Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

3

Gerry left, and Valentine went inside and back to work. As he walked through the rooms to his office, he paused to dust off a stack of videotapes. Along with his collection of crooked gambling equipment and books, the house contained his massive library of casino surveillance tapes and DVDs. Twenty-five years of cases were shoved into the dwelling, and every inch of storage space was filled with boxes.

He hadn’t intended for the house to be that way. When he’d retired from the Atlantic City Police Department and moved to Florida two years before, he’d been ready to turn his back on the gambling world. But then his wife had died, and his social life had vanished. His days had turned into treading water. Out of necessity he’d gone back to work and started his consulting business.

His office was in the rear of his house. Normally his office manager, Mabel Struck, was manning the phones, but she had taken a much-deserved vacation, and was cruising the Caribbean. The room felt lonely without her, and he sat at his desk and sorted through the mail.

Today’s batch contained several letters from frantic casino bosses. Every day somewhere a casino got ripped off. Sometimes, an old-fashioned grifter was responsible. In other cases, high-tech whiz kids were using a new gadget to beat the house. In this game of cat-and-mouse, the mouse sometimes won.

As he tore open each envelope, he checked to see if the sender had enclosed a check. That meant they were serious, and not shopping for free advice. Today’s mail had two checks. The first was from a French casino that was losing a few grand a night at baccarat. The second from a Houston oil man who believed he’d been ripped off in a private poker game. Each check was accompanied by a CD on which the sender had recorded the suspected cheater’s play. As Valentine popped the oil man’s CD into his computer, the office phone rang.

“Grift Sense,” he answered.

“This is Mark Perrier, general manager at Celebrity Casino in Las Vegas,” a man’s voice said. “Is Tony Valentine available?”

Celebrity was one of the newer casino chains. Instead of hiring gamers to run their casinos, Celebrity employed stuffed suits from the corporate world.

“For a price,” Valentine said.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s available for a price,” Valentine said, then added, “It’s a joke.”

There was a short silence on the line.

“I’d like to speak to him,” Perrier said.

“He’s busy right now, making a living. Can I tell him what this is about?”

“No, you cannot.”

Valentine had never consulted for Celebrity’s casinos, and didn’t think this conversation would change that. He dropped the receiver loudly on the desk, then noisily ruffled some papers. After a few moments, he picked the phone back up.

“Valentine here.”

“Wasn’t I just speaking to you?” Perrier asked angrily.

“That was my associate, Mr. Lipschitz,” Valentine said. “People tell us we sound a lot alike. What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Valentine, I’ll get right to the point. My owner has asked me to contact you regarding a homicide investigation taking place in Atlantic City. It involves a known cheater named Jack Donovan.”

Lying on Valentine’s desk was the playing card that Jack Donovan had given Gerry. He picked the card up, and stared at the garish Celebrity logo on the back.

“What about it?” Valentine asked.

“Celebrity would like the case to go away.”

“Is that so?”

“The Atlantic City police have informed us that you are the primary reason the case is still open. Celebrity is presently hosting the World Poker Showdown, the largest poker tournament in the world. Having our casino associated with a murder investigation of a known cheater could be a public relations nightmare. I don’t want to threaten you, Mr. Valentine, but if this case were to hit the newspapers and damage our reputation, we would seek punitive damages against your company.”

“That sounds like a threat to me,” Valentine said.

“I hope you’ll strongly consider what I’ve said.”

“Jack Donovan had a Celebrity playing card in his possession when he died. Were you aware of that?”

There was another silence on the line, this one a little longer.

“Mr. Valentine, I don’t like the course this conversation is taking,” Perrier said. “I’d appreciate an answer to my question. Will you drop this case or won’t you?”

“Get lost,” Valentine said, and hung up the phone.

Valentine scratched his chin while staring at the Celebrity playing card lying on his blotter. Where there was smoke, there was usually fire. If Celebrity wanted the case to go away, it was not just because of the bad publicity. Casinos received bad publicity every day, and it didn’t stop people from gambling in them.

He had an idea, and he went on his computer, opening the database of his friends who worked in the gaming industry. Information on close to a thousand people was kept on this database. He pulled up all the names of people he knew who’d gone to work for Celebrity. There were thirty files. Scanning through the names, one jumped out at him: Paul Cummins, an old crony from Atlantic City, and one of the top security men in the business. Paul had recently gone to work for Celebrity’s casino in Detroit, and Valentine called him on his cell phone.

“Paul here,” Cummins answered through a mouthful of food.

