Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

51

One of the most depressing movies Valentine had ever seen was called Leaving Las Vegas. In the film, an alcoholic comes to Las Vegas, shacks up with a hooker, and proceeds to methodically drink himself to death. The title had summed up the plot perfectly. For some people, the only way to leave Sin City was in a pine box.

Valentine was not going to let that happen to his son, or his son’s friends. He retrieved his rental car from police headquarters, then drove Gerry, Frank, and the Fountain brothers to their motel to get their things and check out, then straight to the airport. It was a tight fit in the car, but he wasn’t going to let them out of his sight until they were safely on an airplane, and headed home.

“The four of you may have to come back out here and testify in a trial,” Valentine said as he parked the rental in short-term parking. “If that happens, I’ll come out as well.”

“I don’t want to ever come to Las Vegas again,” Vinny said as they walked across the lot toward the terminal. “I used to think I understood how this town worked, but I was wrong. This place is like another planet.”

Once inside, Frank and the Fountain brothers went to the American Airlines counter and booked three seats in economy on a flight to Philadelphia that left in ninety minutes. The reservationist kept looking at Frank’s battered face, as if she might consider him a security risk. Valentine leaned on the counter and spoke to her.

“He’s a professional boxer.”

“You his manager?”

“Sort of.”

“He ought to consider another line of work,” the reservationist said, printing out three boarding passes and sliding them across the counter.

“You should see the other guy,” Valentine said.

They walked to the security screening area, stopping on the way to buy Frank a baseball cap and sunglasses so his face wouldn’t cause any small children to burst into tears. As the three men got in line, they shook Valentine’s hand and thanked him for all he’d done. Valentine turned to his son as they passed through the metal detector.

“Think they’ll ever straighten up?”

Gerry waved to his friends. “And do what? Become monks?”

They returned to the ticketing area and went to the Delta counter, the main carrier into Tampa, and Valentine purchased a seat on the ten o’clock red eye for his son.

“Don’t you think I should stay and help you?” Gerry asked.

“No. Remember what I told you before we came out here?”

“Sure. No job is worth getting killed over.”

“Well, I have a new saying.”

“What’s that?”

“No job is worth losing your son over.”

Gerry wanted to say something, only didn’t know how to say it. Instead, he gave his father a bear hug in the middle of the terminal with dozens of people swarming around them. They hadn’t done enough of that kind of thing when Gerry was growing up, and when they were finished hugging, Valentine offered to buy his son a cheeseburger.

“You’re on,” Gerry said.

They walked around the terminal and found a food court where the prices were so high Valentine thought he was in Paris. But there were times when he was willing to pay just about anything for a decent cheeseburger with a slice of onion, and he tossed the menu aside and ordered for both of them. When the waitress had departed, Gerry said, “Hey, look. The tournament is on TV.”

The restaurant had a horseshoe-shaped bar with a TV perched above the bottles of liquor. Valentine spun around in his chair, and saw Skip DeMarco being interviewed. DeMarco was wearing his familiar smirk, and the caption beneath him read World Poker Showdown Tournament leader—$5.8 million in chips. Valentine shook his head in disbelief. Only a few hours ago, Bill had told him that he was heading to Celebrity to shut down the tournament.

The story ended, and Valentine crossed the restaurant, and stood in a quiet corner before flipping open his cell phone and calling Bill.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked his friend.

“As of this afternoon, the World Poker Showdown is being classified as a private event,” Bill replied. “Unless I can prove that cheating is taking place, I’ve been told to lay off.”

“Told by who?”

“The governor of the state of Nevada.”

The burden of proof that was required of the police and other law enforcement agencies in the U.S. was not required of the Nevada Gaming Control Board. The GCB could shut down any gambling operation based on suspicion of cheating. And since the WPS was already on thin ice—from DeMarco rigging the first day’s seating, to dealers with criminal records and a president who hung with mobsters—Bill didn’t need an excuse to pull the curtains. If anything, it was long overdue.

“Can he do that?” Valentine asked.

“Yes,” Bill said. “It’s in his job description.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Because the tournament is a huge success. You don’t screw with success in this town, Tony.”

Valentine put his hand on his forehead and left it there. No matter what it was about in Las Vegas, it was always about the money.

“I got some other bad news this afternoon,” Bill said. “Ray Callahan, our crooked poker dealer, died.”

“Somebody whack him?”

“No. Callahan died from cancer complications. Now we’ll never know how he was involved with DeMarco’s scam.”

