by James Swain
“How much are they?”
“Seven-fifty apiece, plus tax.”
“That’s highway robbery,” he said.
She stuck a hand on her hip. “So just buy one.”
“But I need two.”
“Fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents, please.”
He was fuming when he got back to his room. He hated getting ripped off, especially in a joint as pricey as this. Why not just have a giant at the front door who picked you up by the ankles and shook until your money fell out of your pockets?
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he turned on the TV. Lightfoot’s face filled the screen. He had seen plenty of blackjack cheats over the years, and none were capable of dealing eighty-four winning hands in a row. The random order of a shuffled deck of cards simply didn’t allow it. Which meant Lightfoot was using a cooler.
Two-deck coolers were hard to bring into a game, but it happened. Most likely, a confederate wearing an arm sling had sat down at Jack’s table. The confederate had switched the casino’s cards for the cooler residing in his sling. To shade the move, a third member of the gang had “turned” the pit boss by asking him a question.
For the cooler to work, Lightfoot needed to false shuffle. Mechanics used one of three false shuffles to get the money: the push-through, strip-out, and Zarrow. Each created a convincing illusion of the cards being mixed. But each also had a tell that a trained eye could detect.
Staring at the TV, Valentine mimicked Lightfoot’s shuffling with the cards he’d bought in the gift shop.
Lightfoot’s shuffles were slow and deliberate, the way they taught in dealer’s school. After a few minutes, it became apparent that when he telescoped the cards together, they were being honestly mixed. Which meant Valentine still didn’t know what Lightfoot was doing. And had wasted fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents.
He killed the TV. The screen faded to black, a tiny white dot pulsating in its center. The elbow he’d used to crack the alligator had started to throb. He’d dreamed about that alligator last night and had a feeling he’d dream about him again. A real keeper.
The phone on the night table rang. He let voice mail pick up, then retrieved his message. It was Bill Higgins.
“Did you find Jack Lightfoot?” Bill asked when he called back.
“No,” Valentine said.
“Any idea where he went?”
Valentine hesitated. Pieces to this puzzle were missing, and he felt certain Bill was holding a couple of them. “I think he ran.”
“From what?”
“Jack Lightfoot was cheating the Micanopys at blackjack.”
Bill breathed heavily into the phone. “You’re sure about this.”
“Positive.”
Valentine’s leg had fallen asleep from sitting on the floor. Standing, he jerked open the sliding glass door and went onto the balcony. The sun was spitting a thousand flecks of gold off the ocean. He stretched and felt the feeling return to his leg.
“Did the Micanopys let you talk to any of his friends?” Bill asked.
“I’m not a cop anymore, Bill.”
A prop plane passed over the hotel, and Valentine clapped his hand over his cell phone. Tied to the plane’s tail was a red and white banner: CLUB HEDO—SOUTH BEACH’S PREMIER MEN’S CLUB. When the plane was gone, he took his hand away.
“You’re sure he was cheating,” Bill said.
Valentine heard a loud racket on Bill’s end. It sounded like someone vacuuming the carpet. Then the noise disappeared.
Going to the edge of the balcony, he leaned over the railing. The prop plane had passed the last hotel on the beach and was heading toward Key Biscayne. He sucked in his breath, the deception hitting him like a punch in the stomach.
Bill was on Miami Beach.
11
Valentine pulled back from the railing, still staring at the prop plane. As a rule, people in law enforcement did not lie to each other the way they lied to practically everyone else. What made it was worse was that Bill had been doing it for days. Walking inside, he shut the sliding glass door, then told Bill he needed to run.
“Thanks for the help,” his friend said.
Valentine hung up, then dialed his house.
“Grift Sense,” his neighbor answered.
“Do you sell wrapping paper?”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that today.”
“I need you to help me find someone,” he said. “You near the computer?”
“I’m looking at the big blue screen at this very moment.”