“Quit eating on the job.”

“As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Atlantic City’s gift to the world.”

“I miss you, too. Look, Paul, I need your help.”

“Name it.”

“A Celebrity playing card has turned up in a murder investigation,” Valentine said. “The card is clean, but something tells me it’s still a valuable clue, only I’m not seeing what it is.”

“Well, for starters, our playing cards aren’t in general circulation,” Cummins said. “Whoever had our card shouldn’t have, because they’re not supposed to leave the casinos.”

“They’re not?”

“No, sir. Ever since we got scammed by our own cards last year, we stopped selling them to the general public.”

Valentine felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured down his back. Years ago, casinos had sold used playing cards in their gift shops. But then the used cards had started turning up on the tables, mucked in by skilled sleight-of-hand artists. Some casinos had started “canceling” the used cards before they sold them by punching a hole in them, while others had stopped the practice altogether.

“So how would someone get a card out of one of your casinos?” Valentine asked.

“They wouldn’t,” Cummins said. “Not legally, anyway. Our cards are printed by the U.S. Playing Card Company in Cincinnati, and shipped by armored truck to each casino. When the cards reach the casino, they’re kept under lock and key until they’re delivered to the tables. The cards are used for an eight-hour shift, then collected, inspected, and destroyed.”

“How could someone get one of your cards?” Valentine asked.

“They’d have to bribe an employee. If that happened in Detroit, I’d find out about it, because every card is accounted for before it’s destroyed.”

Valentine picked up the card lying on his desk. “What would you do?”

“I’d have the employee arrested,” Cummins said. “I’d also notify management, and we’d probably do something drastic, like have all our playing cards changed. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to ask you a question. A Celebrity playing card has obviously been taken from one of our casinos. I’d like to know, which one?”

“Why?”

“Job security.”

Valentine examined the card in his hand. Celebrity’s name was printed in bold colors on its back, but not the casino’s location.

“I don’t know,” Valentine said.

“Just tell me the back color,” Cummins said.

“Purple.”

“Be still my beating heart.”

“Not yours?”

“No,” Cummins said. “Purple is from our new casino in Las Vegas that opened last week. They’re hosting the World Poker Showdown.”

“When last week?”

“The grand opening was Friday night. They didn’t invite you?”

Valentine counted backward on his fingers. Last Friday was six days ago, and Jack Donovan had died eight days ago. Another bucket of water came splashing down his back, this one even colder than the first.

“Thanks, Paul,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

4

Valentine said good-bye to Cummins and hung up, then weighed calling Gerry. He wanted to tell his son what he’d learned, and also to apologize. He hadn’t believed that Jack Donovan was murdered. Now, he knew better.

He’d let it wait. Confirming what Gerry already knew wasn’t going to make his son feel better. In fact, it would only get him more worked up. Better to let Gerry spend a peaceful night with his wife and baby, and tell him tomorrow.

His size twelves made the wooden floors creak as he padded through the house to his kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap, and had it halfway to his lips when he remembered how awful the water tasted in Florida. Like a science experiment, as Gerry was fond of saying. He took a long swallow anyway.

The kitchen window looked onto his backyard, and he watched a mother cardinal deliver an insect to a nest of babies. The babies’ mouths were visible above the nest’s branches, each screaming Me! The mother dropped the insect and flew away.

He poured the rest of the water down the drain. Jack Donovan had been in the hospital for several months. That meant the cards from Celebrity’s Las Vegas casino had been delivered to him. Jack had doctored them in some fashion, and given them back. Being a smart crook, he’d kept one for himself, just in case he ever needed to blackmail his partners. That was the card he’d given to Gerry. The blackmail card.

But why had his partners killed him? The poor guy didn’t have much time left. His partners must have been afraid of something.

Valentine went outside and sat on the back stoop. The sun was setting, its dying rays turning the sky a burnt orange. Some nights, he crossed the bridge to Clearwater Beach, and watched the sun set over the Gulf of Mexico. It was painful without his wife, but he did it anyway, knowing that time was the only thing that could heal his wounds.

His stomach was making funny sounds, and he realized he didn’t feel well. He went inside and opened the pantry in search of the Pepto. As he started to pour out a spoonful, he realized what was bothering him. Jack Donovan had been murdered while Gerry was visiting him. The murderer could have waited, but had obviously wanted to shut Jack up. Was the murderer afraid of Jack revealing the poker scam to Gerry?

