Deadman's Bluff tv-7

by James Swain

  “Isn’t this the no limit, sixty-and-over tournament?”

  A smile appeared on the guard’s face. “No, sir. You must be lost.”

  Valentine crossed the room to the cash bar. Taking out his wallet, he tossed a handful of cash in front of the bartender then picked up a tray sitting on the bar and balanced it on his upturned palm. “Six beers,” he said.

  “Where are you taking my tray?” the bartender asked.

  “I’m playing a joke on my friends. I’ll bring it back. Scout’s honor.”

  The bartender pulled six beers from a cooler and put them on the tray. Valentine raised the tray to his face and approached the feature table with no one paying attention to him. A player at the table raised his arm and caught Valentine’s eye.

  “Over here,” the player said.

  Valentine served the guy a beer. The guy pulled a monster wad out of his pocket and dropped a twenty on the tray. “Keep the change.”

  Valentine stuffed the money into his pocket, then circled the table so he was behind the dealer. He spied a silver cigarette lighter to the dealer’s right. The lighter had Celebrity’s logo stamped on its side. Several dealers in the tournament had the same lighter, and he’d assumed they were a promotional gimmick. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  He kept moving and came around to where Skins was sitting. He served Skins a beer, and Skins shot him a puzzled look.

  “Compliments of the lady at the bar,” Valentine said.

  “Thanks,” Skins said.

  He sensed motion in the crowd and looked up. The guard he’d spoken with was standing nearby with four other guards. A posse. If he did something stupid, they’d pummel him. At the same time, he couldn’t let this nonsense with Skins continue.

  Then he had an idea.

  He placed his thumb below Skin’s shoulder and drew an imaginary line down the cheater’s back. It was called the brush off, and used by casinos to tell undesirables to hit the road. Skins sat up in his chair like he’d been shocked with a live wire.

  “You’ve been made,” Valentine said under his breath.

  “Excuse me?” Skins said.

  Skins was an old-timer, with tobacco-stained teeth and a crooked nose, and he was not willing to give up a big score so easily.

  “They have it on tape,” Valentine said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The surveillance camera caught you mucking. You need to practice some more. The card palmed in your hand leaked.”

  Skins swallowed hard. Play had resumed, and Valentine walked away from the table and into the waiting arms of the casino’s security guards.

  The guards took the tray away from Valentine and hustled him into the lobby. They were big and mean and didn’t mind shoving him around. He tried to tell them he was doing a job for the Gaming Control Board, but they wouldn’t listen. One of the guards started to read him the riot act when Valentine heard a familiar voice.

  “Tony? What’s going on?”

  It was Gloria Curtis coming out of the hotel restaurant. She was trailed by Zack, his camera slung over his shoulder. Valentine caught her eye and silently mouthed the word Help! She instantly understood and stepped up to the guards.

  “Excuse me, but what’s going on here?” she demanded.

  “Ma’am, please stand back,” a guard said.

  “I will do no such thing,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I’m Gloria Curtis with WSPN news, and this gentleman is Tony Valentine, president of Grift Sense, a consulting firm hired by the Nevada Gaming Control Board to investigate a cheating scandal at the World Poker Showdown. Who are you?”

  “I work for casino security,” the guard said.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked.

  The guard didn’t answer. Gloria snapped her fingers, and Zack handed her a mike, then started to film. She shoved the mike in the guard’s face. “I’m sure our viewing audience would be interested in hearing why Celebrity, which is hosting the tournament, would choose to pull an investigator off the floor. Care to respond?”

  The guard released his grip on Valentine’s sleeve.

  Then he whipped a cell phone from his pocket and made a call. He explained the situation to whoever was in charge. Satisfied, he folded his phone.

  “Our mistake,” the guard said. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Valentine.”

  Without another word, the guard and his posse marched back inside the poker room.

  “What in God’s name was that all about?” Gloria asked.

