The Picasso Flop

by Vince Van Patten

  “You remember me, don’t ya?”

  “Sure I do,” Jimmy said. “My father was your first partner.”

  “He trained me,” Vic Porcelli said. “Made me the cop I am today.”

  “What are you doing today, Vic?”

  “I’m a captain of detectives, kid,” Vic said. “A coupla years from retirement, though. Don’t know if I’m gonna make it higher. Hey, you got time for a drink?”

  “Uh, no, Vic, I really don’t. I’ve got something to do.”

  “Okay, sure.” Vic’s blue eyes were startling, made more so by his ruddy complexion. “How about drinks with Margaret and me later? We can’t afford to stay here—we’re over at the Barbary Coast—but we can—”

  “This thing I’ve got to do is going to tie me up all night, Vic.”

  “Huh,” Vic said. “It’s like that?” His face changed.

  He thinks I’m blowing him off, Jimmy thought, and I am. He felt bad about it, but he didn’t want to end up talking about his—

  “Too bad about your dad,” Vic said. “I heard what happened. I wish I could have come to the funeral.”

  “It was a small affair, just for family,” Jimmy said. He gave Vic’s hand a lackluster shake. “I’ll see you, Vic.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you got things to do. I get it.”

  “Vic, I didn’t mean—”

  “Take it easy.”

  His father’s old partner turned and went in search of his penny-slot-playing wife. It had been a lot of years since he’d seen Vic Porcelli. So many, in fact, that he was surprised the man had even recognized him.

  When they were seated with their beer and soup Kat very quickly explained to him how she had gone all in twice with huge hands and got paid off. Spain was excited for her. You don’t always get action when you’re dealt a good hand. But it wasn’t always about winning or losing. You had to judge for yourself how well you played. That was the important thing. Anyone could win with good hands. Great players win when they play well. But she felt confident she played strong all day, as did Spain.

  He sat back and stared at her. The strategy of keeping her Goth look was paying off. That must have been some distraction for her table.

  “So how much you got?” he asked.

  “About twenty-eight thousand.”

  “Good, you’re doing better than me.”

  “What else is new, dude? I’m the nuts. No bluff.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, you’re doing it again—the poker talk. It’s disturbing.”

  “Okay, okay . . .”

  “Don’t get overconfident. We have a long tournament ahead of us. Don’t forget the goal for this whole thing is to finish in the money, maybe make the final table. From there anything can happen.”

  “Dude, I’m gonna win this thing. That’s my goal.”

  “Just eat your soup,” he said, exasperated.

  Kat went back to her wonton soup, took a big spoonful, but then reminded herself.

  “Hey, dude, what did you think about that online freak Bennett? Can you believe what he said about you and Doyle?”

  “Hey, you know what? The kid’s a punk. You’ve got to ignore the guy.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Just play your game, Kat. Remember your goal.”

  “Another thing, dude. What was that lady remark?”

  “What?

  “You called me a lady in front of that geek.”

  Spain remembered one of the reasons he was here. It was not just mentoring that Harold was paying for, it was making sure Kat didn’t turn out to be Tonya Harding.

  “Kat, you’re not a girl, you’re a woman. Don’t you think you could try, just a little, to be more feminine?”

  Kat flinched. Nothing could be more insulting than that. “Dude, I don’t want to be feminine.” She slurped some more soup.

  “Look at the successful women in this game,” he said. “They not only play well, they use their femininity. They’re ladies.”

  “Dude, screw bein’ a lady. I wanna be a poker player. They are animals out there. I’m one of them.”

  Jimmy decided to take a different approach. “How about Cloney Gowan? There’s a good example for you. And Evelyn Ng. Do you know why they dress and speak well? The feminine touch. In the long run it makes them more money at the table and from endorsements.”

  “What are you doin’, dude?” she demanded. “Why you tryin’ to change me all of a sudden? Muck this conversation.”

  “All I’m saying is think about it,” he said. “The Goth you can still keep. It’s good. But let’s tweak it now. You could be more . . . feminine.”

