Текст книги "Deadman's Bluff"

Автор книги: James Swain

Соавторы: James Swain
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

29

“What fucking happened?” Scalzo whispered. “I don’t know,” DeMarco whispered back.

“You don’t know?”

“No, Uncle George. I don’t know what happened.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” his uncle whispered, his breath hot on his nephew’s neck. “A guy named Skins Turner just beat you out of a monster pot, and took a third of your chips away from you. You’re no longer in first place.”

“I know, Uncle George.”

“So tell me how Skins did it,” his uncle said.

“I told you, I don’t know,” DeMarco replied.

DeMarco and his uncle and Guido were standing on the far end of the poker room, next to the wall and away from the other players and mob of spectators. The tournament took a fifteen-minute bathroom break every two hours, and the players ran like lemmings to the johns. DeMarco had instead gone over to be with his uncle, whose voice hinted that he was on the verge of losing control.

“But Skins had three of a kind,” his uncle said, his voice rising. “You bet into a better hand, and lost. Why the fuck did you do that, Skipper? Tell me why you did that.”

DeMarco leaned against the wall, which was icy cool against his skin. Everything he touched inside the casino was cold and unfriendly, and he found himself wanting to return to Newark and the safety of his house. “It just happened.”

“But you knew Skins was holding a pair of kings before the flop,” his uncle shot back. “You knew what his cards were. You’re not supposed to lose monster pots, Skipper. You could get knocked out of the tournament.”

“I know, Uncle George.”

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not good enough, Skipper.”

“It’s not?”

“No. You gotta do better.”

DeMarco could hear the implied threat in his uncle’s voice, and wondered if his uncle thought he’d lost the hand on purpose, and was trying to sabotage his own chances of winning the tournament. That was the strange thing about his uncle George; his uncle loved him, but sometimes didn’t trust him.

DeMarco realized his chest was heaving. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. The truth was, Skins hadn’t started the hand with two kings. According to the clicks DeMarco had heard in his earpiece, Skins’s cards were a king and a three. Somehow, they became a pair of kings, and DeMarco had lost the biggest pot of the tournament. Either the receiver in his earpiece had malfunctioned, or Skins was cheating.

His uncle stood a few feet away, speaking in hushed tones to Guido. DeMarco wanted to ask his uncle what he was supposed to do. Should he ask the tournament director to stop play, so they could fix his earpiece? Or should he tell the tournament director that Skins was cheating because DeMarco had known Skins’s cards, and they weren’t a pair of kings? Those were his only two options, and either one would get him tossed from the tournament, and probably arrested.

DeMarco found the strength to laugh. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“What’s so funny?” his uncle asked, drawing close.

“This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Uncle George,” DeMarco said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a joke, Uncle George. Lighten up.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” his uncle snapped.

DeMarco pushed himself away from the wall. He could vividly remember the day his uncle had come to him with his scheme about scamming the World Poker Showdown. Winning would be child’s play, his uncle had said, and would make DeMarco the most famous poker player in the world. Only it wasn’t turning out that way, and DeMarco sensed they were about to get beaten at their own game.

“Where you going?” his uncle asked.

“To take a leak,” DeMarco said.

“Have Guido walk with you.”

“Whatever you want, Uncle George.”

DeMarco felt his uncle’s hand on his wrist.

“You sure you’re okay, Skipper?” his uncle asked.

“I’m great, Uncle George. Just great.”

For as long as he could remember, DeMarco had hated to lose. It didn’t matter what the game was, or the stakes: if he didn’t end up on the winning end, he lost his temper, and sulked for days. He hadto win, just as some guys had to be the best at a particular sport. As he’d gotten older, he’d wondered if it had something to do with being blind, as if winning put him on a level playing field with everyone else.

Only today had been different. He’d lost a monster pot, and it hadn’t fazed him. The surpriseof losing had been upsetting, but the actual loss hadn’t affected him the way it normally did. He couldn’t put his finger on why, and as he and Guido walked to the lavatory, he thought about the snapshot he’d been given. He’d studied it between hands, and decided the little boy in the photograph was indeed him, the woman holding his hand, his mother. Everything else was a mystery, and he hoped the woman who’d given him the photograph hadn’t been driven away by his obnoxious behavior.

