Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

27

Mark Perrier, Celebrity’s forty-two-year-old general manager, sat in his office on the top floor of the casino, staring at the burnt orange desert that was his property’s backyard. The desert stretched as far as his eyes could see, and he often imagined himself taking a long walk across it. Maybe someday, he thought.

His eyes fell on the spreadsheet lying on his desk. It contained yesterday’s take from the casino, and showed the money they’d made for slots, video poker, keno, the Asian games, Caribbean stud poker, blackjack, craps, and roulette. The total was one million, one hundred thousand dollars, or fifty thousand dollars over their nut. The casino had made money yesterday, but just barely.

He pulled off his necktie, then took a bottle of Scotch out of his desk and poured a finger into a glass on his desk, then gulped it down. The Scotch made his throat burn; he shut his eyes, and felt himself relax. He didn’t think anyone in his life understood the pressure he was under.

His wife, Tori, was a perfect example. She looked at the opening of Celebrity’s Las Vegas hotel like the opening of any other hotel that her husband had been involved with. Mark had opened five-star hotels from Perth to Paris, and all of them had been wildly successful. Why should this be any different?

His bosses at corporate headquarters in Chicago also didn’t understand. To them, Celebrity’s Las Vegas hotel was one more casino in the chain. They didn’t want to discuss the fact that Celebrity had never run a property in Las Vegas, the company content to stay in smaller, less competitive markets. They had never swum with sharks this large.

Celebrity’s stockholders didn’t understand, either. When construction of Celebrity’s Las Vegas hotel had been announced two years ago, the company’s stock had shot up 20 percent and become the darling of Wall Street. The stockholders were banking on the property to pay huge dividends, and had no idea how tough the market really was.

But Perrier knew better. He’d been a hotel guy his whole life, and had cut his teeth running resorts all over the world. He could spot a good property in a minute. It was all about location, location, location. Everything else was camouflage.

Celebrity’s Las Vegas hotel was a dog. The property was four miles from the strip, which was too damn far. His bosses had tried to buy property on the strip, but had been turned off by the high prices. Instead, they’d bought a hundred-acre tract out in the desert, and called it paradise.

The other problem was the staff. Corporate had promised to transfer the best people from their other casinos to run the Las Vegas hotel. Only no one had wanted to come, forcing Perrier to fill hundreds of positions with retreads and high school dropouts.

Which left Perrier sitting on a nine hundred million dollar white elephant. Long term, the hotel wouldn’t survive. But short term was a different story. The World Poker Showdown was being shown live on national television. It was the best advertising going, and would keep the place filled long enough for him to find another hotel to run.

The phone on his desk rang. His private line.

“Perrier here.”

“Are you watching Valentine?” his caller asked.

“That you, Jasper?”

Karl Jasper growled at him. He was the founder and president of the WPS, and as trustworthy as a snake oil salesman. On television, Jasper projected the image of a devoted family man and all-around good guy. In person, he was a foul-mouthed thug, and would go to any extreme to get what he wanted.

“Are you watching him or not?” Jasper asked.

Perrier played with the keyboard on his desk. A picture appeared on his computer screen, showing Valentine in the rooftop bar with Gloria Curtis.

“Yes. He’s with the newswoman, Gloria Curtis.”

“Are you taping their conversation? I want to know what they talking about. That woman is poison, and so is he.”

Perrier shut his eyes. Jasper had a pattern. He would ask you to break the law, then explain why it had to be done. The reasons were always logical.

“Wiretapping is illegal in Nevada,” Perrier said.

“I thought that was just for telephones,” Jasper said.

“All private conversations.”

“What’s he doing now?”

Perrier opened his eyes. Valentine was talking to the waitress. The resolution of the picture was so clear, Perrier could see a tiny stain on his blue shirt.

“Nothing much,” he said.

“I want you to keep watching him,” Jasper said. “This goddamn situation has to go away. Rufus Steele is stirring the pot, and Valentine is sniffing around the bushes like a bloodhound. That son-of-a-bitch could spoil a picnic if you gave him the chance. He’s cost more casinos money than any cheater he’s ever busted.”

“Cost them how?” Perrier asked.

