Текст книги "Jackpot"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter 30

Valentine was standing on the side of the highway when his cell phone rang. The caller ID said GERRY. He fumbled hitting the Receive button.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Pop, it’s me.”

Hearing his son’s voice brought a flood of emotions over him that Valentine couldn’t control, and he sat down on the shoulder and began to weep. He hadn’t done that since his wife’s funeral, and the tears burned his eyes.

“You still there, Pop?”

“Yeah,” he choked. “I’m here. Where are you?”

“In a storage facility on the north side of town,” his son said. “I banged on the door, but no one came out. I didn’t see any people when we drove in, so I’m guessing the place is self-serve. I’m going to leave the cell phone on so you can find me.”

A trailer truck appeared on the highway. The driver didn’t slow down, and Valentine guessed it was common to see grown men sitting on the side of the road, bawling their heads off. Rising, he dusted himself off.

“How am I going to do that?”

“Call my cell phone company,” Gerry said. “They’ll know which tower my phone’s signal is originating from. It will be within a five mile radius. Once you know that, the Reno cops can look at all the self-serve storage facilities within that radius.”

Valentine saw another car coming up the road, the driver behind the wheel looking like Bill Higgins. Waving, he said, “How do you know that?”

“I saw it on a cop-show on TV,” his son said.

Valentine said goodbye to his son and killed the connection. Climbing into the passenger seat of Bill’s car, he told him that Gerry was still alive. Then, he explained his son’s clever solution to finding him in the storage facility.

Bill called the Reno police on his cell, and asked them to call Gerry’s cell phone company. Hanging up, he said, “You realize Bronco did this to stall us.”

The same thought had occurred to him. While they were finding Gerry, Bronco would be running away. Bill did a U-turn on the highway, and headed back to Reno. He drove way over the speed limit, the desolate scrub landscape going by in a blur. After a few minutes had passed, Valentine said, “Have I ever told you how smart my son is?”

Bill shook his head.

“Yesterday, when we were at Bronco’s house, Gerry said that he thought your bad agent was stealing jackpots using computers. Well, since there’s no physical way to rig modern slot machines, Gerry must be right. Which led me to realize something. Your bad agent works for Fred Friendly in the Electronic Systems Division.”

Bill looked stunned. “You think the bad agent is in ESD? That’s a stretch, Tony.”

“No, it isn’t. Bronco said this bad agent stole hundreds of jackpots. A field agent couldn’t do that, simply because hundreds of stolen jackpots – even small ones – would be noticed if they occurred in the same part of the state. But, they wouldn’t be noticed if they were spread out across the entire state. Somebody working for ESD could do that.”

Bill’s mouth worked up and down in silent thought.

“You’re right,” he said.

Another minute passed. They could see Reno ahead in the distance, the city a black dot on the brown landscape.

“How many agents work for ESD?” Valentine asked.

“Seventy-five,” Bill said.

“Those are our suspects,” Valentine said.

Gerry had discovered that being a father had its drawbacks. He couldn’t listen to loud music anytime he wanted to, like he had when he was single. So, he’d bought an Ipod, and plugged himself in whenever he got the chance. He was tapping his foot to Arethra Franklin’s soulful singing when his cell phone lit up. He’d turned the car’s interior light off, fearful of the battery dying, and stared at the cell phone’s illuminated face. It was his father.

“Feel up to doing a job?” his father asked.

“I don’t know, I’m kind of busy right now.”

He paused, hoping to hear his father laugh. When he didn’t, Gerry said, “Of course I’ll do a job, Pop.”

“In the trunk are the files of the nine hundred Nevada Gaming Control Board agents,” his father said. “I’ve winnowed the field down to seventy-five.”

“Let me guess,” Gerry said. “You want me to pull those seventy-five out, and find the bad agent.”

“That’s right. Sure you’re up for it?”

Sure you’re up for it?That didn’t sound like his father at all. Maybe saving his old man’s life had erased some of the horrendous crap he’d put his father through over the years. Through the IPOD’s earplugs lying on the seat he could faintly hear Aretha singing about respect, and found himself smiling.