Guido stopped. “We’re here. Want me to go inside with you?”

“No, Guido. Go watch my uncle. He’s acting strange.”

“I can’t just leave you here,” the bodyguard said.

“It’s okay. I’ll get one of the players to walk me back.”

“You sure, Skipper?”

There was real concern in Guido’s voice. As nannies went, Guido had always been there for him. “Yeah, Guido. I’m sure. Thanks. I’ll see you in a few.”

The bodyguard walked away, and DeMarco went into the lavatory. When he emerged a minute later, he smelled lilac-scented perfume, and offered a smile when he felt a woman’s hand on his arm. “I need to talk to you,” a familiar voice said.

“Sure,” DeMarco said.

The woman led him to a corner table and they both sat down. She positioned her chair so their knees were touching. “Did you look at the photograph I gave you?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s of me and my mother, isn’t it?” DeMarco said.

She placed her hand on his wrist, her grip strong and firm. “That’s right.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Your mother gave it to me.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your mother’s younger sister, your aunt.”

And where have you been for the past twenty years?he nearly asked.

“What’s your name?” he asked instead.

“Marie DeMarco.”

It felt like a scene out of a daytime soap opera, and DeMarco guessed he’d be dealing with plenty of people like her, now that he was famous. Out of curiosity, he leaned forward and brought his eyes a few inches from the woman’s face. The resemblance to his late mother was slight. He leaned back.

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

“I wanted to see you,” she said. “Your father also wanted to come. He lives in Philadelphia, not far from where I live.”

“My father?”

“That’s right.”

DeMarco removed her hand from his wrist. His father had abandoned him and his mother a long time ago. His uncle had told him so, and he’d accepted the explanation, simply because he’d never heard from his father. “I don’t know what your angle is, but I’m not giving you any money. You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, and pulling this shit.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, then her dress going swoosh!as she rose from her chair. “I don’t want your money, Skipper. I came here to check up on you. I saw a piece on television that said you’d cheated the tournament, and was afraid you might be in trouble. So I came to make sure you were okay.”

The first day of the tournament, his uncle had arranged for a bunch of players to fold to him, giving DeMarco a huge stack of chips to play with. It was a ploy used by many top-flight players to ensure they survived the early rounds of tournaments, only DeMarco had the bad fortune to knock out Rufus Steele, who’d gone on national television and told the world what he’d done.

“Your father was going to come with me, but he’s in court, trying a case,” she went on. “He’s a criminal defense attorney.”

“Where’s he been all my life?”

“He didn’t know that you existed until I contacted him a few years ago. Once he found out he had a son, he tried to contact you, just like I tried. Only your uncle stopped us. Your uncle’s bodyguard threatened to kill us if we didn’t stay away.”

“That’s bullshit. My uncle wouldn’t do that.”

She abruptly sat back down. This time when she took his wrist, her fingernails dug into his flesh, and when she spoke, her voice was as sharp as a knife.

“Do you really want to know the truth?” she asked.

“Of course I want to know.”

“Are you sure, Skipper?”

DeMarco took a deep breath. He’d caught his uncle in enough lies over the years to realize that there was a lot about his past he didn’t know. Was this woman finally going to reveal it to him?

“Yes,” he said.

“It’s like this. Your mother got hooked on drugs when she was a teenager, and became a prostitute to support her habit. We tried to help her clean herself up. Myself, her mother, her friends, we all tried. She went into rehab, and for a while she was clean. That was when your mother met your father, who was in law school. She hid her past from him, and they fell in love. Then she got pregnant, and ran away.

“She had you without any of us knowing. Then went back to drugs and the street. We didn’t hear from her for several years. I finally tracked her down and persuaded her to come home. She lived with me for a while, and so did you. She wanted to contact your father, but never did. I think she was afraid of telling him the truth about herself.

“Your mother couldn’t stay off the drugs. One day I came home and she was gone. She called a month later from Atlantic City, said she was living there. The next call came from the police, saying she was dead. You were put into a foster home. I tried to get you back, but George Scalzo paid off a judge and adopted you.”

