Sucker Bet tv-3

by James Swain

  She got out and brushed past him. He saw her walk toward the front of the car and pulled the gun from behind his waistband. Coming up from behind her, he shoved the barrel into the small of her back. “Know what this is?”

  She froze, her head tilting slightly back. “Your dick?”

  He started grinning. He hadn’t known many whores with a sense of humor. He took the purse from her outstretched hand and tossed it into a stand of mangroves. “It’s a gun. Would you rather see my dick?”

  Candy looked over her shoulder into his eyes. She was scared.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “You want to fuck me?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wanna hear you say it.”

  “I want your big Cuban prick inside of me.”

  Splinters made her turn around and say it again. Then he made her undress herself. She wore a red lace bra, one of those garments that cost hundreds of dollars. She slipped out of it without being asked. Heaven. Pointing at the trail, he said, “You first.”

  “Speed up, will you?” Valentine said.

  Gladys Soft Wings’s hands gripped the wheel of her Volvo. Valentine had run out of Billy Tiger’s office, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her to the parking lot. Now he was insisting she speed down tribal roads, something she was loath to do.

  “Someone’s life is at stake.”

  She hit the gas. The roads twisted like a corkscrew, and the tires screeched on every curve. She’d bought the car to drive on I-95, south Florida’s crazy drivers more frightening than anything she’d ever known. Rounding a curve, she saw a black limo on the side of the road and slammed on the brakes.

  Valentine hit the windshield. He saw stars, then pulled himself off the dashboard, the warm sensation of blood creeping down his face. He touched his nostril and swore.

  “Sorry. Why aren’t you wearing your belt?”

  “Because I’m a dope.” He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against his nose. “Do you have a gun by any chance?”

  “No. Don’t you think we should—”

  “Call the tribal police? No.” He climbed out of the car, then stuck his head back in before shutting the door. “I want you to drive up the road a hundred yards and wait. If someone besides me comes out of that trail, beat it. Understand?”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “No,” he said.

  The Volvo pulled away. Valentine walked down the trail until he was in the thick of the swamp. It was like being in a forest, only the ground was gooey soft. He heard voices. Peering around a cypress tree, he saw two figures standing on a grassy knoll next to a pond. He put on his bifocals. It was the redhead and the limo driver. The redhead was naked. The driver was stripping out of his uniform while holding a gun on her, the act made more complicated by the big boy distorting his trousers.

  Valentine weighed his options. Making a run at them was out of the question. The distance was too great, and he’d given up wind sprints years ago. The other option was sneaking up on them and disarming the driver, which wouldn’t be terribly hard once they started going at it. He stepped off the trail into a thicket of mangroves.

  As he approached, he listened to the redhead talking to the driver. Her voice was soothing, like she knew she was about to get raped and didn’t want to do anything to make it worse. The driver told her to get on her knees.

  Valentine parted a bush and had another look. The redhead was on all fours. The driver was behind her, poised to make his statement. She was still talking, the fear absent from her voice. Leaning forward, he felt his shoe catch an exposed root and fell into a disgustingly soft belly of muck.

  His head came out of the water just in time to hear the redhead scream. Rising, he stared into the clearing. The redhead had tried to run, and the driver was holding her underwater. Her legs were thrashing as air bubbles burst the water’s surface. The kicking grew faint, then stopped altogether. Valentine broke through the mangroves.

  “Let her go.”

  The driver’s eyes went wide. He had the gun in his left hand, the girl’s head in his right. He looked scared. Like he’d seen a ghost. And Valentine supposed he probably did look like a ghost, his wet hair in his face, the blood from his nose flowing down his chin. Or a dead man risen from a swampy grave.

  “Who are you?” the driver said.

  “Jack Lightfoot,” he growled.

  Valentine saw the redhead sink beneath the water’s surface. “I deal blackjack,” he said. “Remember?”

  The driver was out of the pond and picking up his clothes, the gun still pointed in Valentine’s direction. He was going to run, and Valentine stepped back into the mangroves and ducked out of sight. Barefoot, the driver raced past moments later, swearing in Spanish.

  Valentine pulled the redhead out of the pond and gave her CPR. Her face had turned blue, and he didn’t think there was much hope. In between breaths, he wiped at the blood on his face, hoping not to get any on her. Stupid, but he did it anyway.

  She was a natural redhead, and it was hard not to look at her privates. That had always been the hard part of police work. Every day, he’d be confronted by things that he knew were wrong but wanted to do anyway. Like staring at naked corpses.

  He heard something like a frog trying to climb out of her stomach. An eruption in the making. He leaned backwards, but not in time. She puked on him.

  “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “Oh, my God.”

  She lay on her back, fighting for breath. Valentine lay down next to her. The world was spinning, and his head was starting to throb. She reached out and found his arm.

  “Who are you?”

  “Tony Valentine.”

  “I’m Candy. Where’s—”

  “The guy trying to kill you? I scared him off. Look, try not to talk.”

  She found his hand and squeezed it. “I owe you, Tony.”

