by James Swain
“Follow me, and take off your hat,” Valentine said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want anyone in surveillance who might be watching to see it and recognize you.”
“Got it.” Rufus removed his Stetson.
Walking to the room’s center, Valentine took from his pocket Rufus’s flashlight and twisted it on. He shone the light at the ceiling, then moved it back and forth in a slow, steady pattern. If what Rufus had alleged was true—and the cards at Skip DeMarco’s table were marked with luminous paint—then someone was reading them while looking down from above. That someone had to be looking through red-tinted lenses, which would become reflective the moment his flashlight shone against them. The hidden accomplice in the ceiling trick. An old scam but still a good one.
After a minute his hopes came crashing to earth. No glitters had appeared in the ceiling, the pure white alabaster not showing a single crack or imperfection.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“No luck?” Rufus asked from several tables away.
Valentine’s neck hurt from looking up, but he kept looking anyway.
“No, and it’s pissing me off.”
He twisted the flashlight off, returned it to his pocket. The cleaning men were racing around the room on their machines, making a game out of who could finish first. He saw Rufus take out a pack of cigarettes and light up.
“You want one?” Rufus asked.
“I’m trying to quit.”
“I tried to quit once. Enrolled in one of those special progams.”
“Did it work?”
“Yeah. Every time I wanted a smoke, I called a special phone number, and a guy came over and got drunk with me.” Rufus laughed through a mouthful of smoke. His pack fell from his hand, and he bent over to pick it up. As he did, he glanced beneath one of the poker tables.
“Well, lookee here,” he said.
He pulled something from beneath the table, then held it on his palm for Valentine to see. It was pink and looked like it had been thoroughly chewed.
“Know what this is?”
“Gum?”
“Silly Putty.”
Valentine came over for a closer look. “You think it’s a bug?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So we’ve got a mucker in the tournament.”
“Sure looks that way,” Rufus said.
A mucker specialized in switching cards during play. The bug was his assistant, and used to secretly hide a card beneath the table. When the mucker needed the card, he brought it up, switched it with a card in his hand, then put the extra card back in the bug. The switch required terrific timing, skill, and plenty of nerve.
“There’s also a paper clip involved,” Rufus said. “The paper clip is wedged into the Silly Putty, and the card is stuck in the clip.”
“Did you see a paper clip on the floor?”
“No, but there has to be one.”
Valentine searched the floor beneath the table. The carpet was sticking up after being vacuumed, and he walked over to the cleaning men and took out his wallet. They instantly silenced their machines.
“Which one of you cleaned that table?” he asked, pointing.
None of the men spoke English, but their eyes said they were eager to help. Rufus came over and asked them in Spanish, which he spoke without an accent. One of the cleaning men stepped forward and raised his hand.
“I clean,” the man said haltingly.
Rufus asked him to open the bag on his vacuum. The man obliged, and Valentine handed him a twenty-dollar bill. The man’s face lit up.
Rufus glanced into the bag, then stuck his hand in up to the elbow, and twirled his long fingers around. Moments later he pulled out an object, and held it up to the light. It was a paper clip painted black. Mucking cards during play was the hardest cheating known to man. No matter how good a mucker was, he never drew attention to himself, and played under the radar. This wasn’t Skip DeMarco’s scam; it was somebody else’s.
“Looks like we’ve got another cheater working the tournament,” Valentine said.
8
Hanging out with Eddie Davis was a step back in time. Outside of being an undercover detective, Davis was like a lot of guys Gerry had grown up with. He was single, liked to frequent clubs and singles bars, and drove a souped-up car. He was an eighteen-year-old kid in a forty-year-old body, and enjoying every minute of it.
Davis was also a night owl, and they did a loop of the island, eventually returning to the Atlantic City Expressway entrance. Gerry found himself remembering the housing development that once stood there, and the park with a statue of Christopher Columbus. The park had been one of his father’s favorite places; his mother’s, too.
Davis’s cell phone began to play the theme song from the TV show Cops. Bad boys, bad boys, what’cha gonna do, what’cha gonna do when they come for you? He ripped the phone from the Velcro pad on the dash.
“Davis here.”
“Eddie, it’s Joey,” his caller said. “I need help. I’m at Bally’s with our friends.”
Davis’s brow knotted. “You got them pinned down?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right over.” Davis closed the phone. His tires ripped the macadam as they took off.
“Trouble?” Gerry asked.
“There’s a gang of blackjack cheaters we’ve been trying to nail for a month. Two men, one woman. My partner spotted them at Bally’s.”
“Is the woman nicking cards?”
Davis’s head jerked in his direction. “How did you know that?”
Nail-nicking cards in blackjack was a speciality among female cheaters. The woman would put in the work with her fingernails while no one was looking, then her partner would read the cards before they were dealt from the shoe, and signal them to the gang’s third member, who did the heavy betting—organized cheating at its best.
“Lucky guess,” Gerry said.
Davis got onto Atlantic Avenue, put his foot to the floor, and sped south.
“Not that it’s any of my business,” Gerry said, “but why haven’t you arrested them before now? It sounds like you know them pretty well.”
