Deadman's Bluff

by James Swain

  A group of female nurses came up to the table and spoke to Gladwell while checking out Gerry. Gerry rose, and introduced himself as Gladwell’s old high school friend. The nurses chatted for another minute and left.

  “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks anyway,” Gladwell said.

  Gerry returned to his chair. “You’re leaving out the important part. How was the dosimeter reading the cards?”

  Gladwell’s eyes fell to the dull tabletop. She seemed to be wrestling with her conscience, and a long moment passed before she spoke again. “That was the secret that Jack sold to George Scalzo. You could examine the cards, but nothing would show up. Jack made me promise not to tell. And so did Scalzo.”

  Gerry thought back to what Yolanda had said over the phone earlier. The FBI had tailed Scalzo coming to the hospital. They’d seen him bring flowers to Gladwell, then go to the cafeteria with her and have breakfast together. As if reading his mind, Gladwell said, “I wasn’t on duty the night Jack died, and didn’t hear the news until the next day when I came in. Then Scalzo shows up with flowers, tells me how sorry he is that Jack’s dead. He knew I’d been having an affair with Jack, and over breakfast told me I needed to keep quiet, if I knew what was good for me.”

  “So Scalzo threatened you.”

  “He didn’t have to. If word got out about my affair with Jack, I’d lose my job, my nurse’s license, and probably my marriage. I had a sword hanging over my head, and Scalzo knew it.” She lifted her eyes. “There’s your friend again.”

  Gerry glanced over his shoulder. Eddie Davis was siting on the other side of the room, peeling the plastic off a cafeteria sandwich. Gerry looked back at Gladwell.

  “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

  “I think the word is petrified,” she said.

  “I can make this nightmare go away.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “How can you make it go away?”

  Gerry leaned forward, this time making sure no drinks were in striking range. “Tell me Jack’s secret, and you’ll never hear from me, the police, or George Scalzo again. That’s a promise.”

  “How do I know you’ll keep this promise?”

  His eyes scanned the cafeteria, and when he was certain no one was watching, he reached across the table and put his hand on her wrist. She did not resist his touch. “You and I share one thing in common. We both loved Jack. So when I tell you that on my friend’s grave I can fix this situation, you’ve got to believe me.”

  Gladwell shuddered from an unseen chill. She drank what was left in her cup, grimacing again.

  “All right,” she said.

  40

  Four o’clock in the morning, and Skip DeMarco lay awake in his king-sized hotel bed, his sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling. On the other side of the room, his laptop made a gurgling sound. Its screen saver was an underwater scene, complete with coral, bright tropical fish, and sound effects. Hours ago, he’d gone onto the Internet and found the Web site of the law firm where Christopher Charles Russo, the man claiming to be his father, worked. The site had a section with photographs of the firm’s lawyers. His laptop’s screen was sharp, and he’d planned to enter the section, click on Russo’s picture, then raise the laptop to his face, and take a look at the guy.

  It hadn’t happened.

  He’d gotten cold feet and slipped back into bed. He was twenty-six years old and had lived with his Uncle George for twenty-one of those years. But he still remembered the first five. The memory of his mother was particularly strong.

  But he had no memories of his father. Not one. Maybe Russo wasn’t his father, and the story the woman had told him was a lie. Maybe Russo was a scammer, or a crackpot, or someone he’d beaten at cards looking to pay him back in the cruelest possible way.

  DeMarco had spent hours lying in bed, weighing the possibilities. Finally he’d come to a decision. The only way he was going to know for sure was to look at the guy’s picture, and try to find a resemblance. That wasn’t so hard.

  Only he couldn’t do it.

  He was comfortable living with his Uncle George. The house they shared was huge, the third floor practically his. He had his own bedroom, private gym, music room, study, and a maid and cook downstairs willing to do his bidding. And his uncle was easy. DeMarco had brought girls up to his room and smoked dope and his uncle had never said a word. It was a sheltered existence, his uncle having convinced him that the real world was not for him. In the real world, he was a victim. At home, he was a king.

