Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

48

Jinky Harris wouldn’t talk.

Bill had hauled Jinky into one of the VIP rooms, and was giving him the third degree. There were only so many things Bill Higgins could do to make Jinky talk, and none of them were working. Being a law enforcement officer, Bill had to follow the rules, even when someone’s life was at stake. It was one of the job’s great drawbacks.

Being retired, Valentine didn’t have to follow the rules, and he went back to Jinky’s office and retrieved his walking stick from the floor. Finesse was sitting on the couch and nursing a large purple welt on the bridge of his nose. Valentine removed the photograph of Gerry from his pocket, and tossed it on the coffee table. Then he pointed at it.

“That’s my son. Know where he is?”

Finesse looked at him blankly. Valentine was sure he knew something, and raised the stick like he was going to take his head off. The giant cowered in fear.

“I don’t know anything!”

“You’re a sorry excuse for a bodyguard, you know that?”

Finesse didn’t take the bait.

“I just do as I’m told.”

Valentine got behind Jinky’s desk and started looking for a scrap of paper with an address or some other clue that would lead him to Gerry. The blotter was splattered with drops of blood, as was the phone receiver. He stared at the giant.

“You made a phone call, didn’t you?”

Finesse did not reply. Valentine whacked the cane against his palm.

“I’m prepared to beat it out of you, buddy.”

Finesse jumped off the couch and bolted out the door. He was dragging his bad knee but still moved pretty fast. Valentine followed him down the hall, and saw Finesse raise his arms over his head as he entered the strip club. He was going to let himself be arrested, rather than let Valentine work him over.

Valentine returned to Jinky’s office and slammed the door behind him. In anger he raised the cane and smashed a framed photograph of Jinky with a naked stripper hanging on the wall. He had blown it. If he’d handled Finesse right, he could have made him talk, instead of letting his temper take over.

He checked Jinky’s desk a second time, just to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. He picked up the phone, and hit the redial button. He got a frantic busy signal and let out a curse. He decided to go back to the club, and see if Bill had gotten Jinky to open up. Gerry’s photograph was lying on the coffee table. As he picked it up, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before. A red smudge on Gerry’s right cheek.

It was too bright to be blood. On Jinky’s desk was a magnifying glass used for reading. Valentine picked up the magnifying glass, and examined the smudge.

It was a woman’s lipstick. A kiss.

Now he had a clue, only he didn’t know what it meant. He went to the minibar behind Jinky’s desk and stole a Diet Coke. He always thought better with caffeine rushing through his bloodstream, and he sucked it down while staring at the photograph. Gerry had called him right after he’d been released from the police station, and said he was going straight to the motel. If Valentine remembered correctly, the motel’s name was the Casablanca. On a hunch he got the motel’s phone number from information, and called it.

“Haven’t seen your son since yesterday,” the manager said after Valentine identified himself.

“He didn’t come around early this morning with his friends?”

“Nope.”

“Mind answering a question for me?”

“Go ahead,” the manager said.

“How far are you from the Metro Las Vegas police station?”

“Two point three miles.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Valentine hung up. Gerry and his friends had never reached their motel. Chances were, they’d been nabbed right as they’d left the police station. A pretty girl had talked them into driving her someplace, and given Gerry a kiss for his trouble. His son had always been a sucker for a pretty face.

He finished his soda still looking at his son’s face. Pete Longo had practically admitted that he had a dirty cop in his department. That cop must have orchestrated this. There was no other way it could have worked so well. He tossed his empty bottle into the trash, then picked up the phone, and dialed the Las Vegas Metro Police Department’s phone number from memory. An operator answered on the fifth ring.

“Let me speak to Detective Longo,” he said.

Pete Longo was having the day from hell. Besides being asked by Bill Higgins to stay out of a major bust, he’d just learned that Jinky Harris had been operating a bust-out joint right under their noses. It was a big black eye for the city, and no one was going to get more heat over it than the police department. His secretary stuck her head into his office.

“Some guy named Tony Valentine is holding on line two,” she said. “Want me to get rid of him?”

“No, I’ll take it.”

