The Picasso Flop

by Vince Van Patten

  “An offer?”

  “You know, like to back them?” The young man’s face took on a hungry look.

  “Lenny, I’m a player,” Jimmy told him. “I don’t back other players.”

  Now the hungry look turned nasty.

  “Then what the fuck are ya botherin’ me for?” he demanded, and stormed away.

  Jimmy thought this was a young man with some serious issues. Whatever his problems, he obviously was not going to be much help finding the other posse members.

  Luckily, Mike Sexton appeared at that moment, spotted him, waved, and walked over.

  “What the hell happened, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy explained.

  “And you were there? You were a witness?”

  “I was a witness to the body hitting the water,” Jimmy said. “That’s about it.”

  “Do you think the murders are connected?”

  “They’re connected, Mike.”

  “How do you know?”

  Jimmy almost told Sexton about the Picasso flop cards on both bodies but stopped himself. The police might be keeping that to themselves.

  “Two posse members dead in a twelve-hour span? Do the math.”

  “My lord,” Sexton said. “I guess my boss and I better talk to the police.”

  “Yep, you better do that.”

  “You’re still gonna hep, ain’t cha, Jimmy?” Sexton’s accent was deepening as he became more agitated.

  “I suppose so, Mike,” Jimmy said. “But I need you to point out Brouchet or Abrahms or any others there might be.”

  Sexton turned and looked around. “Ah don’t see any of them.”

  “Then describe them to me.”

  Tall, short, fat, thin, but the clothes are always the same, right down to the ball caps. Jimmy wasn’t surprised.

  “I’ll find them,” Jimmy said. “What can you tell me about a guy named Krieger, Leonard or Lenny Krieger.”

  “Not much,” Sexton said. “Another Internet player.”

  “As good as Bennett?”

  “Oh, no, Bennett is—I mean, was—the best of the bunch.”

  “But this guy Krieger, he’s not in the posse?” Jimmy asked.

  “No,” Sexton said, “he wants to be, but no. Why?”

  “I spoke with him,” Jimmy explained. “He doesn’t seem to be wrapped too tight.”

  “You think he did it?”

  “I’m not saying that at all, Mike, I’m just asking questions.”

  At that moment Kat appeared but didn’t see them. Jimmy looked over and noticed Sexton’s boss, too.

  “Give me a number where I can reach you at all times.”

  “Yeah, I better go. Here’s my card with my cell number on it. See you later, Jimmy.”

  He started to go but stopped and turned. Pointing, he said, “?‘Bad Boy’ show. I can see it now. You’re perfect.” Ever the ambassador. Jimmy knew he was being buttered up.

  As Sexton walked away, Kat came rushing up.

  “Dude, is it true?”

  “What’d you hear?”

  She told him she’d heard about the body landing in the pool.

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “Could he have fallen by accident?”

  “It was no accident, kid. He was murdered.”

  “What the hell is going on? Are they gonna cancel the tournament?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “How are we gonna concentrate on our games? Talk about a bad beat,” she wondered aloud.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You just put the rest of this stuff out of your mind.”

  “I’ll try, dude,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it, but I’ll try.”

  “You’ll do it, Kat,” Jimmy said. “Just play your game.”

  PART THREE

  THE TURN

  The card that makes your world turn upside down. It’s hard to turn back now. You’re living on the edge.

  —Dallas Jack

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jimmy was not surprised that the second murder was not the main topic of discussion among the poker players. It was the third day of the game, after all. Antes and blinds were up, and a player could lose pretty quickly if he lost his concentration. Plus it was getting pretty close to payoff time. Top fifty made money back, and the players were hungry for that achievement.

  Jimmy took a few early hands, tried to keep up his patter, throwing some of the players at the table off balance or pissing them off. He was raking in some chips when a man working for the Bellagio leaned over and told Jimmy there was someone who needed to see him.

  That wasn’t going to be a problem. Just like yesterday anyone that had official business with detectives on anything related to the murders would not get blinded off. A time-out wouldn’t hurt them. This break came under that ruling.

  “I’ll be back,” he told the dealer. He stood up and followed the man off the floor.

  “Here he is,” the man said, and left.

  “Vic,” Jimmy said to Vic Porcelli, his father’s ex-partner he had bumped into the first day of the tournament, “thanks for coming.”

  “I wasn’t gonna,” Vic admitted, shaking Jimmy’s hand, “but you said it was important.”

  “I wasn’t even sure you’d still be here.”

  “We got two more days at the hotel.”

  “How’d you like to spend those two days here?” Jimmy asked.

  “We played here some already, Jimmy. We thought we’d try some other places—”

  “No,” Jimmy said, “how would you like to stay here in a room? Finish out your vacation here?”

  “I told you, we can’t afford—”

  Exasperated, Jimmy said, “No charge to you, Vic.”

  “You mean . . . stay here, free?”

  “That’s right,” Jimmy said. “Room service included.”

  “Who do I have to kill?”

  “Somebody’s already been killed, Vic,” Jimmy said. “That’s what I need to talk to you about. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. . . .”

  They went down the escalator to Palio Pronto.

