by James Swain
The woman caught her breath.
“I'm a friend of Doyle's,” he said.
The phone went dead in his hand. He finished his Diet Coke, wondering how many more unpleasant items he was going to discover about his old pal.
Something in his bones told him Gerry was trying to call him. Taking out his own cell phone, he dialed into voice mail and found a lone message awaiting him.
“Pop, do you have any idea what you've done?” his son said. “The cops raided the bar and arrested Big Tony. They told him you'd sent them! How could you do this to me?
“Now Big Tony's brothers are looking for me! Goddamn it, Pop, I'm a dead man. Do you understand? A dead man! This is the last time I ever ask you for help. The last time!”
He erased the message. You try to help out, he thought, and look where it gets you. The door to his room banged open. A Mexican chambermaid pushing a vacuum came in. Plugging the vacuum into the wall, she started cleaning.
“Come back later!” he yelled over the vacuum's roar.
She smiled sweetly, not understanding a word.
“Later,” he yelled, pointing at his watch.
She pointed at his cell phone. He looked down; it was all lit up. Crossing the room, he unplugged her.
“Later,” he said. “Please.”
He chained the door behind her, waited a minute, then dialed into voice mail. It was Frank Porter.
“Call me,” Porter said.
Valentine called him.
“Guess who just waltzed into The Bombay,” Porter said.
It sounded like the opening line of a joke.
“Jimmy Hoffa?”
“The European. He's already won five grand.”
Valentine felt his heart start to race. The Bombay was on the north side of town, a good ten-minute drive from his motel.
“I'll be there in five.”
“Meet you by the front door,” Porter said.
10
The European
Valentine pulled up to The Bombay's valet stand five minutes later, having run every red light and broken every speed limit in the city. The stand was deserted, and he left the keys in the ignition and hurried in.
Porter was waiting just inside the front door. Pulling him aside, he handed Valentine a New York Yankees baseball cap.
“There's a transceiver with an inter-canal hearing aid taped in the rim,” Porter explained. “I'll be able to talk to you from the surveillance room, but no one else will be able to hear me.”
Valentine put the cap on and adjusted the strap. “Where's he sitting?”
“Table 42.”
Because The Bombay was so large, Porter had written instructions to Table 42 on the back of a business card. Going over to a Funny Money cage, he took a bucket of the special coins and shoved them into Valentine's hands.
“Carry this. Makes you look like a tourist.”
“What do I look like now?”
“An old cop.”
Valentine dropped Porter's card into the bucket, reading it while he walked across the crowded casino. The European had picked an out-of-the-way table, close to an exit. By the time Valentine reached it, Porter was talking to him from his desk in the surveillance control room on the third floor.
“How's the sound?”
“Great.”
“He's the third player at the table. See him?”
The European was not hard to spot; his piles of black hundred-dollar chips towered over everyone else's.
“Uh-huh.”
“He doesn't see you.”
Valentine circled Table 42 and sized the European up. He was thin, late thirties, and seemed in a sour mood, which was odd considering the amount of money he was winning. His clothes were nondescript: black pants, black turtleneck sweater, and a black sports coat. And then there was his haircut. It was a bowl job, the kind they used to give guys in prison.
Valentine sat in front of a Funny Money slot machine and watched the European play. The European won another five thousand dollars, yet did not tip the dealer once. That was odd: Most hustlers tipped the dealer heavily, just to keep them happy.
“Does this guy ever lose?” Valentine said into his hat.
“Not that I've seen,” Porter said.
The other players at Table 42 were women. Valentine looked at each one, and spotted the dark-haired beauty from the video Doyle had sent him. She'd dyed her hair red, but the resemblance to Audrey Hepburn was unmistakable. Their eyes met.
Turning on his stool, Valentine took a handful of coins from his bucket, and started feeding them into the Funny Money slot machine.
“I think I've been spotted.”
“He's not even looking at you,” Porter said.
“The woman sitting to his immediate left.”
“You think they're a team?”
“Yup.”
“I think you're okay. Keep playing.”
Soon Valentine was down to his last coin. He fed it into the machine and jerked the handle. Slot machines were for dummies, a chimpanzee having the same chance of winning, and he cringed as the reels fell his way and the grand prize sign started flashing.
A big-bosomed hostess appeared lugging a bulky cappuccino maker. Panting, she dropped the box into his hands.
“Congratulations,” she said.
“No thanks,” Valentine replied.
The hostess snarled at him. “Take it,” she insisted.
“I don't want it.”
The hostess lowered her voice. “Listen, buster. It's my last cappuccino maker. They're heavy and my back is killing me. Make a girl happy, okay?”
Valentine glanced over his shoulder. The European and his accomplice were leaving. The cappuccino maker fell from his hands and hit the floor with a loud crunch.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Bite me,” the hostess replied.
Clutching the Glock in his pocket, Valentine followed them across the casino floor. The European was making a beeline for the men's bathroom, while his red-haired companion was heading toward a side exit.