He put the Pepto back on the shelf. It made all the sense in the world. No wonder Gerry was so upset. His visit to Atlantic City was why Jack Donovan had died.

Valentine took a turkey-and-cheese Subway sandwich out of the refrigerator, and ate half while standing at the kitchen sink. One of the great shortcomings of the male species was its unwillingness to cook food for one person, and Valentine had started buying sandwiches from Subway and storing them in the fridge. He ate an apple for dessert, then decided it was time to go across the street and have a talk with his son.

Gerry and his beautiful wife and baby lived on the same block, only across the street and at the other end. The distance kept things healthy, and he tossed the core of his apple into the bushes before crossing.

The burg they lived in was called Palm Harbor. It was sandwiched between several other burgs, and the residential streets saw little traffic. He and his late wife had bought their house right before real estate prices had gone through the stratosphere. These days, it seemed everyone wanted to live in a small town.

Parked in front of Gerry’s house was a car with a Z license plate. A Z meant it was a rental. Exhaust was coming out of its tailpipe, music blaring out of its radio. As Valentine got closer, he glanced at the driver. An Italian guy around his son’s age, with a drooping moustache and sunken eyes. Valentine slapped his hand on the sill of the open window.

“Good evening.”

The driver stuck his head out and grunted like a caveman.

“Are you looking for someone?” Valentine inquired.

“Just enjoying the beautiful outdoors,” the driver said.

Valentine walked to the end of the block, then turned around and walked back to the car. The driver was looking at him in a way meant to inspire fear. A famous criminologist had once claimed that career criminals could be typed by hostile attitudes. The guy parked in front of Gerry’s house could have been the poster boy for that study. Valentine walked up to the driver’s window.

“What’s up?” the driver said.

“I lost my dog. You didn’t happen to see him, did you?”

“What kinda dog?”

Valentine put his hands together. “He’s about this big, black hair, a mutt.”

“Can’t say I’ve seen him.” The driver lit the cigarette dangling from his lips and blew a cloud of smoke Valentine’s way. “Sorry.”

Valentine gave the guy a hard look. His gut told him the guy was up to no good. His gut also told him that the guy hadn’t come here by himself, and that his friends were inside Gerry’s house, and were also up to no good.

“Oh, look, for God’s sake, he’s under your car,” Valentine said.

The driver sat up straight. “He is?”

“Yes. Come on, boy, come here.”

Valentine knelt down, then grabbed his back in mock pain. “Oh, Christ, my sciatic nerve is acting up. Would you mind helping me?”

The driver snuffed his cigarette in the ashtray and opened his door. As he climbed out from behind the wheel, Valentine leaned his body against the door, and pinned him. The driver let out a yelp like he’d been kicked. Valentine continued to press the door.

“You carrying a gun, buddy?”

“No.”

He didn’t look like the trustworthy type. Valentine stuck his free hand through the open window, frisked him, then opened the door, and yanked the guy out. Holding the guy’s arm, he gave it a twist, and the guy started to corkscrew into the ground.

“You claustrophobic?” Valentine asked.

“What’s that?” he gasped.

“Didn’t think so.”

There were several buttons on the driver’s open door. Valentine found one to open the trunk, and punched it. Then he led the driver around the vehicle, and made him climb in. To his credit, he didn’t complain as Valentine slammed the trunk down.

Valentine climbed into the car. He liked to know who he was dealing with; he opened the glove compartment, and pulled out the rental agreement. The car had been rented that afternoon at Tampa International Airport to Vincent Fountain, whose driver’s license was from Atlantic City, New Jersey.

Valentine ran home, got his loaded Sig Sauer from the hollowed out copy of Crime and Punishment on his desk, then ran back to Gerry’s house. His heart was pounding as he opened Gerry’s front door with a spare key, and slipped into the foyer.

The house was a New England–style clapboard with original wood floors, and it was hard to walk on them without making noise. He could hear talking from the kitchen and moved toward it, his feet telegraphing every step. He stopped at the swinging door, and tried to imagine the people he was dealing with.

He decided they weren’t Mafia. He’d grown up around the mob, dealt with them plenty as a cop. The Mafia had a code of ethics, as hard as that was to imagine. One of those codes was never to mess with a guy’s family. That told him that Vincent Fountain and company weren’t connected.