“I’m up for it,” Gerry said.

He hung up, then got the stack of files out of the trunk and returned to the front seat of the car. Leaving the door ajar, he grabbed a handful of files, and began sorting through them. He pulled out every agent who worked for the ESD, and placed those files into a separate stack. When the larger stack was exhausted, he picked up the smaller stack and counted it. Seventy-five files, just like his father had said.

The IPOD was still playing, and he considered plugging himself back in, then decided against it. This was work, and he needed to start acting serious.

He heard the storage unit’s air conditioner come on, and felt the manufactured air cool the car’s interior. His father had once told him that to catch a criminal, you needed to know his motivation. He tried to imagine what the motivation was for a gaming agent to rip off the people he worked for. He’d once had a woman who worked for him as a bartender, and had discovered her stealing money out of the till. When he’d confronted her, he’d discovered that she’d been carrying a grudge because he’d never asked her out. The stealing had nothing to do with money. It was spite. The woman had also taken a lot of sick and vacation days, and worked all the angles.

He thumbed through the stack, and pulled out the file of every agent who’d taken a high number of days off in the past few years. There were seven in all.

He worked through the seven files. Two women and five men. Each had been out of work well above the norm. Maybe they’d been sick, or had to deal with a sick family member. He began to think he was barking up the wrong tree, when a thought occurred to him. If a bad agent was running around Nevada stealing jackpots, that agent needed to be taking time off to engineer those thefts. There was no way around it.

He felt the tingle of excitement. One of these seven agents was their thief. His father was going to be proud of him.

Another first, he thought.

Chapter 31

A few miles outside of Reno, Valentine had an epiphany. He’d been having them since childhood, and he asked Bill to pull the car into a roadside gas station. Bill took his eyes off the highway, and gave him a funny look.

“What’s up?”

“Just pull over,” Valentine said.

Bill pulled into a gas station and parked the car by the air pumps. Killing the transmission, he turned to look at him.

“I want to know why you’re holding out on me,” Valentine said after the engine’s fan had stopped whirring. Bill shot him a guilty look, and Valentine knew he had him. “Last night at the strip club, you knew Garrow was going to exchange secrets with the Asian. Who the hell told you that? I certainly didn’t, and neither did my son.”

Bill stared through the windshield at the desolate empty field behind the gas station. There was a lot of pretty geography in Nevada, but mostly it was a desolate place, and Valentine couldn’t imagine himself taking a nature walk and finding anything but snakes and scorpions and maybe a coyote or two. He waited for Bill to defend himself, and when he didn’t, resumed.

“You know something about this case that I don’t. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me. You’re the head of the largest law enforcement agency in the state, and it’s your business to know things other people don’t. Only, there’s a problem. I’m supposed to be running this investigation. So, tell me what’s going on, okay?”

Bill went inside the convenience store that was attached to the gas station, emerging a minute later with two cups of coffee. Bill liked his coffee black and strong, just like Valentine. Handing him a cup, Bill said, “Maybe I should start from the beginning.”

“That’s usually the best place,” Valentine said.

“How much do you know about what’s going on inside China?” Bill asked.

“Just what I read in the papers. The country is booming.”

“Their economy is growing at an annual rate of ten percent, while the rest of the world’s is stagnant. Any idea why?”

Valentine shook his head.

“The underlying factor is the Chinese government. They will stop at nothing to dominate any business that will make money. Right now, they’re the world’s number one manufacturer of electronic equipment, clothing, sporting equipment, and household appliances. They’re also trying to dominate other markets.”

“Including gambling?”

“Including gambling. The casino gambling on the island of Macau is booming. The government is helping build a number of lavish casinos there. The plan is to attract the high-rolling Asian gamblers who are coming to Las Vegas, and get them to gamble in Macau instead.”

It made sense. Every week, American Airlines flew five luxury jumbo jets from Hong Kong to Las Vegas. These jets were filled with high-rolling Asian gamblers, or what the industry called whales, and were the single most profitable group of gamblers in the world. Of course the Chinese government wanted them to stay at home and gamble. They were worth hundreds of millions of dollars to the economy.

