by James Swain
“Show me again,” he said.
Mabel stiffly nodded her head. She’d awakened feeling numb, like someone on a lifeboat who’s discovered they’ve run out of water. She was going to die; it was just a matter of when. She removed a legal pad off the desk and pointed at the chart she’d drawn the night before.
“The David will calculate the best way to play blackjack, based upon the cards dealt. The information that the computer requires is input through numerical codes.
“There are fifteen codes. Each of the switches in your boots represents one of four numbers—eight, four, two, and one. By tripping the switches separately, or in combination, you can input any number from one to fifteen. With me so far?”
Slash made a face. “Don’t lecture me. How does the rest of it work?”
“I’m getting to that,” Mabel said.
“Do it with the cards,” he said.
Mabel looked around the study for the cards. Slash had held them last, and now they were gone. He misplaced things constantly, then lost his temper. In exasperation she said, “I don’t know where you put them. We’ll have to use a fresh deck.”
Slash rifled the drawers in Tony’s desk. In the bottom one, he found several unopened decks of cards. A pack landed in her lap.
“There,” he said.
Mabel unwrapped the cards while staring at the desk. In a middle drawer she saw the open box that contained Tony’s Sig Sauer semiautomatic handgun. He’d shown her the gun the first day she’d come to work for him. Did the empty box mean Tony had taken it with him? Or was it someplace in the house?
“Hurry,” Slash said.
Mabel shuffled the cards. Tony spent most of his time here, so it was logical that the Sig Sauer was also here. Only, Slash had searched the room last night, and no gun had turned up.
“Come on,” he said.
Mabel dealt two cards onto the desk. The first was a nine, the second a two. Slash stared at them for several seconds. Then he studied Mabel’s chart.
“Fuck,” he said.
“First you input a twelve to tell the computer that it’s a new deal. Then input one to tell the computer how many decks are in use.”
Slash wiggled his toes in the boots. “Okay,” he said, still sounding unsure.
“Now input eleven to indicate the combined value of the two cards.”
“Okay,” he said.
Mabel dealt two cards to herself, one faceup, the other facedown. Her faceup card was a six. Slash input its value without being told. Then grinned. The David communicated in a Morse-code-type signal that was felt against the skin, and she guessed the computer was talking to him and telling him how to play his hand.
He said, “It just buzzed me twice. What does that mean?”
“Were the buzzes long or short?”
“Long.”
“It means you should double-down your bet,” Mabel said.
“I’m going to win the hand?”
“That’s what the David is saying.”
“Okay, so I double my bet. Deal me another card.”
Mabel dealt him a third card. It was a ten, giving Slash twenty-one, the most desirable outcome possible. She turned her facedown card over. A ten, giving her a sixteen. The rules called for her to deal a third card for herself. It was a seven. She had busted.
“You win,” she said.
Slash looked perplexed, and Mabel realized he still hadn’t grasped how the David worked.
Thank God, she thought.
His Honda drew a glare from the Loews valet.
Valentine had spent the morning talking to Gerry about becoming his partner. Typical with his son, he had not thought things out—like where he planned to live, or what money he’d use to buy a car for Yolanda and the baby—and Valentine was having second thoughts when he pulled up to the hotel. As he handed over his keys, he remembered something. Gerry planned to pay him back after he sold the bar, which meant Valentine would have fifty grand to play with. Looking at the valet, he said, “Time for a new car, don’t you think?”
Bill’s room was on the seventh floor. Valentine opened the door with Bill’s key, stuck his head in, and said, “Anyone home?” then went in.
Fresh flowers were on the night table, and a mint creased the pillow. His son pilfered it. Valentine said, “Put it back.”
“But, Pop, you said he wasn’t coming back here.”
“Doesn’t matter. You didn’t pay for it.”
Gerry put the mint back. Opening the closet, Valentine spotted the safe above the clothes rack. From his wallet he removed the slip of paper with the combination Bill had given him. He punched it in and heard the safe make a whirring sound. Inside he found a .45 Glock and a spare clip.