“We’ve tried to arrest them,” Davis said. “They always seem to know when we’re coming, and which door we’re coming through.”
“Psychic cheaters?”
“It’s starting to feel that way,” Davis said.
Gerry’s mind raced. The hardest part about cheating a casino was avoiding the police, who were always present on the casino floor. It occurred to him that Davis’s blackjack cheaters weren’t psychic, they were just smart.
Bally’s neon sign blinked gloomily in the pale night sky. The front entrance was jammed with stretch limousines, and Davis pulled down a side street and parked his car. He grabbed his cell phone off the dash, then turned to Gerry. “Sorry, but I need to leave you here.”
Gerry pointed at the cell phone in Davis’s hand. “You going to call your partner and tell him you’re coming?”
“Sure am,” Davis said, his hand on the door.
“That’s how the cheaters know you’re coming,” Gerry said.
Davis took his hand off the door. “Say what?”
“The cheaters are picking up your calls. That’s why you can’t catch them.”
The look on Davis’s face was pained, but he didn’t let it slow him down. “How are they doing that?”
“They’re using a police scanner.”
“Keep going.”
“A member of the gang sits outside in a car with the scanner, and monitors the casino’s in-house security frequency,” Gerry said. “Whenever the police want to make a bust inside a casino, they have to alert the casino’s security department. The security department calls the guards on the floor to avoid any confusion or problems. The guy in the car intercepts the call and alerts the gang. It gives them enough time to run.”
Davis held up his cell phone. “By law, I have to call Bally’s security department
before I make a bust. What do you suggest I do?”
“Find the guy with the scanner,” Gerry said. “They’re good for about a hundred yards. Either the car is on a side street, or near the entrance.”
“You sound like you know all about this,” Davis said.
Gerry reddened. There were a lot of things he knew about the rackets. He hadn’t planned on spilling the beans to Davis, but sometimes these things just happened.
“I’ve been to the carnival a couple of times,” Gerry admitted.
Davis took Gerry’s advice, and checked the side streets on the north and south side of Bally’s casino. To the south was Michigan Avenue. The detective parked his Mustang at the end of the street, then strolled down the sidewalk while shining a flashlight into each parked vehicle. He returned with a smile on his face.
“What’s so funny?” Gerry asked.
“I just saw a couple of kids tearing each other’s clothes off,” he said.
The northside street was Park Place, and Davis turned down it while staring at his cell phone. Gerry could tell that he wanted to call his partner inside the casino.
“I sure hope you’re right about this,” Davis said.
Park Place dead-ended at the beach. As Davis drove to the end of the block, Gerry glanced into the vehicles parked on either side of the street.
“I think I saw him,” Gerry said.
“Which car?” Davis asked.
“The black Audi. There was a guy smoking a cigarette and talking on a cell phone.”
“Telling his buddies inside the coast is clear.”
“Probably,” Gerry said. “Gangs that use scanners keep a constant dialogue with the man outside, just to make sure the scanner hasn’t malfunctioned and stopped picking up the frequency.”
“Never can be too careful, huh?” Davis said.
“It’s part of the business,” Gerry said.
Davis turned the car around, and parked so he was facing Bally’s instead of the ocean. It allowed him to watch the guy in the Audi several cars away.
Gerry didn’t particularly like the view, but didn’t say anything. Bally’s was located where the magnificent Marlborough-Blenheim hotel had once stood, considered by many to be the island’s single greatest contribution to architecture. It was hard to look at the ugly building that had replaced it and not get depressed.
Davis took binoculars from the glove compartment, brought them to his face. The street was well lit, and Gerry realized the detective was reading the Audi’s license plate.
“How good’s your memory?” Davis asked.
“Photographic.”
“Okay. Remember this license. RFG 4M6.”
Gerry repeated the license number three times to himself.
“Is that a local plate?”
“That’s a good question,” Davis said, adjusting the binoculars. “Let’s see. It’s from Newark.”
Davis put the binoculars away, then called the station house and got transferred to a desk sergeant. He asked to have a vehicle checked out, then cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “The license, Mr. Memory.”
Gerry repeated the license, and Davis gave it to the desk sergeant. He was put on hold, and turned to Gerry. “I’m going to find out who the owner of the Audi is, and have his name run through NICAP and see what pops up. If the guy is part of a gang, chances are he’s got a rap sheet.”
Gerry leaned back in his seat. Chances were better than good that the guy in the Audi had a record. You couldn’t be a professional scammer and not get caught at least once. It was part of the business.
The desk sergeant returned a few minutes later. Davis pulled a notepad and pen out of the glove compartment, and started writing. He wrote in furious script, and covered two pages with notes. Done, he thanked the desk sergeant and hung up.
“Do you believe in fate?” Davis asked.
“Not really,” Gerry said.
“Well, maybe you should start. The owner of the Audi is Kenny “the Clown” Abruzzi, age fifty-two, born and raised in Newark, his father, brother, and three uncles all mobsters. Kenny was inducted into the Mafia at age twenty, has been arrested nine times, and gone to prison three.”
“Sounds like a real charmer,” Gerry said. “What does that have to do with fate?”