The door closed and Longo picked up the mug of coffee that had been sitting on his desk since early that morning and slurped it down. Then he picked up his phone and punched in line two. “This is Detective Longo. Can I help you?”

“This is Tony Valentine,” the caller said. “How would you like to do a horse trade?”

Longo pulled himself closer to his desk. “What are you offering?”

“I think I’ve nailed your dirty cop.”

The words were slow to register. Maybe the day from hell was about to show its silver lining. Longo removed a fresh legal pad from his drawer along with a pen.

“What do you want in return?”

“Jinky Harris won’t tell us where my son and his friends are,” Valentine said. “I want you to promise me that you’ll make this cop talk, no matter what.”

“You want me to hurt him?”

“Just do whatever you have to do. You don’t have to tell me how.”

Longo realized his hand was shaking. He had suspected there was a dirty cop in the department for over a year, and had lost many nights’ sleep over it.

“Give it to me from the top,” Longo said.

“Is that a promise?”

“You have my word,” the detective said.

Longo meticulously wrote down Valentine’s theory of how his son and friends had been abducted outside the station house. When Valentine was finished, Longo read it back to him, making sure the times corresponded to the correct events.

“That’s it,” Valentine said. “A pretty girl was waiting for my son at the station house. She was bait. She convinced him and his friends to drive her someplace, where Jinky’s boys were waiting. That’s my theory.”

Longo thought back to early that morning when he’d released Gerry and walked him to the reception area. He’d done a quick scan of the visitors, like he always did. There hadn’t been any pretty girls sitting on the plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Had she come from somewhere inside the station house? He put his pen down.

“Let me look into this,” Longo said. “Give me a number where I can get back to you.”

Longo wrote Valentine’s cell number on his blotter and hung up. Then he sat at his desk, deep in thought. He had to handle this right, and not make any accusations until he was certain he had the right cop. He pushed himself out of his chair, and walked to the front of the station house with the legal pad pressed to his chest.

The receptionist on duty was a no-nonsense female sergeant named Cobb. Cobb sat behind a three-inch piece of bulletproof Plexiglas, her eyes riveted to the reception area. No matter what time of day it was, the reception area was always filled with angry and sometimes desperate people. Longo came up behind her, and asked to see the logbook. Cobb pulled it off the desk.

“Don’t go too far with that,” she snapped.

Longo pointed at the chair behind her own. “Here okay?”

“Perfect,” she said.

He sat down, opened the logbook on his lap, and found the entries from early that morning. The station house had several hundred visitors a day, and it took him over a minute to find Gerry Valentine’s entry. Gerry had signed out at 3:04 A.M. According to Tony Valentine’s theory, the girl who’d baited Gerry had done so right after he’d been released, which meant she’d probably signed out around the same time. Longo checked the names of the visitors who’d signed out around the same time as Gerry, and found only one. A woman named Bonnie Vitucci.

Longo stared at the Person Here to See box next to Vitucci’s name. It was blank. Rising from his chair, he tapped Cobb on the arm.

“Who was working the graveyard shift last night?”

“Boy, your memory’s going,” the sergeant said.

“Why do you say that?”

“I was working the graveyard shift. Fannie got sick, so I took her shift.”

Longo pointed at Bonnie Vitucci’s name in the logbook. “Does this woman’s name ring any bells?”

Cobb had eyes like a lizard, and looked at the name in the log without shifting her head. She cracked her bubble gum and nodded at the same time.

“Who is she?”

“A stripper who also does tricks on the side,” Cobb said. “She got arrested for offering an undercover detective a BJ.”

“When was this?”

“About a year ago.”

“How can you remember that clearly?”

“It was her walk,” Cobb said.

“Her walk?”

“Yeah. The way she sashayed through here when she got arrested, you’d swear she was sleeping with somebody in the department. That’s what we thought.”

“We?”

“The other ladies on the staff. We.”

Longo realized he was nodding his head. Everything Cobb had said made perfect sense. Jinky Harris had gotten one of his strippers to start sleeping with a detective, and the stripper had pulled the detective over to the dark side. That was how those kinds of things worked. He knew that for a fact, because he’d fallen for a stripper himself once. Sex made you blind and it made you stupid. He put the log back in its place and thanked Cobb for her help.

