Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

6

Valentine went to his study and shut the door. Gerry had a way of getting under his skin that left him feeling battered, and he wished Mabel was there. His neighbor was good at refereeing when their arguments got heated.

He sat down at his desk. Sticking out of his computer’s hard drive was the CD from the oil man that contained a clip of suspected poker cheating. Normally he didn’t work late, but he felt out of sorts and decided to have a look.

His computer whirred as it accepted the disc. Within seconds he was studying a grainy film of a poker game in the back room of a neighborhood bar. Eight middle-aged guys smoking fat cigars sat around a table with a castle of colored chips in its center. It was not something Valentine normally dealt with, and he found the letter that had accompanied the CD.

A Houston oil man had been invited to join an ongoing high-stakes game at a local watering hole. He had lost his shirt three weeks running. Suspecting foul play, on the fourth week the oil man secretly filmed the game with a video camera hidden in a briefcase.

Valentine put the letter down, and stared at the film playing on his computer. Cheating at private poker games was the largest unchecked crime in America. It cost unsuspecting players millions of dollars a year. He watched the game for a few minutes, then noticed a plastic Budweiser sign behind the table.

The oil man’s cell phone number was given at the bottom of the letter. He punched the number into his phone, and moments later was talking to an older gentleman with a drawl so thick he could have cut it with a knife.

“You work fast, Mr. Valentine. You figure out what’s going on?”

“Maybe,” Valentine said. “Let me ask you a couple of questions first.”

“Be my guest.”

“I’m staring at the CD you sent me. There are eight players at the table. Are you the player wearing the string tie and twirling a toothpick in your mouth?”

“Well, I’ll be darned. How did you know that?”

“It’s because of where you’re sitting at the table,” Valentine said.

“It is?”

“Yes. You’re in what gamblers call the hot seat. You sat in that chair every week, didn’t you?”

“How the heck did you know that?”

“The guy who owns the bar is running a peek joint. The Budweiser sign behind the table is made of Plexiglas. It’s tinted on the front, but not the back, and works like a two-way mirror. Someone standing behind the wall can see through the sign, and spot the cards you’re holding. That information is transmitted to the guy who owns the bar either by radio or by a waitress who delivers it to him on a cocktail napkin.”

“You’re saying this whole thing was a setup designed to fleece me?”

“I’m afraid so. Did you lose much money?”

“Sixty grand, but that’s not the point. The man who owns that bar swore to me that he ran a clean game. He gave me his word.”

“May I make a suggestion?” Valentine said.

“By all means.”

“Show your local sheriff the film. Then have him call me. I’ll explain what’s going on, and he can file charges against the bar owner. If you’d like, I can fly to Texas, and act as an expert witness at a trial.”

“That’s awful generous of you, Mr. Valentine, but I have a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll just go and shoot the son-of-a-bitch.”

Valentine hung up the phone, then picked up the oil man’s check and endorsed it. He hadn’t made much money as a cop, and felt a certain satisfaction each time he signed the back of a check that he’d received for solving a scam. His bank account was growing fatter by the week, and he supposed one day he’d go out and buy himself a new car, or some nice new clothes, or maybe even a boat. Someday, but not today.

As he started to shut down his computer, he remembered why he’d come back to his study in the first place. Digging into his pocket, he removed the sheet of paper on which he’d written down Vinny Fountain’s and Frank DeCesar’s social security numbers, driver ID numbers, and addresses. He canceled the shut down and went into his e-mail, hitting the button for NEW MESSAGE. Then he typed in the recipient’s name: Eddie Davis.

Eddie was an undercover detective with the Atlantic City Police Department, a hip black guy whose resemblance to the actor Richard Roundtree from the first Shaft movie was uncanny. Eddie had joined the force after Valentine had retired. They’d never worked together, and had no mutual friends in the department. But they did have bond. Eddie had helped Valentine catch the people who’d murdered his partner, and they’d become good friends.

Valentine copied Vinny Fountain and Frank DeCesar’s information into the body of the e-mail, and hit SEND. Picking up the phone, he called Eddie at home.

“Am I getting you at a bad time?” he asked when Eddie answered.

“Just entertaining a lady friend.”

“I can call back.”

“She was just leaving, weren’t you, honey?”

Valentine heard a woman’s angry voice, followed by an unpleasant exchange. The conversation ended with a door being slammed.

“I’m back,” Eddie said.