  She fumed for a few moments over her soup, looked at him, and said, “I’ll give it some thought, dude.”

  He spread his arms. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  After a few moments she asked, “You gonna play in a side game tonight?”

  “No.”

  “How about if I get into one?”

  “Hey, you know the rules. You stay away from those, especially on a tournament night. Go to bed.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Right.”

  “You want to do something tonight, play the slots but only for twenty minutes to unwind. Got it?”

  “Dude, I got it.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning, kid.”

  Maybe he’d gotten through to her about working the feminine angle, maybe not. He still had to get rid of her poker talk. He probably should be picking his battles.

  PART TWO

  THE FLOP

  When the dope kicks in, all is possible with the world.

  —Jimmy Spain

  TWELVE

  Jimmy didn’t sleep well that night.

  It wasn’t anything serious, just something that happened every once in a while since he got out. It was as if his body was afraid to go to sleep for fear of waking up in prison. When that happened he had to quit the bed and find something to do. When he was at home he’d turn on the TV, read, or go out to an all-night restaurant. Sometimes he’d find an all-night poker game. In Vegas it wasn’t a problem. He simply got dressed and went downstairs. It was one thing to tell Kat what the rules were, but he had earned the right to break them, so he went to the poker room.

  He saw some of the pros sitting at high-limit tables. There were plenty of empty chairs, though, so he chose a table at a ten- to twenty-five-dollar blind, no-limit game just to kill time. He spent about an hour, won a few hundred dollars, and cashed out. He thought if he had to play only in the poker rooms in Vegas he’d shoot himself. It had become such a social event, people coming in and out of the game, asking how are you doing in the tournament—everyone an expert. They could tell you where to go to win, and eat, and get show tickets, and before long Jimmy wanted to shoot them and himself. He didn’t mind trash-talking with other pros at a game, but these people were too much to take. He probably could have switched to a higher-stakes table to avoid the tourists, but instead he chose to cash out.

  When he left the poker room he was still not ready to go to sleep. He was considering yet another cup of coffee in the snack bar or—God forbid—actually putting money into a slot machine when he heard his name. He turned and couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw who was coming toward him.

  “Jimmy, boy, is that you?”

  Paulie DiCicca had been two years into a five-year stretch when Jimmy’d gotten out. He was a con man, a hustler, a small-time grifter who thought he was the master of the short and long con. He talked so fast, and his voice was so high, that he sounded like Joe Pesci on helium.

  He rushed up to Jimmy and grabbed him by the shoulders, which wasn’t easy to do. Paulie was only five foot two, almost a foot shorter.

  “I thought that was you. Man, you’re lookin’ real good. Everybody comes to Vegas, huh?”

  “Paulie,” Jimmy said, finally able to speak, “what are you doing in Vegas?”

  “I got out,” Paulie said, spreading his arms. “Good behavior. Can you believe it?
Me?”

  “Actually,” Jimmy said, “I can’t.”

  “Well, here I am,” Paulie said. “Big as life. Got out last month and swore I’d come to Vegas. Took me this long to get here, and who do I see on my first night? My old friend Jimmy Spain.”

  “We were never friends, Paulie.”

  “Cell mates, once.”

  “For a week.” Jimmy couldn’t take him for any longer. He’d convinced the warden to split them up. Since the warden had a weakness for poker and needed some tutoring, he’d agreed.

  “Hey,” Paulie said magnanimously, “Cell mates for a week, buddies forever. Right? Right.”

  Jimmy cringed at Paulie’s habit of saying the word “right” over and over again.

  “Paulie,” Jimmy said, “tell me this is a coincidence, us running into each other in Las Vegas this way.”

  Paulie stared up at Jimmy, who had to look away from the turtleneck sweater that was a painful shade of purple. It looked like something from the eighties.

  “How could it be anythin’ else?” the smaller man asked with a shrug. “I mean, how would I have found you here, huh?”

  Paulie’s heavy Queens accent was ever present and just one more reason to dislike him, as far as Jimmy was concerned—of which there were plenty.

