Текст книги "Jackpot"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter 58

They pulled into the MGM at five minutes till three. The front entrance looked like a parking lot, and Gerry drove the luggage cart on the sidewalk and braked by the front door. He threw the keys to a bewildered valet, and they hurried inside.

The casino’s head of security waited in the lobby. His name was Richard Goldman, and he wore a designer blue power suit that was the trademark of his position. On the giant screens behind the check in area, a troupe of Chinese acrobats that were appearing in the hotel’s theater did gravity-defying somersaults through the air.

“I’ve got a guard covering each exit,” Goldman said as he led them through the packed casino. “I would have used more, only there are so many players in the casino, I needed the others for crowd control.”

The MGM’s casino was over three football fields in length. It had more video poker games than any other casino in town, and players were lined up to play them. It was a madhouse, and Goldman pushed his way through with a walkie-talkie to his ear.

“He’s still there? Good. We’re coming.”

Valentine glanced at his son. Gerry was gritting his teeth.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Valentine told him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They reached the area of the casinos devoted to Pai Gow. The tables had pretty Asian girls dealing the games, and Asian pit bosses watching the action. The players, all Asian males with excited looks on their faces, were drinking imported beer and talking excitedly amongst themselves, oblivious to the chaos taking place around them. As Valentine neared the table, he spotted an empty spot with a gigantic stack of chips. He motioned to the pit boss..

“Whose sitting here?”

“Some guy wearing a baseball cap. He’s taking a leak,” the pit boss said.

“Is he winning a lot?”

“He hasn’t lost.”

“You need to shut down this table.”

The pit boss acted shocked, and looked to Goldman for help.

“Do as the man says,” Goldman said.

To the anger of the Asian gamblers at the table, the game was shut down. The gamblers left, and the dealer went on break, leaving the pit boss to watch Bronco’s winnings.

“When our friend comes back, tell him the game was shut down,” Valentine told the pit boss. “If he beefs, offer to give him a free meal voucher.”

“Whatever you say,” the pit boss said.

“What are you doing?” Bill wanted to know.

“I don’t want to arrest Bronco on the floor,” Valentine said. “ Better to let him take his winnings to the cage. Then we’ll get him.”

“Good idea.”

They moved behind a bank of slot machines. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the Men’s Room. Valentine’s palms were sweating, and his mouth had turned dry. He’d never hunted, and wondered if this was what a hunter felt when their prey was in range, ready to be taken down. He checked the time. In two minutes, the ball was going to drop. They needed to catch Bronco before that happened.

“Here he comes,” his son said.

Bronco sauntered out of the Men’s Room and approach the Pai Gow table he’d been playing at. Valentine had always wondered how Bronco had managed to slip through the hands of the law so many times. Watching him cross the casino, he saw the slow, unsteady walk of a gambler who’d had too much to drink. It was an act, and he realized then Bronco’s great secret. Bronco was a chameleon who could play any role.

Bronco came to the empty table and halted. A strange look registered across his face. He knew something wasn’t right. He had a short conversation with the pit boss. Scooping up his chips, he began to slip them into his pockets. He took his time and stayed in character, a real pro. Then he headed across the floor to the cage, continuing his impersonation of a tipsy tourist. His shirt was pulled out, and Valentine guessed he had a gun tucked in his waistband.

Reaching the cage, Bronco began sliding his chips through the bars to the female cashier. She had big hair and an easy smile, and was talking a mile-a-minute. It was the best distraction they could ask for.

They moved in fast; Bill to Bronco’s right, Valentine and Gerry to his left. Bronco was leaning on the cage’s marble counter, yukking it up with the cashier. He looked surprised when they sandwiched him in.

“Freeze.” Bill had his weapon drawn, and pointed it at his suspect’s chest. “Put your hands behind your head, and keep them there.”

Bronco dutifully raised his arms into the air. Bill reached beneath Bronco’s shirt, and removed the gun from where Valentine had guessed it would be.

Bronco seemed resigned to his fate. He looked at Valentine and laughed.

“How long you been chasing me?”

“Twenty-five years,” Valentine replied.

“That’s a long time. You happy, now?”

Catching crooks had never made Valentine happy. It was about as much fun as cleaning septic tanks, which had been his first job before becoming a policeman. But, this was different. This was for Sal.

“Sure am,” he said.