“How does the Pai Gow scam fit into this?” Valentine asked.

“Rumor is, the Chinese government struck a deal with the Triads to gaff every Pai Gow game in Las Vegas,” Bill said. “Since the equipment is manufactured in China, the story makes sense. The Chinese are hoping that if Las Vegas starts losing money at Pai Gow, the casinos will close the games down.”

“And the Asian gamblers will stay home and play Pai Gow in Macau.”

Bill blew on his coffee. “That’s right.”

“And Bronco was the cheater who was going to rip off the casinos with the Pai Gow scam.”

“Right again. Now, there’s a problem with this story, and it’s this. Once I heard the rumor, I had every casino in Las Vegas pull their Pai Gow equipment off the tables, and send it to a forensic lab. They tested for marks, luminous paint and hidden gaffs. Nothing showed up.”

“What about ultra-violet inhibitors?

“They were tested for those, as well. The dominos are clean.”

“No, they’re not,” Valentine said. “Think about what you just told me. The Chinese government is intent on shutting down every Pai Gow game in Las Vegas. That means every Pai Gow game in Las Vegas can be scammed. There’s something wrong with those dominos. You just don’t know what to look for.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

Bill’s cell phone went off. He took the call, then hung up and started the car’s engine. “That was O’Sullivan. The cops got a reading on your son’s cell phone. It’s coming from a storage facility on the south side of town. They’re waiting for us.”

The cars wheels spun pulling out of the parking lot.

Ten minutes later, Bill pulled into the self-storage facility where the Reno police had determined that Gerry was being held. The front gate was open, and Bill drove around back and parked. As a cop, Valentine had always hated industrial parks. Every car thief and drug smuggler he’d ever busted had worked out of one, and he considered them a haven for crooks and scum bags.

Eight uniformed Reno cops were standing outside a unit with a sliding metal door. They were all big and tan, wore bulletproof vests and clutched shotguns protectively to their chests. One had a large mallet, and Valentine guessed his job was to break the lock on the sliding door. O’Sullivan stood beside the building, staying cool in the shade.

“I spoke to your son through the door,” the sergeant said. “He thinks his nose is busted, but otherwise he’s okay.”

Valentine felt something drop in his stomach. Gerry hadn’t said anything about his nose when they’d talked earlier. “What happened to his nose?”

“Bronco roughed him up.”

“Did you ask my son if he thought the unit was booby-trapped?”

“Come to mention it, I did. Your son said the interior was clean, but I had my men drill some holes through the door to let some light in. I had your son check the unit visually, and also run his hands up and down the door to check for wires and vibration tape. He didn’t find anything.”

Valentine didn’t like it. It would be a long time before he forgot the hatred he’d seen in Bronco’s face earlier that day. Walking onto the grass, he looked at the line of hills overlooking the facility. They were a half-mile away, and covered with scrub brush. He tried to imagine what kind of animals he’d find if he hiked through them. He guessed snakes and squirrels and maybe a man with a high-powered hunting rifle. He got O’Sullivan’s attention and pointed at them. “I want you to send a pair of men up there, and make sure Bronco isn’t waiting to ambush us.”

“A police helicopter did a sweep fifteen minutes ago. The area is clean.”

Valentine looked back at the hills. Even though he didn’t gamble, he’d learned how to play the odds a long time ago. Bill was standing nearby talking with a couple of cops, and he walked over to him and said, “Do me a favor, and explain to Sergeant O’Sullivan that I’m in charge, and that he needs to do whatever I tell him, even if it means standing on his head and spitting nickels. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, Tony.”

Bill explained the situation to O’Sullivan. The sergeant grew red in the face, then sent two men up the hill. He came over to where Valentine was standing.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“No problem,” Valentine said.

A few minutes later, one of the cops radioed O’Sullivan, and said the hills were clean. Valentine still didn’t like it, but told the sergeant to break down the door anyway.