“You got someone following the girl?” he asked Porter.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I've got a brawl on the other side of the casino,” Porter said. “There's no security in your zone.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Let her go.”
Valentine followed the European. The door to the men's bathroom resembled the entrance to one of the great pyramids, with a pair of sword-wielding genie statues standing guard. The European slipped past them and disappeared inside.
“I'm going in.”
“Let me get backup over there,” Porter said.
“How long?”
“Two minutes, tops.”
Two minutes was too long. What if the European put on a disguise, or wiggled out through a pipe? Stranger things had happened. “I can't risk losing him, Frank.”
He heard Porter suck in his breath.
“Be careful, you hear me?”
Valentine touched the handle of the Glock. It felt cool and smooth in his hand. Then he touched one of the genies' swords for luck and went in.
The men's bathroom was massive. The stalls covered an entire wall, and he got low, looking at pant legs. The European's black pair was at the row's end. He entered a stall two away and latched the door.
He dropped the crown and had a seat. By lowering his head, he was able to see the European's shoes. They were scuffed and needed a good polish.
Moments later, a man wearing Nikes took the stall next to the European's. An exchange followed in a language Valentine did not understand. The European began passing handfuls of hundred dollar chips underneath the stall. Smart hustlers never cashed in their own winnings. Instead, they passed their chips on to a member of their crew, who split the chips up among other crew members, who turned them into cash. That way, the loss was less noticeable to the casino.
The transfer done, the man in sneakers left. Valen
tine counted to five, then unlatched the door. At the same time, his left hand removed the Glock from his pocket.
The European stood waiting on the other side. He was breathing hard, his pocked face pouring sweat. His hand clutched a .38, the barrel pointed at Valentine's heart.
“Give me your weapon.”
Valentine handed him the Glock. Then said, “Don't shoot,” knowing the words would make Porter jump out of his skin and trigger every alarm in the casino.
The European weighed the Glock in his hand, then slipped his own .38 into his pocket.
“Let me guess,” Valentine said. “It's not loaded.”
“Not a real gun,” the European replied. “But yours is.”
It was Valentine's turn to start sweating. Anyone who carried around a fake gun couldn't be trusted to handle a real one. The European pointed at the stall he'd just come out of.
“Sit,” he said.
Valentine sat on the crown, then covered his head with his arms. One shot was all it was going to take. Did he have any regrets? Only one, he decided, and that was making Gerry his sole beneficiary.
“Look at me,” the European said.
Valentine stared into the European's face. He was a sad-looking guy with lifeless eyes. He placed the barrel of the Glock against Valentine's nose. Valentine closed his eyes.
“Stop following us,” the European said.
He heard the stall door close. The air slowly escaped from his lungs. He waited, then rose and stuck his head out. The European was gone.
Taking the baseball cap off, he started yelling into it.
Five minutes later, Valentine was sitting in Porter's office in the surveillance control room on the third floor. There was no greater jolt to the nervous system than having a gun pointed at you, unless the gun happened to go off.
A cup of hot coffee brought him around. As his head cleared, he was struck by the realization of what an incredibly stupid thing he'd done. Not only had he allowed the European to escape, but he'd given him an illegal hand gun with his fingerprints on it.
“I'm sorry, Tony,” Porter said. “I thought I told you the transceiver doesn't work in the bathroom. Something to do with the tiles.”
“You might have, and I might have forgotten,” Valentine said. “You nail him?”
“He flew by us.”
“What?”
“He turned his coat inside out before he came out of the bathroom, stuck shades and a hat on. He walked right past two guards coming to help you. I didn't realize it was him until it was too late.”
Valentine tossed his cup in the trash, wanting to yell at Porter, but knowing it wasn't his fault. He'd messed up by going in alone, and that was all there was to it.
Porter extracted a jelly doughnut from the Dunkin' Donuts box on his desk and took a healthy bite. Gooey red stuff dripped onto a picture frame on the desk. It was an eight-by-ten glossy of Frank with the comedian Rodney Dangerfield. The inscription read To Frank, You stink! Rodney.
“I opened for him once,” Porter said glumly.
Valentine felt bad for him. Not only had Frank let the European get away, he'd also let him steal another ten grand. That would not sit well with his employer.
Valentine took the four decks of playing cards used on Table 42 off Porter's desk. Removing them from their boxes, he examined their backs. They were Bees, and made exclusively by the U.S. Playing Card Company.
“I already checked the cards,” Porter said.
“And?”
“Clean as a whistle.”
He held the cards up to the light. Marking playing cards was considered an art among hustlers. Paint, daub, shade, and a substance called juice were commonly used. Sometimes, the cards were nicked with a finely sharpened fingernail. All of these marks could be seen by a trained eye, and the cards from Table 42 appeared clean. Then he had an idea.
Taking a pencil off Porter's desk, he ran it down the face of the card and checked for warps, a sophisticated method of crimping that put a subtle bend in the card that was almost impossible to remove. Again, he found nothing.
“Damn,” he said aloud. He'd told Doyle the dark-haired beauty was marking the cards. And he'd been wrong.