Valentine removed his hand from his forehead and pulled out his wallet. The playing card that Jack Donovan had given Gerry was stuck in his billfold, and he peeled back the bills with his fingers and stared at it. Ray Callahan had wanted to know what Jack had died from, and had not seemed surprised when Valentine had told him cancer. It was the clue he’d been looking for and it had been staring him right in the face.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “If I can prove DeMarco’s cheating, will the governor let you do your job, and shut down the World Poker Showdown?”

“He won’t have a choice,” Bill asked.

“Even if the WPS is the biggest show in the history of television, and drawing more tourists than Las Vegas has beds?”

Bill laughed into the phone.

“Even then,” his friend said.

Valentine stared at the playing card in his wallet. He’d been baffled by scams before but always managed to solve them. If he couldn’t solve one, then he needed to get out of the gambling business and into gardening or shuffleboard or whatever the hell it was retired people in Florida did.

“I’ll call you later,” Valentine said.

He heard Bill start to speak, then hesitate. “Are you still on the case?” his friend asked.

“You bet,” Valentine replied.

Valentine said good-bye and folded his cell phone. His son was standing beside him. Valentine removed the playing card from his wallet, and handed it to him. “The secret of how DeMarco is cheating is in the hospital where Jack Donovan died. Jack found something there that can be used to mark cards. It doesn’t leave a trace, and is dangerous if not handled properly. I know it’s been a rough couple of days, but I want you to go to Atlantic City, look through the hospital records, and find out what it is. I’ll ask one of my police buddies to accompany you, so no one tries to whack you.”

Gerry blinked, and then he blinked again.

“I thought you wanted me to go home.”

“I changed my mind.”

“So I’m still working with you on the case?”

“You were never off the case.”

“I wasn’t?”

“Of course not. You’re my partner, aren’t you?”

The happy look in Gerry’s eyes was one Valentine hadn’t seen in a long time. There was a time in every man’s life when he had to emerge from his father’s shadow, and this was Gerry’s time. His son slipped Jack’s playing card into his shirt pocket, and hugged his father again. Valentine was surprised at how good it made him feel.

52

“My producer thinks this story would make a terrific made-for-TV movie,” Gloria Curtis said, microphone in hand.

Valentine nodded, staring at the magnificently conditioned racehorse standing a dozen yards away. The horse’s front legs were going up and down like pistons while a trainer held it in check with a lead rope. Valentine had put Gerry on a plane for Atlantic City, then driven to the University of Nevada football field where Gloria and several hundred gamblers were preparing to watch Rufus Steele challenge the horse in the hundred-yard dash.

“It isn’t over yet,” he reminded her.

“You sound awfully pessimistic,” Gloria said, shivering from a breeze.

He continued to watch the horse, which had deposited a steaming pile of manure on the field. His late father had liked to bet on the ponies, and had always run to the betting windows after seeing a horse take a crap.

“Just being realistic,” he said.

“Meaning this may not having a happy ending.”

Valentine didn’t say anything, not wanting to jinx Rufus, who stood on the fifty-yard line, doing jumping jacks in his Skivvies T-shirt and black boxing shorts while exhorting his fellow gamblers with nonstop banter.

“Come on, boys, what do you say? I’ll give you even money I can beat that nag in the hundred-yard dash. That’s even money!”

A group of gamblers stood around the horse, and appeared to be making sure the animal hadn’t been doped. The group included the Greek, who asked the trainer to lift the horse’s saddle, then peered beneath it to make sure there were no hidden electronic devices that might slow the animal down. Satisfied, he turned to his fellow gamblers.

“Looks good to me.”

“Check its hooves,” one of the gamblers said. “Maybe Rufus took off its shoes.”

The Greek decided this was a good idea, and went to the noneating end of the horse and attempted to lift one of its hind legs. Before he could say Jack Robinson, the Greek was sitting on his rump in the grass, having been kicked solidly in the thigh. The other gamblers rushed to his aid.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” the Greek said, rising and dusting himself off. “That’s one hell of an animal. I think we just might have a bet here.”

The horse was led to the center of the field where it began to prance around on its hind legs. Valentine wondered if Rufus had bitten off more than he could chew, and glanced at Gloria. She looked equally worried.

“Maybe I’d better go talk to him,” he said.

Rufus was still doing his exercises. He was all skin and bones, with some sinew thrown in for good measure. He winked as Valentine approached.

“Hey, Tony, you ready to help me fleece these suckers?”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Rufus said, stopping to suck down the cool night air. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re losing faith in me?”

