Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

33

Valentine lay in his hotel bed staring at the ceiling. The drapes in his room wouldn’t properly close and tiny neon angels danced above his head. One of the great injustices of old age was the mind’s unwillingness to do what the body told it to. In this case, it was not falling asleep, even though he was exhausted. Something was bothering him, and no amount of counting sheep was going to let him rest until he figured out what it was.

He climbed out of bed and heard his joints creak. He still took judo classes three days a week, and did exercises every day at home, but some days he felt like he was fooling himself, and that his body kept going on memory.

He slipped into a bathrobe supplied by the hotel. It was a size too small, and felt like a straitjacket. He went into the living room, and not seeing Rufus, parked his tired bones on the living room couch. The casino’s giant neon sign was directly below the room’s window, and bathed him in a rainbow of garish colors. He stared into space, trying to put his finger on what was wrong.

He’d always been adept at finding incongruities. It was what made him good as a cop, and especially good as a casino cop. Sometimes, those incongruities were obvious, like the night he’d spotted a wedding party in Atlantic City walking across a casino carrying balloons and table decorations from the nuptials they’d just attended. He’d called down to security, and told a guard to follow them. Going into the slot machine area, the party had released their balloons and let them float to the ceiling, hiding the view of a surveillance camera as they opened a machine with a skeleton key, and set the reel for a million dollar jackpot. Later, after everyone was arrested, Valentine had told the guard why he’d acted so quickly.

“I’ve never seen balloons at a wedding before,” he’d said.

Other times, those incongruities weren’t so obvious. Like tonight. He’d been in Skip DeMarco’s suite an hour ago, and seen DeMarco practicing his martial arts exercises in the next room. There was nothing unusual about that—he’d met plenty of impaired people who practiced karate and judo—only DeMarco doing it just didn’t feel right. The problem was, he couldn’t put his finger on why.

He got up from the couch and went to the minibar. It had been restocked, and he weighed drinking a diet soda. Caffeine usually put his brain into another gear, but with it came the penalty of not being able to sleep. Of course, if he didn’t figure out what was bothering him, he wouldn’t sleep anyway. He said to hell with it, and drank the soda.

Returning to the couch, he noticed a deck of playing cards scattered across the coffee table. He guessed they belonged to Rufus, and he gathered them up, and began to shuffle them. The cards were old and dog-eared, but had a nice feel to them, and he imagined Rufus’s bony fingers playing with them. Most poker players kept a deck in their pockets at all times. Poker was easy to learn but difficult to master, and even the best players spent hours analyzing a bad hand or strategy.

As he shuffled the cards, he realized what was bothering him. People who played poker for a living lived the game every waking minute. When they weren’t playing in tournaments, they were playing in private games, and when they weren’t doing that, they were fiddling with cards and working out strategies in their heads. That was true for every single player in the tournament, except one. Skip DeMarco.

He hadn’t seen any playing cards in DeMarco’s suite, nor any evidence that DeMarco was a player. Guys who played in tournaments always went back to their rooms, and examined what they’d done wrong during the day. There had been no evidence of that in DeMarco’s suite. That was why DeMarco doing exercises seemed so out of place. It wasn’t what tournament chip leaders did.

He heard a knock on the door, and went to the peephole and peered into the hallway. Rufus Steele stood outside looking drunker than a sailor on a Saturday night. Valentine let him in.

“Having a bad night?”

Rufus belched whiskey in his face.

“I just lost all my money,” he said, falling forward in Valentine’s arms.

Rufus was as light as a feather. He didn’t look that light, and Valentine guessed it was because he stood about six one. But it was all bone and a little sinew. As he shut the door, Rufus straightened up. It was a startling transformation, the old cowboy snapping to attention. With his eyes downcast, he walked into the suite.

“Sorry, pardner, but I’m pretending to be drunk.”

“Pretending for who?”

“Whoever in this stinking hotel is watching me. Too many coincidences in the past couple of hours for someone not to be.”