  “Paulie—”

  “Okay,” Paulie said quickly, “maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence, huh?”

  I knew it, Jimmy thought. Seeing Paulie DiCicca was never a good thing.

  “Paulie, I don’t even want to talk to you. Get it?”

  “Hey,” Paulie said, frowning. “I’m gettin’ the feelin’ you ain’t glad to see me.”

  “A feeling?” Jimmy asked. “It’s only a feeling?”

  “Take it easy, Jimmy,” Paulie said. “There ain’t no need to get hostile. I got a proposition for ya.”

  “I’m not interested in a proposition from you—” Jimmy started.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Jimbo,” Paulie said, “but you ain’t heard it yet.”

  Jimmy closed his eyes. He hated being called Jimbo, and even more when it was Paulie using the sobriquet. “Paulie—”

  “Jimmy,” Paulie said, holding up his hands, “I know what you’re gonna say, but I think you’re gonna wanna give me some of your time.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Paulie looked around and, even though no one was near them, lowered his voice.

  “I don’t think you’re gonna want this broadcast all over Vegas,” he said. “Why don’t we get a drink someplace?”

  Jimmy studied the smaller man for a few moments. Paulie was bad news—there was no two ways about it. Having him show up in Vegas as if he knew he’d find Jimmy there was even worse. Jimmy suddenly felt he needed to know how Paulie had found him and why.

  “Okay, Paulie,” he said, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezing. “Let’s go find a nice quiet bar.”

  “Sure, Jimmy, sure,” Paulie said, “but take it easy, will ya? If ya remember from stir, I bruise easy.”

  “I remember, Paulie,” Jimmy assured him, “I remember.”

  Jimmy propelled Paulie DiCicca right out of the Bellagio and onto the street.

  “Where we goin’?” Paulie demanded.

  “Where nobody will see us together.”

  “Now yer tryin’ ta hurt my self-esteem.”

  Jimmy didn’t respond. They kept walking north until they were near the Boardwalk Casino. Only then did Jimmy duck into a bar. They each got a beer and found a table in a corner—although it wasn’t dark enough to hide Paulie’s shirt.

  “Okay,” he said to Paulie, “talk.”

  “I don’t need much from you, Jimbo,” Paulie said. “Just some introductions.”

  “To who?”

  “Some of the high rollers.”

  “I don’t know any gamblers, Paulie.”

  “Sure ya do,” Paulie said. “The guys yer playin’ poker with.”

  “Poker players?” Jimmy asked. “You want me to introduce you to poker players?”

  “Sure, why not?” Paulie said. “They got plenty of money. They’re prime for a good deal.”

  “You mean prime for one of your scams.”

  “You call ’em scams, I call ’em deals.”

  “Paulie,” Jimmy said, “whatever put the thought in your little pea brain that I’d help you with this?”

  “We’re bros,” Paulie said, “brothers under the skin, ya know? We got that bond ya form in stir—”

  “Paulie—”

  “I’ll bet none of your friends here in the poker world know you’re an ex-con.”

  Jimmy stared at him. “Are you trying to blackmail me into helping you?”

  Paulie shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”

  Actually, Mike Sexton knew that he’d been inside, but it wasn’t general knowledge. It was likely no one would even care, but he wasn’t sure what the Bellagio would do if they discovered that he was an ex-con. Or the World Poker Tour. He didn’t know the rules concerning his situation. But overall it just wasn’t good business.

  Before he could even respond to the threat, Paulie went one step further. “Or how about your little protégé?”

  “What about her?”

  “What would she do if she found out you’re workin’ for her old man?”

  Jimmy decided not to play word games with Paulie. “How do you know about that?”

  “Hey, I got ears. I know how ta use ’em.”

  “Paulie—” Jimmy reached across the table for him, but Paulie pulled back and held his hands up.

  “Hey, cuz, we ain’t gonna get nowhere with that kinda attitude.”

  “You stay away from that girl,” Jimmy warned.

