by James Swain
Neither thought made him feel particularly comfortable. Rising, he stretched his legs while staring at the madcap carnival down below. Hordes of skimpily dressed tourists jammed the narrow sidewalks, giving him second thoughts about his walk. He needed some fresh air, and the Strip was probably the last place he was going to find it.
Moving into the living room, he hit the couch like a dead man and punched the remote. A black monolith rose from the floor, its doors parting as if by magic. A split-second later, CNN filled the thirty-six inch screen. It was just the balm he needed.
It was a slow news day. He watched the sports ticker on the bottom of the screen. The Devil Rays had clobbered the Bronx Bombers, with Boggs picking up five ribbies. Oh, to have been in the stands, watching Gerry eat crow each time a Devil Rays player crossed home plate. His son was not a good loser and would have taken the Yankees' loss to an expansion team particularly hard.
The phone rang for a while, then went silent. Moments later, the message light started blinking. He dialed into the hotel's voice mail and retrieved the call.
“Wily here. Just wanted to see if you hit pay dirt. I'm working the floor. You know, I was thinking about Fontaine—” A commotion erupted on the casino floor. “Gotta run,” Wily said excitedly.
Valentine replayed the message. The commotion sounded like a big payout at roulette. Every game attracted different players who made different sounds when the action got hot. He'd always assumed it was something tribal that dated back to the beginning of time. His own tribe, he'd assumed, were the guys who'd sat around the campfire drinking coffee and talking. He listened to the crowd erupt a second time. Definitely roulette.
He called down to the floor and paged Wily.
“You make him?” Wily asked breathlessly when he came on.
“Still digging,” Valentine replied. “So what were you thinking about Fontaine?”
“I don't know. Maybe it's nothing.”
“Try me.”
“I was thinking about his play.”
“And?”
“It was like . . . well, like he was toying with us.”
“How so?” Valentine said.
“I mean, it wasn't even competitive,” Wily said. “He had us beat the moment he walked in. You know what I'm saying? And he wasn't sneaky about it. At one point, he actually laughed at us.”
Valentine gripped the receiver, feelings its cold plastic freeze into his palm. Only one hustler he had ever known had laughed while ripping the house off. Only one.
“You're kidding me,” Valentine said.
“Not at all,” Wily said. “It was how Sammy made him.”
“Sammy made his laugh?”
“Yeah. Said the moment he heard it he knew it was someone from his past.” In the background, a craps table was going wild. “Gotta run. Call me if you come up with anything.”
Valentine killed the power on the phone. Out of the mouths of babes and idiot pit bosses come the most amazing things. It didn't make sense, yet at the same time, it made all the sense in the world. World-class hustlers didn't just appear out of nowhere. They plied their trade for years before attempting to rip off a casino. Frank Fontaine had been around a long time.
Taking out his wallet, Valentine dug out the threatening note he'd received the day before and reread it. Hustlers had threatened him over the years, but only one had actually tried to kill him. And for good reason: because Valentine had wanted to kill him. And that adversary had possessed a laugh as wicked as the Devil himself.
Of course Sammy Mann thought he knew Frank Fontaine. Everyone in the gambling world knew him.
Only there was one problem.
He was dead.
Valentine thought about it some more, then dialed the front desk. Roxanne picked up.
“Don't you ever go home?” he asked.
“I wish,” she replied. “Three of my coworkers got the flu. I'm working double shifts until they come back.”
“Poor you.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Poor me.”
“Has my son called recently?” he inquired.
“Only about ten times,” she said.
“Did he leave a number?”
Roxanne hesitated, clearly startled. “No. Why?”
“I don't know. I was thinking about what you said.”
“You were?” Another pause. Then, “I mean, that's great.”
Valentine laughed silently. He was getting an inordinate amount of pleasure out of baiting this young lady. As to where he planned to take this, he had no idea, but the ride was certainly fun. He said, “Well, I'm sure I can track him down. Take care.”
“You, too,” she said.
His next call was to Mabel. It was three hours later on the East Coast, which made it dinnertime. Because his neighbor was a passionate cook, he assumed Gerry had weaseled an invitation and now sat at Mabel's dining-room table with a napkin shoved down his collar, utensils in hand, drooling as he eagerly awaited Mabel's next culinary masterpiece.
“How was the game?” he said by way of greeting.
A five-minute soliloquy followed. To hear Mabel describe it, it was the greatest Saturday afternoon of her entire adult life. And Gerry, his degenerate son, was the reason why.
“Is he there?” he asked.
“Your son? Why yes, he's sitting right here.”
Stuffing his face at that very moment, Valentine guessed. “Put him on. Oh, Mabel—I got your fax. It was funny, but not your best. A little off, if you ask me.”
“Gerry and I came to the same conclusion,” she informed him. “He talked me into scrapping it. I'm composing a new ad right now. It's very funny.”
Valentine felt his face grow hot. Being Mabel's sounding board was his job, not his son's.
“Here he is,” Mabel announced.
“Hey, Pop!”
“Hey, yourself,” Valentine said.