  Gladys Soft Wings entered the clearing. She was visibly frightened and stared at them lying in the grass, holding hands.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting something,” she said.

  20

  Splinters pulled off 595 at the first exit. Parking behind a Shell station, he threw his driver’s uniform back on while muttering to himself. He hadn’t gotten laid, the hooker had nearly escaped, and he’d seen a fucking ghost. Someone had put a curse on him, and he hadn’t even known it.

  Back in the limo, doing eighty, he started to feel really bad. Rico had told him to do one thing, and he’d gone and done another. Rico wouldn’t like that if he found out. He would kill Splinters for something like that. The exit sign for Davie loomed in his windshield.

  He slowed down. Off to his left, striped carnival tents filled a cow field. He’d been fuming for days over the outrageous bribe Rico had paid the carny owner. Four thousand two hundred dollars. And for what?

  He put his indicator on. An idea was percolating in his head. He would get the money back—all of it—and show Rico his loyalty. He changed lanes and nearly ran another vehicle off the road.

  Black limousines were symbols of power, and he circled the carnival’s perimeter without anyone stopping him. Parking beside the owner’s trailer, he hopped out and looked around. Peals of laughter floated down from the carnival Ferris wheel. It was Friday afternoon, and the grounds were teeming with teenage kids.

  He walked up the trailer ramp and rapped loudly on the door. When no one came out, he pushed the door open and stuck his head in. The shit smell that greeted him was like a punch in the face, and his eyes settled on the caged chimpanzee. Rico hadn’t mentioned anything about a fucking ape.

  Splinters stepped inside and shut the door. The chimp was strumming a miniature guitar, his head swinging back and forth. The tinny sounds of Madonna’s Like a Virgin sent an icy chill running down Splinter’s spine. First a ghost in the swamp, now a chimp playing his favorite song.

  “Play something else,” he sa
id.

  The chimp broke into Prince’s Purple Rain, another favorite. Splinters decided he was hallucinating, the music really nothing more than random chords he was mistaking for these songs. He got behind the desk and started opening drawers. Suddenly, the chimp started hissing at him like a cat.

  Splinters drew his gun. He didn’t want to shoot the chimp, but if the chimp started making noise, Splinters wasn’t going to have a choice. The chimp stared at the gun, then flopped on his back and played dead, his feet twitching comically.

  Splinters jerked open the top drawer of the desk. Inside lay a stack of hundred-dollar bills. He counted out forty-two hundred dollars and was stuffing the money into his pockets when the chimp came flying out of the cage.

  “You want to hear a cool scam?” Zoe asked.

  They were sitting on a couch in the Fontainebleau’s lobby, Kat watching the front doors. She’d checked into the Castaway the night before, then started trying to reach Tony. No answer in his hotel room or on his cell phone. She didn’t want to leave a message and sound desperate, so she’d parked herself in his hotel. It would be better to see him in person, she’d decided, and get things back on track.

  “Tony taught it to me,” her daughter said. “A world-famous poker player showed it to him. He doped out the math for me and everything. It’s really cool.”

  “It’s mathematical?”

  “Yeah, sort of. You want to hear it?”

  From where she sat, Kat had a bird’s-eye view of the hotel valet stand. A black Volvo pulled up, and a muddy Tony and an Indian woman got out. With them was a woman with red hair whose clothes were also muddy. She was glued to Tony’s side, and Kat felt her stomach do a slow churn.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “It’s called the birthday bet. You go into a room where there’s thirty people, and you bet someone a dollar that two or more of the people in the room share the same birthday. No shills.”

  “Shills?” Kat asked, watching the trio cross the lobby floor. Tony had a funny look on his face. Was he dazed, or smitten?

  “No stooges. You don’t have to know anybody in the room. Now, you tell the person you’re betting with that the odds are twelve-to-one in his favor, because thirty people divided into three hundred and sixty-five birthdays is 12.17. The sucker usually takes the bet, and you win!”

  “Really,” Kat said, watching them wait for an elevator. The redhead was hanging on Tony like he’d just saved her life and she just had to show her appreciation.

  “I’ll tell you how it’s done,” Zoe said. “It’s based on a principle called progressive calculation. You’re not betting on two people sharing one particular birthday. You’re betting that two people will share any birthday. The chances are fifty-fifty with twenty-two people in the room. Every additional person increases the odds in your favor. With thirty people in the room, the odds are four-to-one against your opponent. You will almost always win. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Kat watched them get into an elevator and the doors shut. In the six weeks she’d known Tony, she’d seen a lot of different women try to glom on to him. He was honest and caring, things you didn’t find often in men. The funny part was, he was always slow to catch on. She glanced at her daughter, who was writing the calculations onto a napkin. A hundred and forty IQ, so why was she pulling Ds in school?

  Zoe showed her the math. “See how it works? If you’re in a room with fifty people, the odds are over thirty-to-one in your favor.”

  Kat rose from the couch. She missed Tony, and she wanted to get him away from these two women and get on with their lives, only what she had in mind wouldn’t work with her twelve-year-old daughter clinging to her side.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Excuse me, but I think I have a right to know what’s going on,” Gladys Soft Wings demanded when Candy was in Valentine’s bathroom, taking a shower.