He pushed the door gently and peeked inside the kitchen. Gerry and Yolanda sat at the kitchen table, his granddaughter asleep in Yolanda’s lap. They looked remarkably calm. There was a mirror behind them, in its reflection two smarmy Italian guys. One was tall and thin and talked too much. The other was about six three and had the proud, damaged face of a boxer. The boxer stood behind the swinging door, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Valentine put his foot to the door and gave it a healthy kick. He’d been the New Jersey state heavyweight judo champ five years running, and still took class three times a week. He wasn’t the man he used to be, but could still deal with a couple of two-bit punks, and that was exactly what he had here.

Valentine entered the kitchen to find the boxer now lying on the tile floor with blood pooling around his mouth. The guy doing the talking stopped.

“You Vinny?” Valentine asked him.

“Yeah. Who the hell are you?”

The Sig Sauer was in Valentine’s right hand. He tossed it into his left, then used his right to punch Vinny in the jaw. It was a move straight out of the Keystone Cops, and Vinny’s head snapped. Then he fell backward and hit the floor. Valentine looked at his son.

“Get your wife and daughter out of here,” he said. “Right now.”

5

Gerry and Yolanda left the kitchen without saying a word. Valentine glanced into his granddaughter’s face as her mother carried her out. Lois hadn’t stirred throughout the whole commotion.

Hearing the front door close, Valentine frisked Vinny and the boxer while they lay on the floor. They were both clean, and he threw cold water on their faces and made them get up. With the Sig Sauer, he pointed at the sink.

“Get the blood off your face,” he told the boxer.

The boxer splashed his face with cold water. When he was finished he pulled on his front teeth and seemed pleased that none were broken. Valentine picked up a dishrag and tossed it to him.

“Now clean up the floor.”

The boxer got on his knees, and cleaned up the bloodstain. As a cop, Valentine had learned that there were two ways to deal with lowlifes. The first was through brute force, the second intimidation. He told Vinny and the boxer to take our their wallets and hand him their driver’s licenses. The two men obeyed.

Valentine wrote their names, social security numbers, addresses, and driver ID numbers on a piece of paper. They were both residents of Atlantic City, and the boxer’s name was Frank DeCesar. Valentine told him to pick up the digital camera on the windowsill above the sink.

“Toss it here.”

Frank tossed him the camera, and Valentine pointed it at them.

“Say cheese,” he said, and snapped a picture.

The picture came out just fine. Valentine placed the camera on the kitchen table, then pointed at the door with his Sig Sauer.

“Let’s go.”

“You’re Gerry’s father, aren’t you?” Vinny said as they walked through the house.

“No, we just look alike,” Valentine said.

“Look, Mr. Valentine, this isn’t what you think. Frank and I came here to present Gerry with a business proposition, that’s all.”

“Let me guess. You want to open a pizza parlor together.”

The two hoodlums stopped at the front door. Vinny was dumb enough to think he was being serious. “It’s a little more involved than that, not that I want to bore you with the financial stuff. But our call is strictly business. We did not come here to harm your son or daughter-in-law, or granddaughter, who I must say is a beautiful little child.”

Vinny had a face that only a mother could love—sallow eyes, crooked nose, and two rows of teeth that looked like a rotted picket fence. His strength seemed to be his ability to string words together. Valentine pointed the Sig Sauer at Vinny’s chest.

“Don’t ever mention her again.”

“Her?”

“My granddaughter,” Valentine said.

“No, sir, I won’t.”

They walked out the front door of Gerry’s house. It had grown dark, and a lone streetlight illuminated the block that Valentine called home. He watched Vinny and the boxer get into the rental. Vinny looked around in a panic.

“Where’s Nunzie?”

“Taking a siesta in the trunk,” Valentine said.

The rear end of the car started to rock. Nunzie was banging around like a bear. Vinny turned and yelled at him to calm down.

“He your brother?” Valentine asked.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Inflection.”

Valentine was standing by the driver’s window, and he tucked his weapon behind his belt, then knelt down so he and Vinny were eyeball to eyeball.

“How much do you boys know about me?”

“You’re an ex-cop from Atlantic City.”

“Anything else?”

Vinny scratched the stubble on his chin. He knew he was getting off easy, yet seemed unwilling to acknowledge it. “You do work for the casinos, catch cheaters.”

“That it?”

Frank leaned over, and whispered in his ear. Vinny’s face turned dead serious.

“You whacked the Mollo brothers,” Vinny said.

Valentine gave him his best, no-nonsense stare. The year before, some throwbacks in Atlantic City who’d been threatening Gerry had gotten blown up in a car. Even though Valentine had nothing to do with their murder, everyone on the island believed that he had. Sometimes, those things worked to your advantage, and he banged the rental loudly with his hand, then stood up.