“So, what do you think?” his son said.
The gun felt good and solid in his hand, and he slipped it into his jacket pocket. He knew what his son was asking. Make a commitment, Pop. Say yes right now.
“Something’s bugging me,” Valentine said.
“What?”
“Why this sudden urge to go legit?”
His son didn’t flinch.
“I don’t want my kid knowing I was a criminal.”
It was the right answer, only Valentine wasn’t sold. This was Gerry he was talking to.
“One thing at a time,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“First you sell your bar, pay me back, then you relocate, then you start working for me.” He paused and looked Gerry square in the eye. “As in, I’m the boss. Understood?”
His son dutifully nodded his head.
“Understood,” he replied.
39
Club Hedo was located on a narrow street in South Beach, the windows papered with eight-by-ten glossies of naked lovelies. TOPLESS, BOTTOMLESS, TWO-DRINK MINIMUM. A meanlooking bouncer sat on a stool outside the door.
Ray Hicks found a parking spot at the block’s end. Mr. Beauregard sat beside him, listening to the radio. Leaving the hospital, Mr. Beauregard had managed to snatch a green surgeon’s hat off a passing tray, which he now wore comically on his head.
Hicks stared at his friend. Mr. Beauregard’s previous owner had neutered him, but Hicks had long suspected that the surgeon’s knife had not cut deep enough, and a vestige of manhood still remained. Mr. Beauregard loved women. He loved to stare at their pictures, or when they walked into Hick’s trailer. The fact that he’d never acted on these impulses meant nothing. He had them, and that was the problem.
Hicks shut the radio off. Mr. Beauregard flapped his gums disapprovingly.
“We are going across the street,” Hicks said. “There will be women inside. Naked women. You must not touch them. Is that understood? You must not touch them.”
The look on Mr. Beauregard’s face was forlorn. Hicks had once found a Playboy in his cage. All the naked pictures had been pawed until the colors had faded. The chimp let out a sigh.
“Thank you,” Hicks said.
They crossed the street, looking no stranger than any of the dozens of bizarre couples Hicks had spotted driving through South Beach. The bouncer leapt off his stool.
“You can’t come in here!”
“Deal with him, Mr. Beauregard.”
Even in his weakened state, Mr. Beauregard was more powerful than any man, and the bouncer sailed over the hood of a parked car and hit the pavement with a dull thud. Mr. Beauregard thumped his chest triumphantly.
The club was cavelike, the patrons bathed in fruity-colored strobe lights. Hicks walked through the beaded entrance. Up on-stage, three naked women were dancing. Mr. Beauregard let out a primal yell.
It was a frightening sound, and the patrons dived under tables or into the johns or out the front door. From behind the bar, a man in a ruffled tuxedo shirt ran out, swinging a baseball bat. Mr. Beauregard took it from him, then whacked him.
“Give me that, Mr. Beauregard.”
The chimp tossed him the bat. Hicks crossed the room. A smoky mirror hung on the back wall,
and he hit it with the bat. Glass rained down, exposing an office on the other side. Hicks and Mr. Beauregard entered through the door.
At a desk sat a startled Hispanic with his pants off. Beneath the desk hid a naked girl.
“Where is Rico Blanco?” Hicks said.
“Get that fucking ape away from me! I’m just the DJ.”
The naked girl was crying. Hicks pointed the bat in the DJ’s face.
“Answer me,” Hicks said.
“He’ll be at the basketball game tonight,” the DJ said.
“What time?”
“Seven, seven-thirty.”
“Where?”
“American Airlines Arena.”
“Is that nearby?”
“Up the road.”
“Will he be driving his limousine?”
“It’s the only wheels he’s got.”
“I would suggest that you avoid calling him,” Hicks said.
The DJ was shaking. Mr. Beauregard had seen the girl and was drooling.
