Deadman's Bluff tv-7

by James Swain

  “The news wasn’t good, was it?” Gloria asked.

  “You’re a mind reader,” he said.

  They were still standing beside the cage of noisy parrots in the lobby. Gloria put her hand on his wrist. She was a toucher, something he’d always found attractive in a woman. The lobby noise made it hard to talk, but she tried anyway.

  “I hope it wasn’t about your son,” she said.

  “No, Gerry’s fine. At least the last time I checked.”

  “He’s sort of unpredictable, isn’t he?”

  “That’s a nice way to put it.”

  “Was it about the job?”

  “Yes. The governor has barred me from stepping foot inside Celebrity’s poker room while the tournament is taking place. I’ve also been nicely told to leave town.”

  “That’s wrong. I hope you aren’t going to comply.”

  There was something in Gloria’s voice that hadn’t been there a few days ago, and he guessed the feeling-out process was over. “I really don’t have much choice.”

  “But you haven’t nailed DeMarco.”

  “I’m not sure they want me to,” he said.

  “You need to stall them.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. So you can have more time to solve the case.”

  He didn’t have to talk to Gloria very long to be reminded that she was in the entertainment business and liked happy endings. “That’s not a bad idea. How would you suggest I stall them?”

  She bit her lower lip, thinking, then snapped her fingers. “Got it. You’re here on a job for the Nevada Gaming Control Board, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Make them pay you before you leave. Cash.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, and he could see Bill agreeing to it, knowing exactly what he was up to. He pulled out his cell phone. Moments later, he had Bill on the line and he made his request. His friend chuckled softly into the phone.

  “I’ll come by in the morning with your money,” Bill said.

  “Not too early,” Valentine said. “You know how I like my beauty rest.”

  “Look, Tony, there’s only so far I can push this,” Bill said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon with your cash. I’d suggest you leave town after that.”

  Valentine glanced at his watch. It was easy to lose track of time in Las Vegas, and he was surprised to see it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Bill was giving him another twenty hours to crack the case.

  “Noon is beautiful,” Valentine said.

  He tucked his cell phone into his pocket then took out his wallet and removed the valet stub for his rental car. Gloria shot him a concerned look. “You off again?”

  “Yes. You’re coming, too.”

  Coins of crimson appeared on each of her cheeks. “I am?”

  “I need you to help me crack this case.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. There’s something wrong with this picture, and I can’t seem to figure out what it is. My old sergeant used to make his detectives share cases, in the hopes that another pair of eyes might see something that the first detective missed.”

  “I’m game. Where are we going?”

  “To see an old crook,” Valentine said.

  Ten minutes later, they were in Valentine’s rental cruising down the strip. Vegas looked different during the day, like a whore without her makeup. Hindsight being 20/20, he now knew that he should have chased Sammy Mann down the moment he’d heard Sammy had run out on them. Sammy was scared, and not because he hadn’t reported the other cheaters he knew to be playing in the tournament. Sammy knew they were close to solving the case, and hadn’t wanted to be around when it happened.

  Las Vegas was the fastest-growing city in the country, and pricey condo buildings were starting to sprout up on the strip. Sammy lived on the tenth floor of a building called the Veneto in a nice corner apartment. Valentine had visited him back when Sammy was fighting cancer, and he’d been impressed by the expensive furnishings. Most crooks died penniless. Sammy had saved up for a rainy day.

  “Who are we here to see?” Gloria asked as they parked in the condo’s lot. “Or is that a surprise?”

  “Sorry,” Valentine said. “His name is Sammy Mann. He’s a retired cheater.”

  “How do you know he’s home?”

  Valentine glanced up at the towering glass structure. He didn’t know for sure. Sammy might have left town, but that seemed unlikely. Most older people felt safest in their homes. They entered the building’s lobby, and Valentine found Sammy’s name on the intercom address book and pushed the button for Sammy’s apartment. Sammy answered with a hoarse “Yes?”

  “It’s Tony Valentine. I’m here with a friend. Let us up.”