“I need to find a guy staying at a hotel on Miami Beach. I realize that’s a tall order, but I know two things that should make it easier. The hotel is south of the Fontainebleau, which puts it in South Beach. It’s big, and not one of your boutique joints.”
“Define big.”
“Over five stories.”
Mabel typed away. A minute later she cleared her throat. “I’m on a South Beach Web site on Yahoo. There’s a section with a map of hotels. By clicking the mouse on a hotel, a page comes up with pictures and information and the hotel’s phone number. What did you say your friend’s name was?”
“Bill Higgins.” Then he remembered something. Bill had visited Atlantic City once, and Valentine had been unable to locate him. Later Bill had told him that he checked into hotels under an alias, just in case someone in the lobby recognized him and had a score to settle. Out of curiosity Valentine had asked Bill his alias, then stored it away.
“Or Jason Black,” he added.
“This all sounds very mysterious,” Mabel said. “Would you like me to call these hotels and find Higgins or Black?”
“You’re a mind reader,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, Mabel hit pay dirt.
“Your friend is staying at the Loews under Jason Black,” she said. “I would have called you sooner, but Jacques called. He finished doing the inventory of his employees’ lockers like you suggested.”
“Did he tell you what he found?”
“Yes.”
A notepad and pen were next to the phone. Valentine picked up both. “Go ahead.”
“Shoe polish, hair gel, combs, brushes, a mustache trimmer, mouthwash, breath mints, aftershave, hair tonic, toothpaste, deodorant, a clothes iron, a small sewing kit, a newspaper, a picture of a dealer’s girlfriend in the buff, and a chocolate bar.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Jacques didn’t think any of it was significant. I told him you’d be the judge of that, and he got a little testy. So I said, ‘If Tony can’t figure out how you’re being cheated, you’ll get your money back.’ Jacques said, ‘I will hold you to that,’ and hung up. Well, did I feel terrible. You were grumpy this morning when we spoke. I should never have told Jacques what you said.”
“Mabel.”
“Yes, Tony.”
“I’m not wrong about this.”
“But what if you can’t figure out how the employee is cheating?”
“Then I’ll take up shuffleboard and start complaining about my hemorrhoids.”
She giggled into the phone. “Sorry, boss.”
He started to say good-bye, then remembered his manners.
“Thanks for chasing my friend down.”
“You think I could be a bona fide detective one day?”
“I sure do,” he said.
Mabel hung up feeling giddy. Tony didn’t toss out compliments very often. And he hadn’t even scolded her for telling Jacques he’d give the money back. So it was working. He was getting out of his bad mood. Finally.
How she detested Kat! Couldn’t Kat see that Tony’s heart hadn’t mended from losing his wife? As a result, he fought with his son, said nasty things to strangers on the phone, and told off clients when it suited him. He was depressed, and didn’t need a big-breasted woman in leotards in his life. What he needed was someone who could look after him and run his business and get into his head when it was necessary. He needed a friend, and Mabel consi
dered herself the prime prospect for the job.
She heard the doorbell ring and walked into the living room expecting to see the blue and white FedEx truck parked in the driveway. Only, it was a hot-pink Mustang that took up the spot. Mabel put on her best brave face and opened the door.
“Mabel,” Zoe yelled.
The twelve-year-old hugged her. She looked different, and Mabel realized Zoe had washed the hideous black dye from her hair. Kat followed her in and kissed Mabel on the cheek. She wore stonewashed jeans and a tight sweater. Mabel gritted her teeth. Did every piece of clothing have to cling?
“Boy, is it good to see you,” Kat said.
Mabel swallowed hard. “Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story. Is Tony here?”
“He left yesterday.”
“I’ll bet he’s mad at me for not calling.” Kat put her arm around Zoe’s shoulders and rubbed her head affectionately. “They gave me only one phone call, and I used it to call my lawyer.”
“One phone call? What do you mean?”
Kat continued to hug her daughter and took a deep breath.
“I was in the Orange County jail,” she said.