Gloria had said the same thing. Someone in the hotel was playing Big Brother. He followed Rufus into the living room, and pulled up a chair as Rufus sank into the couch.

“Ever hear the expression, ‘Seldom do the sheep slaughter the butcher’?” the old cowboy asked.

“A couple of times, sure.”

“Well, this butcher just got slaughtered.”

Rufus doffed his Stetson and examined the crease in it. His eyes had yet to reach Valentine’s face, and he spoke in a monotone. “Got fleeced in a ring game. Lost my twenty thousand bucks, and then some. They were all in on it.”

“How many players?”

“Six guys and a professional dealer.”

“What were they doing?”

Rufus picked up the dog-eared deck from the coffee table, then placed one of the couch’s pillows onto his lap. He put the cards on the pillow and riffle-shuffled them. It was the same shuffle used by every professional dealer in the world, and he did it slowly and efficiently.

“You familiar with riffle-stacking?” Rufus asked.

“I saw a demonstration a few years ago by Darwin Ortiz. It was pretty amazing.”

“Amazing is right. Not many mechanics can riffle-stack. It’s too damn hard. I’m told there are five guys who are any good. Well, I met one of them tonight.”

Rufus stopped the shuffle on his left side while holding back a small number of cards. He dropped the remaining cards on his right, then dropped all of those on his left. The tiny seesaw motion was the move’s only tell.

“I caught the dealer doing that tonight and knew I was screwed,” Rufus said.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. There were six of them, and little ole me. I figured out that I’d been set up, and the dealer hired to wipe me out. My guess is, the World Poker Showdown is behind this.”

Valentine didn’t see the jump. People got fleeced in poker games every day. “How can you know for certain? Tournaments always attract cheats.”

“Easy,” Rufus said. “The cost.”

“The cost of what?”

“Do you have any idea how much a skilled mechanic—especially one who can riffle-stack—gets paid to fleece a poker game in this town?”

“I have no idea.”

“Try fifty grand, plus a cut of the take,” Rufus said. “They won’t get out of bed for less. I lost twenty grand, which didn’t cover the cost of the mechanic. Somebody paid that guy to fleece me. And since I am one of the most beloved figures in the world of gambling, my assumption is that the WPS is behind it. They want me gone.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Yeah. Karl Jasper, the president of that crummy organization.”

“Jasper’s no good?”

“He’s a rattlesnake,” Rufus said.

Rufus squared the weathered cards, then placed them back in his pocket and stuck his Stetson on his head. He looked ready to jump on his horse and fade into the sunset, and Valentine found himself feeling sorry for him.

“What are you going to do?”

“Pay them back,” Rufus said.

There was a twinkle in his eye, and Valentine sensed he was up to no good.

“How you going to do that? You’re broke.”

“That’s where you come in, pardner,” Rufus said.

“You did what?” Valentine said in astonishment thirty seconds later.

“You heard me,” Rufus said, lying on the couch with his legs spread out, his cowboy boots kicked across the floor. “Since those sons-of-bitches fleeced me at poker, I decided to pay them back, and fleece them at a proposition bet. I pretended to get drunk, and told them I had X-ray vision. Before you could say Jack Daniels, those boys had bet me a sizable sum I didn’t. Since I’m broke, I told them you would back me.”

It sounded like something Gerry would do. Valentine took that back; even his son wasn’t this dumb.

“When is this bet going to take place?”

“Tomorrow morning at nine, before the tournament starts.”

“Don’t you think you should have asked me?”

“Don’t go getting hinky on me,” Rufus said, smothering a yawn. “I’m flat broke right now, and can’t pull this off without your help. I need a hairy leg.”

“But what if you lose?”

“I’m not going to lose,” Rufus said. “It’s a scam.”

Valentine shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He’d never gambled a single day in his life, and had no intention of starting now. “I really don’t like the sound of this,” he told his guest.