  He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. He imagined he was at home, listening to music with the headphones on. It didn’t work, and in frustration he kicked off the sheets and sent them to the floor.

  At four thirty, he climbed out of bed and shuffled across the room. Sitting down at his laptop, he made the screen saver disappear. He needed to be a man about this. He’d take a look at Russo’s picture, then decide what his next step should be. Simple as that.

  He went to the law firm’s Web site, found the photo section, and scrolled through the players. It was a big firm, and according to the home page, specialized in legal representation for white-collar fraud. Big bucks, he guessed.

  He stopped scrolling on Russo’s picture. It was small, and had a short biography beneath it. He dragged the mouse over Russo’s picture and clicked on it. The picture enlarged, filling the screen. DeMarco picked up the laptop with both hands. Holding the screen a few inches from his face, he stared hard. Russo looked to be in his late forties, with a heavy face, blunt nose, connected eyebrows, and an engaging smile. There was no family resemblance at all. None.

  DeMarco felt something drop in his stomach, and he placed the laptop back on the desk. Russo was a fake, and so was the woman claiming to be his aunt. They were scammers, out to make a score.

  “Go to hell,” he said to the screen.

  He shrunk Russo’s picture back to its original size, then felt the tension trapped in his body escape. He’d stayed up half the night for nothing.

  His eyelids suddenly felt heavy. He needed to get some sleep. The tournament was down to twenty-six players, and by tomorrow night, he expected to be sipping champagne with Uncle George, the title of world’s best poker player firmly his.

  As he stared to turn off the laptop, he noticed Russo’s biography on the screen and lowered his face to have a look. Maybe when he got back home, he’d take Guido along with him and pay Russo a visit.

  Christopher Charles Russo (nickname Skip)

  Christopher Russo is a partner in Hamilton Pepper

  Russo LLP, resident in the Philadelphia office. He concentrates his practice in defending companies against frivolous class-action lawsuits. Most recently he had a $100 million lawsuit against the Acme Styrofoam Cup Company of Philadelphia overturned. The law suit had been brought by a hundred plaintiffs whose fingers were singed by hot coffee served in the company’s cups.

  Russo earned his Bachelor of Arts, magna cum laude, from St. Joseph, and his law degree, cum laude, from Villanova University School of Law. He is admitted to practice law in both Pennsylvania and New Jersey.

  Russo is an avid poker player, and put himself through school playing cards. In 2002, he was named by Philadelphia Magazine as one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. His other hobbies include listening to music and exercising.

  DeMarco felt light-headed, and leaned back in his chair. It was all there, like a genetic fingerprint. Poker, music, working out. All the things Christopher Charles Russo loved were the things he loved. Even their nick names were the same. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  He dragged the cursor on his computer across the screen, and returned to Hamilton Pepper Russo’s home page. At the top was the firm’s address and main phone number. He memorized the number, then shut down his computer.

  Crossing the room, he retrieved the sheets from the floor, and climbed into bed. He lay absolutely still and felt something swell up in his chest. It was thre
e hours later back east, and he imagined Russo at his desk right now, the tireless defender. He took the phone off the night table, placed it on his chest, and punched in zero.

  “How can I help you, Mr. DeMarco?” a hotel operator said brightly.

  “I’d like to make a long distance call.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. DeMarco.”

  He recited Hamilton Pepper Russo’s telephone number to the operator, and she made the call for him. The room had turned chilly, and as the call went through, he felt the receiver’s icy plastic against his chin.

  “Hamilton Pepper Russo LLC, can I help you?” a male receptionist answered.

  “Is Christopher Russo in?”

  “I believe he is,” the receptionist said.

  “Put me through to him.”

  The receptionist forwarded his call.

  “Christopher Russo’s office,” a female secretary answered.