“Glad somebody is,” he said, and laughed again.

Bill made Bronco drop his arms, and began to cuff him. Bronco glanced at the cashier, who was watching, her eyes aglow.

“Nice talking to you, sweetheart.”

Valentine looked at his watch. It was exactly three. His eyes shifted to the casino, ready to see how many video poker machines lit up, and showed a million dollar jackpot. He wondered how Smoltz planned to deal with this disaster. The casinos couldn’t pay off that many jackpots without bankrupting themselves. But if the casinos didn’t pay off, no one would ever gamble in Las Vegas again.

A few seconds later, he got his answer.

Chapter 59

The lights inside the MGM flickered, then went out all together, throwing the interior into darkness. The casino had no windows, and the blackness was like being inside a cave. A roar of panic came from the startled patrons.

“Son of a bitch,” Bill shouted.

“What’s going on?” Valentine said.

“Smoltz!

It took a moment for Valentine to understand what Bill was saying. Rather than allow a quarter of Vegas’s video poker machines to register jackpots and potentially bankrupt the casinos, Smoltz had killed the power throughout the city.

Bill let out a startled yell. Then a gun went off, the sound ripping across the casino. Valentine hit the floor, and covered his head with his hands. Self-preservation had been the first thing he’d learned as a cop, and he rolled across the floor until he hit the wall where the cage was, and stayed there.

“Gerry – you okay?”

“Yeah, Pop.”

“Bill – how about you?”

Bill did not reply. Valentine preyed his friend was not hurt. On the other side of the casino came the sounds of people screaming, as well as chairs and tables being broken. Were people destroying the place out of anger, or just trying to escape?

Valentine felt the toe of a man’s shoe catch him squarely in the face. He tasted his own blood and the world began to spin. The shoe kicked him again, this time in the forehead, and his head snapped back, and hit the wall. An ugly laugh accompanied the kick.

“Hey Valentine,” Bronco said. “Guess who’s gun I’ve got?”

Valentine lay perfectly still, and tried to determine where Bronco was standing. If he could just grab his leg…

“Want me to shoot you?” Bronco asked.

Valentine hesitated, then said, “Not really.”

Another laugh. “You’re a funny guy. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Your brother-in-law Sal was on the take. He tried to squeeze me, so my boys and I killed him. He was dirty.”

Valentine felt the anger rise in his throat. Sal was like most cops, and had lived close to the poverty line. He couldn’t have been taking bribes.

Gerry started to say something. Valentine kicked him before the words tumbled out of his mouth, and his son fell silent.

“Sal got what he deserved,” Bronco said, his voice moving away. “I’ll send you a postcard when I get settled. See you around.”

A second gunshot ripped through the casino. A door leading to the street opened and closed, throwing light inside the darkened interior. Valentine pulled himself to his feet and ran toward the door. Blood was pouring out of his mouth, and his head was spinning. Gerry was right beside him, their shoulders almost touching.

“You didn’t have to kick me so hard,” his son said.

“Yes, I did.”

The darkness was deceiving, and made it hard to judge distances. Valentine found the door and jerked it open. Sunlight flooded through the space. Lying on the floor was the guard assigned to make sure Bronco didn’t escape. He’d taken a slug in the shoulder and had his hand pressed against the wound.

“You okay?” Valentine asked.

“Flesh wound,” the guard said. “Get that son-of-a-bitch.”

Valentine and Gerry went outside. The exit led to an overhead pedestrian walkway that connected the MGM to the other side of Las Vegas Boulevard. Vegas was filled with pedestrian walkways, and Valentine hated every single one of them. They served no other purpose than to give escape routes for criminals.

Bronco was halfway across the walkway. He had eyes in the back of his head, and spun around, then aimed and fired. The bullet winged the building above their heads.

“Fuck you, Valentine!”

Laughing, Bronco climbed over the walkway’s restraining wall, and jumped to the street, landing on the hood of a car filled with people. Rolling off, he began to run. The loss of power had knocked out the traffic lights, and he darted through the sea of cars.

“Let’s get him,” Gerry said.

“Stay here. That’s an order.”

The door to the MGM banged open. Bill staggered out, clutching his bloody arm. It was a nasty wound, but the pain was nothing compared to what he was feeling inside.

“We lost him,” Valentine said.

“What a way to end a career,” Bill said.