“By making them play by the rules,” Jasper said. “What’s he doing now?”

Perrier stared at the screen. The waitress had brought the check, and Valentine and Gloria were fighting over it, only they were doing it in a way that was making them both laugh. They liked each other. He groaned.

“What’s the matter?” Jasper asked.

“You really want to know?” Perrier asked.

“Yes.”

“This tournament is what’s the matter,” Perrier said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll tell you. First, your tournament director screws up, and lets DeMarco play with his friends. Now everyone thinks he’s a cheater. Then, your dealers forget to get Sheriff’s Cards from the Metro Las Vegas Police Department, and the chief of police is calling me every hour. Oh yeah, and your dealers keep dropping like flies. I feel like I’m sitting on a nuclear bomb, Jasper.”

“Last night’s ratings were through the roof,” Jasper said.

Perrier didn’t think Jasper had heard a word of what he’d just said. Television ratings were all Jasper talked about, and cared about.

“So I heard,” Perrier said.

“Where is Valentine now?”

Perrier stared at the screen. Valentine and Gloria Curtis had settled the bill and were getting up from their table, sharing meaningful looks.

“He’s leaving the bar,” he said.

“I need to get him out of Las Vegas,” Jasper said. “And that goes for Rufus Steele, and that newscaster woman. My ass is on the line, and so is yours, my friend.”

Perrier shook his head. One of his great assets was his ability to watch his mouth. Then he’d had drinks with Jasper, and let it slip that he thought the hotel was a dog. He’d regretted it ever since.

“What do you want me to do?” Perrier asked.

“Keeps tabs on Valentine and the newscaster,” Jasper said.

“We’re already watching them.”

“Beef it up,” Jasper said. “Record everything they do, who they talk to, the works.”

“What about Rufus? Isn’t he the one causing all the trouble?”

“I’ve got Rufus taken care of,” Jasper said.

Perrier didn’t like the sound of that. He played with his keyboard, and checked the hotel’s res system. Rufus Steele had left his room a few hours ago, and was now sharing a room with Valentine. The information had been filed by a maid.

He typed a command into his keyboard, and found the hallway outside Valentine’s room. As luck would have it, Rufus was coming out of the room. Perrier followed him down a hallway to an elevator. He switched cameras, and watched Rufus get into the elevator, and push the button for the sixth floor.

“You going to beat him up?” Perrier asked.

“No, no,” Jasper said. “No rough stuff.”

“Then what?”

“Trust me. He won’t give us any more trouble.”

Perrier watched Rufus depart the elevator, and walk to a room on the sixth floor. The door opened, and a guy with a grin on his face greeted him. Perrier saw a card table inside the room. Then the door closed. They were going to fleece him, Perrier thought. He could live with that.

“Will you do it?” Jasper asked.

“Do what?” Perrier asked.

“Keep tabs on Valentine and Gloria Curtis. Come on, Mark. Help me out here.”

Perrier hesitated. He could get in a ton of trouble for spying on people. But if he didn’t do it, Valentine and Gloria Curtis might bring the tournament down in flames, and he’d be out on the street looking for work.

“All right,” he heard himself say.

Jasper exhaled deeply on the line.

“I knew I could count on you,” the president of the WPS said.

28

“Your father is crazy,” Vinny said after Gerry explained his father’s solution.

“No, he’s not,” Gerry replied. “This is the best way to handle what’s happened.”

Vinny shook his head in exasperation. “Go back to the scene of the crime? Call the cops and tell them what happened? Those are suicide tactics.”

Vinny, Gerry, Nunzie, and Frank were sitting in the rental in the convenience store parking lot. Vinny was sweating like he was going to the electric chair, and dabbed his forehead with a napkin stained with jelly doughnut. The jelly was cherry, and made Vinny look like he’d been stabbed in the face. Gerry tilted the mirror so Vinny could see what he’d done to himself.

“For the love of Christ,” Vinny said, and went inside to clean himself off.

Gerry turned so he was facing Nunzie and Frank in the backseat. They didn’t looked too thrilled with the idea of going back to Lucky Lou’s, either. They’d been running away from the law since they were teenagers. A minute later, Vinny returned to the car. “Explain it to me again, will you?” Vinny asked.

