by James Swain
Rufus tossed away his empty water bottle. Then he retrieved his skillet from the floor, and pointed the flat side straight at the ceiling, visualizing the shot.
“I don’t know,” he said skeptically.
“What do you have to lose?” she asked.
It was Rufus’s turn to serve. He sent the ball over the net, and Takarama shot it back. Rufus lunged to his right, and hit the ball straight into the air like he was sending up a missile. The ball went so high it nearly touched a chandelier, then fell back to earth and landed on Takarama’s side of the table. It bounced so high that Takarama had to tap it back, giving Rufus a perfect kill shot.
Only Rufus didn’t kill it. Instead, he lofted the ball into the air, then paused to watch its flight. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Take that,” the old cowboy said.
Takarama made a face that was part anger, part disgust. He had a lot of pride, and Valentine was not surprised when he took a step back from the table and changed his grip on the skillet. As the ball bounced on his side, he leaped into the air.
“Aieeee!” he screamed.
Takarama hit the ball on the rise, and sent it screaming past Rufus at a hundred miles an hour. His swing, loaded with top spin, finished with his arm coming up by the right side of his forehead. With a normal Ping-Pong paddle it wouldn’t have been a problem. With a skillet, it caused him to smack himself in the face.
The sound of the impact was awful. Takarama dropped the skillet on the floor, then brought his hands to his eyes, and staggered around the room muttering in Japanese. The Greek rushed to his aid.
“You okay?”
Takarama said something that sounded like a curse.
“Time out!” the Greek announced.
“For how long?” Rufus asked.
“How the hell should I know?” the Greek said.
Takarama walked in a serpentine pattern around the room, and Valentine guessed he’d given himself a concussion. Reaching the doors, Takarama pushed them open and staggered into the lobby. The Greek hurried after, followed by Rufus, Valentine, Gloria, and Zack, with the suckers bringing up the rear.
Takarama walked on rubber legs across the lobby and into the busy casino. He approached a roulette table surrounded by people. He pushed his way through to the table, and plucked the little white ball as it spun around the wheel.
“My serve,” he said.
Then he fell face-first to the floor, taking a tray of colored chips with him. The crowd parted, and the croupier came around the table, looking down at Takarama in disgust.
The Greek stood several feet away, crying his eyes out. Rufus threw his arms triumphantly into the air.
“I win,” Rufus said.
20
Mabel Struck was examining a Gucci handbag that had cost a casino in Reno a hundred thousand bucks, when the phone on Tony’s desk lit up.
“Darn it,” she said under her breath.
She’d come to work early that morning, wanting to play with the handbag that UPS had delivered the night before. The handbag was a gift from the Reno district attorney for Tony’s testimony at trial. Mabel had several friends who liked to boast about how much they spent on handbags, and she couldn’t wait to tell them that she had a Gucci bag that could actually make money. She snatched up the phone.
“Grift Sense,” she answered cheerfully.
“Ms. Struck?” a man’s voice asked.
“That’s me.”
“This is Special Agent Romero with the FBI.”
“Good morning, Special Agent Romero. How are you today?”
“I’m fine. I wanted to thank you for your help the other day. The man we arrested was running crooked gambling parlors in twenty different locations. He’s going to jail for a long time.”
By looking at some photographs that Romero had sent, Mabel had determined that a craps game in the basement of a man’s house was crooked, the table positioned against a wall with a large magnet hidden inside, the dice loaded with mercury. The information had allowed Romero to catch an elusive suspect, and had made Mabel a new friend.
“That’s wonderful news,” Mabel said.
“Something urgent has come up, and I wanted to get ahold of you. I need to tell you something which is extremely confidential.”
Mabel leaned into the desk. Although she’d never met Romero, she’d formed a mental picture of him. Early fifties, with jet black hair, boyish features, and an engaging smile. “Is there something the matter?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, there is…I’m terribly sorry. Someone just walked into my office, and I need to speak with him. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course.”