  The lobby was crowded with people, and Valentine pulled Gloria over to a large birdcage filled with exotic parrots, the birds flapping their wings and eyeing them suspiciously. “Bill Higgins and I caught a player named Skins Turner on videotape switching cards,” he explained. “Bill was going to arrest him but got ordered by the governor to wait until play had stopped for the day.”

  “Let me guess,” she said. “The governor’s afraid of the bad publicity.”

  “That’s all he seems to be afraid of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Skins was cheating, just like DeMarco’s cheating. But the governor is more interested in protecting the town’s interests than he is in protecting the integrity of his games.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  There was always follow-up when a customer got escorted out of a casino, and it was usually negative.

  “Probably,” he said.

  “That’s terrible, Tony. Has that ever happened to you on a job before?”

  Valentine shook his head. He’d been in the consulting racket for two years and never been treated like this before. It was a real low point. Gloria took his hand and gave it a squeeze. She was the one good thing that had come out of this job, and he supposed he could live with whatever happened.

  Zack appeared. He’d slipped into the poker room and announced that Skins had lost over five million in chips to DeMarco on a bluff. On the very next hand, Skins had gone “all in,” shoved his remaining chips into the pot, and lost. He was now out of the tournament.

  “Thanks for the update,” Gloria said.

  They watched Zack walk away. Gloria squeezed his hand again. “See?” she asked.

  “See what?” Valentine said.

  “Every once in a while, the good guys do win.”

  Valentine wasn’t so sure. Skins’s loss had put DeMarco back in the leader’s spot. DeMarco was going to win the tournament and the damage would be done. He felt his cell phone vibrate and pulled it from his pocket. It was Bill.

  “How much trouble am I in?” Valentine asked his friend.

  It was rare for Bill to be at a loss for words. His friend coughed into the phone.

  “I just got off the phone with the governor,” Bill said.

  “He heard about what you just pulled with Skins Turner.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “Just a little. You’ve been barred from the tournament.”

  34

  “This had better be good,” Detective Joey Marconi said, driving south on Atlantic Avenue.

  “Yeah,” Detective Eddie Davis said, sitting beside his partner. “You keep us waiting in the parking lot for an hour, this had better be real good.”

  Gerry Valentine sat in the backseat of Marconi’s car. He’d started reminiscing with Vinny Fountain inside Harold’s House of Pancakes and not only forgotten the time, but also the two detectives outside, neither of whom had slept in the past two days.

  Marconi followed Vinny Fountain’s car on Atlantic Avenue. Vinny drove a souped-up Pontiac Firebird with racing stripes down both sides. Vinny had told Gerry that he could find out who’d made the gaffed Yankees cap found in Bally’s casino. Gerry had told Davis and Marconi, and the detectives had agreed to follow Vinny, but not without letting him know how pissed off they were.

  “You have a good breakfast?” Davis asked.

  “Just some coffee,” Gerry lied.

  “How did you get that jelly stain on your chin?”
Marconi wanted to know.

  Gerry appraised his reflection in the window. The stain was on the point of his chin. Busted, he thought.

  “It’s a birthmark,” Gerry said.

  “You’re something else,” Marconi told him.

  They drove to Margate City on the southernmost tip of the island. At Huntington Avenue, Vinny hung a left. Marconi followed him, and when Vinny parked on the street, Marconi pulled his vehicle directly behind him. It was a residential neighborhood of two-story shingled houses and small, well-kept yards. Across the street, a dog strained against its chain, barking at them.

  “Any idea where we are?” Davis asked.

  “This is where Vinny’s father lives,” Gerry said, checking the numbers on the doors. He’d known Vinny since junior high school and had come over here many times. The house looked smaller than he remembered, but so did most things on the island.

  “Would you gentlemen mind staying here?” Gerry asked.

  Davis and Marconi turned around and shot him wicked stares.

  “Better not keep us waiting,” Marconi said, his lips hardly moving.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gerry said.