“He works for George Scalzo,” Davis said.
Gerry felt the blood drain from his head. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not about something like that,” Davis said.
Gerry heard the sound of a car door opening. Davis heard it as well, and jerked his head. Together they stared through the windshield. Kenny Abruzzi had climbed out of his Audi, and was coming directly toward them. He was built like a refrigerator, his face cast in stone. Something long and dark was clutched in his hand.
9
Canada Bob Jones, a famous card cheater who’d specialized in fleecing the clergy on America’s railroads during the early twentieth century, had once said that it was morally wrong to let suckers keep money. This was also Rufus Steele’s mantra, and Valentine sat in Celebrity’s sports bar, watching Rufus fleece a couple of suckers at darts.
It was three A.M. and the bar was mobbed with the day’s losers from the tournament. Every single one had a sob story to tell about how or why he’d gotten knocked out. It was like listening to fishermen talk about the big one that got away.
The bar had a retro motif, and posters of half-naked starlets who were now card-carrying members of AARP hung from the walls. Valentine removed the Silly Putty they’d found in the poker room and started to play with it. It wasn’t unusual to find a mucker in a poker tournament, but there was something not right about finding one in this tournament. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, he’d figure out what it was.
“Hey Tony, come here and take a look at this,” Rufus said.
Valentine slipped out of his chair and went to where Rufus stood at the dartboard, attaching a hundred-dollar bill to the cork with colored toothpicks. Finished, Rufus stepped back and studied his handiwork. “Pretty big target, wouldn’t you say?”
“Looks big from here,” Valentine said.
The suckers came over to stare at the bill. Their names were Larry and Earl, and they’d gotten knocked out of the World Poker Showdown on the first day. Each had won a satellite event in his hometown, and believed he was a world-class player. In fact, they both knew little about cards, and had simply beaten a bunch of guys who knew less than they did. Each man ran his fingers across the bill’s face.
“Explain the rules again,” Earl said.
“Be more than happy to,” Rufus replied. Picking up three darts from the holder beneath the board, he stepped back to the blue line on the floor, toed it, and lined up to throw a dart. “First, you have to throw a dart from the blue line, and hit the bill.”
“Anywhere?” Earl asked.
“That’s right,” Rufus said. He tossed the dart, and it did a graceful arc through the air and hit the board with a loud plunk, impaling the bill. “Then, you have to step forward, stop, throw a second dart, and hit the bill.”
“A giant step or a baby step?” Earl asked.
“A moderate step,” Rufus replied. Taking a moderate step forward, he lined up his shot and threw the dart, hitting the bill in its center with another plunk. “Last but not least, you have to return to the blue line, take a moderate step backward, and throw the last dart.” Suiting action to words, Rufus returned to the blue line, took a moderate step backward, and lined up his shot. The dart flew gracefully through the air, and hit Benjamin Franklin in the center of his forehead. Rufus smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “That’s all there is to it, boys. Hit the hundred-dollar bill three times, and it’s yours. If you don’t, you have to pay me a hundred dollars. It’s that simple.”
Larry and Earl stepped away to talk it over. Valentine knew plenty of bar room hustles and saw nothing transparent with Rufus’s proposition. Throw three darts, hit the bill, and win a hundred dollars. Rufus lowered his voi
ce.
“You know this one?”
“No. Is it a scam?”
The old cowboy chuckled under his breath. “Of course.”
“What’s the trick?”
“Just watch, pardner.”
“You’re on!” Earl called out.
“This handsome fellow has agreed to referee,” Rufus said, pointing to Valentine. “He’s an ex-cop, so you can trust him with your money.”
Earl and Larry each gave Valentine a hundred dollars for safekeeping. Earl pulled the three darts out of the board, and went to the blue line. He let the first dart fly, and it landed in the center of the bill. “Bingo!” Earl exclaimed.
“One down, two to go,” Larry exhorted him.
Earl took a moderate step forward, lined up his shot, and threw his second dart. The dart seemed to take on a life of its own, and sailed over the dartboard and hit the wall, pocking it in the process. The dart fell to the floor with Earl staring at it.
“Must be the beer,” Earl said.
Taking out a money clip stuffed with cash, Earl peeled off another hundred and handed it to Valentine. “I want to try again,” he said.
“Be my guest,” Rufus replied.
The first dart was easy; the second again went high.
Earl cursed like he’d hit his thumb with a hammer and threw another hundred Valentine’s way. “Again,” he said.
“Of course,” Rufus said.
Earl’s first dart hit the bill. He stepped forward for the second shot, lifted his leg like a dog watering a bush, and let the second dart fly. It hit the hundred-dollar bill, but just barely. Earl let out a war whoop.
“One more to go,” Larry said encouragingly. “Come on, Earl, you can do it.”
Earl returned to the blue line and took a moderate step backward. His beer was sitting on the corner of the pool table. He stared at it, then shook his head like he wanted to have nothing to do with it. He lined up his shot and let the dart fly. It flew over the board and hit a poster of a bikini-clad Farrah Fawcett squarely in her navel.
“God damn!” Earl screamed.