“You're stumped,” Porter said. “That's a first.”
Valentine snatched the last doughnut from the box and bit into it. The red stuff was artificially sweet and disgustingly good.
“Any suggestions?” the head of security asked.
Valentine finished the doughnut, thinking about it.
“Maybe I should be the one to tell Archie what happened.”
Porter didn't get it. “Why?”
“I'll build the European up, tell Archie he's the greatest blackjack hustler I've ever seen.”
“You think he'll buy it?”
“He should.”
“Why's that?”
“Because he may be the greatest blackjack hustler I've ever seen.”
Porter considered it. Then shook his head.
“He's still going to fire me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Porter let out a laugh. He'd once told Valentine that working in a casino required a sense of humor, because you never knew what was going to happen next.
“Because Archie fires everybody,” he replied.
11
Debt
To reach Archie Tanner's penthouse office, Valentine had to take an elevator to the main floor, cross the casino, then talk to Archie's personal secretary through an intercom, who then sent a private elevator down.
As Valentine waited for the elevator to arrive, he saw a woman with streaked hair and fingernails painted in custom car colors win a jackpot on a slot machine. The woman started screaming like she was having twins. Soon management would come and pay her off. And comp her room, give her tickets to a show, the usual sweet grease. And she'd go home a few days later, broke. They always did.
“Can I give you some advice?” he asked.
The woman smiled coyly. “Well . . . that all depends.”
“Run,” he said.
Archie's private elevator deposited him in a hallway facing an ostentatious wall of chrome and glass. A door without handles buzzed open and he went in.
“Mr. Tanner is on a conference call,” the secretary said. “Please go in and make yourself comfortable.”
Walking around the desk, he opened the mahogany door to Archie's office. The door had come from a sunken pirate's ship discovered off the Florida Keys. It wasn't pretty, the wood stained and gnarly, but that had never been the point.
Inside, he found Archie at his desk, screaming profanities at the intercom. His shirt was unbuttoned, exposing the jungle of blue-black tattoos adorning his chest. Valentine took a seat, pitying the poor saps on the receiving end of his tirade. He watched Archie take off one of his shoes and start beating the desk.
“Did you hear what I just fucking said? The Micanopy Indians can't do that! The law says they can't, the governor of Florida says they can't, and I say they can't! You get that useless fucking Florida Department of Law Enforcement to raid that fucking reservation and rip those machines out. And if you don't, I'll fly down there and kick your asses until your noses bleed!”
“Yes sir,” several voices chorused meekly through the box.
“Good-bye!”
Hanging up, Archie slipped his shoe on. Then he came around the desk and fixed them drinks at the bar. Moments later they were sitting in a pair of cushy leather wing backs, enjoying the suite's spectacular view.
“Chief Running Bear of the Micanopy tribe is trying to fuck me,” Archie explained. “The chief used to wrestle alligators in the Everglades. Now he's running a casino on his reservation and thinks he's a player. Florida law restricts the kind of games he can operate. So what does Running Bear do? He smuggles in a truckload of video poker machines and offers to split the profits with the state. Over my dead body.”
Video poker was the most popular game of the last ten years and generated e
normous profits. Any casino benefited by having them, and Valentine said, “I thought the reservations were protected by the U.S. Constitution.”
Archie scratched his chest like a monkey. Outside it was snowing, The Bombay's multicolored neon sign painting each flake a different hue. “You think I'm going to let the Indians get the upper hand before I open my casinos? I've got the governor of Florida in my back pocket. Those were his aides I was just talking to.”
Valentine watched Archie's face grow flushed as the drink took hold. Then he said, “I've got some bad news for you.”
Archie stared at him, waiting.
“The European who killed Doyle showed up in your casino today.”
“Did Porter jam him?”
“I made Frank back off.”
Archie's face twisted in anger.
“He got away,” Valentine added.
Archie shook his forefinger in Valentine's face. “What kind of little league horseshit is that? He got away. If we didn't go back so far, I'd run you out of town.”
The casino owner cursed him out for another minute. When he was done, Valentine said, “There's more.”
“You're a bad news buffet,” Archie said.
“Your blackjack tables aren't safe. The European has come up with a new system. I'm as fooled as everyone else.”
The Waterford tumbler left Archie's hand and flew across the room, shattering against a bookcase. “You're fooled? So what the hell are you suggesting I do?”
“Close down, dismantle the tables, give every employee a polygraph test. Otherwise, you're a lame duck.”
Archie leaned over, breathing gin on Valentine's face. “I can't close down. To use an eighties expression, I'm leveraged up to my fucking eyeballs. The Bombay's cash flow is what's paying for my deal in Florida.”
Valentine swirled the ice cubes in his drink. He wanted to ask Archie if he had enough money to pay him, but didn't want to go there just yet.
“You want my advice?”
“Yes,” the casino owner said emphatically.
He put his soda on the antique coffee table. “Distribute flyers in the casino with the European's picture. Offer a reward for his arrest. It's not the best solution, but it will keep the European from playing, and that's all you can ask for.”