“I hope I wasn’t the cause of that,” Valentine said.

“Not at all. She was starting to use offensive language, so I figured it was time to end things.”

The mean streets of Atlantic City were as bad as any in the nation, and Valentine couldn’t imagine any language that Eddie might find upsetting.

“What kind of offensive language?”

“You know, words like marriage and commitment. That sort of thing.”

“You’re never going to settle down, are you?”

“The fields are too green for a man to stop mowing.”

“I guess that means no.”

“I’ll find the woman of my dreams someday,” Eddie said.

Valentine’s eyes found the framed photograph of his late wife that sat on his desk. She’d never stopped being the woman of his dreams, even after she’d died.

“So what’s up?” Eddie asked.

“I just sent you an e-mail with the names of two punks in Atlantic City I’d like you to check out. I need everything you can tell me about these jokers. Criminal backgrounds, who they run with, crimes they’ve been accused of, the whole shooting match.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Anybody I know?”

“Vinny Fountain and Frank DeCesar. There’s also a third one, Nunzie Fountain.”

Eddie went silent, and Valentine said, “You know them?”

“Their names have come up.”

“How so?”

“This is in strict confidence, okay?”

“Of course.”

“Vinny and Frank are informants. There was a flood of bad heroin on the streets a year ago; lots of hookers were shooting up and dropping dead. Vinny and Frank came forward, gave us enough information to track the source, and shut the operation down. The department didn’t pay them or anything.”

“What are you saying, they’re good Samaritans?”

“In a way, yeah,” Eddie said. “Don’t get me wrong. They’re wise guys, but they’re also locals. They didn’t like what was happening, so they put a stop to it.”

“Sounds like they want to go to heaven,” Valentine said.

Eddie laughed. “I’ll run a check on them first thing tomorrow.”

7

At eight o’clock in the morning, Gerry drove his family across Highway 60 toward Tampa International Airport, the rush-hour traffic made bearable by the near-perfect spring weather. Warm temperatures, and not a cloud in the flawless blue sky. The baby was asleep in her car seat in the back, while his wife sat beside him reading the paper. He drove with his eyes glued to the road, even though traffic was hardly moving.

“What time did your father come over last night?” Yolanda asked.

“Late,” Gerry replied.

“I’m surprised I didn’t hear him.”

“He tried to be quiet. He knows how lightly you sleep.”

“What made him change his mind?” his wife asked.

Lying had never been Gerry’s strong suit, and it was rare that he was able to pull the wool over his wife’s eyes. Yolanda had a sixth sense when it came to knowing the truth, and he guessed it was why she hated it when he tried to break bad news to her over the phone.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Come on. You must have some idea.”

“I guess he realized I’m not a kid anymore,” Gerry said.

“You’re always going to be a kid in his eyes.” His wife took out a sanitary wipe and cleaned off their daughter’s chin. “You need to get used to it.”

The traffic began to move and Gerry goosed the accelerator. Ahead was the Courtney Campbell Causeway, the four-lane highway bordered on both sides by the gently lapping sea. Yolanda had hit the nail on the head. His father was still treating him like a kid. Only he wasn’t a kid anymore; he’d stopped being one the day he’d started taking bets from his classmates in high school. He’d done that for twenty years along with plenty of other illegal things, yet somehow his father had forgotten that.

“We’re partners now,” Gerry said. “My father can’t be bossing me around if we’re going to work in the same business together.”

“Even if he knows it’s for your own good?” his wife asked.

Gerry feigned a laugh. Yolanda was the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was beautiful and wickedly smart and loved him to a fault. But she didn’t always back him up, especially when it came to disagreements with his old man.

“Even then,” he said.

People who lived in Tampa liked to say that their airport was the best in the country. Gerry had used the airport a few times, and joined the chorus. The place worked like a fine Swiss watch. He parked in short term, and got his wife’s suitcase out of the trunk along with his daughter’s stroller. They took an elevator down to the second level, and headed for the American Airlines counter. Within ten minutes the suitcase had been vetted by two TSA agents, and Yolanda had the boarding passes to San Juan.

They strolled around the main concourse, looking inside the shop windows, then bought two coffees at the Starbucks stand and an oatmeal cookie for their daughter. Yolanda glanced at her watch and said, “Well, I guess we should be going.”

The flight didn’t leave for another hour, and Gerry knew that Yolanda would pre-board because of the baby. He asked, “Had enough of me, huh?”