  Vinny’s father, Angelo Fountain, was a professional tailor and ran his business out of the living room of his house, his customers getting fitted in front of a display case filled with black-and-white wedding pictures of Angelo and his late wife, Marie. In the case was also a sign: CHEAP CLOTHES ARE MADE, GARMENTS ARE BUILT.

  The TV set was on when they came in, Jerry Springer reading off a card. Angelo was a small, delicate man, and balanced himself on the edge of the couch, a yellow tape measure hanging around his neck. He looked up in surprise.

  “Get the hell out of my house,” he said.

  Vinny stood in the foyer, unbuttoning his jacket. Gerry hung behind him.

  “Didn’t you hear what I just told you?” his father asked.

  “I’ve got a visitor with me,” his son said.

  “Like that makes a difference? Who did you bring this time, John Gotti?”

  “He’s dead, Pop.”

  “Then I’m sure it’s someone just like him,” his father retorted. “Every time I turn around, the police are wanting to talk to me about you, or something you’ve done. My son, the professional crook.”

  Gerry glanced at Vinny’s profile, wondering what effect this old man’s words were having on him. If the verbal assault bothered Vinny, he didn’t show it. Tugging his jacket off, Vinny tossed it on a chair and entered the living room.

  “I brought an old friend with me,” Vinny said. “You remember Gerry Valentine, don’t you, Pop?”

  Angelo Fountain had come to the United States on a boat from Italy, and had brought with him manners and class. He killed the TV with a remote, stood up, and graciously stuck out his hand. “Of course I remember. Tony Valentine’s boy.”

  Gerry shook his hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

  “And you as well. Are you still running an illegal bookmaking operation?” Angelo Fountain asked.

  There was an edge to his voice that made Gerry hesitate. He took out a business card, and handed it to the older man. “I gave up the rackets, Mr. Fountain. I’m working with my father now.”

  Angelo Fountain removed his bifocals to study the card. In his late seventies, he wore a navy blue suit overlaid with a faint windowpane check. His spread-collar shirt was light blue, his necktie a soft red, as was his matching pocket foulard. He’d always dressed like a head of state, even though he rarely left the neighborhood.

  “I thought your father retired,” Angelo said.

  “He did,” Gerry said. “My mom passed away, and he went back to work as a consultant.”

  “How long you work for him?”

  “It’s going on six months.”

  The older man’s face softened. “You like it?”

  That was a loaded question if Gerry had ever heard one. His father could be a bear, and sometimes drove Gerry nuts. But it was an honest business, and he could tuck his daughter in at night knowing he wasn’t doing things she might someday be ashamed of.

  “Love it,” Gerry said.

  Angelo Fountain brewed a fresh pot of coffee and served his guests. Gerry had the foresight to ask him to make two extra cups, and took them outside to the two detectives parked by the curb.

  “Service’s improving,” Marconi said.

  Gerry grabbed the Yankees cap off the backseat. He hadn’t wanted to bring the cap into the house and just stick it under Mr. Fountain’s nose. Going back inside, he found Vinny and his father practically at blows.

  “You’re a bum,” his father said.

  “Says who?” Vinny replied.

  “Every single person on this island.”

  “I’ve never been convicted of a single crime,” his son protested.

  “You and O.J. Simpson,” his father said.

  Gerry made Vinny squinch over and sat down between father and son on the couch. They stopped arguing, with Angelo glaring at his son.

  “Mr. Fountain, I need your help,” Gerry said, handing him the cap. “This baseball cap turned up during a case. Vinny thinks you might be able to tell me who stitched it.”

  Angelo Fountain examined the receiver and LEDs sewn into the cap’s rim. His hands were small and fine-boned, the skin almost translucent. A minute passed. He was taking too long, and Gerry guessed it was someone he knew and didn’t want to snitch on. The locals were famous for closing ranks when it came to protecting one another.

  “I wouldn’t have come here, and put this imposition on you, if there wasn’t a good reason,” Gerry said.

  Angelo Fountain looked into his visitor’s face. “And what might that be?”

  “The man who had this cap made has a contract on my father’s life.”

  “Ahh,” Angelo Fountain said.