“It’s like this,” Gerry said. “My father has already told Bill Higgins, the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, that we’re in Las Vegas helping him with a job. My old man fronted for us, okay?”

“I thought your old man hated us,” Nunzie said.

“That’s beside the point,” Gerry said. “He did it, which means when we talk to the police, Bill Higgins will back our story. My father just gave us a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card.”

“But why go back to Lucky Lou’s?” Vinny asked. “We didn’t see a single camera in that section of the parking lot. There wasn’t one at the exit, either. We got away without being photographed.”

Vinny didn’t know it, but he was dead wrong. Gerry’s father had explained it to him. Every major intersection in Las Vegas had a surveillance camera hidden in its traffic light. It was part of a massive surveillance campaign that had begun right after 9/11. The police would review the tapes of the intersections around Lucky Lou’s, and match their departure time with the approximate time of the shooting. They’d also get the license of the rental they were driving, and eventually track them down.

“Because it’s the smart thing to do,” Gerry said. “My father has established an alibi for us. We’re law-abiding citizens, working for my father’s company. That’s our story, and I’m sticking to it. Now, are you in, or are you out?”

Fifteen minutes later, Gerry’s father pulled into the lot and parked by the front door to the convenience store. The look on his father’s face was one Gerry had seen countless times before. Frustration mixed with anger mixed with resignation. Gerry walked over to his father’s car, and knelt down by the open driver’s window.

“Hey, Pop, thanks for coming so fast.”

“You okay?” his father asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you sure going to the police is a such good idea?”

His father glared at him. “Sure, I’m sure. Why, you getting cold feet?”

“My friends think Jinky Harris has the police department in his back pocket,” Gerry said. “They don’t think turning ourselves in is such a smart idea.”

His father frowned. It was a look that made Gerry feel ten years old.

“Hoods don’t have police departments in their back pockets,” his father said. “At best, they have a cop they pay off to do them favors. This is the best way to go, trust me.”

“I still think they’re apprehensive,” Gerry said. “These are street guys, Pop.”

“Want me to talk to them?” his father asked.

“Sure. But don’t yell, okay?”

His father got out of the car and gave him a look. Gerry stared at the ground.

“Sorry,” he said.

Cops were pricks, especially the good ones. It wasn’t just what they said, but how they came on to you, rough and hard and full of piss and vinegar. It was the only advantage they had when dealing with lowlifes and scumbags. That veneer didn’t wear off when a cop got older. It sure hadn’t with his old man.

His father slid into the passenger seat of the rental, and faced the Fountain brothers and Frank. For a long moment, his father did nothing but stare at the three men. Gerry stayed outside, listening through the open window.

“Which one of you did the shooting?” his father asked.

Frank raised his hand like a kid in sixth grade. “I did.”

“You ever kill anyone before?”

“In the ring,” Frank said.

“How did it make you feel?”

“Shitty.”

“How about this time?”

“ ’Bout the same,” Frank said.

“Where’s the gun you used?”

Frank took a paper bag off the floor of the backseat and carefully handed it to Valentine. He looked inside the bag, then placed it on the seat. “Here’s the deal,” Valentine said. “We’re going back to Lucky Lou’s, and you’re going to tell the police what happened. I want the cops to know you’re out here, doing a job for me. I know you don’t have police records, but if the Metro Las Vegas sheriff starts digging, he might discover there’s a file on you with the Atlantic City Casino Commission, and that file has you tied to a scam several years ago.” Valentine turned, and glanced out the window at his son. “All of you. So, let’s go back there, and get this settled while we still can. Okay?”

Gerry swallowed the lump rising in his throat. His old man had a sixth sense when it came to knowing all the dumb things he’d done in his life, yet he still stuck with him. He was going to have to remember that when his daughter grew up.

“You’re going to vouch for us, Mr. Valentine?” Vinny asked.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Valentine snapped.

“I just wanted to be sure.”

Valentine growled at Vinny. Then he took the paper bag off the seat and climbed out of the rental. Valentine crossed the lot and got into his own car without a word. Gerry slid into the rental and looked at his friends.