Romero put her on hold. Mabel took the handbag off the desk, and peered inside. It contained a video camera with a high-powered lens. The bag had a small hole in the fabric, and she thought back to what Tony had told her about the case.
Once, every casino in the world had let people playing blackjack cut the cards, the practice considered a common courtesy. Then, for security reasons, the practice had been discarded. Except at the Gold Rush casino in Reno, where old habits died hard. It was here that the crossroaders had struck.
The gang’s members were a family, consisting of a husband, wife, and son. The scam happened during the cut. The husband would riffle up the center of the deck, and let four cards drop. He would then cut the cards. This placed the four cards he’d dropped on top of the deck. To anyone watching, his actions looked normal.
Using the camera inside the bag, his wife, who stood behind him, secretly filmed the four cards during the cut. The information was sent to her son, who sat outside the casino in a van and watched on a computer screen. The son then sent a text message to his father on a cell phone, and told him the cards’ values. Since the father was playing heads-up with the dealer, he knew his first hand and the dealer’s, and bet accordingly.
Romero returned to the line. “Sorry about that.”
“So, how can I help you this morning?” Mabel asked.
“Well, I’m about to help you. The other day when we spoke, I passed along some confidential information about a mob boss named George Scalzo, who is presently under FBI surveillance.”
“I remember,” Mabel said.
“The agent handling the Scalzo case called me a short while ago, and informed me that George Scalzo put out a contract on your boss’s life last night. The attempt failed. So, he’s gone and put another contract on your boss.”
“What a horrible man. Are you going to arrest him?”
“I wish we had the evidence to,” Romero said. “Scalzo owns a contracting business, and uses a special code when he wants to talk to his underlings. The code uses building materials as passwords for criminal activity he wants done. When he orders a specific material, it means he wants a certain job done. In this case it was concrete, which means he wants a person killed.”
“How clever.”
“I figured you would know the best way to contact your boss, and give him a heads-up.”
The receiver grew warm in Mabel’s hand. Tony was always saying that the deeper he got into a case, the more dangerous it became. It sounded like it was time for him to come home.
“I’ll call him once I hang up the phone,” she said.
“I’m afraid there’s more bad news,” Romero said. “The agent who’s handling the Scalzo case also in formed me that Tony’s son, Gerry, was responsible for the death of an associate of Scalzo’s in Atlantic City.”
“Gerry killed someone?”
“Yes. Gerry was protecting an undercover policeman, and won’t face criminal charges. But that doesn’t change the situation.”
“Which is what?”
“That your boss and his son have gotten themselves into a blood feud with one of the most ruthless men in the United States. Your boss has a reputation for being a resourceful individual, and I’m sure his son is as well. But I’m afraid this is a fight that is stacked ag
ainst them.”
“Why do you say that?” Mabel asked.
“Scalzo has connections all over the country, especially in Las Vegas, where he is now. And he has a small army on his payroll in New Jersey. If Scalzo is gunning for someone, he’ll usually get them.”
Mabel sighed. If she’d learned anything working for Tony, it was that her boss didn’t know the meaning of the word quit, and neither did Gerry. They were stubborn males, and not inclined to run away from a fight. “Thank you, Special Agent Romero. I appreciate the call. I’ll make sure Tony and Gerry are warned.”
“You’re welcome. May I ask a favor?”
“Certainly.”
“Please keep this conversation between you and your boss.”
“It will go no further.”
“Good-bye, Ms. Struck.”
Mabel nestled the receiver into its cradle. Pushing her chair back from the desk, she steepled her hands, and rested her chin on her fingertips. It was her thinking pose, and she sat silently, contemplating what to do.
When the phone rang fifteen minutes later, she was still absorbed in thought. She glanced at the Caller ID on the phone and saw that it was Gerry’s wife, Yolanda, calling on her cell phone. Yolanda had gone to Puerto Rico to visit her family a week ago, and Mabel had missed her company. She picked up the phone.