  Another minute went by. The older man put his hand on Gerry’s knee, gave it a friendly squeeze. “I like your father. He’s a good man. I’ll help you out.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fountain.”

  “A tailor on the island made this baseball cap. I recognize the stitching,” Angelo Fountain said. “This tailor was in prison, made friends with some bad people. When he got out of prison, he started taking jobs from these people.”

  “What kind of jobs?” Gerry asked.

  “Tailoring jobs. To help them steal from the casinos.”

  “Steal how?”

  “I’ll show you.” Angelo Fountain went to the other side of the living room, pulled open a drawer on a cabinet, and returned holding a paper bag that he dropped on Gerry’s lap. “This tailor gets a lot of work from these people. Sometimes, he asks me to help out. I always say no, but he still comes by.”

  Gerry removed the bag’s contents. There were several cloth bags made of dark material, and a metal contraption tied up with wire that looked like a kid’s toy. Gerry untied the wire, and realized he was holding a Kepplinger holdout, a device used by card cheaters to invisibly switch cards during a game. The Kepplinger was worn beneath a sports jacket, and secretly delivered cards into a cheater’s hand through his sleeve, the mechanism powered by a wire stretched between the cheater’s knees. In order for the Kepplinger to work properly, it had to be fitted to the jacket, and Gerry remembered his father saying that only a handful of people in the country knew how to do this.

  Gerry examined the cloth bags. They were subs, a device used by crooked employees to steal chips. The mouth of each sub had a flexible steel blade sewn into it, with an elastic strap attached to both ends. The sub was worn in the pants, between the underwear and belt line. The crooked employee would palm a chip off the table, and by sucking in his gut, drop the chip into the mouth of the sub. The move took a second, and was invisible if done properly.

  Gerry put the Kepplinger and the subs back into the paper bag. Angelo Fountain had just told him some thing important. This tailor had so much work, he couldn’t handle it all. A one-man factory.

  “The p
olice would like to talk to this tailor,” Gerry said.

  “They going to send him back to prison?” Angelo Fountain asked.

  Gerry shook his head. “Making cheating equipment isn’t against the law. They just want to ask him who ordered the baseball cap.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all, Mr. Fountain. They just want the name.”

  Angelo Fountain got a pad of paper and a pencil from the kitchen. He wrote the tailor’s name and address on the pad, his handwriting painstakingly slow. Then he tore off the slip and gave it to Gerry. They shook hands in the foyer.

  “Tell your father I said hello,” Angelo Fountain said.

  Gerry and Vinny stood on the front porch buttoning their jackets, the wind blowing hard and cold off the nearby ocean. Davis and Marconi were at the curb, the car’s windows steamed up. Gerry guessed they would drive straight to the tailor’s address, and pressure him. That would put them one step closer to stopping George Scalzo’s operation in Atlantic City, and putting a bunch of hoodlums in prison.

  “You need to take your father away for a while,” Gerry said.

  “Why?”

  “Just to be safe.”

  Vinny looked back at the house and shuddered from something besides the cold. “My father and I don’t happen to get along, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “He still talks to you, doesn’t he?”

  “Meaning what? You and your father didn’t talk?”

  “Not for a long time,” Gerry admitted.

  Vinny lit up a cigarette, blew a cloud that hung over their heads. “So what changed?”

  That was a good question. Up until six months ago, his relationship with his father had been no better than Vinny’s and his father’s. But it had done a one-eighty since he’d gone to work with his father. Now they talked in civil tones and ate meals together and even shared a few laughs. It wasn’t perfect, but if he’d learned anything in his thirty-six years on this earth, few things in life ever were.

  “Me,” Gerry said. “I changed.”

  35

  Valentine folded his cell phone and dropped it in his pocket. He’d been barred from the tournament. It didn’t seem possible, and he tried to guess how many millions of dollars he’d saved Nevada’s casinos since be coming a consultant. Fifty million, and that was a low estimate. And this was how they repaid him. The leper treatment.