Longo returned to his office and shut the door. He sat down in front of his ancient PC and pulled up Bonnie Vitucci’s rap sheet. The mug shot showed a pretty blonde in her late twenties with a faraway look in her eyes. He read the rap sheet, and saw that the charge had been reduced to a misdemeanor when the arresting officer had not shown up in court for her trial. Longo guessed that this was when the affair had started.

The arresting officer’s signature was at the bottom of the sheet, and he hesitated before scrolling down. He knew every detective on the force, and considered nearly all of them his friends. He found himself almost not wanting to know who it was.

Longo took a deep breath. His own affair had nearly cost him his career, and his marriage. But his buddies on the force had closed ranks, and so had his wife and two daughters. They had given him a second chance, and he’d sworn to them that he’d never screw up again.

But this situation was different. This dirty cop had fed information to Jinky Harris, who’d ruined the lives of more young girls than anyone in Las Vegas. Longo took out his wallet, and stared at the plastic-enclosed snapshot of his two teenage daughters. The girls Jinky had ruined were just like them, he reminded himself.

Longo put his finger on the mouse and scrolled down to the name of the arresting officer on the rap sheet. Detective Hector Frangos. He’d known Hector since they were both rookie cops, and had been to his house in Henderson a couple of times for backyard barbecues. Hector had a wife and three small children, and if he remembered correctly, the youngest was autistic. He’d considered him a friend, up until now.

He picked up his phone and started to dial Hector’s three-digit extension. He was about to ruin the life of a brother officer, as well as the life of his wife and three kids. It didn’t seem right, considering that he’d been given a second chance for committing the same crime. But then again, no one ever said life was fair.

He punched in Hector’s extension while his other hand removed the pair of handcuffs attached to his belt, and placed them on his desk.

49

Gerry Valentine had once read in Newsweek magazine that the biggest challenge for terrorists who made bombs was not to get blown up in the process. According to the article, over half the terrorists who made bombs either blew themselves up, or created a bomb that blew up prematurely and killed the wrong people.

The same thing appeared to be true of operating a flamethrower. Turning one on was relatively simple, provided you didn’t set yourself—or someone standing nearby—on fire. Once you got past that part, handling a flamethrower was easy.

Luckily, the four men who’d been beating them up in the warehouse had not read the article, and were taking turns setting one another’s clothing on fire while starting up the flamethrower Jinky had sent over. It was designed like a lawn blower, and spit out a terrifying, long, bright orange flame. Each time one of them caught on fire, Gerry prayed that the man handling the flamethrower would drop it on the ground and break the damn thing.

But it wasn’t meant to be. The guy who’d brought the flamethrower to the warehouse stepped out of the shadows, crushed his cigarette into the ground, and cursed the men in Italian. The man went by a single name. Mario. His English was broken, and he frequently reverted to speaking Italian. He was skinny, and had hair and eyebrows so black they looked painted on.

Mario took the flamethrower, and showed the men how to operate it. As flames shot across the warehouse, they illuminated his face, and even though he was on the other side of the warehouse, Gerry instantly recognized him. It was the man he’d seen in the stairwell of the Atlantic City Medical Center ten days ago.

“That’s Jack Donovan’s killer,” he said under his breath.

“You’re sure?” Vinny asked.

“Yeah, that’s definitely him.”

“This is just getting better and better,” Vinny moaned.

They watched Mario continue his tutorial. Gerry knew that the Mafia liked to use guys right off the boat to do dirty jobs because they were hard for the police to trace. Guys who came into the country illegally were called wops. It meant “without papers.” Mario had an air of ruthlessness about him that was almost palpable, and Gerry imagined him ripping the oxygen tubes out of Jack Donovan’s nose, and then pounding on Jack’s chest with his fists, robbing Jack of his last breaths.

“That guy is a psycho,” Vinny said.

“You think so?” Gerry asked.

“He’s got Anthony Perkins written all over him. Just look at his eyes. There’s no life in them.”