Rufus showed him his best smile. He could be as charming as a senator when he wanted to, and Valentine felt his resolve give way, and threw up his arms.

“At least tell me what you’ve got me involved with.”

Rufus continued to smile, clearly pleased with himself. “I told these boys I could see through things. I told them I developed my X-ray vision after I got in a car wreck, and had a concussion.”

“And they bought that?”

“We were playing Seven-Card Stud. I pointed to a card in my opponent’s hand, and asked him to pick it up, and hold it with its back toward me. Then I named it.”

“Did you mark it?”

“Of course I marked it. I used the ash from my cigarette. The mark was huge.”

“And they bought it?”

“Of course not! That’s the hook. It’s a dumb trick, and they all knew it. Hell, I think one of them even spotted the cigarette ash on my finger. When they started to challenge me, I insisted I had X-ray vision, and offered to bet them a hundred thousand bucks that I could prove it. Needless to say, the suckers bit on the line.”

“You bet them a hundred thousand bucks of my money?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Valentine slowly got to his feet. There was no way he was participating in this scam, no matter how sorry he felt for Rufus’s situation. The phone rang, and he crossed the suite and answered it. It was Gloria Curtis.

“I hope I’m not calling too late,” she said. “I just wanted to thank you for dinner tonight.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

“Rufus Steele called a little while ago, and told me you were helping him with another proposition bet,” she said. “I was hoping you and I could get together before. How’s eight o’clock in the lobby restaurant?”

“You’re going to film it?”

“Of course I’m going to film it,” Gloria said. “Rufus’s last bet was a huge hit with my boss. I already called him, and told him another segment was on its way.”

Valentine knew when he was beaten and glanced at Rufus. The old cowboy had lowered his Stetson over his eyes, and was feigning sleep. If nothing else, the guy was a fighter, and Valentine had always liked fighters.

“Eight o’clock it is,” he said.

34

“Do you believe in second chances?” a voice asked.

Gerry was standing in the hallway of Metro Las Vegas Police Department headquarters trying to call his father on his cell phone. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Detective Longo standing behind him with two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. Gerry flipped his cell phone shut.

“Sure,” he said. “My wife gives me one every week.”

The detective offered something resembling a smile and handed him a cup. Being a cop’s son had given Gerry good police etiquette, and he followed the detective down the hallway to a conference room with a long wooden desk and a couple of metal chairs. The room had a single window, which was wide open, the evening air twenty degrees cooler than what had been blowing earlier that afternoon. The open window was not lost on Gerry. This was not a normal interrogation room. If it was, the window would have been shut and barred. Longo took a chair, and Gerry sat across from him.

“I believe in second chances, too,” Longo said. “And I’m about to give you and your friends one.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Gerry blew on his drink, waiting to hear what was coming.

“Your story has more holes in it than the Titanic,” Longo said. “Never mind the fact that the Fountain brothers and Frank DeCesar have never worked for your father until this afternoon, when your old man decided to vouch for them.”

Gerry sipped his drink. “This sure is good coffee.”

“Glad you like it. Now, I could be a prick and a half, and sweat your friends until I get something resembling the truth out of them. My guess is, it would take me a day or two, and Nunzie would be the one to crack. He’s the weakest.”

“Did you brew it yourself?”

“Got it from a machine, believe it or not. But I really don’t want to go there. You boys obviously pissed someone in this town off, and Russell John Watson was sent to kill you. The fact that he ended up getting killed is a blessing in disguise.

“The other thing in your favor is that Bill Higgins personally vouched for you, even though I have the sneaking suspicion he’s never met you. How your old man pulled that off, I have no idea, but that’s just my opinion.”

“Can I get another cup when I’m done with this one?”

“Sure. Have as many as you like. So here’s what I’m proposing we do. I let you and your pals skate, in return for you answering a couple of questions for me. I just want to know a couple of things to put my mind at rest. Sound fair?”