“Let’s go,” Gerry said.

Expectations and reality were never the same. Expectations took place inside your head, reality on the street. Gerry had expected Lucky Lou’s parking lot to be packed with police cars and an ambulance, but when Vinny pulled into the lot a few minutes later, the place was no different from when they’d left it.

As Vinny drove the rental down the aisle, Gerry saw why. The construction worker’s body was gone. Gerry jumped out, and went to where the construction worker had gone down. There was a pancake-size bloodstain that was slowly blending into the jet black macadam, but otherwise no evidence of what had happened.

Gerry glanced over his shoulder. His father was sitting in his car behind Vinny, his face demanding an explanation. Gerry raised his palms to the sky, then saw a silver-haired security guard speeding toward him in a golf cart. Gerry waved the guard down.

“What’s up?” the guard said, braking the cart.

“Sorry to bother you,” Gerry said, “but we heard some gunshots, and ran over to see what was going on.”

“Gunshots?” The guard tapped the hearing aid in his ear to make sure the battery was working. “There weren’t no gunshots here.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive. How many did you hear?”

“Five or six,” Gerry said.

“Five or six? You’re making it sound like this here’s the OK Corral,” the guard said, now sounding annoyed.

“I’m just telling you what we heard.”

“You all heard it?”

“Yeah, didn’t you?”

The guard didn’t like being challenged and picked up the walkie-talkie lying on the dashboard of his cart. “No, I didn’t. Unless you’ve got some business here, I’d suggest you boys get off the premises immediately. Understand?”

Gerry didn’t need another invitation to leave. He walked over to his father’s car and knelt down to his open window. “The body’s gone, and the security guard swears there wasn’t any shoot-out. I honestly don’t know what’s going on, Pop.”

His father tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. The look on his face said he was thinking hard. It was a look that Gerry always identified with hope. Like the time his father had bought him a ten-speed bicycle that had come in pieces through the mail, and needed to be assembled from scratch. His father had read the instructions aloud several times with that same look on his face. The thinking look.

“Get in the car,” his father said.

29

Raising a kid was the hardest thing Valentine had ever done. It wasn’t the discipline of teaching his son right from wrong that he’d found so challenging, or the sense of futility that had come from not succeeding. What had made it hard was the realization that his son was his own person, and could not be molded into the person Valentine wanted him to be.

Because the body of the construction worker was gone from the parking lot, Gerry assumed that the shooting was no longer a problem. He was ready to walk away, and get back to whatever he’d been doing. Valentine knew better. A dead man was always a problem, even if you couldn’t find the body.

“Pop, you can’t be serious,” his son said.

“I’m dead serious,” Valentine said.

“You want us to confess to the police?”

“Yes. That guy’s body is going to turn up.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Valentine blew out his cheeks in exasperation. Sometimes, reasoning with his son was like talking to an atheist about religion. “Think about it, Gerry. Twice today you had guys try to whack you. You kill one of them, and the body disappears. It’s going to turn up, and when it does, it’s going to be tied to you. If you don’t talk to the police before that happens, you and your friends are screwed.”

“We’re screwed if we do talk to the police,” Gerry said. “Frank and Nunzie didn’t graduate high school. Do you honestly think either one of them can keep his story straight? A smart detective will trip them up in five minutes. Then we’ll all be in real hot water.”

Valentine realized that his son had a point. If the Las Vegas police thought Frank or Nunzie were lying, they’d arrest them, and individually interrogate each man until they got a straight story.

“There’s our motel,” Gerry said, pointing up the block. “Why don’t we dump the bag I stole, and talk about this some more?”

Valentine tapped his fingers on the wheel. He hadn’t told his son that he’d seen him rob the Tuna earlier, and now he decided to see how truthful Gerry was being with him.

“You stole something?”

Gerry nodded. “I stole a bag from George Scalzo in the lobby of Celebrity’s hotel this afternoon. I thought it was Jack Donovan’s secret. Turns out it was a bag of insulin.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Give it back to him, I guess.”

It was the smartest thing his son had said so far.

“Okay,” Valentine said.