DeMarco shut his eyes. He tried to speak and heard his voice crack. He forced out the words anyway. “My mother was a hooker?”

The woman put her fingers to DeMarco’s lips, and gently closed them. “Your mother was a beautiful woman who loved you more than anything in the whole world. Never forget that, Skipper.”

The air trapped in DeMarco’s lungs had escaped, and he felt empty and hollow and lost. He heard her rise from her chair, and rose as well.

“I need to fly home to Philadelphia this afternoon,” she said. “I have a husband and family waiting for me.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I wanted you to know that you have a family besides your uncle,” she said. “Your father and I care about you. We both wanted you to know that. That’s why I came.”

He heard her open her purse, then felt a stiff piece of cardboard being put into his hand. He lifted it to his face and stared. It was a business card for Christopher Charles Russo, an attorney in Philadelphia. He felt her lips brush against his cheek.

“Good-bye, Skipper,” she said.

30

“You’ve never gambled, have you?” Bill Higgins asked.

“Never,” Valentine replied.

“Ever tempted?”

“No. I got the cure.”

“What happened?”

They were sitting in Celebrity’s sports bar, waiting for their hamburgers. Bill had given Sammy Mann another chance, and they’d left him in the control room to come downstairs for lunch. All around them sat guys who’d been knocked out of the tournament and relegated to watching the action on the giant-screen TV behind the bar. DeMarco had lost a twelve-million-dollar pot, and the room was buzzing.

“Two things,” Valentine said. “The first was because my old man was a gambler, and I saw what it did to my mother. The second happened when I was eighteen. I lent three hundred bucks to a friend of mine who thoughthe was a gambler. That cured me.”

“Did your friend blow the money?”

“Yeah.”

Lunch came, and they dug in. Once upon a time, food in Las Vegas was a real bargain. Then the corporations had taken over. Now, a burger cost ten bucks, and the french fries could be counted on the fingers of two hands.

“What happened?” Bill asked.

“It was the summer of my eighteenth birthday,” Valentine said, “and I was caddying at the Atlantic City Country Club. The pay was fifty bucks a week, and I’d saved three hundred bucks and was planning to buy a used car. There was another caddy named Kenny Keane. Kenny was a degenerate gambler and would bet on anything. One day, he begged me to lend him three hundred dollars, said he needed to see a doctor. I was pretty naive, so I lent it to him.

“Kenny immediately marched into the clubhouse and challenged the club champ to a match. Kenny was an eight-handicap, and the champ was a scratch golfer. They went out and started playing. Luckily, the champ played tight when there was money on the line, and on the last hole, Kenny sank a miracle thirty-foot putt, and won by a stroke. As we were walking back to the clubhouse, Kenny said, ‘I told you I could beat that guy!’

“I told Kenny I wanted my money. I was dreaming about owning that car. Kenny said sure, and we went to take a shower. When I got out, I found Kenny in a poker game in the locker room. I looked at his hand. He had absolutely nothing. A stone cold bluff. I begged him for my money. He said, ‘I can beat these guys.’ And he did. They folded, and Kenny won two grand.

“We went into the clubhouse, and Kenny headed for the casino in the back room. Gambling was illegal in Atlantic City then, but that didn’t stop anyone. I told Kenny to give me my money or I’d never speak to him again. He said, ‘Can’t you see I’m on a roll? I’m going to make us famous tonight.’

“I watched Kenny play blackjack and double our money. Then he played craps, and doubled it again. The guy was absolutely on fire. Then he went to the roulette table, and put everything on the black. The ball rolled and I remember saying a prayer when it dropped. It landed on the red.

“Kenny didn’t stop yelling for ten minutes. I remember wanting to cry, only there were too many people around. As we were leaving, another caddy came up and asked Kenny how much money he’d lost. Kenny said, ‘Just three hundred bucks that I borrowed from this dope.’”

Bill’s cell phone was lying on the bar, and began to crawl between their plates. It was on vibrate mode, and Bill picked it up and stared at its face.

“I need to take this,” he said.

