The Picasso Flop

by Vince Van Patten

  The discussion was about poker at first, and Jimmy discovered that all three of these young guys had been knocked out of the tournament by the second day. But they were staying around to see who the winner would be. And because “all kinds of shit” was going on.

  “You mean like the murders?” one of them said. He was wearing a solid red T-shirt.

  “Hell, yeah,” the second said. “Those posse guys are droppin’ like flies.” He was wearing a T-shirt with a TI on it, the logo for the new and improved Treasure Island Casino.

  “You ask me,” the third one said, “somebody did us all a favor takin’ out that prick Bennett.” He was wearing a WPT shirt.

  “You know who I think killed Bennett?” WPT asked.

  “Who?” Red Shirt asked.

  “That queer Lenny Krieger.”

  “Well,” Red Shirt said, “takes one to kill one.”

  “Hey, that ain’t right,” TI shirt said. “Talkin’ about the dead like that.”

  The other two ignored him.

  “You really think Lenny killed him?”

  “He hated him enough,” WPT shirt said. “He’s had a crush on him for a long time, and Tim kept rejecting him.”

  “Also rejected him from joinin’ the posse,” Red Shirt said.

  “Don’t know which pissed Lenny off more,” WPT shirt said.

  “You guys suck, you know it?” TI shirt said. “You’re gonna start rumors and get somebody in trouble.”

  “Lighten up,” Red Shirt said. “Somebody’s already in trouble, ya know? There’s two dead bodies. Besides, I don’t think Lenny Krieger could throw a guy through a window.”

  “Man, that sounds like it was cool,” WPT shirt said. “I wish I’d been at the pool to see that.”

  Jimmy wanted to lean over and say, Believe me, no you don’t, but he’d had enough.

  “Hey, man, I was there. You can see worse on Grand Theft Auto,” Red Shirt said.

  These three weren’t worth the time he was wasting. He stood up and left the café, having gleaned nothing from them but a distaste for the younger generation.

  Still, it might not hurt to have a talk with Lenny Krieger.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jimmy entered the casino with some trepidation, waiting to hear word of another murder. All he heard, however, were the bells and whistles of the slots. He checked his watch, saw that he still had two hours before start time for day four. He decided to get out of the Bellagio for a while, go over to the Mandalay Bay. Not only would the air do him good but talking to Francisco for a while would be a breath of fresh air as well.

  Walking through the high-tech hotel lobby and casino floor, reading the signs directing patrons to the waterfall or the Shark Reef, he decided that when the tournament was over—and the killer was caught, hopefully—he was going to go down to the Riviera and then down to Fremont Street to Binion’s and the Golden Nugget, or even Arizona Charlie’s on Decatur, for a taste of old Vegas.

  When he reached the Race & Sports Book, Francisco was right there in the middle of a group of men, all arguing about who was better, Florida- or California-bred Thoroughbreds.

  “The Sunshine Millions at Gulfstream Park don’t mean a damn thing,” a man argued. “That’s only eight races on one day.”

  “So whadda wanna do—keep track of the whole year?” another man asked. “Two years? Ten?”

  Sometimes Jimmy wondered about the persona of the horseplayer. Poker players varied in size and shape and, most notably, dress. But the serious horseplayers Jimmy remembered from the clubhouses and grandstands of his youth—even the ones he was looking at now—all seemed to be the same type: cigars, loud shirts worn out over their big bellies, and sunglasses. Whenever he’d sneak away from school or work for a day at Keystone Park—which later became Philadelphia Park—or even Monmouth, there they’d be, always arguing.

  A sexy waitress leaned over with a huge tray of hot food. Pastrami sandwiches, Reubens, hot dogs, and so on. The three cronies grabbed for the food like pirates.

  Francisco was looking up at the bickering men from his wheelchair; but when he noticed Jimmy, he turned the chair abruptly and wheeled himself over, his arms working the wheels speedily. Jimmy wondered why the man didn’t use some of that money his family sent him to get an electric wheelchair.

  “My friend, you are back!” Francisco’s voiced boomed. Once again he shook Jimmy’s hand in a powerful greeting.

  “Just needed to get out for a bit,” he said, looking down at his friend.

  All of a sudden, out of the corner of his eye, Francisco saw something he didn’t like. He snapped.

  “What are you doing, Red? Put that Reuben down, you fucking buffoon!” His crony, who was just about to take a huge bite out of his sandwich, stopped suddenly, looking guilty. “You know you’re not supposed to eat that.”

  He looked back at Jimmy.

  “Ah, my associate. I’ve got a fifty-thousand-dollar weight bet against Dallas Jack that comes up in two weeks. My friend here has to lose twelve pounds, and there he is, stuffing his face.”

  Francisco turned back to his associate. “Eat the grapes. There’s yogurt and cheese.”

  His fat friend nodded as he sheepishly put down the sandwich.

  “You’re still making side bets, huh?”

  “What else is there in life?”

  Jimmy hadn’t noticed before how much gray had crept into Francisco’s beard, although his hair was still as black as ever. Oddly, Jimmy wondered if this gregarious, always-frank man dyed his hair.