Yolanda kissed him on the lips, then looked into her husband’s eyes.

“What I mean is, it’s time for you to go to work,” she said.

“Think my old man will dock me if I show up late?”

“With that attitude, yes.”

“Do I have a bad attitude?”

“You do with your father. He brought you into his business to help you, Gerry. That says a lot about what type of person he is. I know he can be a bear sometimes, but he has your best interests at heart and always will.”

Gerry didn’t doubt what Yolanda was saying for a minute. His old man had been there for him through thick and thin. But he also knew that if he didn’t avenge Jack Donovan’s murder, he wasn’t going to be able to live with himself.

They walked over to the Concourse E shuttle and kissed again. Then he gave his daughter a kiss. His wife gave the security person her driver’s license and the boarding passes, and a moment later was let through. Gerry waved good-bye, and watched Yolanda and his daughter board a tram that would take them to their airline gate.

Gerry drove his car out of short-term parking and handed the ticket attendant his stub. Moments later his charge was printed on a digital screen next to the attendant’s booth. NO CHARGE.

“I get to park for free?” Gerry said.

“You just made it under the minimum amount of time,” the attendant said.

“What a great place.”

“Tell me about it. Have a nice day.”

He followed the signs out of the airport until he saw one that said AIRPORT RETURN. He got in the left lane, and looped back the way he came. A minute later he reentered the parking area, and headed for long term. He spent several minutes finding a spot, parked, and sat behind the wheel watching a jet depart on a runway. He imagined Yolanda and his daughter on that jet, and how he would feel if something happened to them and he was not by their side. Pangs of guilt swept over him, and he supposed that was the penalty for being untruthful with his wife.

He got his suitcase from the trunk. He’d stowed it there the night before, when Yolanda was sleeping. His wife believed she was a light sleeper, but ever since she’d had the baby, she slept like a log.

He took a tram to the main concourse, then an elevator to the second level. As he exited the elevator, he stopped beneath a giant electronic board that showed the morning’s arrivals and departures arranged alphabetically by city. There were three flights out that morning, and he didn’t think he’d have trouble getting a seat. He went to the Delta counter and handed a reservation agent his driver’s license and credit card.

“Where are we going today?” the agent asked.

“Las Vegas,” Gerry said.

8

One of the curses of the retired was the excess of unstructured time. Though not yet retired, Valentine had read that in a magazine published by AARP and had taken it to heart. Every morning, he followed a strict routine—twenty minutes of exercise, followed by breakfast while reading the paper. By nine he was ready to start work, and would go to his study and check his e-mails. More often than not, a panicked casino boss in some part of the world had contacted him the night before, and his workday would officially begin.

But today felt a little strange. He had plenty to do—with six e-mails having come in since last night—but his enthusiasm was not there. Perhaps it had something to do with the cryptic note he’d found stuffed in his newspaper from Gerry. His son had taken his family to San Juan early that morning, and promised to call in a few days.

Valentine stared out the window onto his backyard, and tried to put his finger on why he felt out of sorts. It took only a moment for him to realize what was wrong.

He was alone.

He’d battled loneliness since his wife had died, and considered it his greatest nemesis. He needed to stay engaged, regardless of the task. He was still staring out the window when his office line rang. He answered the phone without enthusiasm.

“Tony, is that you?” It was the familiar voice of Bill Higgins. Director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, Bill was responsible for policing Nevada’s casinos. They had been close friends for over twenty-five years.

“Sure is. You’re up early.”

“Just doing the Lord’s work,” Bill said. “I’ve got a problem that I was hoping you could help me with.”

“Help’s my middle name,” Valentine said.

“Good. Are you familiar with the World Poker Showdown?”

“Sure. Largest open poker tournament in the world, held in Las Vegas for eight days every year, over five thousand players competing for a ten-million-dollar grand prize. This year’s event is being held at Celebrity’s new casino.”

“I didn’t know you stayed up on the poker stuff,” Bill said.

“Beats playing shuffleboard.”

“There you go. There’s an old-timer entered in the tournament named Rufus Steele. His nickname is the Thin Man. You know him?”

Valentine smiled into the receiver. Rufus was the last of the true Texas gamblers, and had never met a wager he didn’t like. “I helped Rufus out of a jam in Atlantic City twenty years ago. You know what they used to say about Rufus? If he stood sideways and stuck his tongue out, he’d look like a zipper.”