  “I’m sick,” the old cheater replied.

  “You’re going to be a lot sicker if you don’t talk to me,” Valentine said.

  The front door buzzed open.

  Gloria laughed. “You’re something else,” she said.

  Sammy answered the door in a threadbare bathrobe and leather slippers. No greetings were exchanged; he simply opened the door, and they followed him into a living room with a leather couch that faced a picture window looking down on the strip. He motioned and they sat. From a pitcher he poured three glasses of ice water and set them on a coffee table. Then he sat in a chair and showed them his profile.

  “Let me guess,” Valentine said. “You have a sore throat.”

  “Very sore,” Sammy said.

  “Probably prevents you from talking.”

  Sammy nodded solemnly. Valentine glanced around the room, seeing a lot of upgrades since his last visit, but nothing that would tell you what Sammy did for a living. You had to know him to know what he was.

  “You want to hear a funny story?” Valentine asked.

  “I love a good laugh,” Sammy said.

  “You don’t sound like you have a sore throat.”

  Sammy coughed into his hand.

  “That’s better. Okay, here it is. I’m a rookie cop in Atlantic City, and as green as they come. One day, I’m walking my beat with my partner, and he tells me that the crooks in Atlantic City are more violent than the crooks in New York. He tells me that in New York, if one crook is trying to steal a truck of furs, and another crook steals the truck first, the first crook won’t take it personally. Not so in Atlantic City. If a crook catches another crook trying to steal the truck away from him, he’ll kill him.

  “That didn’t make any sense to me. Why would the crooks in Atlantic City, which has twenty thousand residents, be more violent than crooks in New York, which has six million residents? I was obviously missing something, and finally my partner explained it to me. There were less things to steal in Atlantic City. A lot less. In New York, a crook could go steal something else. But in Atlantic City, big scores were few and far between. That was the piece I was missing.

  “So here’s the thing, Sammy. I’m missing something that’s right in front of my face, and it’s bothering the hell out of me. I have to know, you know?”

  Sammy lifted his arms off the armrests of his chair. Let them hang in the air for a few seconds, then shrugged and dropped them. “You know the answer,” he said.

  “I do?”

  Sammy nodded. “You just told it to me. Atlantic City is different than New York. Well, Las Vegas is different, too.”

  Gloria slipped off the couch and came up beside Sammy’s chair. She knelt down and put her hand onto Sammy’s arm, all the while looking into the old cheater’s eyes, which were dark and unflinching. “How is it different?” she asked.

  Sammy laughed under his breath and looked at Valentine. “How long you been a team?”

  “You’re our first victim,” Valentine said.

  “You’d never know it,” the old cheater said.

  Rising, Sammy went to an entertainment center on the opposite side of the room, pulled open a drawer, and rummaged through a collection of videotapes, taking out two. He powered up the TV, then poppe
d a tape into the VCR. Returning to his chair, he picked up a glass of water and took a sip.

  “Just watch,” he said.

  The tape was of a heavyweight boxing match, the grainy color showing its age. George Foreman fighting a game German kid named Axel Schultz. Valentine followed boxing and had a vague memory of the fight. Mid-nineties, Las Vegas, with Foreman getting slapped around for twelve unspectacular rounds, yet somehow winning the decision. Schultz had gone back to Germany, never to be heard from again.

  Sammy shut the tape off after the decision was read, and Foreman announced the winner. Poor George hadn’t looked like the winner, his face more damaged than Freddy Kruger’s in the Halloween movies. Sammy stuck the second tape into the VCR, fast-forwarded it to a spot near the end, then returned to his chair. The tape was of a college football game and looked more recent.

  “I recognize this tape,” Gloria said, still kneeling beside Sammy’s chair. “This is a game between the Wisconsin Badgers and the Las Vegas Rebels played here in Vegas a few years ago, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Sammy said. “You like college football?”

  “I’ve covered it for years,” she said. “This game was a big upset. The Rebels were heavy favorites, but the Badgers ran them all over the field and won by twenty points. If I remember correctly, something odd happened at the very end of the game.”