The cop with the mallet opened the sliding door with several well-placed whacks. As the door was pushed up, Valentine found himself thanking God, something he didn’t do nearly as much as he should. He’d already had a piece of his heart torn out by losing his wife, and could not stand having another piece torn out losing Gerry.

Sunlight flooded the unit’s interior and the Reno cops swarmed in. The unit was rectangular in shape and contained Valentine’s rental car. Gerry sat in the front seat and got out of the car while shielding his eyes from the sudden flood of light. Valentine went and put a bear hug on him.

“Thanks for saving my life,” Valentine said.

“I owed you one,” his son replied.

They held each other. Valentine’s late wife had gotten him addicted to hugs, and it felt really good. Then they walked onto the grass where Bill’s car was parked, and Gerry took out his cigarettes and lit up. They shared a smoke without saying anything.

“You’re going to be proud of me,” Gerry said.

“I’m already proud of you.”

“I narrowed down your slot cheater to seven suspects.”

“Show me.”

Gerry went back to the rental, and returned holding a handful of paper, which he handed to his father. Valentine counted seven files of gaming agents who worked for the Electronic Systems Division. He looked at his son expectantly.

“I once had a woman who worked for me as a bartender who was stealing money,” Gerry explained. “She also took a lot of personnel days and sick days. The two go hand-in-hand.”

“Stealing money and stealing time,” Valentine said.

“That’s right. The woman who was stealing from me did it out of spite. Well, that fits the profile of your slot cheater, don’t you think?”

Valentine took a drag off the cigarette. “You think this agent has a vendetta?”

“Why else would he steal hundreds of jackpots? Why not just steal one big one?”

Gerry pointed at the files in his father’s hands. “Those seven agents have all taken lots of time off in the past two years for “personal” reasons. I’d bet the rent one of them is your slot cheater.”

The cigarette was down to nothing, and Valentine burned his fingers getting a final drag. Last one,he told himself, knowing it was a lie. Then, he looked through the seven files. The agents were some of the most senior people in ESD, and included Fred Friendly, the man running the show. It seemed inconceivable that one of them might be a slot cheater, yet all the evidence was pointing that way.

“I think you’re right. Good job. ” Valentine put the files down and squeezed his son’s arm. Then he noticed that Gerry was trembling. “What’s wrong?”

“Bronco tried to kill me earlier,” his son said.

“Jesus, Gerry. What happened?”

“I talked him out of it.”

“How the hell did you do that?”

“Right before he was going to pull the trigger, I pissed in my pants. Bronco saw it, got real upset. I think it reminded him of that night on the Boardwalk when he murdered Uncle Sal.”

“You think that’s why he didn’t shoot you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. Gerry lit up another cigarette and Valentine broke another promise to himself and took a drag. His son broke the silence.

“I know this is going to sound strange…”

“What’s that?”

“I think Bronco regretted doing that to me. You know, terrorizing a kid.”

“You’re saying the guy’s human.”

“Yeah,” his son said.

“And that he has a heart.”

“Yeah.”

Valentine filled his lungs with the rich-tasting smoke. If he’d learned anything as a cop, it was that there was a fine line between sinners and saints. Even the best people went bad, and sometimes the worst people surprised you. When it came to human behavior, there was no real black and white. It was all a hazy shade of gray.

“I’m still going to nail his ass,” Valentine said.

Part 2

Cheats

Chapter 32

Not shooting Gerry Valentine had to be the stupidest thing Bronco had ever done. Gerry had seen the car in the storage facility, probably memorized the license plate. The fact that Bronco had spared him didn’t mean Gerry wasn’t going to tell the police what he’d seen once they rescued him. Bronco had killed plenty of men in his life, and had a feeling he was going to regret not killing this one.

He pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot and went through the side entrance into the Men’s Room. Standing before the mirror, he applied the nail polish Gerry had bought for him to his cheeks and forehead, then scrunched his face up while the nail polish dried. Within a few minutes he looked ten years older.

He bought himself a couple of burgers, and was surprised when the cashier handed him a Styrofoam cup. “Free coffee for older folks,” she said brightly.

