Текст книги "Jackpot"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter 62

When Governor Smoltz was not in the state capital in Carson City conducting business, he could be found in his luxurious suite at the Grant Sawyer State Office Building in North Las Vegas, an attractive five-story structure painted in natural earth tones. Valentine entered the building a short while after turning Bronco over to the police, and asked for Smoltz at the reception area. The uniformed security guard, a ham-faced man with no neck, raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the guard said.

Valentine dropped a business card on the desk in front of the guard. “My name’s Tony Valentine. Tell the governor it’s urgent that he speak with me.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who jokes?”

The guard studied him like he was in a line-up. “Have a seat.”

Valentine sat on a leather couch facing the window. Out in the parking lot, he could see Gerry sitting in the car, nervously waiting for his return. He had weighed having Gerry with him when he talked with Smoltz, but had decided against it. If Smoltz pitched a fit and threatened him, it would be better if his son wasn’t around.

He had done some stupid things in his life, no question about it. What he was about to do now would get added to the list. But he didn’t see that he had a choice. When he had first gone to work policing the casinos in Atlantic City, he’d discovered how the gambling business preyed on human weakness. It had bothered him to no end. Eventually, he’d decided the only way he could justify his work was to make sure the games were clean and honest. To accept anything else would have made him a hypocrite.

A minute later, the guard called him back to the desk, and handed him a plastic ID tag. “Clip that to your jacket. The governor’s office is on the top floor.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve been working here for a long time, and the governor’s never seen anyone who’s come in off the street. Who are you?”

Valentine hesitated. He could have given the guard several answers. He was a gaming consultant, and also an ex-cop. But that wasn’t why he was here now.

“A concerned citizen,” Valentine said.

Smoltz’s office was befitting the most powerful politician in the state. Wood floors covered with thick Persian rugs, fine antiques, the walls decorated with restored photographs of the city back when it had been run by gangsters and murderers.

Smoltz was on the phone when Valentine came in. His desk was covered with newspapers, and Valentine glanced at the headlines. The media had dubbed yesterday’s fiasco “The Afternoon the Lights Went Out,” and claimed over ten million dollars had been lost in gaming revenues, not to mention all the negative publicity. But in the end, it was nothing compared to the money that the casinos would have lost had the lights stayed on, and Valentine guessed that the next time Smoltz ran for office, the casino owners would happily bankroll his campaign. It was the least they could do to thank him.

Smoltz finished his call. His hair was unkempt, his face flush. He looked like a pressure cooker with too much steam, and glared harshly at Valentine.

“Sit down,” Smoltz said.

Valentine remained standing and crossed his arms. “Tough morning?”

“You have no idea.”

“Let me guess. The media wants a more thorough explanation of how the power went out yesterday. Only you can’t give it to them.”

“They’ll go away. They always do.”

Smoltz poured himself a glass of water, but did not offer his guest a glass. The gesture was not lost on Valentine.

“I need a favor. Actually, several of them,” Valentine said.

“Why should I do you a favor?”

“I caught Bronco Marchese this morning. He’s cooling his heals over at the Stewart Street jail. In Bronco’s car I found a tape he secretly recorded of Fred Friendly, talking about why he ripped off the casinos. It’s pretty heavy.”

“Did you give the tape to the police?”

Valentine shook his head.

“Will you give it to me?”

“Yes. But I want some things in return.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Actually, I’m doing you a favor. This tape is evidence. By law, I should turn it over to the police, and give a copy to Bronco’s defense attorney. If I did that, it would eventually get played in court. Then you’d have to take the sign on Las Vegas Boulevard that says ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas!’ and replace it with one that says, ‘Hello, Suckers!’ It would be more appropriate.”

“You’re an asshole, Valentine.”

He had Smoltz exactly where he wanted him. He picked up an empty glass off the desk and poured himself some water. It tasted good and cold. A sheet of sweat did a death march down Smoltz’s face, and he stammered like a punk on the witness stand.

“What do you want in exchange for the tape?”

