by James Swain
“I’ll pay you twenty grand, cash,” Rufus said to his attacker.
“You got that much?” his attacker asked.
“Yeah, in the wall safe.”
The black guy looked at his partner, then back at Rufus. “Double it, and I won’t kill you.”
“Deal,” Rufus said.
“What about your friend?”
“What about him?” Rufus asked.
The black guy laughed harshly.
Valentine felt the fight leave his body and his legs begin to buckle. From across the room, Celebrity’s garish neon flashed through the partially open blinds. Las Vegas was built on losers, and he realized he was about to become one of them.
4
Valentine was sinking in a bottomless lake. He felt weightless and surprisingly calm. Dying isn’t so bad, he thought.
He heard a sharp crack! that sounded like thunder. The rope strangling him went slack, and fell to the floor. He took a deep breath, then spun around. His attacker was holding his arm, cursing in pain. Valentine kicked the man’s legs out from under him. Called the sweep, it was the best way to take someone down. As the man fell forward, Valentine kneed him in the face for good measure.
He heard another crack! from across the suite. Rufus stood in the middle of the living room, brandishing a bullwhip. He cracked the whip like a pro, repeatedly hitting the black guy in places that were hard to defend: his ankle, face, and crotch. Valentine had seen Rufus slip something beneath the couch a few nights before, and had assumed it was a pair of shoes.
“Look out behind you,” Rufus said.
Valentine spun around. The effort made his head throb and the room spin. The white guy had gotten up and was staggering out the door, his face a bloody mess.
“Tony, behind you again,” Rufus called out.
Valentine turned again, this time a little more slowly. Rufus’s attacker ran past him. He joined up with his partner, and their pounding footsteps reverberated down the hallway. Cracking his whip, Rufus followed the two men into the hall. His Stetson was back on his head, and he looked as regal as any cowboy had the right to look.
“Anytime, girls,” Rufus yelled, standing in the hallway. “Come back anytime.”
Valentine got his wits back, then searched the suite for a weapon. He settled on a brass flower vase sitting on the TV. It was shaped like a woman in a floor-length dress. He went into the hall with the vase clutched in his hand.
“Call hotel security,” he told Rufus.
“Sure. You okay?”
“Never better,” Valentine said.
Like Hansel and Gretel in the forest, their attackers had left a trail. Instead of bread crumbs, they’d left drops of blood. He followed them to the hallway’s end, stopping at the doorway to the emergency exit stairwell. Opening the door cautiously, he stuck his head in, staring into semidarkness.
From down below came voices. His adrenaline had burned off, and the bridge of his nose felt as wide as his head. The smart move was to retreat. He’d escaped, and that was the important thing. Only Valentine wanted to pay these jokers back. When it came to killers, he believed in the Old Testament’s advice: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” He went into the stairwell, and listened some more.
When Valentine returned to the suite a minute later, Rufus handed him a towel wrapped around some ice cubes. Sitting on the couch, he pressed the towel to his nose.
“I called hotel security,” Rufus said. “They’re dealing with a problem in the casino, and will be up in a few. Hey, Tony, you’ve got blood on your shirt. You okay?”
Valentine looked down at his shirt. The lower half was soaked in red.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Well, you don’t look fine,” Rufus said.
“Okay, so I’m lousy.”
Rufus pulled a suitcase from the closet. He unzipped a pocket, removed a glass pint of bourbon, and offered it to him. “This is the finest bourbon known to man, brewed in a Mississippi bathtub by the great-grandson of Jack Daniels himself.”
“No thanks,” Valentine said. “But go ahead yourself.”
Rufus unscrewed the top and took a long pull, smacking his lips when done. Some men, like Valentine’s father, could not drink without turning into monsters. Others, like Rufus, seemed better for the experience.
Rufus retrieved the coiled bullwhip from the floor. It looked like a thick black snake whose head was hidden within its coils, and he tucked it beneath the couch.
“You always carry that around?” Valentine asked.
“Used to carry a gun,” Rufus said. “After 9/11, I started carrying the whip. In some ways, it’s better than a gun. You should learn how to use one.”
“You think so?”
“It’s like fly casting a fishing rod. Ever try that?”
“I fly-fished once on vacation,” Valentine said. “I caught the hook on my earlobe. Had to go to the emergency room at the hospital to have it removed.”
“Maybe you should stick with beating people up.”
“Thanks.”
Rufus returned his pint to the suitcase, then consulted his wristwatch. It was an old silver dollar that had been turned into a timepiece. The coin needed polishing, but probably wouldn’t see any in Rufus’s lifetime.
“Those hotel guards are mighty damn slow,” he said.
Valentine shifted the icepack on his face. A five-minute response time in a Vegas hotel was normal. Although their casinos had state-of-the-art surveillance systems, they were largely ineffective when it came to crimes against guests. There were simply too many rooms.
“They’ll show up eventually,” he said. “Since neither of us were killed, they’re not hurrying. It’s how things work. Everything gets prioritized. Especially guests.”
“And since you and I aren’t whales, we get the pooch treatment.”
“Exactly.”