  DeMarco hesitated. As far back as he could remember, he’d imagined that one day he’d track his father down, and have a talk with him. Now the moment had come, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say.

  “Hello, is anyone there?” the secretary asked.

  “I’d like to speak with Christopher Russo.”

  “Mr. Russo is in court this week, and cannot be disturbed. If you’d like to give me a message, I’d be happy to relay it to him.”

  “Disturb him, would you?”

  “Excuse me? Who is this?”

  That was dumb, DeMarco thought. “I’m sorry. This is an old friend. We knew each other back when he was in college. I wanted the call to be a surprise.”

  “In college?” the secretary asked suspiciously.

  “When he was at St. Joseph.”

  “Please hold for a moment.”

  The secretary put him on hold. DeMarco lay motionless, no longer sleepy. One of the things he’d wondered about was his father’s voice. Would it be strong or soft, deep or high-pitched? The secretary came back on.

  “Still there?” she asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Russo does not take calls from anonymous callers. If you’d care to leave a message, I’m sure—”

  “Tell him it’s Skip,” DeMarco said.

  “Skip?”

  “That’s right. Skip.”

  “Skip who?”

  “He’ll know who it is.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but Mr. Russo won’t talk to you now. If you’ll leave a message, Mr. Russo will get back to you once his trial is finished.”

  She sounded ready to hang up on him. DeMarco couldn’t let that happen. He had to hear Russo’s voice, and connect to the man that, until now, he’d only dreamed about.

  “Tell him it’s his son,” he said.

  41

  Little Hands sat in his car in Celebrity’s parking lot, the rising sun searing his eyes. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and he’d driven to Celebrity prepared to kill Tony Valentine. He’d killed several dozen men in Las Vegas, and it usually went like this: He went to their hotel room early in the morning, kicked the door down, ran in, and strangled them with his bare hands. Usually the victim was sleeping and didn’t put up a fight, or he was in the john, which made it harder; one guy had sliced him with a razor before Little Hands broke his neck. But, whatever the situation, the result was always the same. He caught his victims with their guards down and ended their miserable lives. Tony Valentine would be no different.

  As the sun crested over the distant mountains, Celebrity’s neon sign went off, and he smothered a yawn. After leaving the Peppermill, he’d gotten involved in a craps game at a joint called Lots of Slots across the street. The craps table was on the sidewalk in front of the casino, the action hot. He’d gotten on a roll, and had turned five hundred bucks into a thousand, then two, and finally built his winnings up to seven grand. The process had taken him well into the night, and by the time he’d gotten into his car, his heart had been pounding so hard he couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.

  His money sat in a paper bag on the seat beside him. It contained seventeen hundred from the video poker game at the Peppermill, seven grand from the craps game at Lots of Slots, and the thousand down payment for whacking Valentine. It was enough to go to Mexico, and start his life over.

  He stared up at Celebrity’s top floors, and envisioned Valentine fast asleep in one of the rooms. The last time they’d tangoed, Valentine had tricked him and broken Little Hands’s nose. A dirty movie had been playing in the motel room they were fighting in, and Little Hands had seen the movie and given up. He’d always had a thing about dirty movies. According to the prison psychiatrist at Ely, it was his mother’s fault. He’d seen her having rough sex when he was a kid, and never gotten over it.

  The clock in the dashboard said 7:05. He picked up the paper bag from the passenger seat and looked at the money. It was more than enough to start his life over. So what the hell was he doing here, risking everything?

  “Screw this,” he said aloud.

  He pulled the car out of the lot and drove down a winding road that took him past Celebrity’s front entrance. Celebrity hadn’t existed the last time he’d been in Las Vegas, and he slowed down, craning his neck to look at the array of colorful parrots trapped in giant cages by the front door.

  Satisfied, he started to speed up, then spotted Valentine walking out the front door with a nice-looking blonde on his arm. With them was a lanky cowboy carrying a golf bag filled with clubs. Little Hands had thought about Valentine every day since going to prison, and fantasized about paying him back. Pulling up along side the curb, he threw his vehicle into park.