  Valentine shook his head. He sat on the bed, eating Cracker Jacks from the minibar. Because he was covered in puke, he had showered first, then changed into clean clothes.

  “You’re not going to tell me who this woman is?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it won’t help Running Bear’s case,” he said, opening a soda and taking a swig. “Right now, that’s all you should care about. I’ll explain later.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that? You ask me to be an expert witness for your client, but you don’t trust me when I tell you I’ll do something?”

  Gladys acted hurt. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

  He held up the bag of Cracker Jacks. Gladys took a handful and shoved them in her mouth. They munched away until the bag was empty.

  “I need to talk to this woman alone,” he said. “Go back to the casino and get another tape of Blackhorn dealing blackjack. While you’re at it, search his locker.”

  “I’ll need the elders’ permission to do that.”

  “Get it. Tell them it’s important. Write down everything you find. Then call me.”

  Gladys Soft Wings crossed her arms and looked at him defiantly. He tried to imagine her arguing a case in court and guessed she’d be about as tenacious as a pit bull with a bone.

  “Are you always so demanding?” she asked.

  “Usually,” he said.

  Gladys left, and Candy came out of the bathroom. Instead of putting her clothes back on, she was wearing a fluffy hotel bathrobe. She’d blown out her hair and put on some makeup, and was as pretty as a high school beauty queen. Valentine blinked, then it registered. She was going to thank him for saving her life. He went to the TV and hit power. The screen came to life, Jack Lightfoot dealing blackjack to Candy and her date.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked.

  “Go put some clothes on and I’ll tell you,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting on Valentine’s balcony, the sound of kids roughhousing in the hotel pool filling the air. “I’m an ex-cop,” he said. “The Micanopys hired me to figure out how Jack Lightfoot was ripping them off. I saw you standing in the parking lot and remembered you from the tape.”

  “You said ex-cop,” she said.

  “That’s right. You don’t like cops?”

  “I’m a hooker,” she said.

  He let an appropriate amount of time pass. Before casinos had come to Atlantic City, he’d worked vice and known plenty of hookers. Some had been decent women who’d gotten on the wrong track; the rest hard-nosed criminals who’d rip off their own brother. Candy, he guessed, fell somewhere in the middle.

  “You don’t dress like a hooker,” he said, seeing where it would get him.

  She gave him a sad smile. Then her face melted and reflex tears welled up in her eyes. That’s good, he thought. She still knows how to cry.

  “I’m trying to get out,” she said.

  “Going to school?”

  Her eyes shifted down to the pool. “I teach aerobics.”

  “Good for you.” Her face softened. Valentine decided to take a stab in the dark. “Why is Rico Blanco trying to kill you?”

  “I told Rico I wanted out,” she said.

  “Of the scam?”

  She nodded. Valentine pointed inside the room at the TV. “Who’s your date?”

  “Nigel Moon.”

  “Should I know him?”

  “He’s a famous rock-and-roll drummer. Rico hired me to butter him up.”

  “You fall for him?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes seemed hypnotized by something or someone in the pool that he wasn’t seeing. He’d known a couple of hookers who had fallen for johns. The relationships had lasted a little while, then run aground when reality set in.

  “You realize you’re in a lot of trouble,” he said.

  “I haven’t broken any laws.”

  “Rico murdered the blackjack dealer. When Rico gets caught, he’ll drag down everything in sight. Including you.”

&nb
sp; “And you can stop that from happening,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell the cops the truth. Rico’s a con man. He hired you to lead Nigel around by the nose. There would be no reason for you to know anything else about the scam. If the cops decide to prosecute you anyway, I’ll go to court as your witness.”

  “Provided I help you out.”

  “That’s right.”

  Still looking at the pool, she said, “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you’re on your own, sweetheart.”

  Candy blew out her cheeks. The sun was giving her skin a lobster complexion. She brought herself back from a long way and stared into his eyes.

  “Rico is planning to rip off a bookie named Bobby Jewel,” she said.

  “How is Nigel involved?”

  “Rico is going to use Nigel’s money. Rico’s been planning it for a long time.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “He said millions.”

  “When?”

  “The next couple of days.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s all I know.” She looked deep into his eyes. “You still going to hold up your end of the bargain?”

  “I gave you my word, didn’t I?”

  Her chair made a harsh scraping sound on the concrete balcony. Valentine walked her out of his room to the elevator. She pressed the button, then threw her arms around him, and gave him a kiss that Valentine didn’t think he’d ever forget.

  “Thanks for the save,” she said.

  21

  Hey, rube!

  The words made Ray Hicks’s head snap. Carny slang for trouble. He was helping out at the cotton candy stand. The sun was low in the sky, the carnival starting to empty out. An employee hurtled past, then another. Hicks caught the second man’s arm.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Shooting,” the man said breathlessly.

  Hicks looked up and down his carnival. Everything looked fine. “Where?”

  “By the trailers.”