His son’s motel was a two-story run-down stucco building that looked like a hooker’s hangout. As Valentine pulled into the parking lot, he spotted three Metro Las Vegas Police Department cruisers and an ambulance in the lot, then a pair of medics wheeling a gurney out of a ground-floor room. Lying on the gurney was a black body bag. His son jumped in his seat like he’d been jolted with a cattle prod.

“Holy shit,” Gerry said.

“Let me guess,” Valentine said. “That’s your room.”

His son nodded vigorously. Instead of pulling in, Valentine spun the wheel, and drove past the motel. At the next intersection was a traffic light, and he hit his brakes while glancing in his mirror. Vinny had pulled up behind him, and was trying to calm Nunzie and Frank down, both of whom looked petrified.

“Nunzie and Frank didn’t graduate high school, huh?” Valentine said.

“No,” Gerry said.

Valentine stared at the road in front of him. His son was right: Nunzie and Frank would crack once a smart detective started to press them. The light changed and he pumped the accelerator. “Time to regroup,” he said.

Once you got away from the glitz and glitter of the strip, Las Vegas was a wasteland. Two blocks later, Valentine pulled into a graffiti-covered grocery with metal bars covering its windows, and parked behind the building. Moments later, Vinny pulled in behind and parked next to him.

Valentine got out, walked around the car to his son’s side, and had Gerry hand him the paper bag with the .38. There was an overflowing Dumpster behind the building, and he opened the lid, untied the drawstring to a bag of rotting food, and tossed the weapon in. When he turned around, Gerry, Vinny, Nunzie, and Frank were standing behind him. They had expectant looks on their faces, and looked ready to play ball.

“Do any of you know what K-I-S-S means?” Valentine said.

The four men shook their heads.

“It means Keep It Simple Stupid,” Valentine said. “You need to remember that when you talk to the police. Keep your story simple, and you shouldn’t have any problems. With me so far?”

They all nodded. The Dumpster was a magnet for flies, and they were starting to buzz around their heads. Valentine kept talking.

“Now, when was the last time you were in your motel room?”

“Late this morning,” Vinny said.

“Good. An autopsy will show that the guy you shot in the parking lot of Lucky Lou’s was killed after that. So, here’s the story I want you to tell the police. Ready?”

The four men moved a little closer. They were more than ready.

“You came to Las Vegas to help me investigate allegations of cheating at the World Poker Showdown,” Valentine said. “You left your motel this morning, and went to Celebrity’s casino to do some scouting around. I saw you there, and so did Bill Higgins, who believes you’re working for me. That establishes your first alibi. With me so far?”

Their heads went up and down.

“Good,” Valentine said. “You left Celebrity in the early afternoon, and decided you needed a break. You drove to Lucky Lou’s casino, and hung around for a while.”

“I talked to a cocktail waitress and a pit boss there,” Gerry said.

“Think either of them will remember you?”

“I gave the waitress a twenty-dollar tip for a bag of ice to keep the insulin cold,” his son said. “I also had a conversation with a pit boss. The guy knew you, and I gave him my business card.”

Valentine saw a funny look cross Vinny, Frank, and Nunzie’s faces, and sensed that something had happened inside Lucky Lou’s casino that wasn’t kosher. He said, “You weren’t scamming Lucky Lou’s, were you?”

The three men all stared at the ground.

“Gerry talked us out of it,” Vinny said quietly.

Valentine looked at his son. “That true?”

“Yeah, Pop.”

“Mind my asking why?”

“I thought it could end up hurting our business.”

It was the second smart thing his son had said.

“Okay,” Valentine said. “That’s your second alibi. After leaving Lucky Lou’s, you drove to a convenience store and got coffee and doughnuts. Did you get a receipt?”

Gerry dug into his pocket and triumphantly pulled out a crumpled receipt.

“Alibi number three,” Valentine said. “After you finished your coffee, you called me. We met up, came back here, and discovered the police at the motel. You don’t know who the dead guy is, or how he got in your room. This all make sense?”

“Yeah, Pop,” his son said.