He went outside with his coffee and his burgers. Opening the trunk of the Taurus, he inspected the items he’d put there years ago in case of an emergency. There was a high-powered hunting rifle with a long-range scope, a .25 Beretta, several boxes of ammo, two changes of clothes, and a cardboard box filled with disguises. From the box he removed a baseball cap that said ‘Reno, Biggest Little City in the World’ – and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Getting into the car, he put the cap and glasses on, then appraised himself in the mirror. He looked like a retiree, and fired up the car’s engine. If he drove real slow, he’d look like every other old geezer who tooled around Reno.

A police cruiser entered the parking lot. A pair of cops were checking out the cars, and Bronco unwrapped one of the burgers sitting on the seat, and shoved it into his mouth. He drove past the cruiser and rolled his window down.

“Good afternoon, officers,” he said through a mouthful of food.

The two cops nodded, their faces all business.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

The cops stared right through him. Bronco had been disguising himself as an old man for years, and it never failed to work. It was like being invisible, only he got discounts on food and better service in restaurants.

“Have a nice day,” he called as he drove away.

Bronco thought about his situation while driving into the city. He could last a day or two changing his appearance, but not much more. The police would eventually track him down, and he’d end up back in jail. Just two days behind bars had convinced him that he wouldn’t last very long being locked up. He’d heard about ex-cons who’d killed themselves rather than go back to the joint, and always thought the stories were crazy. Now, he didn’t think they were crazy at all.

He needed money, and lots of it. Money would buy him time, and time was freedom. It was as simple as that. He knew just how to get it.

The outskirts of Reno had more stores than the city itself, and he pulled into a strip shopping center, and parked by a neighborhood pub called Woody’s. Inside, he found a bunch of armchair quarterbacks sucking beer and watching the local news on a giant screen TV. A breathless newscaster was describing his escape from the police station that morning, and the resulting manhunt which was taking place across the state. He threw a ten dollar bill on the bar, and asked for a glass of tomato juice and quarters to use the pay phone.

“Phone’s in back,” the bartender said, sliding his drink and change across the bar.

The phone booth was next to the kitchen. Bronco slid onto the seat while staring at his enlarged mug shot on the TV. The newscaster said, “If there is a happy footnote to this story, it’s that the guard who was attacked at the jail, Karl Klinghoffer, was resuscitated by another guard, and is expected to make a full recovery.”

Bronco found himself nodding. He’d liked Karl. Like a lot of cops, Karl had larceny in his heart, and had been easy to manipulate. Placing the receiver into the crook of his neck, he dialed from memory the number of the cheating gaming agent at the Nevada Gaming Control Board. Moments later, an automated voice told him to put in three dollars and sixty-five cents. Bronco fed the coins in, and his call went through.

“Hello?” a man’s voice said.

“It’s me,” Bronco said. “Go outside, and call me back at this number.”

“You! How dare you—

“Just do as I say,” Bronco told him. He recited the number printed on the pay phone, then hung up. Two minutes later, the phone rang.

“How’s it going,” Bronco said.

“You crummy bastard,” the cheating agent screamed. “I heard what you did. You offered to sell me down the river if the police let you out of jail. How dare you call me!”

“Calm down,” Bronco said.

“Fuck you!”

“I broke out of jail this morning,” Bronco said. “I’m on the lam.”

There was a long silence. Then, “You didn’t give me up?”

“Of course not,” Bronco said, sipping his tomato juice. “That was a bullgarbage story put out by the police. They were trying to smoke you out.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Believe what you want.”

Another silence. “Why did you call me?”

“I need money.”

“Like I’m going to wire it to you? Get real.”

Bronco’s hand tightened around the receiver. The cheating gaming agent was a real head case. He’d gotten pissed off at his employer a few years ago, and decided to pay him back by taking dead aim at the casinos. A revenge thing.

“Listen to me,” Bronco said. “As long as I’m free, you’re free. Understand?”

Another silence. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good. I want you to go back to your office, and find me a slot machine in Reno that’s ready to be ripped off.”

“I already gave you one of those,” the agent said.

“It’s been used.”

“By who?”

“I gave it to a guard in the jail.”