  “Jimmy, come on. I ain’t interested in your private snatch, okay?”

  “It’s not like that, Paulie.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Paulie said. “She’s the Banker’s kid, right?”

  Harold Landrigan had been called “the Banker” while he was inside.

  “Paulie, what do you think you know?”

  “Just enough,” Paulie said with a shrug, “enough to cause some . . . uncomfortable moments.”

  Jimmy had to grit his teeth as he asked, “What do you really want?”

  “I tol’ you,” Paulie said. “Just some intros. I’ll do the rest.”

  Paulie stood up, drained half his beer, and set the glass back down.

  “Vegas!” Paulie said. “I love it.” He took a deep breath. “You can smell the money.” He looked at Jimmy. “Think it over, Jimbo. I’m at Caesar’s Palace. I’ll be in touch.”

  THIRTEEN

  Jimmy woke the next morning with a headache. It only took a few moments to realize the headache’s name was Paulie and no amount of aspirin or Tylenol was going to help. He would have to figure something out, but first he had to make a call.

  “Jimmy!” Harold Landrigan said happily, as he came on the line. “How’s my little girl doing?”

  “She’s fine, Harold,” Jimmy said. “Still in the hunt after the first day.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “On the other hand, I’m pissed.”

  “Uh-oh,” Landrigan said. “At me?”

  “At somebody,” Jimmy said. “Let’s find out if it should be you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “An old friend of ours showed up in Las Vegas yesterday. Guess who?”

  “I can’t,” Landrigan said. “I assume you mean somebody from prison, and I didn’t have any friends there except you.”

  “I’m flattered,” Jimmy said drily. “Remember Paulie DiCicca?”

  “DiCicca,” Landrigan said. “That little annoying guy?”

  “That’s him.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He wants me to introduce him to some high rollers.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Landrigan asked. “Introduce him.”

  “It’s not that easy, Harold,” Jimmy said. “He’s got some kind of scam in
mind, and I don’t want him undermining my credibility.”

  “Then don’t introduce him,” Landrigan said. “I’m still not seeing the problem, Jimmy.”

  “The problem is he’s trying to blackmail me into helping him.”

  “What’s he got on you?”

  “On us, Harold,” Jimmy corrected him. “It’s what he’s got on us.”

  “What could he possibly have—” Landrigan started.

  “That’s right,” Jimmy said. “He knows about our little arrangement.”

  “And he’s threatening to tell Kat?”

  “He is.”

  “Well, can’t you do something?” Landrigan asked. “I mean . . . have somebody get rid of him?” The man lowered his voice, and Jimmy imagined him touching his finger to his nose.

  “You want me to have him whacked, Harold?” Jimmy asked. “Is that what you want me to do? ’Cause I don’t do that kind of thing, you know? I’m not a gangster. Didn’t you get that when we were in prison?”

  “I’m sorry, Jimmy,” Landrigan said. “I just thought . . . the reason you were inside . . .”

  “I did kill somebody,” Jimmy said, “but I didn’t whack him. Do you understand the difference? It’s called self-defense.” Even though the court had called it manslaughter.

  “Sure, Jimmy, sure I do. . . . Maybe we can pay him off? I’ll send you some money—”

  “That’s not why I called, Harold,” Jimmy said. “I’ll figure out how to handle Paulie. If I need more money, I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay, then what can I do?”

  “Tell me who you talked to.”

  “What?”

  “There’s got to be somebody else you told about our arrangement,” Jimmy said. “Somebody else knows. Who did you tell?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone, Jimmy,” Landrigan said. “Honest.”

  “Harold, you thought this arrangement was very clever,” Jimmy said. “It’s been my experience that whenever somebody does something clever, he likes to talk about it, brag about it. Who did you brag to? A woman? Another suit at your club?”

  “Jimmy, I didn’t—” Landrigan stopped short.

  “What? Come on, Harold. What’d you just think of?” Jimmy pushed him.

  “I’m not sure. . . . Let me look into it.”