do him harm. The doors closed and the elevator rose on its own accord.

  Soon he was back on the fourth floor. He punched the Lobby button and again descended, then read the fax again. Whoever had sent it knew him well enough to know he was retired. Had Bill's snitch told everyone in town he was visiting? Or had someone he'd once busted in Atlantic City spotted him at the airport and overheard his curbside conversation with Bill? Whatever the answer, he was going to have to stay on his toes or risk going home in cargo instead of first class.

  To reach the front desk, Valentine had to pass through the casino, and he stopped briefly to get the lay of the land. The casino floor was designed like a hub of a wheel, with the gaming tables and slots in the center of the wheel, and all other destinations flowing from that center. A person couldn't get anywhere inside the Acropolis without passing through the wheel, and, it was hoped, dropping a few dollars. Twenty-five years earlier, every casino in Las Vegas had been designed this way. He suspected that today, the number was less than a handful.