  Sammy raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Yes?”

  “The lights in the stadium went out, and the game was awarded to the Badgers,” Gloria said. “I don’t think that’s ever happened in a college football game before.”

  “First time it ever happened,” Sammy said. He pointed at the screen. “Watch.”

  On the screen, a team of guys in red jerseys were playing a team of guys in white. The white team was getting the worst of it and looked ready for the showers. A healthy-sized crowd was cheering the red team on. Suddenly the stadium lights flickered, then went out altogether, throwing both teams into darkness. The action on the football field stopped, with no one knowing what to do.

  The tape ended and the screen went dark. Sammy shifted his gaze to the window, his eyes fixed on the casinos lining the strip. “People think this is a gambling town, but it’s not,” he said. “Las Vegas does not gamble. Never has, and never will. Take the Foreman fight. This city hosts a hundred boxing matches a year. Nobody cares who wins, or loses. Except if there’s a lot of money on the fight. Then everyone cares.

  “Axel Schultz beat George Foreman silly that night. Every journalist and sports writer who was there said so. But the judges gave the fight to Big George. Why do you think they did that?”

  “Because a lot of German tourists came to the fight, and bet heavily on their boy to win,” Valentine said.

  “That was one reason,” Sammy said. “There’s another.”

  “I know,” Gloria said. “George Foreman was a huge draw, and Axel Schultz wasn’t. If the judges gave the fight to Schultz, he’d take the belt home to Germany, and Las Vegas would lose out.”

  Sammy nodded. “Very good. By denying Schultz the title, Las Vegas didn’t lose any big fights.”

  “What about the football game,” Valentine said. “What happened there?”

  “Seventeen thousand Wisconsin fans were in town for that game, and bet heavily on the Badgers to beat the Rebels,” Sammy said.

  “But the Badgers did beat the Rebels,” Gloria said.

  “Yes, but the Wisconsin fans didn’t collect,” Sammy said. “Las Vegas’s sports books have an unusual rule. If a football game is stopped with more than four minutes left to play, the game is considered no contest, and everyone’s money is returned. When the stadium lights went out, there were more than four minutes left on the clock.”

  “So the lights were turned out on purpose,” Gloria said.

  Sammy nodded.

  “That’s unethical,” Gloria said.

  “No one out here saw it that way,” Sammy said. “Just smart business. You’re probably asking yourself, what does this have to do with the World Poker Showdown? The answer is simple. Every casino boss in town knows DeMarco’s cheating. But if he’s exposed, it will hurt their business. So the town is going to let it slide until the tournament is over. After that, it will get cleaned up.”

  “But what about the other players in the tournament? Or the fans?” Gloria asked, unable to hide the indignation in her voice. “Don’t they matter?”

  Sammy shook his head sadly. Valentine pushed himself off the couch. Las Vegas doesn’t gamble. It was another way of saying that Las Vegas wasn’t in the business of losing. He supposed someone had to pay for all those fancy casinos and flashing neon signs. He shook Sammy’s hand and thanked him for his time, then escorted Gloria out of the apartment.

  36

  Gerry Valentine was surprised. He’d expected Detectives Eddie Davis and Joey Marconi to drive to the address of the tailor who Angelo Fountain had fingered and grill him. But the detectives had instead driven to the municipal courthouse on Atlantic Avenue and gone upstairs to the second floor to see a judge in his chambers.

  Marconi and Davis had an interesting theory that they’d presented to Gerry during the drive. The detectives had originally thought that the baseball caps were being manufactured on an assembly line. But while sitting outside Angelo Fountain’s house, they’d had a change of opinion.

  If a tailor was making the caps, then the caps were custom jobs. If that was true, then George Scalzo’s blackjack cheating gang were coming to the tailor’s place of business, getting fitted, then returning when the cap was done. That meant the tailor probably had records containing the gang’s names and phone numbers. It would be enough evidence to show that the gang was conspiring to cheat the island’s casinos, and land them in jail.