Kat had driven straight from jail, and neither she nor Zoe had eaten. Mabel brewed a pot of coffee, then got out eggs and bread and made French toast, all the while feeling like a shit. She’d once spent a couple of days in jail because of a classified ad she’d run, and had found it the most degrading experience of her entire life.
Kat sat at the kitchen table, staring into the depths of her cup. She did not open up until they heard Zoe turn on the TV. “Ralph, my ex, came by after the show and tried to serve me with papers so he could stop paying alimony. I sort of snapped.” The TV had gone mute, and Kat glared at the wall. “Zoe! You know the rules. No channel surfing.” The volume came back on and Kat relaxed. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, beating up Ralph.”
Mabel turned from the stove. “Did you really?”
“Yeah. I got him in a hammerlock and started pulling out his hair. He had these implants put in, looks like tiny cornrows. No more!”
It was a delicious image, and Mabel took a plate into the next room for Zoe, then returned to the kitchen and slid a second plate Kat’s way.
“You’re an angel,” Kat said, smothering the food with maple syrup and digging in. “Ralph had me arrested for battery. Thank God for Zoe.”
“What did she do?”
“She saved my ass,” Kat replied, the syrup dripping off her chin. “Ralph got custody of her while I was in jail. He made her wash her hair out, then threw away all her clothes and bought new stuff at Kmart. Just to get back at me, I guess.
“Zoe’s always been a little snoop, and she looked around Ralph’s apartment and found a batch of summonses in a drawer. Seems Ralph’s bounced checks up and down the East Coast since leaving me. Zoe realized her dad was on the lam, so she called me in jail. I told my lawyer, and this morning, Ralph got hauled in front of the judge.”
“A happy ending,” Mabel said.
Kat wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Not yet.”
“How so?”
“I’ve got to find Tony. We’ve got a show in Memphis next week.”
Mabel picked up Kat’s plate and took it to the sink, rinsing away the remains with warm water. The words that came out of her mouth did so without any conscious thought.
“He’s on a cruise.”
“To . . . where?”
Mabel turned, showing her best game face. “He didn’t say.”
“Do you know which line?”
“He told me he was driving to Miami and was going to book himself on the next cruise he could find. I don’t think he had a destination in mind. He just wanted to—”
“Climb into a hole?” Kat’s face was flushed, yet her voice did not change. “I wish you’d told me sooner, Mabel. I’ve had enough surprises the past few days.”
Kat’s gaze had turned cold and unfriendly. Mabel stood her ground. May God strike me dead for lying, she thought. She loved Tony in a way this woman could not understand—loved his principles and his values and his big, wonderful heart—and was not going to let Kat hurt him again.
“I’m sorry,” Mabel said.
The uniformed valet at the Loews was a pissant Cuban who acted like he’d never seen a car with a hundred sixty thousand miles. Valentine tossed him the keys, hitting him squarely in the chest. The valet’s face puffed up in a confrontational snarl.
“You speak English?” Valentine asked.
The valet’s look turned homicidal. Valentine’s question was obviously not politically correct in this corner of the world.
“You a cop?” the valet asked.
“Show me your green card, and I’ll show you my badge.”
The valet jumped into the Honda and gunned it. Valentine laughed for the first time that day, and it made him feel good. He went inside.
The Loews was a mammoth hotel and as cold as a meat locker. It was stupid. Up and down the beach, they were building monoliths, with fancy carpeting and fine paintings, instead of what Miami needed, which was beachfront joints with bamboo furniture and cool tile floors. That was what Miami Beach used to be, and it had been great. This wasn’t.
He stopped at the hotel’s restaurant. He was always hungry when he was working, and he read the menu on the door. Sixteen bucks for a dozen shrimp buried in cocktail sauce. With tax and tip, twenty bucks easy. He’d starve first, and went searching for the house phones.
They were by the elevators. He dialed zero and an operator came on.