Gerry leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. No two-way mirrors, no tape recorder on the table, just him and Longo talking man to man. Longo had a right to know what was going on, and Gerry saw no reason to trample on that right.

“Sounds fair.”

“Who sent Russell John Watson to kill you?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“You must have a suspicion.”

“Jinky Harris.”

A knowing expression spread across Longo’s face, and he put his elbows on the table and gave Gerry a long look. His father once said that in every town, there were a handful of creeps that were responsible for the majority of serious crimes, and that every cop’s dream was to rid the streets of one or more of those individuals during a career. Longo’s dream, Gerry guessed, was to put an eraser to Jinky Harris.

“How did you get mixed up with Jinky?”

“We didn’t,” Gerry said. “Vinny suggested we pay a visit to Jinky, and tell him we were in town investigating a scam at the WPS. Vinny’s feeling was that he didn’t want to cross paths with Jinky, or anything he might be doing.”

Longo scratched the stubble on his chin. “Your friend Vinny is a crook, isn’t he?”

“You want some more coffee?” Gerry asked, rising from his chair.

“Sit down. I’ll rephrase the question. Vinny’s relationship with the law could best be described as tenuous.”

“Vinny knows how the game is played,” Gerry said, returning to his seat. “We went to see Jinky out of respect.”

“And Jinky turned on you.”

“That would be my guess.”

“Think it has something to do with the case you’re investigating?”

Gerry considered the detective’s question. He hadn’t told Longo that Jinky had rigged the ring games at the WPS because he had yet to tell his father, and it would be his father’s call if he chose to pass the information on to the Metro LVPD. But telling Longo that Jinky was up to something had its merits. For one thing, it might lead to getting Jinky thrown in jail, which would suit Gerry just fine.

“Yes,” he said.

Longo raised his coffee cup to his lips, took a sip, and grimaced. “This has to be the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted. You’re some actor.”

“My mother taught me never to be disrespectful to my hosts,” Gerry said.

The detective grinned and put his cup down. “I’ve gone through my life believing that if we all listened to our mothers, the world would be free of problems. I have a proposition for you, which I’d like you to share with your friends.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m going to let you walk. Furthermore, I’m going to write up this case so it will never come back to haunt you, or your friends. Sound good so far?”

“Like a dream,” Gerry said.

Longo nodded. He had put all his cards on the table, something law enforcement people seldom did. Leaning forward, he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Good. Here’s what I want in return. Jinky Harris has slipped through my fingers more times than I can count. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was tapping my phone.

“I need to put this piece of garbage away, and not just because he’s a pimp. We have thousands of whores in this town, and always will. Furthermore, a lot of people make money from pimping these girls—cabbies, bartenders, bellhops, concierges, motel managers, even valets get in the act. Where there’s easy money, there are whores, and people making money off them.

“If Jinky was just a pimp, I wouldn’t be asking for your help. But he’s more than that. He caters to teenage runaways and underage girls. He gives them jobs in his club, then gets them freebasing on cocaine until they owe him money. Then he starts pimping them to his clients. The girls can’t escape because there’s nowhere to go, Las Vegas being the kind of hospitable town that it is. When the girls are used up, he gives them a bus ticket, and kicks them out.”

“You’re saying Jinky is in the slave trade,” Gerry said.

“Yes,” Longo said. He took out his wallet and unfolded it, letting Gerry see the snapshot of two beaming high school beauties that he kept next to his heart. “I’ve been a cop in this town for twenty-plus years. I didn’t pay attention to this kind of stuff until my babies hit puberty. Then one day it hit me what a hypocrite I was. I don’t want that happening to my girls, or for that matter, anyone else’s. Jinky Harris needs to be put away for the rest of his life. If you can help me do that, I’ll be eternally grateful.”

A cool breeze blew through the open window, and invisible particles of sand grated against Gerry’s face. Over the years, he’d heard stories from his father about strange alliances that police formed with crooks, and the uneasy trust that these alliances produced. But he sensed that this was something different. By talking about his girls, Longo had confided in him. Gerry hadn’t done anything to deserve that, and he assumed it was because of the respect Longo had for his father. Longo wasn’t treating him like a crook at all. He was treating him like a good cop’s son.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” Gerry said. Then he added, “And so will my friends.”