“Give Bill Higgins his job back, with the promise that you’ll let him keep his position until he’s ready for retirement. He did nothing wrong.”

“Very well. Have Bill call me, and I’ll reinstate him.”

“No. You have to call him.”

Smoltz grit his teeth. “You want me to eat crow? All right, I’ll eat crow. What else?”

“There’s a casino owner named Diamond Dave living in California,” Valentine said. “I want you to find a reason to arrest him, and throw his ass in jail. He cheated his customers, and is also responsible for the death of his casino manager.”

“I can’t go after Diamond Dave.”

“Why the hell not?”

“The evidence against him was destroyed. I ordered it.”

“Diamond Dave pocketed several million bucks in illegal winnings. I’m sure he didn’t report it on his income tax return. Sic the IRS on him.”

“You know all the angles, don’t you?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I have friends with the IRS. Consider it done. What else?”

“My fee.”

A look of indignation rose in Smoltz’s face.

“You want me to pay you myself?” the governor asked.

“Yes. I don’t work for free.”

“What are the damages?”

“Ten grand.”

Smoltz took a check book from his desk and wrote him a check. Ripping it out, he held it in the air and said, “Where’s the tape?”

Valentine removed the tape from his jacket pocket. They did the exchange. Then Valentine stuck out his hand. Smoltz stared at it.

“We have a deal,” Valentine said. “I don’t talk, and you keep up your end of the bargain. Agreed?”

The best deals were ones that weren’t written on paper. Smoltz stood up and shook his hand.

“Agreed,” the governor replied.

Valentine went to the door, then remembered something. He’d become a cop because he liked helping people. It was the same reason he ran his consulting business. If he could make someone’s life better, then he’d accomplished something far greater than earning a paycheck. Turning around, he walked back to the governor’s desk, and cleared his throat. “I have another request I’d like you to consider.”

“I thought we were done,” Smoltz said.

“This is personal.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s a woman I know who’s in jail here in Nevada. I want you to pardon her.”

Smoltz leaned back in his leather chair and considered the request. “I don’t release criminals on a whim. Why should I help this woman?”

Valentine was surprised by his reply. Even Smoltz had his limits.

“Let’s just say she deserves a break.”

“Girlfriend?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“But you know her.”

“Yes, I know her.”

“What if she breaks the law again?”

“She won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Valentine thought back to their last conversation. He’d never been more sure about anything in his life. “I’ll vouch for her,” he said.

Smoltz drummed the desk. “Is this the end of it? No more requests?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

Valentine hesitated. He had always respected authority, even when it came in the form of the sleazy stuffed suit sitting on the other side of the desk.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

A thin smile formed across Smoltz’s face. Order had been restored.

“All right, give me her name.”

Valentine gave him the name, and watched Smoltz write it down. He left the governor’s suite feeling better than he had when he walked in.

Chapter 63

People called different places home. For her, it was an eight-by-ten green concrete cell with a plastic chair, a steel toilet, and two bunk beds bolted to the wall. There was also a tiny window which she tried not to look through. Looking at the sky only made her feel sad, and life was tough enough inside the jail.

She spent most of the day sleeping. Sleep was the antidote to the black hole her life had become. In sleep, everything was peaceful and sane, her dreams filled with chirping birds and long walks in the forest and beautiful sunsets. The hard part was waking up, when she had to erase those beautiful images from her mind.

Today had been a little better. She’d been allowed outside for a walk in the yard with the other female prisoners. Looking up, she’d seen a chalky white cloud in the shape of an exclamation mark, and taken it as a promise of better times ahead.

She’d spent the afternoon reading an adventure novel given to her by another inmate. It was about a fishing guide named Thorn who helped people in the Florida Keys. She’d become lost in it, and did not hear the guard until he was standing outside her cell.

“You’ve got a visitor,” the guard said.

She put her book down. “I do. Who’s that?”

“Kimberli Bronson, your lawyer.”

The guard led her to the visitor’s room, where Bronson sat behind an five inch-thick wall of plexiglass. Bronson wore a dark blue suit and had her hair tied in a bun. Nice-looking, but not a show-off. She pulled up a chair expectantly.