Gerry stared at Mario’s eyes. They looked like the eyes you’d find on a stuffed animal. His father had once told him that professional killers nearly all shared one thing in common. They’d been abused as children, and no one had done anything to stop it. This made them angry at the world, and allowed them to enjoy the work that they did.

Jinky’s men still couldn’t get the hang of operating the flamethrower. Mario got angry with them, and started to direct the action. He had one man get behind Frank’s chair and wrap a steel chain around Frank’s neck. Then Mario turned the flamethrower on, and brought the flame within a few feet of Frank’s face.

“Tell us which one of you shot Russ Watson, or we’ll burn your head off,” the man strangling Frank said.

Frank stared wide-eyed at the flame hovering near his face. He seemed to be debating what to do, as if there was a choice at this point. He stubbornly shook his head. He wasn’t giving in to these guys; not now, not ever.

“Tell me,” the man said.

“Screw you,” Frank said.

Mario brought the flame closer to Frank’s face. Frank pulled his head back, and the guy strangling him jerked his head forward. Frank’s head was turning colors, first purple from the lack of oxygen, then bloodred from the heat of the flame. Smoke poured off his face as his eyebrows began to catch on fire. The man doing the strangling turned his attention toward Gerry and Vinny, who sat bound in their chairs on the other side of the warehouse.

“You boys liking this?” he yelled to them.

“Turn the flamethrower off, and I’ll tell you who did it,” Gerry yelled back.

“Tell me now,” the man replied.

“Turn off the flamethrower,” Gerry yelled.

“Go fuck yourself,” the man yelled.

“I hear you’re the expert,” Gerry yelled back at him.

“You’re next, asshole.”

Gerry had been silently praying for a miracle, and he got one. Frank’s right hand—his hitting hand—had popped free of the ropes. Frank made a fist and brought his hand up in an arch, catching the guy strangling him flush on the side of the face. The chain came loose from around Frank’s neck, and fell jangling to the concrete floor.

Getting hit by a boxer was different from getting hit by an ordinary Joe, and the guy who’d been doing the strangling came staggering around Frank’s chair, his eyes rolling in his head. Frank grabbed him with his free hand, and threw him directly into the path of the flamethrower. The man’s clothing and hair instantly caught fire, and he threw his arms into the air, screamed, and took off at a dead run.

Mario looked surprised at the turn of events, but not terribly upset. He extinguished the flamethrower by flipping off a switch, and stood with the three men and watched their partner do flaming pirouettes in the center of the warehouse. Within a few moments the flaming man fell face-first to the floor, his arms and legs twitching. Mario and the others stood silently and watched him die.

“We need to call Jinky, tell him what happened,” one of the men said.

“I have better idea,” Mario said.

“What’s that?”

“We kill them, then call Jinky.”

They all seemed to think this was a good idea. Mario drew an automatic handgun from behind his belt.

“I do them,” Mario said.

“You want to kill all four of them?” one of the men said.

Mario nodded his head forcefully. “All four,” he replied.

Frank had continued to pull at the ropes holding him to the chair. He was nearly free, his fingers nimbly pulling the knots apart. Nunzie was cheering him on while trying not to look at the men who were about to kill them.

“Come on, Frankie Boy,” Nunzie said.

“Almost there,” Frank said, breathing hard.

Gerry looked sideways at Vinny, and saw his friend’s lips moving.

“You praying?”

“What else is there to do?” Vinny asked.

Gerry looked at the door. Shadows were dancing in the puddle of light streaming through the bottom of the door, indicating there were people standing outside.

“Start yelling,” Gerry said.

“What?”

“You heard me. There’re people outside. Start yelling.”

Vinny started yelling like it was nobody’s business. His voice was drowned out by a battering ram being applied to the door, the sound echoing across the warehouse’s ceiling. The door buckled on its hinges, but did not give way.

“It’s a raid,” one of Jinky’s men shouted.

The man drew a gun holstered beneath his sports jacket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the door and ricocheted dangerously around the warehouse. His partners also drew their weapons and fired at the door, determined to shoot it out with whoever was on the other side. Within seconds bullets were flying, and Gerry was reflexively jerking his head while begging God to spare him from being shot.

“Look at Frank,” Vinny said.

“Why?”

“He’s almost free.”