“Well, the zipper is kicking up a storm. He got knocked out of the tournament last night, and started yelling that he’d been cheated. The tournament is being televised this year by one of the sports channels, so of course they interviewed him. It’s making all the casino owners in Las Vegas nervous.”

“How so?”

“Poker has been Las Vegas’s salvation since 9/11,” Bill said. “It draws more players with money than any other game. It’s keeping the casinos happy.”

“And Rufus saying that he got cheated in the biggest game in town might kill the goose that laid the golden egg,” Valentine said.

“Exactly.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Two things. The interview is going to be shown on television again. I’d like you to watch it, and see if you think Rufus has a legitimate beef. If he does, I’d like you to watch a surveillance tape of Rufus’s table in an e-mail I’m about to send you.”

Valentine stared at his computer screen. The six e-mails he’d received last night were from casinos that paid him monthly retainers. He needed to address them, but didn’t want to leave Bill hanging. He didn’t put money before friendship, and never would.

“When does the interview come on?”

“Ten minutes.”

“I’ll have a look, and let you know what I think.”

The only new thing Valentine had purchased since moving to Florida was a giant-screen TV, and that was because his old TV had gotten blown out during a lightning storm. Sitting in his La-Z-Boy, he hit the power on the remote, then surfed through the hundreds of channels he paid for but never watched, until he hit upon the sports channel showing the World Poker Showdown.

To Valentine’s way of thinking, poker tournaments were the only real competitive sport on TV. No one was getting paid except the blow-dried announcers, and every player paid an entry fee. He wondered how the prima donnas in baseball and football would feel if they had to pay to play their games in the hope of winning a prize.

An announcer named Gloria Curtis appeared on the screen. She’d been a big-time sports analyst for years, then gotten sent down to the minor leagues of cable. Valentine had always liked her and turned up the volume.

“This is Gloria Curtis, reporting from this year’s World Poker Showdown in Las Vegas. I’m standing here with poker legend Rufus Steele, who was knocked out of the tournament last night and is crying foul over what happened at his table.”

The camera pulled back, and Rufus Steele entered the picture. He still looked like an advance man for a famine. He wore his usual cowboy garb—boots, blue jeans, and a denim shirt buttoned to the neck—and could have stepped straight out of a rodeo. His Stetson was held politely in his hands.

“Rufus,” Curtis said, “could you explain to our viewing audience what happened last night?”

“I was cheated,” Rufus said, staring into the camera.

“Can you explain how you were cheated?”

“I’d be happy to. The tournament starts with everyone having two hundred dollars in chips. As a result, everyone plays tight. Now, the tournament directors also move players around every hour to keep things fair.”

“I’m with you so far,” Curtis said.

“Good. The second hour into the tournament, I was up two hundred dollars, and doing the best at my table. Then the tournament director brought over a new player. This player had fourteen hundred dollars in chips, which put everyone at a disadvantage. Within an hour, this player knocked several players out, including myself.”

“How is that cheating?” Curtis asked.

“The cheating occurred at that player’s previous table,” Rufus said. “It is statistically impossible for that player—who is an amateur—to have won that much money in such a short amount of time.”

She looked flustered. “But Mr. Steele, you’re playing cards. People get lucky.”

Steele gave her an icy stare. “Ma’am, are you familiar with something called the Poisson distribution?”

Gloria Curtis shook her head no.

“The Poisson distribution is a mathematical method of analyzing rare events. One assumption of the Poisson distribution is that the chance of winning is equally distributed. Every individual should have an equal chance when it comes to a game of cards, or playing the lottery. Make sense?”

“Certainly,” she said.

“Well, I went back to my room, and used the Poisson distribution to analyze the chance of that player being the only player in this tournament to have won that much money in such a short period of time. Would you care to know what the odds are?”

“Please.”

“Six billion to one. Where I come from, that ain’t called luck.”

Valentine heard the phone ringing in his study. He killed the power, and walked to the back of the house while thinking about what Rufus had just said. Rufus looked like a bumpkin, but it was just an act. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had.

He picked up the phone, and heard Bill say, “So, what do you think?”

“I’d say you’ve got a problem,” Valentine told his friend.

9

“You think Rufus was cheated?” Bill asked.

“It sure sounds that way.”