“I have wonderful news,” Bronson said.

Wonderful was a relative term when you lived in a concrete cell.

“What are you talking about? What’s happened?”

“The governor of Nevada has pardoned you.”

Time seemed to stand still, and a pool of darkness appeared before her eyes. She took several deep breaths until her composure returned.

“Did you hear what I just said. You’re going to go free.”

“When?”

“Today, right now. The governor signed the papers a short while ago, and his office called me. I thought I should deliver the news in person.”

She cried without making a sound. The guard, who’d been standing dutifully behind her, handed her a Kleenex. She thanked him and blew her nose.

“Do you know why?” she asked.

Her lawyer leaned forward, smiling. “The governor wouldn’t tell me. I know a woman who works in his office, and asked her. She said a consultant named Tony Valentine struck a deal with him. Valentine got him to do it.”

She leaned back in her chair, the Kleenex clutched in her hand. “Tony Valentine did this for me?”

Bronson lifted her eyebrows and nodded.

“That’s so wonderful,” she said.

With her lawyer by her side, she went to the jail’s booking area, and signed a stack of papers that she didn’t bother to read. The man behind the desk flashed her a smile and said, “Well, I guess then you’d like your things back. Full name, please.”

“Karen Farmer,” she said.

The man got a plastic bag with her things and dumped them on the desk. It was all there – jewelry, purse, belt, shoelaces – and Karen quickly collected the items, then went into a small room, and changed out of her prison jumpsuit into the clothes she’d been wearing the day she’d been arrested. Then, she followed her lawyer outside the Washoe County jail and into the sunshine. The day had gotten more beautiful, the desert colors bleeding through like paint on a canvas. Her lawyer pointed at a Subaru parked nearby.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Karen hesitated. Bronson had gone the extra mile for her. She didn’t want to take advantage of her any further, and said, “Are you sure it’s no problem?”

“Of course. Where are you going?”

“To the Cal Neva lodge,” Karen said. “My car is still parked in the hotel valet.”

“You going back to Sacramento?” her lawyer asked.

“It’s the only home I’ve got,” Karen replied.

The drive to the Cal Neva was straight uphill, and her lawyer spent more time maneuvering her Subaru than talking. Karen enjoyed the silence, and watched the scenery with a sliver of fresh air blowing in her face. Forty minutes later, her lawyer pulled into the Cal Neva’s winding entrance and braked at the main entrance.

“Well, here you go. Good luck.”

Karen reached over and squeezed her lawyer’s hand. “You’ve been awfully good to me. Thank you.” Then, she climbed out of the car and walked over to the valet. As the Subaru pulled out, she turned and waved. Her lawyer was already on her cell phone.

Karen give her stub to the valet.

“You checking out, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Any luggage?”

She felt a catch in her throat. Her clothes and toiletries and wedding dress were probably still somewhere inside the hotel, waiting to be claimed. And so were Bo’s things, his tux and work clothes and the funny tee shirts he liked to wear to bed.

“No,” she said.

She was soon on the road. The sun was blinding, and she dropped her visor and saw something fall into her lap. It was the size of a parking ticket, and she didn’t look at it until she was sitting at a traffic light a short while later. It was a snapshot of Bo taken at a neighbor’s backyard barbecue a few months ago. She stifled a sharp cry.

“Oh, baby,” she said.

In the snapshot, Bo was smiling like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. The devilish look on his face said he’d just done something, and was just daring her to find out what. It was the look that had made her fall in love, and now she was falling in love with him all over again.

She pulled into a gas station and parked in a shady spot. For ten minutes she cried her heart out. When she’d run out of tears, she kissed the photograph and tucked it into her purse. God, she was going to miss him.

Then, she got back on the road, and drove the three hundred twisting miles back to Sacramento, all the while dreaming about the life she might have lived.

Author’s Note:

In 1998, a computer regulator with the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s Electronic Surveillance Division was arrested for stealing hundreds of jackpots from Nevada’s casinos. This novel is loosely based upon that story.