35

“I want to go home,” Skip DeMarco said.

DeMarco sat on the couch with an ice pack pressed to his head, his uncle sitting beside him. It was midnight, and his head had finally cleared from the fall he’d taken. He still wasn’t sure what had happened. One minute he was standing in the doorway, listening to his uncle have a conversation with a visitor, the next he was being given smelling salts. His uncle said he’d been out cold for fifteen minutes.

“Once the tournament is over, we’ll go right home,” his uncle said.

“I want to go home right now,” DeMarco said.

“We can’t do that, Skipper.”

DeMarco snapped his head in his uncle’s direction. “We?”

“You can’t do that, Skipper.”

“Why not, Uncle George? Why not?”

“Because we’re committed, that’s why.”

DeMarco could hear his heart banging in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world. Being the nephew of a Mafia kingpin, he understood exactly what that meant. A lot of people were involved in this. His uncle had struck deals, paid people off, made promises that he was bound to keep. His cojones were on the chopping block.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass,” DeMarco said.

“You sound like you’re twelve when you say that,” his uncle scolded him. “Talk like a man, for Christ’s sake.”

“I want to go home. I don’t feel safe here.”

His uncle didn’t have an answer for that. DeMarco lowered the ice pack and took several deep breaths. The fifteen minutes he’d been unconscious had done a number on his head, and he’d woken up knowing something that had been lurking in his subconscious for a long time. He was in over his head. Way over.

“Skipper, I’m sorry for what happened. It won’t happen again.”

“Twice today I’ve been knocked flat on my ass,” DeMarco said, seeing his opening. “Twice. Once in the lobby by a gang; then tonight, right here in my own suite. How can you make a promise like that, considering what’s happened? I don’t feel safe here. Is this deal more important than my safety?”

His uncle’s breathing grew labored. When DeMarco was younger and his vision better, he’d memorized everything about anybody that mattered to him, his uncle George especially. At this very moment, his uncle was staring at the floor, at a loss for words.

“Nothing means more to me than your safety,” his uncle said.

“Even being committed?”

“I cannot back out of my commitments, Skipper, and neither can you. I’m deeply sorry about what happened. And it won’t happen again. I’ve made sure of that.”

DeMarco didn’t doubt that. He’d heard his uncle on the phone, telling someone named Jinky Harris how he wanted Tony Valentine taken out of the picture. Over a dozen times his uncle had called Jinky either a fat fuck, or a worthless piece of shit, obscenities that his uncle used when he wanted to make a point. But that still didn’t change things. His uncle had decided to stay in Las Vegas without consulting him. He pushed himself off the couch in anger.

“Skipper, sit down.”

“No thanks, Uncle George. You could have asked me, you know?”

“I gave these men my word. You wouldn’t ask me to go back on my word?”

It was his uncle’s argument for everything. That a man’s word was more important than his relationships. It said everything you needed to know about the Mafia.

“Would you put my life above your word?” DeMarco asked, bumping into the coffee table because he’d risen too fast, the sudden pain making him wince. He heard his uncle’s body leave the couch. “Don’t. I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Skipper, I would not put your life above anything. But these men are not trying to kill you. They want to discredit you, so you’ll be thrown out of the tournament. You don’t want that, do you?”

DeMarco’s leg was singing the blues where he’d banged it. He hated pain; it ignited too many memories buried deep in his soul. His uncle came over, and offered his arm. DeMarco pushed it away.

“Put yourself in my shoes for once,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” his uncle said.

“I’m blind. I don’t see this shit coming. It’s like running into a tree. I did that when I was little, hit the tree as fast as I could. I was on the ground for ten minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Skipper.”

“You’re always sorry, Uncle George, but you never do anything different.”