Gerry stopped jerking his head and stared across the warehouse. Frank had almost wriggled free of his ropes. He was taking his time, just like he had in the casino parking lot. Standing, he walked over to where the flamethrower lay on the floor, picked it up, and clutched it against his chest the way Mario had instructed. Then he got up behind the four killers. The flamethrower’s flame was on low, and he jacked the flame up, then squeezed the trigger, causing a huge flame to leap through the air. It engulfed the men, catching their clothes and hair on fire. Within seconds they were screaming and running wildly in circles around the warehouse.

One by one, the men dropped to the floor, and stopped moving. The battering ram was still hitting the door, the sound like a clock ringing its final toll. Frank solemnly lowered the flamethrower while shaking his head.

“Enough of that shit,” he declared.

50

One winter when Valentine was a detective on the Atlantic City police force, his wife had talked him into taking a few night courses at a local community college. She had thought the classes would help round him out and broaden his horizons.

The two courses that had made an impact were an English course, which had turned him on to reading Raymond Chandler and other crime writers, and a philosophy course, which had gotten him thinking about things he’d never thought about before.

In the philosophy course he’d read a problem by the French philosopher Descartes that he’d never forgotten. The problem was this: You take your son and his friend to the beach. The two boys go swimming, while you stay on shore. Suddenly, you realize the boys have been pulled out by an undertow and are drowning. The boys are far apart, and as you swim out to rescue them, it becomes apparent only one can be saved. You are responsible for your son’s friend, since you’re the adult in charge, but you’re also responsible for your son, since you’re his father. Who do you save?

According to Descartes, you saved your son.

Descartes’ reasoning was perfectly logical. You might someday forgive yourself for letting the other boy drown, but you would never forgive yourself if your son drowned. It was a lesson that Valentine had never forgotten.

As the Metro Las Vegas Police Department SWAT team entered the warehouse where Gerry and his friends were being held, Valentine ignored the orders of the SWAT team’s commander, and came in behind them. The warehouse smelled of smoke, and he stared at the four burning bodies lying on the floor, the three men tied to chairs, and a man with a horribly damaged face holding a flamethrower. Then his eyes found his son.

Of all the men in the room, Gerry looked to be in the best shape. Gerry hadn’t been badly beaten up, and the look on his son’s face said that his spirits were still intact. The others needed help in one form or another, but Valentine ignored them and ran to his son. He untied the ropes holding Gerry prisoner. His son rose and they hugged each other.

“Go outside and stay with the cops,” Valentine said.

“I need to help my friends,” his son said.

“Just do as I say. I’ll take care of your friends.”

Gerry tried to say something. It was unusual for him to be at a loss for words, and he started to walk to the open door with light streaming through, then turned and walked across the warehouse to one of the burning bodies lying on the floor. Gerry stared down at the corpse and balled his hands into fists.

Valentine came up next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“This is the guy who killed Jack Donovan.”

Valentine looked down at the blackened body and then up into his son’s face. Many times he had heard wronged people say that there was nothing sweeter than revenge, but had never believed it himself. He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Feel any better?”

“You mean because this bastard’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Gerry said. “I don’t feel any better at all.”

Gerry walked out of the warehouse, and Valentine untied Vinny and Nunzie from their chairs, and told them to go outside as well. As both men got to their feet, they shook Valentine’s hand and thanked him.

When they were gone, Valentine went over to check on the man with the damaged face. The man had put the flamethrower on the ground, and was standing with his hands against the wall, and his feet spread apart. While one SWAT team member frisked him, a second SWAT team member pointed a rifle at him. The man’s face looked like something out of a horror movie, and he grinned at Valentine.

“Hey, Mr. Valentine, how you doing?”

“Frank? What happened to you?”

“They tried to get me to talk,” Frank said, still grinning.

“You tell them anything?”

“Naw. They would have killed us.”

Valentine immediately understood. Frank had been willing to take the punishment on the slim hope that they’d be rescued. He was as dumb as an ox, but sometimes that was what you needed to survive in this world.

“Let him go,” Valentine said to the SWAT team members.

The man holding the rifle shifted his attention to him.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. He’s one of us.”