  “I have heard that things are bad over there,” Francisco said, nodding gravely toward the Bellagio.

  “What else have you heard, Francisco?” Jimmy asked. “You have your ear to the ground—you usually hear everything. Any idea what’s going on?”

  “Well, to me it sounds like someone has finally gotten fed up with those young wannabe poker players and is picking them off one by one.” Francisco made a pistol out of his thick fingers and went, “Pop, pop, pop.”

  “Well,” Jimmy said, “only two pops so far, but, yeah, essentially that’s it. You haven’t heard anything else?”

  The man shrugged. “What else would I have heard?” he asked. “The Great Francisco is here, always.”

  “Come on, don’t kid a kidder, Francisco,” Jimmy said. “You’ve got eyes and ears all over this town.”

  “Yes, it is true,” Francisco said, “but they are listening for things that interest only me, things I can use to my benefit when making a bet.”

  Francisco was one of those people who would bet on anything. It was his life, and he was always looking for an angle. But it was also apparently the reason he was in a wheelchair.

  “Tell me,” Francisco asked, “can you believe those yuppie kids are getting killed . . . but you know they have ruined the game of poker. They are like an infestation. Cocky college kids picking up on our game, making millions with their own sites.”

  “That’s pretty harsh, Francisco,” Jimmy said. “I’ve heard some people say these young players are the reason poker has become so big.”

  “Come, Jimmy, you know,” Francisco said, warming to his subject, “we played poker in back rooms among men!” He emphasized the word “men.” “You were there, my friend.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “See? Then you know.” Francisco looked very happy. “Life is strange.” He always spoke his mind and never took anything back. “I must go. The East Coast races, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said. “I know. Thanks, Francisco.”

  Francisco turned his chair but arrested the movement mid-turn.

  “Take my advice, my friend.”

  “And that is?”

  “Do not get yourself involved in this business,” the other man said gravely. “Concentrate on your poker. You will be happier that way. You and your policeman friend should not play detective anymore.”

  He completed his turn and moved away quickly before Jimmy could ask him what he meant
.

  “Fruit plate! Give him a fucking fruit plate!” he screamed.

  As Jimmy left the Mandalay Bay to return to the Bellagio, something was nagging at him, the kind of thing that tickled the back of his brain until something jarred it loose with an aha!

  The kind of thing that would drive him crazy if he let it.

  The first person Jimmy saw that he recognized when he re-entered the Bellagio was Vic Porcelli’s wife. It took him a minute, but he managed to dredge up her name—Margaret.

  He prepared himself to have a conversation with her, but it wasn’t necessary. She plowed right past him and, as he watched, rushed over to an obviously predetermined penny slot machine at a bank of machines called Hot Penny. She wasted no time feeding a bill into the hungry machine from her fanny pack—lime green, matching her jogging suit—and began pressing the lighted buttons. Why did middle-aged women wear jogging suits? He’d seen more of them since his arrival in Vegas than he cared to count.

  He left her to her pennies and headed for the poker room. When he got there he could hear the voice of Linda Johnson—also known as the first lady of poker—on the microphone. She did most of the announcing for WPT events.

  There were uniformed cops standing around, too, which almost made him feel like he was in an armed camp. But they were so outnumbered he wondered what would happen if some of the players just decided to leave. Maybe even the killer. Could he simply walk out and never look back?

  He looked around for Kat, found her talking to a couple of other players who were too old to be posse members. People were also gathering in the gallery where they could watch the day’s action. It was not yet the final day, so there were no TV cameras around, and Mike Sexton was not going to have to work today.

  He walked over toward Kat, who excused herself from the two men she was talking to and turned to meet him, a delighted look on her face.

  “Do you know who they are?” she asked.

  Jimmy took another look. Both of them seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place them. And he knew she’d take him to task for that.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “The cute one with the chin spinach is Antonio Esfandiari. He’s a poker millionaire. The other one is Mark Seif. These guys are the real deal, Jimmy! And they like the way I play.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Which means they like the way you play, because you taught me, dude.”

  “I didn’t teach you, kid,” he said. “You knew how to play when we met. I just helped—”

  Jimmy stopped himself when he noticed Kat’s eyelashes. They were fake and oversized. He pointed to them.

  “Hey, they look . . . hot.”

  “You think so? Must be workin’”—she gestured at Antonio and Mark. “Anyway, here I am on day four.”

  “Well, just keep playing like you’re playing and maybe you’ll make it to day five.”

  “We haven’t talked about how we’re in the money! Both of us! That’s so cool.”

  “Yeah, well,” Jimmy said, “there has been some other stuff going on.” He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t realized they were down to fifty players already.

  “I know, dude,” she said. “That’s what I mean. Even with all that, look how well we’re doin’.”

  “Don’t get carried away, Kat,” Jimmy said. “Stick to your game.”

  “I will,” she promised. “I’ll have to. I’m at a tough table, now. I’ve got about thirty thousand in chips. Who’s at your table?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, “but they’re all loaded now.”

  “This is so awesome!” she said. “I’m used to watching these guys play on TV, and now I’m here!”

  “And you’re hyperventilating,” he said. “Chill out.”