Rufus removed his Stetson and patted down his hair like he was expecting company. He fitted his hat back on, and looked Valentine in the eye.
“I’d hate this crummy town if I didn’t like to gamble so much,” Rufus said.
In the bathroom, Valentine changed shirts, downed four ibuprofens, then appraised his profile in the mirror. He’d gotten his nose broken twice as a cop, plus a couple times in judo competition, yet it had never flattened. Good genes, he guessed. He returned to the suite, sat on the couch with Rufus.
“Come straight with me about something,” Rufus said.
“Sure.”
“When that guy was threatening me with the pipe, you thought I was selling you out, didn’t you?”
Valentine considered denying it, then decided not to lie. “Afraid I did.”
“Sorry. It was the only ruse I could think of.”
There was a commotion in the hallway. Four uniformed cops entered the suite, followed by Pete Longo, chief detective with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department’s Homicide Division. As Valentine rose from the couch, the cops drew their weapons.
“Stay seated,” a cop ordered him.
Valentine dropped back into his seat.
“Where are your guns?” the cop asked.
“We don’t have any,” Valentine said.
The cops searched the suite anyway. Valentine glanced at Longo, whom he’d known for many years. Longo had recently lost a lot of weight, but hadn’t changed his wardrobe. His rumpled suit swam on his body.
“Can’t you help us, Pete?” Valentine asked.
Longo shot him a skeptical look. “You don’t have any firearms in the suite?”
“There’s a bullwhip lying beneath the couch, but that’s it.”
The cops finished their search. The one who’d been doing the talking approached the couch and said, “You better be telling the truth.”
“Ain’t no reason to lie,” Rufus replied.
“Come with me,” Longo said. “I want to show you something.”
Valentine and Rufus followed Longo out the door, happy to be away from the unifo
rms. They took an elevator to the lobby, which was swarming with more cops, some in uniform, some plainclothes. Yellow police tape cordoned off an area around a door with an emergency exit sign above it. Longo lifted up the police tape and they walked beneath it. The detective pointed to a door propped open with a metal chair.
“Take a look,” Longo said.
Rufus went first, and came away shaking his head. Then Valentine stuck his head in. The light inside the stairwell was muted, and he let his eyes adjust. When they did, he saw their two attackers lying at the bottom. Their faces looked eerily peaceful, save for the bullet holes in their foreheads.
“Recognize them?” Longo asked, now behind him.
“Those are the guys who just attacked us in our room,” Valentine said.
“Did Rufus Steele shoot them?”
“No.”
“Did you shoot them?”
“No.”
“I’d like to do a paraffin test for gunshot residue.”
“Be my guest.”
“I also want to talk to your son. Last time I checked, he had a grudge against some mobsters in town. Maybe this was his way of paying them back.”
“Gerry isn’t in Las Vegas, ” Valentine said. “I put him on a plane to Philadelphia four hours ago.”
“Why did you do that?” the detective asked.
He almost told Longo it was none of his business, then reminded himself he was a suspect in a double homicide and everything was Longo’s business. “The World Poker Showdown is being scammed, and nobody knows how. The secret is in a hospital in Atlantic City.”
“And you sent your son there to figure it out.”
“That’s right.”
Longo’s face was stoic. He doesn’t believe me, Valentine thought. Gerry’s stay in Vegas had been rough, and Valentine didn’t want his son getting dragged back here.
“If you don’t believe me, call him,” Valentine said.
Longo dug his cell phone from his pocket.
“Give me your son’s number,” the detective said.
5
Stepping off the Delta 767 at Philadelphia Airport, Gerry Valentine spotted an undercover detective standing in the terminal. The detective was a handsome guy, black, six one, athletic, and pushing forty. What blew his cover were his cheap threads. That was where most detectives disguising themselves screwed up. They dressed like schleps.
Up until last year, Gerry’d been a bookie, and had done his fair share of business with underworld types. But then his life had changed. He’d gotten married and had a beautiful little daughter. His priorities had shifted, and he’d decided he didn’t want his kid to have a criminal father. So he’d shut down his bookmaking operation and gone to work in his father’s consulting business. It hadn’t been easy. Sometimes, Gerry’s past came back to haunt him, and he now considered walking back onto the plane.
He decided against it. Better to walk past the detective and see if anything happened. He’d always been good with his mouth, and could talk his way out of most situations. As he got close, the detective stuck his hand out.
“You must be Gerry. I’m Detective Eddie Davis.”
Gerry had heard Davis’s name before. Davis had helped his father track down his partner’s killers a few years back. Gerry shook his hand.
“Let me guess. My father sent you.”
Davis scowled. “He asked me to look out for you. Something wrong with that?”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
Davis followed Gerry to baggage claim, where they watched some misbehaving kids ride around on the carousel. “Your father said you had a bad experience in Las Vegas, and that George Scalzo was involved,” Davis said. “Hearing that, I figured I’d better meet you at the airport.”
Gerry checked the tags of the garment bags on the carousel. He needed to get rid of this guy. He was going to Atlantic City to learn how Jack Donovan’s poker scam worked, and expected to run into his friends from the old days. What was he going to say, “Hey Vinny, this here is Eddie Davis. Keep your mouth shut, he’s a cop”? No, that wasn’t going to work.