  “Just black,” Vic told the girl. He looked at Jimmy. “No lattes or granitas or whatever for me—just plain coffee.”

  Vic Porcelli had always been plain—at least, back when Jimmy knew him. His age fell just about dead center between Jimmy and his dad, about fifteen years either way, maybe a little more. If he was near retirement, as he’d said the other day, then he was sixty or close to it. Jimmy had known him as a young man, did not know how he had developed over the years, but the way he’d ordered his coffee told a lot about him.

  “How’s your wife doing on the penny slots?”

  “You know you could win a shitload of money on those things?” Vic asked, surprised. “She hit for five hundred on a machine where the jackpot was over ninety thousand. I tell ya, she’s payin’ for this trip with her goddamned penny slots. But you didn’t call me over here for small talk, did you? Not if you’re offerin’ us a free room in the Bellagio.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard but there was a murder here yesterday.”

  “Heard somethin’,” Vic said, “but I try not to think about those things when I’m on vacation. Makes the wife crazy, ya know?”

  “I don’t know, but I can imagine,” Jimmy said. “Anyway, there was another murder today.”

  “No kiddin’?”

  “Both victims were poker players, here for a big game.”

  “One of them big games on TV?”

  “Yes,” Jimmy said. “That’s what I’m doing here, too. Playing in that game.”

  “You’re a poker player? A pro?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boy, I’ll bet that didn’t sit well with your old man.”

  “It didn’t,” Jimmy said, “but it’s what I do.”

  “Okay.” Vic sipped his coffee. “I hate these Styrofoam cups. Gimme cardboard, any day, like the
old Chock full o’Nuts containers when we were kids.”

  “Anyway,” Jimmy said, “somehow I got myself roped into helping out.”

  “Helpin’ the police?”

  “Ah, no—well, yeah, kinda. The detective in charge has been asking me questions about the poker scene. And I’ve been asked to look into the whole thing by the WPT—”

  “The what?”

  “The people running the tournament.”

  “What makes them think you can do that?” Vic asked.

  “They know that my dad was a cop. I told them it isn’t in the genes, but they didn’t listen. They just want someone who’s not connected with the Vegas police to nose around.”

  “I think I’m gettin’ it,” Vic said. “You want some quick lessons.”

  “I want more than that, Vic. I want help.”

  “My ol’ lady’s gonna squeal.”

  “Look, go and get her and bring her here. I’ll check you in, get you a nice room, some comped meals. Think that’ll smooth it over with her a bit?”

  “A lot,” Vic said. “This place is supposed to have a killer buffet.”

  “I guess that would be the appropriate word for it,” Jimmy said. “Look, I’m going to be playing poker most of today, probably until midnight, if I’m still lucky. But if you and I could meet for dinner—I’ll buy you a steak—we can talk. Would your wife mind eating at the Buffet alone?”

  “With all that food? She won’t even notice I’m gone. Okay, where d’ya wanna meet?”

  After arranging to meet with Vic first at the registration desk and then later for dinner, Jimmy called Mike Sexton’s cell. He told him what he needed, what he had promised Vic Porcelli and his wife. Sexton said no problem, he’d have it in the computer by the time Jimmy got to the registration desk.

  True to Mike Sexton’s word, by the time Vic and his wife met Jimmy at the front desk they were checked not only into a room but into a suite.

  “A bellman will take you up,” Jimmy said. “I’ll meet you for dinner in front of Prime at seven.”

  “Prime? That their steakhouse?”

  “One of the best in town.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Jimmy leaned in. “Your wife seems quiet.”

  “She don’t want you to see how excited she is.”

  “Good,” Jimmy said. “I hope she enjoys herself. And I hope you don’t mind me making this into a working vacation for you.”

  “Hell,” Vic said, “I been goin’ crazy, anyway. The cards sure ain’t been running. Every time I get twenty, the damn dealer turns over twenty-one. You know how many times I seen a five card twenty-one?”

  Jimmy had decided years ago that blackjack was a frustrating game. In poker you never had to worry about the house odds.

  “Get settled,” Jimmy said. “Then we’ll talk.”

  While the Porcellis were shown to their suite Jimmy went back to the tournament.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jimmy finally admitted to himself that he probably wasn’t going to do very well. Winning a tournament of this magnitude required skill and luck, but for either it also required concentration. He just had not been able to give it his all since day one. There was too much else going on—two murders, not to mention the appearance of two specters from his past. First Paulie DiCicca, with his not-so-veiled threats of blackmail, and then Vic Porcelli, bringing with him unwanted memories of his father’s disapproval. But he still had chips, more than most, in fact. Kat was another story. She was struggling, had roughly about twenty thousand left. But the banter at the table next to Jimmy wasn’t just about chips, it was all about the murders.

  Doyle Brunson was holding court. He was one of the top-ten chip leaders at this point. He sat there in his cowboy hat with a knowing smile and stacks of chips in front of him. He didn’t have to say anything; it was Scooter and Skippy, the freak show act, who was doing all the talking.

  “You know, when somethin’ like this goes down,” Scooter said, “tragedies like this . . . really makes you think. Makes poker and all this cash seem a little insignificant, doesn’t it?”