Bill retreated to a less noisy area of the bar, and Valentine continued eating while watching the TV behind the bar. The players had taken a break, and the network was showing a replay of the monster pot DeMarco had lost. Valentine hadn’t paid much attention to it the first time—everyone lost when they gambled—but watching it a second time, he felt the hairs on his neck stand up. The player who’d beaten DeMarco was a scruffy Houston gambler named Skins Turner, a lanky guy with a hooked nose, a prominent Adam’s apple, and a vagrant wisp of hair on his head. But his arresting feature was his hands. They were large and delicate, with long tapering fingers and manicured fingernails. They could have belonged to a surgeon, or a concert pianist, but in the world of gambling, they belonged to another animal. They were a mucker’s hands.

The camera shifted to DeMarco, who’d lost a third of his chips to Skins. DeMarco was shaking his head, and Valentine sensed that the kid knew he’d been cheated.

Bill was still on the other side of the bar, talking on his cell phone. Valentine borrowed a pen from the bartender and scribbled on a cocktail napkin that he was going upstairs to the surveillance control room. He tucked the note beneath Bill’s plate then threw down money for their meals and left the bar.

Entering Celebrity’s surveillance control room, Valentine went to the office where Sammy Mann was holed up. To his surprise, the old hustler had cleared out. He found a technician and asked him where Sammy had gone.

“He went home ten minutes ago,” the tech said.

Valentine talked the tech into pulling up the tape of the twelve-million-dollar pot, then he pulled up a chair to watch the action. The tech had a boyish face and didn’t look old enough to be driving a car. Sensing that something was brewing, the tech put down the Slurpie he was drinking, and stared intently at the video monitor.

They watched the dealer shuffle the cards then sail them around the table, with each player getting two. In Texas Hold ‘Em, the player’s starting cards were critical, with the best hand being two aces, followed by two kings. As Skins got his two cards, his hands covered their backs, and he lifted up their corners to peek at their values.

“See that?” Valentine asked.

“No,” the tech said. “What happened?”

“Play it again, and I’ll explain.”

The tech rewound the tape. He hit play, and they watched the dealer sail the cards around the table.

“Freeze it,” Valentine said.

The tech froze the tape, and Valentine pointed at Skins. “See his hands? He’s got a king palmed in his right hand. It was stuck in a bug beneath the table.”

The tech brought his face so close to the picture that his breath fogged the screen.

“Well, I’ll be. But where did he get the king from?”

“He mucked it out earlier,” Valentine said. “Hustlers call it doing ‘the chop.’ When he tossed his cards to the dealer, he only tossed one.”

“The dealer didn’t notice?”

Valentine shook his head. The technique of stealing a single card during play had been developed by blackjack cheaters, and it flew by most dealers. Stealing a card was even easier in poker, since no one paid attention to a player when he dropped out of a hand. Valentine made the tech restart the tape.

“Now watch the switch,” he said.

The tape continued, and they watched Skins cover his cards with his hands. The tech slapped his knees. “Holy cow. He peeked at his cards without letting the hidden camera in the table see them,” the tech said. “That’s on purpose, isn’t it?”

Valentine nodded. The kid caught on fast.

“Okay,” the tech said. “Now he’s doing the switch, even though I can’t see the move.”

“Cameras can’t see through hands,” Valentine said.

“No, but I can tell when someone’s got a card palmed, and this guy does.” The tech pointed at Skins’s right hand, which rested on the table edge. “He’s got the card he just switched hidden in his palm, doesn’t he?”

“Correct.”

“What will he do? Destroy it later on?”

“No,” Valentine said. “He’ll add it to his cards, and toss it into the muck. That way the deck won’t be short. Hustlers call it ‘cleaning up.’”

On the monitor, they saw Skins drop his guilty hand into his lap and stick the switched card into the bug. If a problem arose during the game, Skins would simply toss the card beneath the table.

“So let’s arrest this guy,” the tech said. “We’ve got enough evidence.”

It was the sanest thing Valentine had heard anyone say since he’d started investigating the tournament. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. Bill Higgins was standing behind him with a grim look on his face. Valentine got up, and they went to a corner where no one could hear them.

“I just got some bad news from the FBI’s Las Vegas office,” Bill said. “Guess who escaped from Ely prison this morning.”

“Someone I know?”