  “Okay, yeah,” she said. “You’re right. You find out anything about those murders?”

  “No,” Jimmy said. “The cops figure they’re connected, but that’s obvious because of the cards.”

  “The Picasso flop you told me about? What could that mean? Why put those cards in the dead men’s pockets?”

  “I don’t know, kid,” Jimmy said. “The cops are going to have to figure that one out.”

  “You’re a smart guy, dude,” she said. “I bet you can figure it out.”

  Linda Johnson’s voice rang out like a call to the post at the racetrack.

  “It’s time,” he said. “Remember, don’t be so impressed at the table. Keep your cool, play your game. And good luck.”

  “You, too, Jimmy. You’re aces, old man.” Impulsively, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  In all the time they’d spent together that was the first time she’d ever kissed him. It was a nice gesture, but it also meant she was so excited she didn’t care if the cops saw her kissing him.

  Maybe too excited.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jimmy couldn’t spot Sabine Chevalier among the players, even though the sheer numbers had been whittled down quite a bit. He hoped she wasn’t so embarrassed by what happened the night before that she wouldn’t even come down.

  He purposely waited until most of the players were seated in the hopes of catching her, but finally he gave up. If she was coming down, she was coming late. He was about to take his own seat when he heard his name. Turning, he saw Vic Porcelli coming toward him. He was once again clad in jeans and a loud shirt, this one red and purple.

  “Thanks,” Jimmy said, as Vic reached him.

  “For what? I ain’t told you nothin’ yet.”

  Jimmy had to admit he had trouble picturing the man wearing a captain’s shield and commanding men, but that was judging a book by its cover big-time.

  “The shirt,” he said. “I needed something to wake me up.”

  “Hardy har,” Vic said. “Listen, I love these shirts, and my vacation is the only time I get to wear them.”

  Jimmy was glad he hadn’t seen Margaret Porcelli in her lime-green jogging suit alongside her husband. It would have been too much.

  “You got something for me, Vic?”

  “I got good news,” Vic said. “Nobody got killed last night.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out.”

  “Maybe the guy has stopped,” Vic said. “Maybe he was only after those two.”

  “What about the other four?” Jimmy asked. “Are they still in the game?”

  “I checked that out,” Vic said. “Two are out, two are in.”

  “And the two who are out? Were they smart enough to leave?”

  “Cops won’t let ’em.”

  “Why would they keep them here if they’re in danger and they can’t protect them?”

  Vic gave Jimmy a look and said, “Bait, maybe.”

  “Christ,” Jimmy said. “Are they willing to sacrifice another one to catch the guy?”

  “These are Vegas cops,” Vic said. “I can’t answer that one.”

  “What about Philly cops?”

  “My guys? My gold shields would sacrifice their mothers to catch a killer.”

  “So these guys are different?”

  Vic laughed. “Man, when it comes right down to it, I guess cops are cops no matter where you are.”

  “The detective in charge, Cooper? He seems all right to me.”

  “That’s the black guy, right? Yeah, he is okay. That other one with the funny name—Andy Devine?—he’s a real prick though. Stay away from him.”

  “Vic, did you talk to the other posse members?”

  “I talked with the two who were knocked out of the tournament,” he said. “They’re scared. I think the two of them have moved into one room.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.”

  “Except for one thing,” Vic said.

  “What’s that?”

  “They may have made it easier for the killer to find the two of them at one time.”

  Jimmy realized he was right. The man who had thrown Jesse Dell through a window would not be stopped by even two posse memb
ers acting together.

  “Look, you play your game,” Vic said. “I’ll keep nosin’ around.”

  “Okay.”

  “And concentrate, will ya?” Vic added. “I asked around. There’s a helluva lot of money ridin’ on this thing.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “You put up fifteen grand to play in this game?”

  “I did.”

  “You got that kind of dough to just toss around, huh?” Vic asked.

  “Vic, I’ve made that back already, and more, by lasting this long.”

  “Really? It ain’t, like winner take all?”

  “No,” Jimmy said. “There’s a prize structure, a sliding scale. Sometimes goes down to sixty, eighty people, sometimes more.”

  “So you don’t have to win the whole shebang to make money?”

  “No.”

  “And you can make a livin’ that way?”

  “If you finish in the money with regularity,” Jimmy said, “you can make a pretty good living, yeah.”

  “Man,” Vic said, shaking his head. “I guess I’m in the wrong racket.”

  “Vic,” Jimmy said, “I get the feeling you’re in just the racket you are supposed to be in.”

  Vic smiled. “You know, your dad said he thought I was a natural when he first met me. I guess he was right, and so are you. So go on, go back to your game. You do what you do, and I’ll do what I do.”

  Jimmy watched Vic walk away, then turned to go to his table. As he did he came face-to-face with Sabine, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Sheepishly, she smiled.

  “I want to say . . . I am sorry about last night. I was . . . tired and upset.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I took advantage—”

  “No, no,” she said hurriedly. “You did not do anything I did not want you to do. It’s just that . . . when you mentioned alibis . . . I thought about the murders and . . .”

  “The moment passed?”