Valentine looked across the field at the competition. The Greek had hired a professional jockey to ride the horse, unwilling to let Rufus provide the rider. The Greek’s jockey was a diminutive man with a pinched face and expressionless eyes, his uniform the color of money. With the trainer holding the horse, the jockey climbed into the saddle, then took the horse down the field at a canter.

“A little,” Valentine admitted.

“You don’t think I can beat Greased Lightning?”

“Is that the horse’s name?”

“Yeah. Raced in the Kentucky Derby a few years back, came in fourth,” Rufus said. “The owners use it for stud now. A real nag, if you ask me.”

Valentine knew enough about horses to know that nags weren’t used for stud. The jockey had stopped in the end zone and turned Greased Lightning around. With a tip of the hat to the Greek and his friends, he took off at a dead gallop. A football field is exactly one hundred yards long, and Valentine clocked the horse with his watch. Greased Lightning went from end zone to end zone in seven seconds flat.

He turned to see Rufus removing a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros. The Greek and his cronies were standing nearby, and watched Rufus light up and take a deep drag.

“Rufus,” Valentine said, “you can’t beat what I just saw. Give up.”

Rufus exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the still night air.

“Say that a little louder,” he said under his breath.

“Why?”

“Because I want those boys standing nearby to hear you.”

Valentine raised his voice. “Rufus, you can’t beat what I just saw.”

Rufus looked pleased and offered the pack. Valentine reached for it, then hesitated. He was going to quit smoking, even if it killed him, and withdrew his hand.

The Greek and his cronies stepped forward.

“We want to make a wager,” the Greek announced.

Rufus ground his cigarette into the grass. “How much?”

“First we want to settle the odds,” the Greek said. “We want three-to-one on Greased Lightning. Take it, or leave it.”

Rufus held his chin and gave it some thought. Of all the gamblers assembled on the field, the Greek had the biggest bankroll, and his action would dominate the wagering. He said, “I’ll do it, with one stipulation. You get in front of the TV camera, and say what you just said into a mike. That you want three-to-one odds on a champion racehorse beating a seventy-two-year-old broken-down cowboy in the hundred-yard dash. Say that, and it’s a deal.”

The Greek looked crushed. He had won a TV poker tournament recently, and was a celebrity in the poker world. He liked being famous, and was what gamblers called a trophy hunter. Using the palms of his hands, he smoothed out the creases in his bowling shirt, and let the appropriate amount of time pass before speaking again.

“Even money it is,” the Greek said.

“How much?”

“I’ll bet you a half-million that you can’t beat Greased Lightning in the hundred-yard dash.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars?” Rufus asked.

“That’s right,” the Greek said.

“Tony, you hear that?” Rufus asked.

It was more money than most people made in an entire lifetime, and Valentine slowly nodded.

“I heard,” he said.

The Greek and Rufus shook hands, and the deal was struck.

“Good evening and welcome to the playing field of the University of Nevada,” Gloria Curtis said, staring into the camera. “This is Gloria Curtis, reporting to you from Las Vegas, the city that never sleeps. Standing beside me is a man who never sleeps, Rufus Steele, legendary poker player and gambler. Tonight, Rufus is betting a sizable sum—”

“One half million dollars,” Rufus said proudly.

“—that he can outrun a former Kentucky Derby hopeful named Greased Lightning in the hundred-yard dash. Rufus, how are you feeling?”

“Like a spring chicken,” the old cowboy said.

“I must tell you that in all my years reporting sports, I’ve never seen a matchup as intriguing as this one.”

Rufus was about to reply when Greased Lightning bounded up behind them, the jockey pulling back on the horse with his reins.

“What do you say we get this started?” the jockey asked them. “This isn’t a pleasure horse I’m riding, folks.”

“Right,” Rufus said. “Just give me a second to set up our course.”

Rufus walked over to a large beach towel lying on the ground. On the towel sat a jug of drinking water and a brown paper bag. Rufus picked up the bag and removed a plastic traffic cone painted in orange Day-Glo paint. He tossed it to Valentine.

“Tony, do me a favor, and go put that cone on the center of the fifty-yard line.”

Valentine marched out to the middle of the football field, and placed the cone in the center of the fifty-yard line. When he returned to the sidelines, the Greek was shouting and wagging an angry finger in Rufus’s face.

“That’s cheating!” the Greek shouted.