“It’s not over, yet.”

“It is for me.”

“You don’t look good. We need to find a doctor.”

“Where’s your son?”

Valentine spun around. Gerry had taken off. He felt himself panic, and heard the pounding of footsteps as Gerry ran down a stairwell that led to the street.

“ Gerry!”

Valentine was never going to outrun his son. He stepped onto the walkway, and hung his head over the railing, trying to find him down below.

“There he is,” Bill said.

His eyes followed the direction of Bill’s finger. Gerry stood in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard in the spot where Bronco had rolled off the car. His son picked up a piece of paper lying on the street. Thirty seconds later, he was standing next to his father, all out of breath.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” Valentine asked.

“This fell out of his pocket,” Gerry explained. “It’s a photograph.”

Valentine had a look. The photo had been taken in the days before digital cameras. In it, a little boy was swimming in a plastic above-ground swimming pool. He was a cute kid, with loads of freckles and a playful smile. He flipped it over. Written on the back was the word Mikey.

“You sure this was in Bronco’s pocket?”

“Positive,” his son said.

Valentine didn’t know what it meant, and wasn’t sure he ever would. Bill had turned white as a ghost, and looked ready to pass out. They went back inside the MGM. There was a flicker of light in the ceiling, and people in the casino cheered. Moments later the lights came on, only dimmer than before, the patrons enveloped in a sickly yellow glow. As they helped Bill across the floor, Valentine noticed that everyone had gone right back to gambling. It was as if nothing had happened.

Which was exactly what Smoltz had wanted.

Chapter 60

Valentine stood on the balcony of his comped suite at the Acropolis, watching the neon jungle that was nighttime on the Las Vegas strip. Down below, thousands of people, some in cars, other on foot, snaked through the canyon formed by the gigantic casinos.

They’d checked Bill into the hospital a few hours ago, then tried to find lodgings for the night. The town was sold out, and Valentine had called Nick, and asked a favor.

Through the open slider came the voice of a TV newscaster, talking about the power outage that had taken down Vegas that afternoon. The outage was being attributed to a faulty generator in the city’s main power plant, located at the Hoover Dam. It was the first time since the assassination of President Kennedy that the city’s casinos had been shut down. The newscaster was making it sound like it had been no big deal, and Valentine supposed it wasn’t a big deal, unless you happened to know the truth.

He went inside and killed the TV. Gerry lay on the bed, still fully clothed, snoring away. His son had surprised him on this trip, and made him think there was still hope.

On the coffee table lay the photo of Mikey the mystery boy. He and Gerry had spent several hours trying to determine the photo’s significance. The photo had not been well taken care of, which had led them to believe that it wasn’t important to Bronco, and was something he planned to use when he established another identity.

Or maybe it meant something else. He sat down on the couch, and stared into space. Bronco had always been an enigma. He’d been chasing him for a long time, yet had never understood what made him tick. The things he’d learned about him on this trip had only added to the confusion. It had started with the tape of the woman named Marie. She’d obviously meant a great deal to Bronco, yet there was no evidence that she’d been in his life recently. So why had Bronco kept her dresses in his closet, and a framed photo on his night table? Had he been in love with her? It didn’t seem possible. Bronco had impressed him as someone incapable of love. That was true with most killers. They did not know how to love, or be loved in return.

Then Bronco had kidnaped Gerry. Bronco could have killed his son, only he hadn’t. Gerry’s comment about why Bronco hadn’t killed him had bothered Valentine. He has a heart.No, he didn’t. If Bronco had a heart, he wouldn’t have shot Bo Farmer on his honeymoon in front of his wife.

Valentine got a ginger ale out of the mini bar. It tasted good and cold. When it was gone, he went back onto the balcony, and thought about it some more.

Another strange thing had happened in Reno. Bronco had been nice to Karl Jr., buying him an ice cream cone, and later stuffing three hundred dollars into the little boy’s shirt pocket. Sociopaths didn’t do things like that, at least not the ones he’d encountered.

Did those things make Bronco a nice guy? Far from it. He’d killed Bo Farmer, stabbed Karl Klinghoffer, been responsible for his cell mate getting killed, and caused all sorts of mayhem in Las Vegas, including shooting the Asian in the back on Fremont Street. Bronco was a stone-cold, cold-blooded killer. Yet for some reason, he’d shown kindness to Gerry and Karl Jr., and revealed a side of himself that few killers had.