  “A slam dunk, ” Davis had said in the car.

  Gerry hadn’t seen it that way. The tailor wasn’t going to rat out the mob.

  “If the tailor has records,” Gerry had replied.

  “Every good tailor keeps records,” Marconi said, handling the wheel. “It’s part of the business. The only thing we need is a warrant to search the tailor’s premises. That’s where you come in.”

  “Me?” Gerry said.

  “Yes. We’ll need to have you explain the scams to the judge. You’re the expert.”

  Gerry had shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Whatever you say.”

  The judge they went to see was named Alva Dopking. Dopking was a lanky, cleft-chinned former prosecutor who’d been making criminals’ lives miserable in Atlantic City for thirty years. Gerry had come up before him in juvenile court and had not enjoyed the experience. Sitting in Dopking’s book-lined chambers, he kept his eyes glued to the floor while Davis and Marconi stood in front of Dopking’s desk, and argued their case.

  Dopking listened while sucking on an unlit cigar. His wavy dark hair had turned snow white; otherwise, he looked the same as Gerry remembered. He was a tough nut, and he didn’t like it when his directions weren’t followed.

  “I’m just not buying your argument,” Dopking said, tossing his cigar into an ashtray on the desk. “First of all, the tailor who gave you the information—Angelo Fountain—how do you know he doesn’t have a gripe with this other tailor, Bruno Traffatore, and isn’t out to make the man’s life miserable?

  “Second, I’m not comfortable with your theory that these gaffed baseball caps are being custom-made by Traffatore. I’ve had cheating cases brought before me in the past, and the equipment came from magic shops or companies that mass-produce this stuff.”

  Davis stepped forward. “Your Honor, we have an expert who’s been helping us with this case. The consulting firm he works for specializes in catching casino cheaters. He’ll confirm everything we’ve said to you this afternoon.”

  Dopking looked Gerry’s way. “Him?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Dopking shot Gerry an unfriendly look, and Gerry felt himself squirm. Dopking had a reputation for unflinching
honesty, and as a result, commanded more respect than all the island’s politicians rolled together.

  “What is this expert’s name?” Dopking asked.

  “Gerry Valentine,” Davis replied.

  The hint of a smile played on Dopking’s lips. “I’d like to hear what Mr. Gerry Valentine has to say,” he said.

  Davis turned around, and motioned for Gerry to come forward. Gerry wedged himself between the two detectives and identified himself.

  “Tony Valentine’s son?” Dopking asked, as if wanting to be sure.

  “That’s right. I mean, yes, Your Honor.”

  Dopking’s smile vanished. “I thought you were a bookie.”

  Gerry opened his mouth but nothing came out. The judge leaned forward.

  “I do keep track of the people who step before me, you know,” Dopking said.

  Gerry found his voice. “Yes, Your Honor. I gave up the rackets and now work in my father’s consulting business. I’m here to ask you to grant the detectives’ request, and give them a warrant to search Bruno Traffatore’s place of business. I will personally vouch for the integrity of Angelo Fountain, the informant who gave us the name. He offered up the name only after I pressured him.”

  “So he has no gripe with this other tailor?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Dopking studied him. “I’m still doubtful of the detectives’ claim that Traffatore is custom-making cheating equipment. Aren’t these things mass-produced?”

  “The items that are mass-produced are junk. The real work is made by pros.”

  The gaffed baseball cap was sitting on the desk. “Give me an example besides this baseball cap,” Dopking said.

  Gerry removed a five-dollar casino chip from his pocket and handed it to the judge. The chip was actually a shell with a hollowed-out interior. Dopking examined it, then said, “Explain how this works.”

  “It’s a dealer/agent scam, Your Honor. Let’s say a blackjack dealer wants to rip off his own game. His agent plays at his table, and bets the shell. Every time the agent loses, the dealer picks up the shell and places it over another player’s losing bet. The shell is put in the dealer’s tray, and the agent buys the shell back. What he gets in return is the shell, and whatever denomination chip the dealer just stole off the table.”