“Al ‘Little Hands’ Scarpi. The FBI thinks Scalzo was behind it.”

Valentine clenched his teeth. Every holiday, postcards from Ely State Penitentiary appeared in his mailbox, the name U.R. Deadscribbled in the return address box. Of all the twisted souls he’d put away, Al Scarpi was the one he still had nightmares about.

“Look, Tony, I won’t be mad if you say you want to leave town,” Bill said. “This is getting awfully hairy.”

Valentine shook his head. He would leave Las Vegas after he busted Scalzo. It was that simple.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

31

“I’ve never ridden in a helicopter before,” Little Hands shouted, gazing down at the flat, unforgiving landscape of northern Nevada. The pilot, an athletic blonde wearing aviator shades with mirrored lenses, flashed a toothy grin. He’d picked Little Hands up on a dusty field outside the Ely Conservation Camp ninety minutes ago, tossed a bag lunch into Little Hands’s lap, then pointed his chopper toward Las Vegas.

“Where do you pee in this thing, anyway?” Little Hands asked.

The pilot continued grinning. It was a long trip, over 250 miles, and Little Hands had wished like hell he’d taken a leak before departing.

“You got a radio to listen to?” Little Hands asked.

The pilot continued to grin. Then Little Hands got the picture. The pilot couldn’t hear him over the roar of the helicopter’s blades. Little Hands felt like a fool and folded his hands in his lap. In prison, he’d gone to the library every day and tried to educate himself. If he’d learned anything from the books he’d read, it was that the best thing a dumb person could do was keep their mouth shut and say nothing at all.

Rows of identical tract houses littered the landscape, the roofs dotted with satellite-TV dishes. Past them, a giant steel structure shaped like a needle pierced the sky. Little Hands realized it was the Stratosphere, the tallest casino in Las Vegas.

The pilot tapped him on the arm, then pointed at a sprawling industrial park down below. Behind the park was a concrete helipad with a car parked beside it. Little Hands sucked in his breath as the helicopter descended.

Once the helicopter’s blades stopped whirring, Little Hands climbed out and stretched his legs. It was hard to believe that less than five hours ago he’d been pumping iron in the prison weight room. The pilot pulled a duffle bag out of the helicopter, and dropped it on the ground.

“This is yours, buddy,” he said.

Little Hands unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out its contents. New clothes to replace his prison work out fit, a set of car keys for the vehicle parked beside the helipad, and an envelope stuffed with twenty-dollar bills. The envelope also contained a typed sheet with the hotel and room number where Tony Valentine was staying. Taking the money out, he quickly counted it.

One thousand bucks.

He ran over to the helicopter. The pilot had restarted the engine and was about to take off. Little Hands tapped on the pilot’s window, and he pulled it back.

“Where’s the rest of my money? I get five grand for a job.”

“You’ll get the rest when the job is done,” the pilot said.

“Fuck that shit. I want it now.”

“Do the job, then call the number on the back of the instructions. They’ll meet you, and give you the rest.”

“I want it now.”

“I don’t have it,” the pilot said.

“You’re saying they didn’t pay you, either?” Little Hands shouted.

“What they paid me is none of your business. You should be happy you’re out of jail,” the pilot said.

Little Hands stuck his hand through the open window and got his fingers around the pilot’s throat. Before he could squeeze the life out of him, the pilot drew a gun from the console between the seats and stuck it in Little Hands’s face.

“Want to die, asshole?”

Little Hands let go of the pilot and withdrew his arm.

“You’re a dumb son-of-a-bitch, you know that?” the pilot said. “Now, stand back.”

Little Hands retreated a few steps. The helicopter rose uncertainly, like a bird testing its wings. When it was at face height, Little Hands leaped forward and wrapped his arms around the landing gear, called skids. He twisted and pulled the skids as the helicopter continued to rise. He wasn’t going to let the pilot call him dumb.

When the helicopter was higher than a house, Little Hands let go, and fell back to earth. He landed on the grass and rolled onto his back. He waited for the pain in his legs to subside while staring into the sky. The helicopter was spinning crazily, the skids twisting. The pilot wouldn’t be able to land without crashing.