He has a heart.

That bothered Valentine. Going inside, he put on his reading glasses, and studied the faded photo. He stared until his eyes hurt.

It took a while, but he finally saw it. The resemblance was faint, but it was there. Mikey had Bronco’s genetic stamp.

Bronco didn’t have a heart, but he did have a son. That was who this kid was. And he’d died a long time ago. Otherwise, the photo would have been new.

He paced the room, and thought about it some more. Bronco had spoken to him inside the MGM that afternoon. I’ll send you a postcard when I get settled.He probably would, too, just to get under his skin.

Bronco was going to leave Las Vegas, and never come back. Would he say goodbye to Mikey, just like any loving father would do? Valentine had a feeling that he would.

Valentine shook his own son awake.

“What’s going on?” Gerry said groggily.

“Get up. We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter 61

Marie Marchese was buried at Woodlawn Cemetery on north Las Vegas Boulevard. She had died at age thirty-nine of an infection contracted in a prison hospital, a victim of neglect. Instead of a phone call, Bronco had gotten a letter in the mail.

He had picked Woodlawn to bury Marie because it was close to where he’d been living at the time. But the cemetery’s name had always rankled him. A wood lawn, made up of endless caskets, laid side by side.

At six-thirty the next morning, he drove his Lexus to the entrance of Woodlawn, parked in the visitor area, then got out and had a look around. A maintenance man in a gray work suit was tending to the grounds, but otherwise the place was deserted.

“Hey, Pops, you got a cigarette to spare?”

The maintenance man shuffled over, dragging a bad leg. He looked about seventy-five, with sagging skin around his mouth and eyes that had seen too much. Probably wasted his retirement money gambling, and been forced to take this crummy job. Las Vegas was filled with a hundred thousand people just like him.

The maintenance man dug out a pack, and threw it at him. Bronco grabbed the pack out of the air, pissed off at first, but then breaking into a smile. The old guy had spunk. “Marlboros, huh,” Bronco said, banging out a smoke.

“That’s all I’ve ever smoked,” the maintenance man said.

“Got a light?”

The maintenance threw a pack of matches and Bronco lit up.

“Look, the place doesn’t officially open until eight, but I won’t say anything if you want to visit,” the maintenance man said. “That’s my policy. Mind your own business.”

“Thanks.”

Bronco handed him the pack and the matches, and the maintenance man pocketed them. He’d left a rake on the ground, and used his foot to right it, then limped away. Bronco puffed on his cigarette and had another look around. Woodlawn was as dead as its inhabitants. He could say his goodbyes, and then be gone.

He finished the cigarette, and ground it out. Marie had hated tobacco, and he hadn’t smoked when they were married. Around Marie, he hadn’t needed to.

He entered the cemetery and walked down a maze of paths until he reached her marker. It wasn’t much, just a simple gray stone with her name, and the dates she’d been born and died. She’d wanted to be cremated, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, wanting a place to visit where he could be sad and then walk away, and not be sad any more.

The ground around her grave site was ragged, the grass unkempt, the flowers he’d brought the time before withered and gone. The rest of the graves didn’t look so crummy, just hers, and it made his blood boil and the anger pulse hot through his veins. His eyes found the gimp maintenance man and he yelled at him coarsely.

“Get your sorry ass over here.”

The maintenance man shuffled over with his rake, a butt dangling from his lip. “Put out that cigarette,” Bronco said. “Show some respect.”

The maintenance man lifted his foot and ground the cigarette into the heel, then pocketed the stub. Then he looked at Bronco with hesitant eyes.

“What do you want, mister? I’ve got work to do.”

Bronco pointed down. “My wife’s grave looks like shit. Fix it.”

The maintenance man stepped forward, and began to rake the dead grass from Marie’s grave, drawing the rake delicately across the parched earth. He was being gentle with her, showing some respect, and Bronco felt himself relax. He pointed at a marker several yards away.

“When you’re done here, I want you to fix that one, too.”

The maintenance man lifted his head. “Which one is that, mister?”

“Michael Marchese. My son.”

“I’m sorry, mister.”

“He died in a foster home,” Bronco said. “My wife was in prison, and the state put him in a foster home, and he died. We never got the complete story. Some bullgarbage about falling down a staircase, and banging his head.”