“Come on, Tony, there’s no smoking gun, just his word against the tournament director’s. I thought Rufus might say during the interview that he saw this other player marking cards or stealing chips, but he didn’t say anything like that. Quoting some obscure mathematical equation isn’t grounds to say you were cheated.”

“It is in poker,” Valentine said.

There was a pause on the line. Valentine found a pad and pencil on his desk, and jotted down the number of players in the World Poker Showdown, then determined the likelihood of one player beating seven other players within an hour based upon the Poisson equation. Although his formal education had ended in high school, he’d become schooled in statistics and probability when he’d started policing Atlantic City’s casinos, and as a result understood the math behind the games as well as anyone. Finished, he stared at the long number on the pad. Rufus had been dead on: six billion to one.

“Would you mind explaining?” Bill said.

Poker was not a big casino game, and not a lot of people in the gambling business understood it. He said, “Sure. Poker isn’t like other casino games, where the players gamble against the house, and the house always has an edge. In those games, the house is expected to win.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“Good. In poker, every player has the same chance, especially at the beginning of a tournament, when players start with an equal number of chips. Now, the odds of an amateur beating seven other players out of all their chips within the first hour is off the chart.”

“But it could happen,” Bill said.

“Maybe, but not necessarily,” Valentine said.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means it could happen, but probably won’t, especially in a tournament like the World Poker Showdown. There are a number of reasons. First, people always play tight on the first day, because they don’t want to get bounced out. Second, amateurs tend to be picked on by pros or more experienced players, so the chance of an amateur knocking out seven other players is slim.”

“Maybe the guy got lucky,” Bill interrupted. “That’s a big part of the game.”

“I’ll agree with you there.”

“So, the amateur who beat Rufus Steele got lucky.”

“That would be the natural assumption,” Valentine said, “only the Poisson distribution rules that out in this situation.”

“How?”

“When applied to gambling, the main assumption of the Poisson distribution is that the chance of winning is randomly distributed. Which means that every individual has an equal chance. For example, if someone won a million-dollar jackpot on a slot machine, that’s luck. Right?”

“Of course.”

“However, if someone won two million-dollar jackpots on the same machine within an hour, that’s probably cheating. You agree?”

Bill let out an exasperated breath. “Yeah, probably.”

“The same thing is true in poker. An amateur might beat a guy at his table out of all his chips in an hour. However, the chances of him beating two guys is unlikely, and the odds of him beating everyone is exactly what Rufus said during his interview.”

“Six billion to one?”

“Yeah, give or take a few thousand.”

“So the amateur was cheating.”

“That would be my guess.”

“You want the job?” Bill asked.

“What job?”

“I want to hire you to figure out how this amateur beat those seven players at his table. I’ll send you the surveillance tapes, plus the footage Gloria Curtis’s cameraman shot. Study them, and tell me what the guy’s doing. Then we can bar him from the tournament, and everyone will be happy.”

“Does Celebrity know you’re hiring me?”

“No,” Bill said. “They haven’t been very cooperative. Between you and me, I think they’d just like this whole thing to go away.”

Valentine thought back to the threatening phone call he’d received from the suit at Celebrity. Most casinos tried to expose cheating, and get the cheats barred or arrested. Celebrity was taking the opposite approach, and doing everything possible to pretend it didn’t exist. It didn’t smell right, and he stared at the Celebrity playing card on his desk.

“Who’s the suspected cheat?” Valentine asked.

“An amateur named Skip DeMarco.”

Skip DeMarco was the same player that Gerry had said was in Las Vegas using Jack Donovan’s poker scam. Maybe he could nail DeMarco, and give his son something to smile about.

“You want the job or not?” Bill asked.

“I want it,” Valentine said.

A minute later, Bill’s e-mail appeared on his computer screen with the surveillance tapes of Celebrity’s poker room and the footage shot by Gloria Curtis’s cameraman attached.

He watched the poker tape first. Celebrity’s surveillance cameras were digital, and the tape’s resolution was crystal clear. Eight men in their late twenties sat at a table along with a professional female dealer, who wore a red bow tie and starched white shirt.

Skip DeMarco sat in the center of the table. He wore purple shades and stared into space as he played. The game was Texas Hold ’Em, with each player dealt two cards to start. Instead of peeking at his cards like the other players, DeMarco brought his cards up to his nose, and stared at them. He enjoyed belittling his opponents and trumpeting his own wins. Had it been a private game, someone would have silenced him, either through words or a request to step outside. But this was a tournament, where anything was permissible. By the hour’s end, he had everyone’s chips.