Little Hands saw the pilot shaking his fist and cursing him. He laughed.

He drove into Las Vegas thinking about the money. A thousand stinking bucks. He’d never taken a job with out getting paid up front. Either his employer didn’t know the rules, or wanted to keep him on a short leash. It’s like I’m still a prisoner,he thought.

He came into town on the north side, where the Riviera, Frontier, and Sahara were still struggling to survive, and parked beneath the Frontier’s mammoth marquee, its giant letters proclaiming BIKINI BULL RIDE, COLD BEER, DIRTY GIRLS.

Across the street from the Frontier was the Peppermill restaurant and lounge. The local cops didn’t like the prices, and as a result criminals often used the cocktail lounge for meetings. He needed time and a place to think, and decided it was as good a spot as any.

The lounge was behind the restaurant, a mirrored room with a sunken fire pit and plenty of intimate seating. The place was dead, and he took a seat at the bar and ordered a draft from the cute bartender, who seemed happy for the company. She set a tall one in front of him. “You look familiar,” she said.

It was his first beer since going to the joint. He savored it, saying nothing.

“Now I remember,” the bartender said. “You came in here awhile back, and stuck your hand in the fire pit.”

The fire pit was the lounge’s gimmick, the bright orange flames erupting from a bubbling pool of green water. Little Hands had stuck his hand into the flames on a dare and burned himself real good. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

She smiled like he’d made a joke, then tapped the screen of the video poker machine in front of him. Every seat at the bar had a video poker machine. It was how the lounge made money.

“Make sure you play Joker’s Wild,” she said.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“It’s paying off real good.”

He drank some more beer. She played this game with every customer who came in. She sold them on the idea of winning, even though no one ever did. He needed to figure out how he was going to kill Valentine, and fished a twenty out of his pocket.

“Thanks,” he said.

The beer went straight to his head, and he could hardly sit upright in his chair. This was how guys who broke out of jail got caught,he thought. The bartender came back. “How you doing?” she asked.

He looked at the video poker screen. “Shitty.”

She watched him play a hand. On the screen five cards appeared. He had a pair of jacks. He discarded the other three cards by pressing on them with his finger. The machine dealt him three more cards. They didn’t help his hand, and he won a dollar. She reached over the bar and touched his wrist.

“Can I give you some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Play the maximum amount of coins each time. That way, if you get a good hand, you’ll win big.”

He’d been betting a quarter a hand, thinking it would let him play longer, which would increase his chances of winning. Only, she was saying that it was a bad strategy, and would deny him the chance to really win. He pushed the button on the screen that said PLAY MAXIMUM AMOUNT.

“There you go,” she said.

Five new cards appeared on the screen. The ace of hearts, king of hearts, three of clubs, nine of hearts, and ten of hearts. He started to discard all the cards but the ace and saw her eyebrows go up.

“Discard the three and nine,” she said. “That way, you might make a royal flush.”

A royal flush was the best hand of all. According to the payout chart on the screen, he’d get two grand for a royal flush.

“Nobody gets those,” he said.

“That’s because they don’t try,” she said.

The day had been filled with surprises. He discarded the three and the nine. Two new cards appeared on the screen, a queen of hearts and a joker. She let out a war whoop. “You won! You won!”

He stared at the screen. “No, I didn’t. That ain’t a royal flush.”

“Yes, it is. Jokers are wild. That’s why they call it Joker’s Wild.”

He realized the screen was flashing. It didn’t feel real, and he touched the PAYOUT button with his finger. A slip of paper spit out of the machine saying he’d won $2,000.

He handed it to her, and she went into the restaurant to get the money from the manager.

He sucked down the beer left in his glass. Living in Vegas, he’d heard countless stories about people winning big in casinos, and how it had changed their lives. He’d always assumed the stories were bullshit.

The bartender returned holding a thick stack of bills. She counted the money onto the bar then pushed it toward him. Lifting her eyes, she looked into his face expectantly.

He hesitated picking up the stack, wondering how many customers heard her spiel each day. Fifty? A hundred? Giving suckers hope was how she made her living. He knew that, yet it didn’t change how she’d made him feel.

He put three hundred on the bar and walked out.