“Get him away from me!”
“Do you know what a chimp’s greatest sense is?”
“No . . .”
“Smell. I could set him loose on South Beach, and he’d find you in an hour. Maybe less. And do you know what he’ll do?”
The DJ didn’t want to know. He removed the gold cross that was hanging around his neck, and said, “I swear to God I won’t call Rico.”
Back in the car, Hicks gave Mr. Beauregard a Snickers bar as a reward for not touching the girl. The chimp tossed it out the window. Seeing so much flesh had set his heart on fire, and Hicks watched him pick up his ukulele. The song that came out was instantly familiar, and one that Hicks had not heard in years.
Layla.
40
The phone in Nigel’s bungalow rang at four o’clock.
They were taking a nap. Candy’s eyes opened first, and she stroked her lover’s hair. Yesterday, she’d wanted to kill him; now she loved him more than ever. Her mother had always said that if you could love a man, then hate him, then love him again, things would usually work out. On the tenth ring, Nigel reached over her and picked up the receiver.
It was Rico.
Nigel slid out of bed and sat on the edge with the receiver pressed to his ear. “Half hour it is,” he said.
Hanging up, he slapped Candy playfully on the buttocks. “Get dressed. We’re going to a basketball game.”
“Is this the game you’re betting two hundred thousand dollars on?”
“Yes.”
“I still think this is a mistake,” she said, her head buried in goose down.
“What the hell,” he said. “It’s only money.”
He went into the bathroom and shut the door. Candy slipped out of bed and pulled Tony Valentine’s business card from her purse. She punched in his cell phone number. Valentine answered on the second ring.
“How would you like to put the screws to Rico Blanco?” she said.
Celebrities did not show up anywhere on time, and Rico was pacing when they met up in the lobby forty-five minutes later.
Nigel went to the front desk, and the hotel manager was summoned. The four of them went into a back room where the safe-deposit boxes were housed. Nigel produced a key and opened a box, then began removing stacks of hundred-dollar bills and dropping them into Candy’s leather bag. At twenty he quit.
Rico lugged the bag to his limo. It stayed in the backseat with Candy and Nigel as Rico drove.
The demarcation line between the trendy and hip and the rest of Miami Beach happened at 26th Street, and the sidewalks were filled with garishly dressed retirees. Reaching the Arthur Godfrey Road, Rico put his indicator on.
“Don’t be turned off by Bobby Jewel’s store,” he said as he parked. “It’s a toilet, but that’s how Bobby likes it.”
Calling the store a toilet was being kind, Candy thought as they entered. Small and unbearably hot, the store reeked of body odor. Behind the counter sat an enormous man who resembled Jabba the Hutt. Rico did the introductions.
“Nice to meet you,” the bookie said.
A Cuban man came out from the back and counted the money in Candy’s bag. Candy had heard that Bobby worked for a syndicate that could cover any bet. The Cuban said something and returned to the back room.
“You want to bet it all on Miami College?” Bobby said.
Nigel grunted. “Think you can handle it?”
“Sure I can handle it. Don’t you want to know the spread?”
The newspaper store grew deathly still. Gamblers always wanted to know the spread. Bobby was wise to them, Candy realized. Nigel frowned at the bookie.
“I would assume it’s a large one,” he said.
“Twenty-to-one.”
“Can you cover it, or should I take my action elsewhere?”
A bag of potato chips was on the counter, which Bobby kept sticking his hand into. Stuffing some into his mouth, he said, “You’re on!”
Bobby explained the rules. On bets over five grand, his syndicate sent a guy over, who took the money to a hidden location, where it was counted and checked to be certain it wasn’t counterfeit. Only then was the bet accepted.
Nigel agreed to the terms, and Bobby wrote him a chit.
Back in the limo, it was all Rico could do to not kiss Nigel.
“That was beautiful,” he said.