“A guard? How stupid is that?”

Had they been in the same room, Bronco would have strangled him. Fucking civil servant who discovered that the people he worked for were scum and had developed a self-righteous attitude because of it.

“He helped me get out of jail,” Bronco said.

The agent let out an exasperated breath. “Give me five minutes.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bronco said.

Bronco drank his tomato juice and watched TV while he waited. The pub had several slot machines, and he had to force himself not to play them. Slots in bars were “tight” and rarely paid out, and he’d always enjoyed ripping them off.

But he didn’t do it. He needed to show restraint if he was going to stay out of jail. That was what tripped most criminals up. They followed certain behavior patterns that were recognizable and allowed the police to track them down. For him, it was playing the slots. If he could just stay away, he’d be okay.

He got another glass of tomato juice from the bartender. Over the years, he’d devised dozens of ways to cheat the slots, and liked to think of himself as an innovator. He’d been the first cheater to tie a piece of monofilament to a coin, drop it into a machine, and jerk it back out. It let him play for free, always a fun proposition. He had invented that scam and many more, but they didn’t compare to what the cheating agent at the GCB was doing. Every day, sitting in his office in Las Vegas, the agent was rigging slot machines in all corners of the state. The agent had figured out how to rig the machines using his own field agents, all of whom were oblivious to what was going on. It was better than any scam Bronco had ever heard of, and he knew its secret.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. Bronco snatched it up. “Where you been?”

“Looking at your mug shot on the department’s web site,” the cheating agent said. “Every cop in the state is hunting you. The casinos are on the alert, too.”

“Fuck ’em,” Bronco said.

“Suit yourself. One of the Drew Carey’s Big Balls of Cash machines at the Peppermill is ready to pay off. Jackpot will be ninety-six hundred and change. That enough money for you?”

Bronco liked most of the slot machines which featured celebrities, but he hated the Drew Carey machines. Every time a person played, a recording came on of the comic berating the player. It was sick, even by his standards.

“That’s enough,” Bronco said.

“Good. You’re going to need a claimer for the jackpot,” the agent said.

“You think so?”

“I sure do. The governor has ordered every casino to ID anyone who wins a jackpot, regardless of the amount.”

Bronco clenched his teeth. He would have to find a claimer, and he’d have to find them fast. Another headache.

“Which machine?” Bronco asked.

“I want you to promise me something, first.”

“I don’t make promises,” Bronco said.

“Well, you’re going to have to make an exception with me. I want you to promise me that this is it. No more phone calls. The partnership is dissolved.”

Bronco felt the veins in his head popping the skin, his brain twirling the way it did when he grew enraged. No one strong-armed him. No one.

“Sure,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I want to hear you say it,” the agent said.

“I promise,” he grunted.

The agent was stupid. He believed there was honor among thieves. He told Bronco which Drew Carey machine at the Peppermill was rigged, and Bronco slammed down the phone without saying goodbye.

Bronco walked through the pub. On the TV, the local news had started over, the lead story his daring escape from jail. He remembered the old Don Henley song about dirty laundry, and felt a tingle knowing that he was giving people their jollies.

The picture on the TV showed the local hospital. Standing in the parking lot was a male newscaster, beside him a young woman. She was a country girl, with freckles and a flat, unhappy face, with a small boy clutching her dress. The swipe at the bottom of the screen identified her as Rebecca Klinghoffer. Karl’s bride, he thought.

The newscaster was trying to make Karl Klinghoffer’s survival into a story, but Rebecca Klinghoffer was having none of it. Her face was drained of emotion, and she answered the newscaster’s questions in monosyllabic bursts.

Bronco started to walk away, then caught sight of the glimmering stone hanging around Rebecca Klinghoffer’s neck. It was a tear-shaped diamond pendant. The rest of her clothes and jewelry were ordinary, but not the pendant. At least two carats, the insetting made of platinum. Bronco had told Karl to buy her wife something pretty, and Karl had bought her that wonderful diamond. That was why she was acting defensive on the television. She was afraid.

Bronco left the pub with a smile on his face. He had found his claimer.