“Room of Jason Black, please.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
It sounded like something a coolie would say. It wasn’t her pleasure at all. It was her fricking job. The call rang through and Bill picked up.
“Guess who,” Valentine said.
“Tony?”
Valentine thought about playing Bill along, seeing how many more lies he could trick him into saying. Only, Bill was a friend, and he wanted to give him another chance to keep their friendship alive. “Very good,” he said.
Bill’s voice changed. “How did you know I was here?”
“I was a detective for thirty years, remember?”
“Are you nearby?”
“In the lobby,” Valentine said.
Bill’s suite looked lived-in. Chinese take-out cartons on the table, empty bottles, the muted TV turned to CNN. Like he was on a stakeout. They shook hands a little too formally. Valentine sat on the couch, Bill in the room’s only chair.
Bill hadn’t changed much over the years. Full head of black hair, his body lean. Facially, he wore an expression that Valentine likened to that of a cigar-store Indian, but had never said so, fearful of offending him. That expression was now gone, replaced by one of apprehension and worry.
“I’ve done something really bad,” Bill said.
“Can it be fixed?”
Bill clasped his hands together. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
“You gonna tell me what happened, or do we have to arm wrestle?”
Bill flashed a rare smile. From the minibar he removed two Diet Cokes, pouring one for Valentine without asking. “I got a call from the Justice Department a month ago,” he said, “asking me to help them investigate the mob’s infiltration of Florida’s Indian casinos. Specifically, they wanted me to look at the Micanopys.”
“Why you?”
“Five years ago, I went undercover for Justice and infiltrated the Indian casinos in northern California, then wrote a report citing where I thought organized crime was operating.”
“So you have a history with them.”
“Right. When they called this time, I said sure.”
“What happened?”
“I stepped onto a land mine. I didn’t know that Florida’s governor and Running Bear squared off two months ago, and the governor got his nose bloodied. Well, the governor wants revenge. He had the state’s attorney general start a rumor that the Mica
nopys had mob ties. The rumor reached Washington, and Justice called me. I was brought in believing the Micanopys were crooks. I just had to find the evidence.”
“A witch-hunt.”
“Exactly.”
“How does Jack Lightfoot figure into this?”
“Jack was working for me.”
“You’re kidding me.”
Bill stared at the bubbles in his soda. “I saw Jack dealing blackjack at an Indian casino in northern California. He won so many hands, I knew he had to be cheating. I ran a check on him and found he was on parole. I cornered him and told him he could either return to prison, or work for me.
“I used Jack to infiltrate a number of Indian casinos, then a joint in Vegas. Jack was the best undercover man I’ve ever had. Because he’d been in jail and was a hustler, other hustlers instantly trusted him.”
“What did he find at the Micanopys’?”
“Nothing.”
“Why didn’t you pull up stakes?”
“I was going to,” Bill said. “Then Jack calls, says he got approached by a hood named Rico Blanco. I pull up Rico’s rap sheet, see he’s a member of the Gotti crime family. I get Jack to wear a wire, and start taping their conversations. It seems Rico is now working with a con man named Victor Marks. Rumor has it he scammed that TV show, Who Wants to Be Rich?”
“And Rico’s his partner.”
“Right. I tell my superiors in Justice, and they tell me to find out what Rico is up to.”
Valentine smelled a rat. “Go on.”
“Seems Rico is buttering up a sucker named Nigel Moon. The plan is to have Nigel come to the casino so Jack can deal him eighty-four winning hands. It goes perfect, and Jack meets up with Rico later. Somehow, Rico found out Jack was wearing a wire, and killed him.”
“And you have it on tape.”
“Had it,” Bill replied. “Justice took the tapes and pulled me off the case.”
“Why?”
“They want to build a case against the Micanopys. Look at the evidence I gave them. Jack has a record. And he was tied up with a known mafioso. And they were scamming the casino. All Justice has to do is edit out the parts they don’t want.”