“Hello, Yolanda. How is sunny Puerto Rico?”
“I left three hours ago,” Yolanda replied. “I’m at the Miami airport, waiting for a connection to come home.”
“Is everything all right?”
“No. I mean yes. Oh, I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I had this horrible dream last night,” Yolanda said.
“I wouldn’t have given it any weight, only my mother had the exact same dream. So, I decided to come home.”
Yolanda’s eighty-year-old mother was psychic, and had premonitions when bad things were about to happen. Mabel said, “Tell me what happened in your dream.”
“I was in a cemetery. It was freezing cold and pitch dark. I was looking at a tombstone with Gerry’s name on it and I was sobbing. I laid flowers on Gerry’s grave, then put flowers on a grave with a tombstone that had Tony’s name on it.”
“You saw both their names?”
“Yes,” Yolanda said quietly.
“And your mother had this same dream?”
“Yes,” Yolanda said. “She saw tombstones with Gerry’s and Tony’s names as well. Now, will you please tell me something?”
“Of course, my dear.”
“Are Gerry and Tony all right? Please be truthful with me.”
Mabel hesitated. Then her eyes fell on the frame hanging over Tony’s desk. It contained five playing cards—two black aces, two black eights, and the five of diamonds. Wild Bill Hickock had been holding aces and eights the night he’d been shot in a poker game, murdered by a gang of cheaters who were afraid of being run out of town. They were known as a Deadman’s Hand, and had been bought by Tony as a reminder that no job was worth getting killed over.
“I’m afraid they’re up to their eyeballs in trouble,” she blurted out.
“So my dream was a premonition,” Yolanda said.
“I hope not,” Mabel said.
There was a loud noise in the background, and Yolanda said, “They’re boarding my plane. I need to run. I’ll be home soon.”
The phone went dead in Mabel’s hand. Identical dreams couldn’t be a coincidence. Tony and Gerry were going to get hurt if they didn’t do something. She stared at the Deadman’s Hand, then shut her eyes and prayed, not wanting Wild Bill’s fate to be Gerry’s and Tony’s as well.
21
“I owe you a big steak,” Eddie Davis said. “I might just take you up on that,” Gerry replied.
Davis was signing paperwork so he could be released from the emergency room of Atlantic City Medical Center. The ER was relatively quiet, the groaning drunks and shooting victims and other casualties of the night having been treated and moved out. A bearded doctor stood beside Davis, holding a medicine bottle filled with white pills. He shoved them into Davis’s hand.
“This is penicillin. Follow the instructions on the bottle,” the doctor said. “The wound on your back could become infected. You need to watch it.”
“I will,” Davis said, pocketing the bottle.
The doctor handed Davis another sheet of paper to sign. It was printed in bold lettering, and stated that Davis had been given instructions from a doctor and fully understood them. Gerry guessed this freed the hospital from liability in case Davis got sick, and decided to sue. Davis scribbled his name across the bottom.
Outside in the parking lot they found Marconi sitting in a Chevy Impala, fighting to stay awake. Gerry guessed Marconi would rather be home sleeping than sitting there, only there was an unwritten code that said if your partner got hurt, you hung with him. His father had done it many times. Marconi climbed out of the car and whacked Eddie on the arm.
“Hey brother, glad to see you’re still in one piece. I spoke with the district attorney about Abruzzi getting killed outside Bally’s. Everything’s cool.”
“Did you nail the guy’s partners?” Davis asked.
“They escaped. I managed to grab a good piece of evidence, though.” Opening the back door of the car, Marconi took the gaffed Yankees cap off the passenger seat and handed it to Davis. “Take a look at this.”
Davis examined the cap, trying to hide his disappointment that Marconi hadn’t nailed Abruzzi’s partners. As he handed the cap back, Gerry stuck his hand out.
“Can I look at it again?”