  “What the fuck are you sayin’?” Skippy’s high-pitched voice cut through the air. His head spun around. “You wanna go back to that two-bit motel in Culver City where I found you? Money insignificant? Are you fuckin’ nuts or what?”

  “I was just sayin’—” Scooter started, but he was cut off by the voice of James Woods, who was still in the tournament at another table.

  “Would you guys shut the fuck up?” he shouted, turning around in his seat. “Goddamned circus act. Have some respect for the dead, for god’s sake.”

  Even Doyle Brunson got a chuckle out of that.

  Jimmy kept thinking. It was possible that enlisting the aid of Vic Porcelli might free him up to play his game, but that remained to be seen. As it looked now, he’d last as long as he could and see what help he could be to Kat. If they each made it to the end of day three, they’d be in the money—which meant they would have earned back their buy in plus more.

  He held his own until the dinner break and then went to Prime to meet Vic. When he got there the Philly police captain was waiting and had obviously donned his best. His hair was slicked back, he was wearing a sports jacket with what looked like a new shirt and slacks and loafers. He looked ill at ease as well-dressed people moved past him into the restaurant.

  “Hey, Vic.”

  “Jimmy, hey,” Vic said, putting out his hand.

  “How’s the suite?”

  “Oh, it’s great, man, great,” Vic said. “The wife loves it.”

  “Want to go inside?”

  Vic turned and looked at Prime, then back at Jimmy.

  “To tell you the truth I’m kinda uncomfortable about goin’ in there. I’m just a old guy from Philly, you know?”

  “Would you be more at home at the Buffet?”

  “If it wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  “Naw, no problem at all. Let’s go.”

  They worked their way back down to the main floor and headed for the Bellagio Buffet.

  “Are we going to run into your wife here?”

  “No, she ate earlier. She’s graduatin’ to the nickel slots.”

  Jimmy paid for two buffets and they were shown to a table. They asked the waitress to bring two iced teas and then hit the buffet. Jimmy came back with a plate while Vic Porcelli expertly balanced three of them.

  “Do you not plan to go back?” Jimmy asked as he sat opposite him.

  “Sure, why?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I should tell you,” Vic said, picking up his knife and fork, “I made contact with the detective in charge of these two cases.”

  “Cooper?”

  “Yeah, the black guy,” Vic said.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Well, he was there when I went to the pool to have a look at the second crime scene.”

  “Is that really the crime scene? I thought that would be the floor he came flying from.”

  “That, too, but I didn’t think I’d be able to get in—at least, not without permission of the detective in charge. So I went to the pool and there were still cops there, including this guy Cooper. So I introduced myself.”

  “And?”

  “And he gave me a little professional courtesy. I acted like I was real curious. He didn’t want to talk to me, though, until I told him I was a captain of homicide.”

  “And is that true?”

  “Yeah, it’s true,” Vic said. “Jimmy, homicides are my business.”

  Vic had managed to decimate one whole plate, shoved it aside, and pulled the second toward him.

  “By the way, did you try those little chocolates that are beside the bed? Delicious. I think the maid gave us extras. Almost a whole box worth.”

  “Yeah, they’re pretty good. Anyway, what did you find out?”

  “Not much,” Vic said around a huge bite of fried chicken.

  “But I thought you said—
”

  “That’s because they don’t know much,” Vic continued. “They apparently had motive for the first killing, but they can’t match it up with the second.”

  “What about their belief that the first killing was done by a woman?”

  “Let me tell you somethin’ I know from experience,” Vic said. “A woman rarely plans a murder. She’ll usually grab something close at hand—like a kitchen knife—if she’s going to kill a man.”

  “But there was something about a woman being in the room—”

  “What they had was this—the guy’d had sex before he was killed,” Vic said. “I’ll tell you somethin’ else from experience. Guys don’t only have sex with girls.”

  “You’re saying Bennett was gay?”

  “I learned somethin’ years ago from your dad, Jimmy,” Vic said. “He told me, ‘Don’t make anybody have to read between the lines when you talk. Most people can’t read for shit.’ You should taste this chicken.”

  Jimmy had heard the always-say-what-you-mean speech many times.

  “Besides, having a guy picked up and tossed through a window has convinced them the killer may not be a woman. At least, not the killer of the second victim, and probably not the first.”

  “Tossed? How do they know he was tossed?”

  Vic swallowed first, chased the fried chicken with some tea, then signaled a passing waitress for a refill.

  “Cameras, in the hall.”

  Jimmy was surprised.

  “They have the second murder on camera?”

  “They got the guy on tape twice,” Vic explained. “Once they knew what they were lookin’ for they went back through tapes on the first murder. The guy walked down the hall carrying a massage table, bold as you please.”

  “How’d he know Bennett wanted a massage?”

  “The guy had a standing order for one. All the killer had to do was know that. He canceled the order for that day, then showed up himself.

  “On the second murder Cooper said the guy picked the victim up by his collar and belt and flung him through the window . . . after stabbing him. He had to be damned strong to break that window, even using a man’s body to do it.”

  “Jesus,” Jimmy said. “Why stab him? I would think the glass or the fall would kill him.”