Gerry's voice was garbled, his mouth stuffed with food. He began to make awful choking sounds into the phone, and then Valentine heard the steady whacking sounds of Mabel pounding Gerry on the back. Soon his son was sipping water, breathing heavily.
“How many times am I gonna have to tell you not to talk with your mouth full?” Valentine bellowed into the receiver. “For the love of Christ, Gerry. Chew your food, then swallow, then talk. It's what separates us from the monkeys, you know?”
“Aw, Pop,” his son said, sounding pitiful.
“Your uncle Louie—”
“Choked to death on a piece of veal on Christmas day,” Gerry recited by heart, “and you and Gramps couldn't bring him 'round. I know the whole story. It runs in the family, and I'm the latest in the line. Stop making a federal case out of it.”
Valentine took a deep breath. A few weeks off, and they'd both come out of their corners swinging like a couple of kids in an amateur boxing match, all anger and no form.
“Hey,” he said. “I'm sorry.”
His son didn't know what to say. Valentine tried another tack. “So how was the game?”
Gerry was not used to getting second chances from his old man, so he picked his words carefully. “Great. I mean, the Yanks got clobbered, but we had a good time anyway. I rented a little TV from a guy at the concession booth so we could see what was going on in the outfield. It was a blast.”
“Sorry I wasn't there,” Valentine said.
“Me, too.”
A brief silence followed. Valentine wasn't really sorry, but he felt better for saying it. He cleared his throat.
“Listen, I need you to help me with a case I'm working on. I want you to go to my house—Mabel's got a key—and turn my computer on. Boot up Windows and pull up a program called DCF. Think you're up to it?”
Valentine bit his tongue the moment the words came out of his mouth. It was the first decent conversation they'd had in a long time, and now he'd gone and spoiled it. Gerry was trying—he'd give him that—whereas he was doing his best to burn another bridge.
“I mean, would you min
d?”
“Not at all, Pop,” his son said quietly.
Valentine had already booted up Frank Fontaine's profile on his Compaq notebook when Gerry called back ten minutes later.
“You need to fire your cleaning lady,” his son informed him.
“Don't have one,” he replied.
“That's what I mean. There are piles of crap everywhere. You're living like a hermit.”
“It's work,” Valentine replied. “I'm running a business. Don't touch any of it.”
Normally, his son would have said something, and Friday Night at the Fights would have resumed. But not tonight; Gerry was different, more subdued. Maybe Mabel had said something, or perhaps flying down to Florida and finding his old man gone was a much-needed reality check.
“I've got the C prompt on the screen,” Gerry said.
“Good. Type in shell and hit Enter. Five or six icons will come on the screen. Double-click on DCF.”
“Done,” his son said. “You need to get a new mouse.”
“Don't use the one I've got.”
“You don't use your mouse?”
“I can't see that damn little arrow.”
“Suit yourself,” Gerry said. “What's DCF stand for anyway?”
“Dead Creep File. Your ex-wife convinced me that instead of deleting a file every time a hustler died, I should transfer it to another program, in case I needed to reference it one day.”
“That sounds like Lucille. She never threw anything away.”
What about you? Valentine wanted to ask. He reined in his desire to insult his only child and said, “Here's the deal. You're going to create a profile with some information I'm going to give you, and then you'll run a match against the other profiles in the DCF file. I want you to print whatever DCF spits out and fax it to my hotel. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes.”
“Hey, I'm happy to help. Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you interested in looking at profiles of a bunch of dead hustlers?”
“It's a long story,” Valentine said. “I'll fill you in when I get back home.”
His son paused, and Valentine realized what he'd just said. To fill Gerry in, he was going to have to either call or go see him. His son had won this round.
“Sounds great,” Gerry said.
The casino was jumping when Valentine ventured downstairs fifteen minutes later. It was a no-nonsense kind of crowd, guys in torn jeans and stained denim shirts, women in tank tops and Day-Glo shorts, their jewelry bought off the TV. Out of hunger, they'd made their way to this city in the desert with money they could not afford to lose—either begged, borrowed, or stolen—to chase the dreams that radiated from every billboard and storefront in the country. They were the worst class of gamblers, their knowledge so minimal that it made their chances of winning infinitesimal, and because other casinos would not allow them through the door in their blue-collar clothes, they ended up at the Acropolis, the poor man's gateway to heaven.
Roxanne awaited him at the front desk. She'd tied her flowing hair in a bun—pretty no longer described her. She was now in another league of beauty, and his heart did a little pitter-pat.
“Did you and your son kiss and make up?” she asked.
“Sort of. Thanks for the pep talk.”
She slid Gerry's two-page fax across the marble counter. “You know, deep down, you're a pretty decent guy.”
“I'm just old-fashioned,” he confessed.
“I like old-fashioned,” she said.
Her coal-dark irises looked ready to ignite, and Valentine felt his heart speed up. There was no doubt in his mind what was on her mind. It would be one hell of an experience, only he just wasn't ready. He'd abstained from sex since Lois's death, knowing the next woman he bedded would forever cut the tie to his late wife. It would have to be someone special, not a woman he'd known less than twenty-four hours, so he backed away from the desk.
“I bet you've seen Jurassic Park ten times,” he said.
Roxanne frowned, not getting his drift.