Marconi handed him the cap. The cap had been bothering Gerry, only he hadn’t known why. Turning the cap over, Gerry ran his finger over the LEDs and receiver sewn into the rim. Most cheating equipment was crudely made, with the main emphasis on getting the money. The niceties were almost always ignored. But this cap was different. It was new and looked liked a tailor had stitched it. The transmitter and LEDs were unusually thin, and he suspected they’d cost a lot of money.
Then it occurred to him what was wrong.
Cheating equipment was expensive. Several underground companies sold devices to rip off games, and the equipment often cost several thousand dollars. The markup was incredible, the reasoning being that a cheater would make the money back in one night. Gerry tried to imagine how much the baseball cap would cost from one of these companies. They charged through the nose for anything electronic, and he guessed the cap would cost ten grand. He handed the cap back to Marconi.
“Can I ask you a couple of questions?” Gerry asked.
“Go ahead.”
“The gang you were chasing inside Bally’s, how many members were there?”
Marconi stuck the cap on his head. It was several sizes too large, and made him look like a little kid. He counted on the fingers of one hand. “One woman was nicking the cards. A second guy was reading the nicks and transmitting the information. And there was the guy wearing the cap and doing the betting. Three members.”
“Don’t forget Abruzzi,” Davis said.
“Correction. Four members.”
“Okay,” Gerry said. “Four members, but only one is actually stealing.”
“That’s right.”
“How much was the gang winning?”
“Around fifteen hundred a night,” Marconi said.
Gerry stared at the cap on Marconi’s head. Now he knew what was bothering him.
“That’s not enough money,” Gerry said.
Marconi shot him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“Look at the overhead the gang has,” Gerry explained. “Four members, plus the cost of the cap and a police scanner. Oh, and there’s George Scalzo’s take to consider, since he’s bankrolling this operation. Fifteen hundred a night hardly covers the cost of doing business.”
“You’ve lost me,” Marconi said. “If fifteen hundred isn’t enough money, then why were they cheating Bally’s? For laughs
?”
Gerry asked to see the cap again, and turned it over. The expert tailoring job was the clue. A pro had stitched this cap, and if his hunch was correct, many more just like it.
“If my hunch is right, there are more members of this gang cheating Bally’s, not just the ones you were after,” Gerry said.
Marconi and Davis snapped to attention.
“Can you prove that?” Davis asked him.
“I sure can,” Gerry said.
Marconi drove them to Bally’s with the gaffed baseball cap on his head. During the drive, he broke the news to Davis that his prized Mustang had been totaled from Gerry ramming it into Abruzzi’s car. Davis stared out the window and sulked.
“You’ll find another one,” Marconi said.
“Like hell I will,” Davis replied.
Bally’s entrance was jammed with tour buses. Marconi maneuvered around them and parked by the valet stand. As they got out, he said, “Boat people.”
Boat people was casino slang for senior citizens. Like every other casino in Atlantic City, Bally’s relied on seniors to make its nut. They were easy customers, staying long enough to squander their social security checks in slot and video poker machines. Inside they found a sea of white hair and polyester. They walked to the cashier’s cage where Marconi cornered the casino’s floor manager, a red-faced man wearing a purple sports jacket. Marconi explained why they were there.
“You want to do what?” the floor manager said.
“Go up to your surveillance control room and take a look at some tapes,” Marconi said.
“Gaining entrance to that room takes a fricking act of Congress,” the floor manager said. “I need to tell the people upstairs what this is about.”
Marconi took off the cap, and showed the floor manager the rim. “This cap was used to scam your blackjack tables. We want to watch the tapes of the guy who was wearing it. Think you can arrange that?”
The floor manager muttered something unpleasant and left. Casino people were fiercely territorial, and tended to bang heads with cops as a matter of principle. They went into a coffee shop to wait.
“Do senior citizens rip off casinos?” Marconi asked a few minutes later.