“I don’t like the way this conversation is going,” his uncle said.

“You don’t? You know what I think, Uncle George?”

“I never know what you’re thinking, Skipper.”

“I think this is another of your deals.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. This is just another deal. You figured out a way to make a killing on this tournament, and sweet-talked me into being your shill. Only you didn’t bother to tell me that I was going to get the shit kicked out of me in the process. Thanks, Uncle George, thanks—”

There was only so much lip that his uncle George would take and he slapped his nephew’s face. DeMarco grabbed his uncle’s wrist, and twisted it. His uncle tried to resist. DeMarco twisted harder.

“How does it feel, Uncle George? How does being helpless feel?”

“Skipper!”

“These are my shoes, Uncle George. Try them on.”

“Let me go!”

“It really stinks, doesn’t it, Uncle George?”

“Guido! Help me!”

DeMarco heard a door bang open and Guido’s patent leather shoes come plodding across the suite’s inch-thick carpet. As Guido’s hands came down on his arms, DeMarco shoved his uncle aside, and found Guido with his hands. He had enrolled in self-defense classes when he was a teenager and been a disciple of the martial arts ever since. If he managed to get his hands on someone, he could beat anyone.

Guido had hands shaped like cow udders. DeMarco got one of his thumbs and bent it back, paralyzing him. Guido groaned, and DeMarco pulled him close. “You know something, Guido? You were the first person to cheat me in cards. We were playing for nickels at the kitchen table and I felt the bends you were putting in them. Can you believe that, Uncle George? Guido picked the one way to cheat me that I’d catch on to. He bent the cards.”

“Let him go,” his uncle declared.

“Took a couple of steps back, didn’t you, Uncle George?” DeMarco said. “Not used to this dynamic, are you?”

“Please, Skipper.”

His uncle was using his nice voice. He didn’t do that very often. Like maybe five times since the turn of the century. DeMarco obliged him, and released the bodyguard. Guido stalked away, muttering under his breath.

“I did this for you, Skipper,” his uncle said. “This isn’t just another deal. I did it for you.”

“For me? That’s a new one.”

His uncle stepped very close. He was shaking his head emphatically, and wanted DeMarco so see it. He did this sometimes when he was desperate to make a point.

“For you, Skipper. As payback. How many times did you get cheated in those poker tournaments you entered in Atlantic City? Every time! You said the other players saw the injured animal, and took you out. You said they whipsawed you, by raising the bets so early that you couldn’t afford to stay in. Am I right?”

DeMarco nodded reluctantly. Whipsawing was a form of collusion between two players. The pair would raise and reraise early in the hand, convincing the other players to fold. Usually, the players had nothing, and would later split the pot between them.

“You also told me that your opponents played cousins, and signaled their hands when they thought you were weak. They used hand signals that you couldn’t see.”

DeMarco nodded again. It was becoming a night of painful memories.

“So this is payback, Skipper. You’re the best poker player in the world; you told me so yourself.”

DeMarco found himself nodding. He was the best poker player in the world, at least on the Internet. He’d won over twenty online tournaments and nearly a half a million dollars in prize money. Several poker Web sites had banned him, forcing DeMarco to play under pseudonyms. He was a blind guy playing under a fake name and he was beating everyone out there. Sure, it wasn’t the same as playing in live events, but in time, he was certain he would win all of those as well.

His uncle pinched DeMarco’s arm. He’d been doing that since DeMarco had gone to live with him. It was his way of being affectionate.

“Yes, Uncle George.”

“I’m sorry,” his uncle said. “You’ll be included in all decisions from now on.”

“No more keeping me in the dark?”

His uncle laughed under his breath. “That’s a good one.”

His uncle led him across the room, and parted a curtain. The suite looked down upon the casino, the neon lighting the glass so brilliantly that DeMarco could see it a foot from his face. It made him feel normal, even if just for a little while, and he continued to stand there long after his uncle had said good night.