“You like dinosaurs,” he explained.
Back in the elevator, he unfolded Gerry's fax and read the scribbled message on the cover page.
Hey, Pop,
Only one file came up. Doesn't look like a match, but what do I know?
Gerry
Valentine flipped the page. The single profile DCF had pulled up contained a mug shot, the face instantly familiar. Closing his eyes, he mentally compared the face to that of Frank Fontaine.
Facially, the two men were as different as night and day, one handsome and debonair, the other smarmy and uncouth, and it was easy to see why no one was making the connection. The fingerprint that bonded them was Fontaine's play, which was smooth and deliberate and absolutely flawless, the play of a man who could memorize every card dealt in a six-deck game of blackjack or go to a ball game and determine batting averages in his head, the play of a man who knew not only the odds on every game of chance ever invented but also every possible way to turn those odds in his favor, through either deceit, outright trickery, or sheer mathematical genius.
It was the play of a cold-blooded, ruthless individual born with the most terrible of gifts, a perfect brain.
If anyone was capable of rising from the grave, Valentine thought, it would be him—the one, the only Sonny Fontana.
12
Valentine decided to call the Gaming Control Bureau and break the news to Bill Higgins first. Sonny Fontana had been the bane of Bill's existence since the late eighties, when he'd burst onto the Las Vegas scene like a meteor shower. Bill had acted swiftly and gotten Sonny banned from every casino in the state, but Sonny had not gone away. Instead, he'd gone underground and begun training other hustlers who in turn paid him a percentage of their winnings. Along with cheating at blackjack, Sonny's students had learned the latest methods of dice scooting, rigging slot machines, and altering the outcome at roulette. He'd created a small army of clones, and the casinos had been on the defensive ever since.
Higgins's cell phone was on voice mail. Valentine didn't like leaving bad news on tape, so he said, “Bill, it's Tony. Call me once you get this. It's urgent.”
The next person he called was Sammy Mann. He tried Sammy's home first, and when no one answered, he took a chance and called the casino's surveillance control room. To his surprise, Sammy was at his desk, and Valentine asked if he could come down.
“This must be important,” Sammy said.
Valentine told him it was.
“We're on the third floor,” Sammy told him.
Valentine took the stairs. He made it a point to take a vigorous walk a few times a day and get his heart pumping. It seemed to make him more alert. On the third-floor landing, he found two chambermaids having a smoke. They directed him to the surveillance control room, which was tucked away behind Housekeeping.
The door was unmarked and made of steel. He knocked and took a step back, knowing it was against the law to enter without proper clearance. Moments later, the door swung in and Sammy ushered him into a high-ceilinged, windowless room.
“I'm usually off Saturday nights,” Sammy explained, locking the door behind him. “I was crashed in front of the TV when Wily called. A little old lady from Pasadena got hot at the craps table and Wily thinks she's past-posting. So I came in.”
“Is she?”
“Hell no,” Sammy said. “Wily's dreaming.”
Valentine's eyes adjusted to the room's muted light. Every casino in the world had a surveillance control room, and he supposed they all looked something like this one. At one end stood an eight-foot-tall semicircle of video monitors. Each monitor was connected to an eye-in-the-sky downstairs in the casino. The monitors were watched by five security experts, all men, who sat at a master console, their desks covered in maps, telephones, two-way radios, keypad controllers, and dead coffee cups. The people in these jobs usually had law enforcement backgrounds and took great pleasure in busting che
ats. Tonight's crew appeared hypnotized by the monitors' ghostly black-and-white images, their faces expressionless.
Sammy's office sat in a partitioned corner. They went in and Sammy shut the door. The call button on his phone lit up. He answered on the squawk box. “Mann here.”
Wily's voice filled the room. “So what do you think? Is the old broad past-posting or what?”
“You're seeing things. She's clean.”
“Clean, my ass,” Wily spit back. “She's taken us for ten grand.”
“Would you like a second opinion? I've got Valentine standing right here.”
“Sure,” Wily said. “Let him look.”
“Screen six,” Sammy said.
Valentine went and had a look. Screen six offered an aerial of a craps table. It was easy to spot the offending party: Her stack of chips dwarfed everyone else's. Someone at the console hit a toggle switch and the camera zoomed in on her. She was eighty if she was a day, and her hands were shaking with arthritis. Valentine could not imagine her palming a chip and secretly adding it to her bet after the dice had been thrown. What was Wily thinking?
“Clean as a whistle,” Valentine announced on his return.
“No fucking way,” Wily said over the box.
“Look, Tony's got something to tell us,” Sammy said. “Why don't you come up?”
“I'll come up later.”
“This won't wait. And leave the old broad alone. She isn't cheating.”
“I'm tossing her anyway.”
“You're an asshole.”
“I won't deny that.”
“Bad night?” Valentine asked when Wily sauntered in ten minutes later, a butt in one hand, a glass of Johnny Walker in the other, his necktie ringing his collar like a noose.
“Rotten,” the pit boss admitted. Sipping his drink, he eyed Sammy, whose hand nursed an aching gut. “You okay?”
“To tell you the truth, I've felt better.”
“Stomach acting up again?”