“Your father said Scalzo murdered a guy named Jack Donovan, and you and some buddies went to Vegas gunning for him, and nearly got yourselves killed,” Davis said.
“Dad likes to exaggerate,” Gerry said.
“Your father said one of your buddies got the hair on his face burned off by a flamethrower. That an exaggeration?”
His garment bag appeared. Gerry pulled a strap out of a side pocket, attached it to the bag, then threw it over his shoulder. He knew the Philly airport like the back of his hand, and would give Davis the slip once he got downstairs. He couldn’t have a cop playing Me and My Shadow with him on this trip. Not even a well-intentioned one.
“Ready to roll,” he said.
Going downstairs, Gerry excused himself and headed for the men’s room. Davis tagged him on the shoulder like they were playing touch football.
“I once had a suspect duck out through the side entrance,” Davis said. “You weren’t thinking of doing that, were you?”
“I’ll tell you after I take a leak,” Gerry said.
Davis shot him a disapproving look. “For Christ’s sake man, I’m here to help you. I know about your background with the rackets. I won’t hassle any of your friends if we run into them.”
Davis sounded sincere, which made Gerry suspicious.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I need your help with a cheating case I’m working on,” Davis said.
Gerry considered Davis’s offer. Having a cop watching his back wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d made an enemy out of George Scalzo in Vegas, and suspected Scalzo would pay him back someday soon.
“Okay,” Gerry said.
They sped along the scenic New Jersey Expressway in Davis’s souped-up ’78 Mustang, the four-lane, pencil-straight highway bordered by lush berms and mature oaks. Atlantic City had been created as a summer playground for rich people from Philadelphia, the expressway being the shortest distance from that city to the sea.
“This case has been driving me crazy,” Davis said. “There’s a retirement condo on the south end of the is land where a resident is cheating other residents at cards. This guy is stealing retirement money. I want to nail him, but none of the residents will cooperate. He’s local, they’re local, and none of the cops working the case are.”
“How much is the guy stealing?”
“A couple grand a week. He’s done this to hundreds of elderly people.”
Gerry got the picture. The cheater was what his father called a public menace—someone who enjoyed hurting people as much as stealing. “What’s the guy doing?”
“He plays cards in the same restaurant every day, and that’s where he fleeces his victims,” Davis said. “He doesn’t play for cash, but keeps a running tally of points on a sheet of paper. That way, we can’t bust him for an illegal card game. I got my hands on the cards and they’re normal. No marks, bends, or gaffs. I also filmed him through a window, and watched the video. He isn’t doing any sleight-of-hand.”
“Describe the restaurant where he plays cards.”
“It’s a mom-and-pop beachfront joint with some booths lining the walls and a half dozen round tables. Most of the customers live on social security or pensions. Nothing on the menu is too pricey.”
“How long has he played there?”
“Years,” Davis said.
“So he’s got an arrangement.”
The Mustang slowed down almost imperceptibly, then sped back up.
“I’m not following you,” Davis said.
“The guy’s got an arrangement with the owner of the restaurant,” Gerry said.
“The owner’s hardly there.”
“Then he’s got an arrangement with the manager, or head waitress or whoever’s running the place.”
“It’s a waitress,” Davis said.
Gerry wasn’t his father’s son for nothing, and said, “The guy
cheats his opponent and gives the waitress a cut, probably twenty percent. More if she’s involved in his scam.”
Davis briefly took his eyes off the road. “Would you mind telling me how you came to that conclusion?”
“Sure. You said the cards weren’t marked and the guy wasn’t using sleight-of-hand. Well, that leaves only one more thing. They’re a team.”
“They are?”
“Have to be. The waitress is peeking at the opponent’s cards when she waits on the table, writes it on a paper napkin or a check, and slaps it on the table. The guy picks the napkin up, and reads what his opponent is holding.”
A pained look crossed Davis’s face, and he resumed staring at the expressway. Gerry guessed Davis had spent some time in the restaurant and gotten to know the waitress. He’d formed an opinion of her, and was experiencing the unsettling feeling that came when you found out someone you liked was really a piece of garbage.
“How do I prosecute this guy, and get a jury to believe my story?” Davis asked.
Gerry had seen his father handle cases similar to this. Prosecuting cheating wasn’t easy, the crime difficult to prove. “Haul the waitress in, tell her you know what she’s been doing, and you’re going to report her to the Internal Revenue Service for income tax evasion if she doesn’t cooperate.”
“I should turn her against her partner?”
“Yes.”
Davis considered it. Like most cops, he rarely saw justice, and when he did, it usually had a pair of horns attached to it.
“That’s one of your father’s tricks, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Sure is,” Gerry said.
Atlantic City was a thirteen-mile-long island, and their arrival on its north end was greeted by the brilliant neon of half a dozen names synonymous with gambling. Casinos had sucked the lifeblood out of Atlantic City, and Gerry stared down the Monopoly-named streets he’d once played on, seeing poverty and despair.
At a traffic light Davis hit the brakes. “You hungry?” he asked.