Valentine looked at the other three. The flies were swarming around them like roadkill. He had always marveled at how guys this dumb could survive in such a hostile world, and had come to the conclusion that God even looked out for scumbags some of the time. The three men slowly lifted their gazes. They had lost their deer-in-the-headlights expressions, and looked relieved. They nodded as well.

“That’s beautiful, Mr. Valentine,” Vinny said quietly.

“Glad you think so,” Valentine told him.

Valentine drove back to the motel with Gerry sitting beside him. The motel was called the Casablanca, although he didn’t think he’d find a guy wearing a white dinner jacket running the place. As he parked, he spotted a guy in a baggy suit standing outside the door to his son’s room. It looked like a thinned-down Pete Longo, chief detective of the Metro Las Vegas Police Department’s Homicide Division, and he muttered under his breath.

“Something wrong?” his son asked.

Valentine did not respond. The last time he’d seen Longo, the detective had been having an affair with a stripper that nearly cost him his career and his marriage. Longo had been out of his mind, and had picked a fight with Valentine. It had been ugly, and Valentine had ended up breaking Longo’s nose.

Valentine had kept tabs on Longo since then. He’d heard that Pete had publicly apologized to his colleagues for what he’d done. He’d also patched up things with his wife and two teenage daughters. He was attempting to redeem himself, and Valentine gave him a lot of credit. Falling on your sword and starting over was never easy.

As Valentine got out of his car, Longo spotted him, and a jolt of recognition spread across the detective’s face. He said something to one of the cops, then hustled over. He’d lost a lot of weight, and his suit swayed from side to side as he walked.

“Tony Valentine, what the hell are you doing here?”

Valentine spread his palms to the sky. “I love the outdoors. How about you?”

“I’m investigating a murder. You here on a job?”

“Bill Higgins hired me to look into some cheating at the World Poker Showdown. My son and his colleagues are helping me.”

Longo glanced at Gerry sitting in the car, then into the second car at Vinny, Frank, and Nunzie. Cops were good at picking out lowlifes, and Longo’s brain was telling him that these boys hadn’t been to choir practice in a long time.

Valentine decided to take the bull by the horns, and pointed at the door to his son’s room. “That’s my son’s room. What’s going on?”

“The hotel manager found a dead body in it,” Longo said. “Your son been with you today?”

“Part of it.”

“What was he doing the rest of the time?”

“A job for me. Who’s the stiff?”

“A local dirtbag named Russell John Watson,” Longo said. “His death is no great loss to the world. Watson was put in your son’s room, then shot again in the head.”

Longo’s admission was surprising. The detective was saying more than he was supposed to, considering it was Gerry’s room the stiff had ended up in.

“How can you tell that?” Valentine asked.

“Lack of blood,” Longo said. “Whoever brought Watson here propped him up in a chair, stuck a gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. His head had already drained, so there wasn’t much blood on the wall when the bullet came out, just bone and brain tissue. Believe it or not, I’ve seen this before.”

“Sorry.”

Longo smiled thinly. He looked different from the last time Valentine had seen him, and it wasn’t just the loss of weight. His face had taken on a gravity, like he knew how lucky he was to be getting a second chance at life.

“I need to talk to your son and his friends,” the detective said.

“Of course.”

“Any idea why someone might be trying to set up your son?”

“It’s a bad world, Pete. I have no idea.”

A uniformed cop standing in the doorway to Gerry’s room called to Longo, and the detective turned and hurried across the lot to where the cop was standing. Valentine went back to his car, and saw Gerry roll down his window.

“You fix it, Pop?”

“Yeah, I fixed it. You’re going to need to talk to the cops. Stick to your story, and you’re home free.”

“Oh man, Pop, that’s great.”

Gerry was smiling like he’d won the lottery. It was a look that Valentine had seen on Gerry’s face many times before, and had always reminded him of a pardoned man on death row. He knelt down so he was eyeball-to-eyeball with his son.

“Where’s the bag of insulin you stole?”

Gerry produced the bag and passed it through the window. Valentine peered into it, and saw a white plastic box and a baggie of melting ice. Gerry had been telling him the truth, and planned to give the insulin back. His son was learning, even if he was doing it the hard way, and Valentine guessed that was all he could ask for.

“Call me when you’re finished with the police,” Valentine said.