Valentine paused the tape and got a diet soda from the rattling fridge in the kitchen. The fridge had come with the house, and he’d been meaning to buy a new one, only it still worked, and he’d never believed in getting rid of things simply because they were old. Back in his study, he resumed watching the tape.

Everything about the game looked on the square. DeMarco played smart, and got good cards when he needed them. Maybe the odds of him beating the other players were six billion to one, but sometimes those things happened. He decided to play Gloria Curtis’s tape, and see if it revealed anything.

Curtis had interviewed DeMarco at the end of the first day of the tournament, right after DeMarco had beaten Rufus Steel. DeMarco was tall and good-looking, and she held the mike up to his face.

“I’m speaking with today’s Cinderella story of the tournament, Skip ‘Dead Money’ DeMarco, an amateur player from New Jersey. Although this is your first tournament, I’m told you’ve played poker for many years.”

“I got my chops in Atlantic City,” he said, holding a beer to his chest.

“Can you tell us where the name Dead Money comes from?”

“It’s what the old-timers call amateurs.”

“Well, it looks like you knocked one of those old-timers out today,” Curtis said. “Rufus ‘the Thin Man’ Steele wasn’t very happy with how you beat him.”

“Too bad,” he said.

“Rufus claims you had an unfair advantage.”

“Try disadvantage. I’m legally blind, and have been my whole life,” he said. “Try playing poker and not being able to see your opponents’ faces.”

“What about Rufus’s claim?”

“Rufus Steele is past his prime. I’m starting a petition to have his name changed.”

“To what?”

“The Old Man.”

“How far do you think you’ll go in the tournament?”

“All the way,” he said.

The camera switched to show DeMarco at the poker table, raking in the chips. Valentine froze the tape and stared at DeMarco’s face. One thing that hadn’t diminished as he’d gotten older was his memory; he’d never seen this guy play poker in Atlantic City.

So why had he lied? DeMarco could have said he’d learned to play on the Internet, just like millions of other people. Only he’d wanted to let Gloria Curtis know that he was experienced, and that his winning wasn’t a fluke. Valentine picked up the phone, and punched in Bill Higgins’s cell number.

“I want to see some more tapes,” he said.

“You think he’s cheating?” Bill asked.

“I sure do.”

It took Bill several hours to get him the additional surveillance tapes from Celebrity. By law, Nevada’s casinos were required to film any area of the casino where money changed hands. The buy-in for a poker tournament was no different, and at noon the tapes appeared on Valentine’s computer.

The tapes were about as inspiring as watching paint dry. Endlessly long lines of men and women stood in front of dozens of tables, waiting to pay the ten thousand–dollar entry fee and get a table assignment.

It took an hour and a half of searching to find Skip DeMarco. He stood in a long line, drinking coffee and talking with several other players. He walked with a cane, his movements out of sync with everything around him.

Valentine scrutinized the players standing with DeMarco. It was the same seven guys who’d played with him the first day. People registering together in poker tournaments were never supposed to be placed at the same table. But the WPS had let DeMarco sit with his pals, and they’d folded to DeMarco, and let him amass a huge stack of chips that later let him beat Rufus Steele. It was cheating, pure and simple.

But what bothered Valentine most was the scope of it. DeMarco was involved, and so were seven of his friends. Someone in tournament registration was also involved. That made nine people. That was a lot of people to push one player into the next round.

“Sounds like a conspiracy,” Bill said, after Valentine explained what he’d discovered.

“It does, except there’s a flaw,” Valentine said.

“What’s that?”

“Eight members of the gang are now useless to DeMarco. His pals are out of the tournament, and whoever helped him in registration can’t do him any good now. DeMarco is on his own, and there’s another seven days to play.”

“Then why did he do it?”

Valentine picked up the Celebrity playing card lying on his desk. He had a sneaking suspicion that there was something else going on, and he wasn’t seeing it.

“I honestly don’t know,” he said.

“Have you ever heard of a blind person cheating at poker before? Or any game?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. I think he’s got something up his sleeve. Maybe he’s doing a special for one of those reality-TV shows, and he’s going to show how he swindled the world’s biggest poker tournament. Stranger things have happened. In the meantime, he might end up ruining the tournament and hurting every casino in town.”