The maintenance man followed the direction of Bronco’s finger. “I’m sorry, but which one is it?”

Bronco felt the rage build up inside of him. He grabbed the maintenance man by the shoulder, and pulled him close. “You don’t listen too good. It’s right over there, third marker from the end of the path. It’s taller than the others.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Yeah. Make sure you take care of it.”

“I’ll do that.”

The maintenance man dropped his arms, and thrust the rake’s handle squarely into Bronco’s groin. Bronco let out a painful yelp and doubled over in agony, then felt a fist crash down on the back of his neck, sending him face-first to the ground. Before he could react, the maintenance man pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him.

“You’re not the only one good at disguises,” the maintenance man said.

Bronco sat handcuffed in the passenger seat of Tony Valentine’s rental car and slowly got his bearings. His face had hit the ground hard, and two of his front teeth were chipped. Valentine was in the driver’s seat, peeling off his disguise, while his son was over at the Lexus, going through the trunk.

“There’s one part of this whole thing I don’t understand,” Valentine said.

Bronco started laughing. The great thinker was stumped. “Just one thing?”

“Okay, maybe there’s a bunch of things. But there’s one thing about this case.”

“Gimme a cigarette first,” Bronco said.

Valentine banged out a cigarette, put it between his busted lips, and lit it. Bronco took a drag, and blew a purple plume of smoke into Valentine’s face.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why did you kill Bo Farmer in Reno? You knew it would screw things up. Why didn’t you just beat him up?”

Bronco stared through the windshield at the cemetery. He’d asked himself the same question many times. The answer came out slowly. “He was a good-looking kid, had a pretty young wife. I’d lost my wife, and my son. I looked at Bo, and just hated him.”

“So, you killed him.”

“Yeah.”

“Any regrets.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“But you had all that money from that jackpot you stole. You could have gone to Mexico or South America, and started over. Why didn’t you?”

Bronco gave Valentine a murderous stare. It was easy to dream about building a new life, easy to dream about a lot of things. But it wasn’t real. He could tell that Valentine didn’t get it, so he explained it to him.

“There’s no such thing as starting over,” he said.

Gerry climbed into the passenger seat of the rental. “I checked his car. It’s not there. He must have hidden it someplace else.”

Bronco twisted uncomfortably. The handcuffs were tight, and starting to cut off the circulation to his hands. Looking into the mirror, he saw Valentine staring at him.

“Want to do a deal?” Valentine asked.

“I ain’t got nothing you want.”

“Yes, you do. I want the tape you secretly made of Fred Friendly talking about all the jackpots he and his gang stole.”

“Who said I had a tape?”

“I did. You told the D.A. in Reno you had evidence that a gaming agent was stealing jackpots. What else could it have been?”

“You’re pretty smart, for a dumb ass cop.”

“Yes or no?”

Bronco’s hands had gone numb. He wanted to ask Valentine to loosen the cuffs, only he knew Valentine wouldn’t do it. Cops liked to treat criminals badly. He knew it would only get worse when he went to prison.

“Yeah, I’ll do a deal.”

Valentine turned in his seat and faced him. “What do you want in return?”

“Put a bullet in my head, and bury me in the desert.”

“You serious?”

“Dead serious.” He laughed at his own joke.

“You’ve got a deal. Where’s the tape?”

“Crawl under my car. It’s stuck to the bottom with a magnet.”

Gerry hopped out and went to fetch the tape. A minute later he returned covered in grime, holding the tape triumphantly in his hand.

“Just don’t make me suffer,” Bronco said.

Leaving the cemetery parking lot, Valentine hung a left on Las Vegas Boulevard, and drove a mile before turning right on Stewart Avenue. The streets were deserted except for a city bus spitting black exhaust a few blocks away. Bronco felt his heart catch in his chest as Valentine pulled into the Las Vegas Metropolitan Sheriff’s Department headquarters, and parked near the gleaming front doors.

“You’re turning me in?”

“That’s right,” Valentine said.

“But we had a deal. I want to die.”

“You are going to die. But first, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison, thinking about all the rotten things you’ve done.”

Bronco stared at the ugly stucco that defined the building. Like a monster hidden beneath the surface, the fear welled up inside of him, knowing what his life was about to become.

“You bastard,” he swore.