“Don’t ever come back here again,” he said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Vinny said.

Valentine watched the rental drive to the next block, then stop. Vinny hopped out, and let his brother out of the trunk. As Nunzie climbed into the backseat, they all started yelling at one another, and he found himself smiling. Three guys in their prime had gotten outfoxed by a retired sixty-three-year-old. It didn’t get any better than that. He walked down the street to his house and was met by Gerry at the front door.

“What happened?”

“I let them go with a warning,” Valentine said.

“You beat them up any more?”

“Just their egos.”

Valentine went to his study and put the Sig Sauer back in the book, and then it hit him. While the suit from Celebrity had been threatening him, three punks had been threatening Gerry. Were the two events linked? He found Gerry waiting in the hall.

“Pop, I know those guys, for Christ’s sake.”

“Friends?”

“No, but I know them, from the old days.”

“They have an invitation?”

“No, but—”

“No buts. They were up to no good. A man’s house is off-limits, especially when his wife and daughter are there.”

Gerry rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling. Valentine went into the living room, and found his granddaughter playing on the rug with Yolanda. His late wife had hooked the rug out of his old police uniforms and Yolanda was always trying to clean up the messes that the baby left on it. Valentine had told her not to worry about it. He’d been spit on, pissed on, and puked on plenty of times as a cop; what harm would a little more do? He sat on the couch, and the baby crawled toward him. She’d be walking soon, and he clapped his hands and saw her smile.

“What’s the weather like in Puerto Rico this time of year?” he asked.

Yolanda lifted her head. Her parents lived in a bucolic town outside of San Juan, and she’d been talking about paying them a visit.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“I’d like the three of you to go down there. I’ll spring for the airline tickets and rental car.”

“Oh, Dad, that’s awfully nice of you,” Yolanda said. “I’ve got time off coming from the hospital, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Valentine picked up his squealing granddaughter while looking at his son. Gerry had a strange look on his face. He took his daughter from Valentine’s arms and handed the child to her mother.

“I need to talk to my father,” he said.

Yolanda started to speak, then thought better of it. She pushed herself off the floor and walked out of Valentine’s house with the baby in her arms. The front door made a loud click as it shut behind her.

Gerry sat down across from his father on the couch. “Pop, Yolanda doesn’t know I used to be a bookie.”

“You ever going to tell her the truth?”

“Sure, someday I’ll tell her.”

“Who the hell is Vinny Fountain?”

“An old business acquaintance. He came here to tell me that a mobster out of Newark named George Scalzo was responsible for Jack Donovan’s murder.”

“George ‘the Tuna’ Scalzo?”

“That’s right. The Tuna stole Jack’s poker scam, and had Jack whacked. The Tuna is out in Las Vegas, backing a player named Skip DeMarco in the World Poker Showdown. DeMarco is going to cheat the tournament using Jack’s scam.”

“What’s Vinny’s connection, besides his undying love for Jack?”

“Vinny agreed to buy the scam from Jack, with the money going to Jack’s mother. She lives on federal assistance.”

“And Vinny wants you to fly with him to Las Vegas, and get the scam back.”

“That’s right,” his son said.

“I hope you weren’t considering going.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“That’s dumb, Gerry.”

His son made a face like he wanted to argue, but knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere. He said, “Jack was my buddy. I owe it to him.”

Friendship had a way of making a person blind to certain realities. George Scalzo was a ruthless criminal who’d killed scores of men over the years. Vinny Fountain and his bumbling buddies were no match for someone like that.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Valentine said.

“What?”

“Take your wife and daughter to Puerto Rico and lie low for a while.”

A wall of resolution rose in his son’s face. “You’re saying I should put my tail between my legs, and run?” Gerry said.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Whenever George Scalzo gets involved with something, dead bodies turn up. I don’t want you to be one of them.”

“I can take care of myself, Pop.”

“What about your family?”

“I can take care of them, too.”

Valentine stared long and hard into his son’s handsome face. Gerry was thirty-six, and still young enough to think that nothing could harm him. Only age was going to teach him otherwise.

“Just do as I say, okay?”

“That doesn’t sound like a partner talking to me,” Gerry said.

Valentine took another deep breath. His son had joined his business with no money, and had been living off his father’s largesse while he learned the ropes.

“No, it’s your father talking,” he said.

His son rose from the couch with a dark look on his face.

“Gee,” he said, “and I thought we were in business together.”

He walked out of the room before Valentine had a chance to reply.