  Valentine and the woman were holding hands and sharing meaningful glances. Another car pulled up to the curb; a valet jumped out. Valentine tipped the valet while the cowboy put his clubs into the trunk. The cow boy got into the back, the blonde into the passenger seat, and Valentine slipped behind the wheel. The car pulled away from the curb.

  Little Hands decided to follow them.

  Soon he was on a narrow road heading toward Celebrity’s golf course. His window was open, and the wind rustled the paper bag on the passenger seat. The mouth of the bag was open, and he glanced at the money and imagined all it would buy down in Mexico. He didn’t need to kill Valentine. His life was set.

  He continued to follow Valentine’s car anyway.

  Valentine had always been a fan of the Marx Brothers, his favorite film being A Night at the Opera. In the film, Chico Marx plays an unusual piano solo. Beginning on the lower keys, he performs a lightning-fast run until his fingers run off the piano and continue to play furiously in midair.

  Whenever Rufus Steele tried to persuade suckers to bet against him, Valentine was reminded of that magical piano solo. Like Chico Marx, Rufus always went well past the end, his language as outlandish as music produced in thin air.

  “Come on, boys, what do you say? Money talks, nobody walks. It’s time to put up or shut up.” Rufus smiled at the group of suckers who’d come to Celebrity’s golf course to watch him play the Greek. “This is one you can’t lose, what my daddy called a mortal cinch. No tricks, no deception, just a friendly game of golf. My opponent was a runner-up in the National Amateur Championship and is a scratch golfer. Isn’t that so, Greek?”

  The Greek and Marcy Baldwin sat stoically in a golf cart. Lying in Marcy’s lap was Medusa, who’d emitted a horrified shriek upon seeing Rufus.

  “That’s right,” the Greek replied.

  “What’s your handicap?” a sucker asked Rufus suspiciously. He was a squirrel-like guy with a sprout of hair on his chin that resembled a dirty paintbrush.

  “Besides my shining personality?” Rufus said. “It’s a ten. If you don’t believe me, call the pro at Caesars’ golf shop. I’ve been playing his course for twenty years.”

  “Did you check that out?” the sucker asked the Greek.

  “Yes,” the Greek said. “His handicap is ten.”

  “What is Rufus
trying to pull?” Gloria whispered in Valentine’s ear. “He’s going to lose if he’s not careful.”

  Valentine felt the same way. He and Gloria stood by the practice tees, a small but dedicated rooting section. Golf was a game where you beat yourself, not your opponent. He couldn’t see Rufus overcoming ten strokes no matter how well he played.

  “Explain the rules again,” the sucker said.

  “Be happy to,” Rufus said. “The Greek and I are going to play eighteen holes of golf. Because many of you expect me to pull a fast one, I’ve given the Greek an edge. He gets to hit three drives on every hole, then pick the best ball to play with.”

  “How many drives do you get?” the sucker asked.

  “Just one,” Rufus replied.

  “What kind of odds are you offering?”

  “Even money. The Greek is betting me half a million dollars. I’d be happy to take your action or anyone else’s, if you’re so inclined.”

  The suckers went into a huddle. Gloria nudged Valentine with her elbow, and he reluctantly went over to where Rufus stood. “How you feeling?” Valentine asked.

  “Never better,” the old cowboy replied.

  “You don’t think this is a mistake?”

  “Only suckers make mistakes,” Rufus said.

  The suckers ponied up another thirty grand, which Valentine agreed to hold for safekeeping. Rufus went to where their caddies stood by the bags. The Greek joined him and said, “I’ve got one stipulation before we start.”

  “What’s that?” Rufus asked.

  “I want our caddies to take off their shoes,” the Greek said.

  “You got a shoe fetish or something?”

  “No, I just want to look at them.”