The basketball game was scheduled to start at seven-thirty. Rico drove them back to the Delano, then joined Nigel in the bungalow for a drink. Candy said she wanted to take a walk on the beach. Instead, she went to the Rose Bar. It was packed.
“Over here,” a voice said.
Tony Valentine sat in a corner booth, blending in with the dark wood. Candy slipped into the seat across from him.
“How did it go?”
“Bobby Jewel took the bet,” she said.
A waitress came and took their drink order. Valentine stared at her. She looked different from the other day on the balcony, less harsh. Shedding her whore skin, he guessed. “Who is Miami College playing tonight?” he asked.
“Duke.”
Duke was one of the best basketball teams in the nation, and a Final Four favorite. Even their benchwarmers could whip Miami College’s starters. Any money on Miami College was a sucker bet.
“Doesn’t Nigel suspect something is up?”
“Nigel has this computer program that says Miami is going to win.”
“Did Rico give it to him?”
She smiled. “Yeah. How did you know?”
“The game is fixed, but Rico doesn’t want anyone to know that. So he conned Nigel with one story, Bobby Jewel with another. If he gets caught, the police won’t know which story to believe.”
Their drinks came. Valentine sipped his coffee. In Candy’s face he saw a struggle going on. She stared at the carbonated bubbles in her soda.
“How do I protect Nigel from getting hurt?”
“Tell him everything, including your relationship with Rico.”
“He already knows I’m a hooker.”
“You told him?”
“Last night. I think he’d already figured it out. I told him I’d quit for him.”
“What did he say?”
“He kissed me.”
They finished their drinks. Valentine wanted to tell her to get out before she got hurt. Instead, he took out his wallet and paid the tab.
“So what’s going to happen?” she said.
“I’m going to go to the game tonight and figure out what Rico’s doing. Then I’m going to Bobby Jewel’s store. You and Nigel shouldn’t come in with Rico when he comes to collect the money.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to grab Rico when he comes in. Then, I’m going to take him to the police and have him arrested. I won’t bring up your name or Nigel’s.”
“What if Rico gets violent?”
“I’ll deal with it.”
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
“A
man of his word. I like that.”
Valentine slipped out of the booth. “See you at the game.”
41
“What the hell is this?” Slash said angrily.
Mabel stared at the letter in her abductor’s outstretched hand. Normally, she needed her glasses to read, only the type was so large, it wasn’t necessary. Slash was holding Tony’s latest piece of hate mail.
“It’s from U. R. Dead,” she replied.
“I know. I can read some. Who sent it?”
“A person my boss put in jail.”
The phone on the desk rang. It was within reach, and she imagined picking up the receiver and yelling “Help” at the top of her lungs. Slash had the same thought, and put his hand around her throat.
“Pick it up, say hello. If it’s your boss, get off the line.”
“I thought you wanted me to tell him to come home.”
“I changed my mind.”
He loosened his grip, and Mabel picked up the receiver. It was Tony.
“I’m on the other line,” she said. “Call you right back.”
She hung up, and Slash shook the threatening letter in her face.
“Your boss is a cop.”
“He’s retired.”
“Cops don’t fucking retire,” he said contemptuously. “Someone threatens him, he’s going to be prepared. It’s called survival.”
She watched Slash tear through Tony’s study, pulling out drawers and turning them upside down, as well as boxes of gaffed gambling equipment. Soon, half of Tony’s things were lying on the floor, the room a total shambles.
Slash had dropped the U. R. Dead letter in her lap, and Mabel stared at it long and hard before she made the connection. Slash had figured out that there was a gun in the house, probably in this very room. And he didn’t know where it was.
Taking 595 west into the Everglades, Gerry felt the skin on his arms start to tingle. He’d grown up in Atlantic City, later moved to Brooklyn, and was not accustomed to seeing alligators sunning themselves by the roadside. The locals called them gators. Up north, gators was slang for pimp shoes, and cost a thousand bucks a pair.