The man looked at his partner, who’d finished frisking Frank. Then he lowered his rifle and they both walked away. Valentine went up to Frank and saw him smile. He whacked Frank on the shoulder and the big man winced.

“Not so hard,” Frank said. “That’s my bad arm.”

Valentine led Frank outside and turned him over to a pair of medics who’d come in an ambulance, and were attending to Gerry, Frank, and Nunzie. The medics had already inspected the corpses inside the warehouse, and were happy to have live people to be treating. Valentine walked over to the police van they’d arrived in. Bill Higgins stood beside the van, making a call on his cell phone. Bill had stayed outside with Jinky Harris, who sat in the back of a van in his electric wheelchair. Jinky had started singing like the fat lady in the opera once he’d heard that Detective Hector Frangos had been arrested, and was cooperating with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department.

“Mind if I talk to your prisoner?” Valentine asked.

“Be my guest,” Bill said.

Valentine popped open the van’s back door and climbed in. Jinky’s chair was strapped to the floor of the van with pieces of rope, making him a prisoner. Jinky had the look of a caged rat, and started protesting before Valentine had shut the door.

“Get the hell away from me.”

“Hear me out.”

“No! Get away from me! Hey Higgins, get him away from me!”

Valentine slammed the door, then got down on his haunches and looked at Jinky. “If you had half an ounce of common sense, you’d play ball with me.”

Jinky stared through the van’s tinted window at Bill standing outside, talking on his cell phone. When he realized Bill wasn’t going to save him, he calmed down.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Some straight answers would be nice.”

“I brought you here, didn’t I?”

“That’s a good start.”

“What do I get in return?” Jinky asked.

Valentine glanced at his son and three friends standing outside the van. It was a miracle they hadn’t died, and he wanted Jinky to pay for what he’d done to them. Only Jinky was the key to finding out what was going on at the World Poker Showdown, and he was determined to solve this case. Then he had an idea.

“Come clean with us, and I’ll get Bill Higgins to persuade the prosecutor to cut you a deal.”

The air-conditioning in the van had been shut off and the interior air was warm and sticky. Jinky removed a wadded-up Kleenex from the pocket of his tracksuit and dabbed at his reddening face. “Is that a promise?”

“Yes, it’s a promise.”

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

“How is Skip DeMarco cheating the World Poker Showdown?”

“You think the Tuna told me? Get real.”

“You must have some idea what’s going on.”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Jinky said. “The Tuna stole a poker scam from some sick guy in Atlantic City. Nobody knows what the scam is, but it’s supposed to be perfect. No traces, no clues, nothing. There’s only one drawback.”

“What’s that?”

“It can make a person really sick if they don’t handle it right,” Jinky said. “That’s what everyone says, so it must be true.”

Valentine thought back to his meeting with Ray Callahan at the hospital, and how Callahan had stared at the playing card Valentine was carrying in his wallet.

“Is that why two dealers in the tournament collapsed?”

Jinky shrugged. “Could be. Like I said, I don’t know what the scam is.”

“Next question. Why did you try to have my son and his friends killed?”

Jinky dabbed at his face some more. “There’s a lot of mob money being bet on DeMarco to win the tournament. I have nothing against your son and his friends, but when they started screwing with DeMarco, I got told to whack them.”

“By the Tuna.”

“No, not the Tuna.”

“Then who?”

“If I told you that, I’d be dead tomorrow.”

“Even if the police put you in protective custody?”

“I’d still be dead tomorrow,” Jinky said.

Valentine looked in the big man’s face and knew he wasn’t going to get the name. He didn’t know anything more about how DeMarco was cheating the tournament than he had when he’d stepped off the plane at McCarran yesterday. Worse, he’d nearly lost his son in the process of trying to find out. He opened the rear door and started to climb out.

“What about my deal?” Jinky asked indignantly.

He turned. “What about it?”

“Are you going to talk to Bill Higgins, like you said?”

Valentine paused. As a cop, he’d prided himself on never going back on his word. The oath that went with being a police officer was something he’d always upheld. But being retired was different. He was his own man now.

“No,” he said.

“But you promised me!”

“I lied,” Valentine said.