Rufus flashed his best aw-shucks grin. “No, it’s not. I said we’d be running the hundred-yard dash. I never said those hundred yards would be in a straight line.” He turned to Valentine. “Did I, Tony?”

Before Valentine could answer, Rufus turned to Gloria. “Did I, Miss Curtis?”

“No, you didn’t,” they both answered.

Rufus pointed at the end zone. “We start the race from there, and when we reach the cone, we turn around, and run back to the end zone. Plain and simple.”

A hush fell over the crowd of gamblers. The Greek had balled his hands into fists and his face resembled a pressure cooker ready to explode. He stormed across the field to where Greased Lightning and the jockey were standing. The horse was kicking at the ground and seemed to know that it was about to be asked to perform. The Greek had a short conversation with the jockey, then returned to the sidelines.

“You’re on,” he told Rufus.

There was too much artificial light in Las Vegas for any stars to be visible. Only the moon could be seen in the pitch dark sky, and it appeared to be slyly winking at them. Valentine followed Rufus to the end zone from where the race would start.

“The Greek sounds pretty confidant,” he said.

“That’s because the jockey thinks he can make the turn, and still beat me,” Rufus replied, doing windmills with his arms to loosen up. “If the horse was a rodeo pony, I’d be in trouble. But not a racehorse.”

“You sure?”

“Positive, pardner.”

Greased Lightning came into the end zone kicking up a storm. The jockey had his riding crop out and was sitting high in the saddle. Valentine guessed the jockey was planning to take the horse down the field at half-speed, make the turn at the fifty-yard line, and come back at a full gallop.

“I don’t know, Rufus,” Valentine said.

From the paper bag Rufus removed a starting gun, which he handed to Valentine.

“Make sure you pull the trigger when the race starts,” Rufus said.

The crowd of gamblers followed them into the end zone and stood behind the two participants. Rufus and Greased Lightning toed the starting line, the jockey practically standing up in his stirrups, the old cowboy in classic sprinter’s pose.

“Tony, be our starter,” Rufus called out.

Valentine walked over to where they stood. He paused to make sure Zack was filming them, then pointed the starting pistol into the air.

“Gentlemen, take your marks.”

The wind blowing off the desert had died and the air was remarkably still. A jet passed overhead, the whir of its landing gear coming down shattering the stillness. Greased Lightning emitted a loud whinny.

“Get ready—go!”

Valentine fired the starter into the air. The cap in the gun made a loud bang! and the horse screamed like it had been shot. It fled ahead and went down the field at supersonic speed. Rufus appeared to be frozen, his legs stuck to the ground, as the animal passed him.

The gamblers let out a collective roar, with the Greek shouting the loudest. Rufus was huffing and puffing, running about as well as someone his age could run, which was to say not particularly fast. Before he’d reached the fifteen-yard line, Greased Lightning had reached the fifty and was still running.

“Come on, Rufus,” Valentine yelled. “Come on!”

The jockey was pulling back on his reins with all his might. The horse started to break, its back legs tearing up the ground like hoes. When it finally came to a stop, it was near the opposing side’s twenty-yard line. The jockey jerked the horse’s head, trying to turn the animal around. The horse obeyed, and when it was turned around, came to a dead stop, as if the race was over. The jockey slapped its side with his crop while digging his heels into its side.

By now, Rufus had reached the cone in the center of the field, done a nifty spin, and taken off back for the finish line. The old cowboy still had some run in him, his long legs covering the ground with amazing agility. Sensing disaster, the Greek and his cronies stood at the finish line, jumping wildly up and down.

“Run!” Valentine yelled through cupped hands.

Rufus hit the ten-yard line as Greased Lightning crossed the thirty. It was a contest now, and Rufus took a half dozen giant steps, and then fell face-forward with his arms outstretched as the horse raced past him.

“I win! I win!” the Greek shouted while doing a juvenile victory dance.

Valentine hurried over to where Rufus lay and helped him to his feet. The old cowboy was covered in grass and dirt and took a moment to get his bearings.

“Did I lose?” he asked under his breath.

“It was mighty close,” Valentine said. “Let’s look at the tape.”

Zack stood on the sideline with his camera pointed at the finish line. He rewound the tape, and let Valentine and Rufus watch the race on the tiny screen on the back of the camera. The ending was close, but the outcome was perfectly clear. Before Greased Lightning reached the end zone, Rufus’s hand had broken the plane of the finish line.

Rufus called the Greek over, and let him watch the tape. When it was over, the Greek was crying. Rufus raised his arms triumphantly into the air.

“I win,” he declared.