Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

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“The guy is a world-class jerk,” Valentine said.

“Meaning my scenario isn’t so far-fetched.”

“Not at all.”

“So here’s what I’d like to offer you,” Bill said. “Come out here for a few days, and scrutinize DeMarco’s play. If you catch him doing anything illegal—bending a card, peeking at another player’s hand, copping a chip—we’ll bust his ass and bar him for life. Say yes, and I’ll fly you out first class, pay your daily fee, and put you up. On top of that, you’ll earn my undying gratitude.”

Valentine’s gut had been telling him that something wasn’t right at this tournament. Now he could find out what it was, and thumb his nose at the threatened lawsuit from Celebrity. It was a sweet deal if he’d ever heard one.

“For you, anything,” Valentine said.

10

The day Gerry Valentine had become a partner in his father’s business, he’d gotten a history lesson about Las Vegas. He hadn’t wanted to get a history lesson, but his father had wagged a finger in his face, and made him listen.

“It’s for your own good,” his father said.

So Gerry pulled up a chair and let his father talk.

Back in the 1940s, Las Vegas had been a dumpy gambling destination that attracted illiterate cowboys and other rough trade. Then two men with long criminal backgrounds came to town and changed the place. The first was a New York mobster named Bugsy Siegel. Bugsy was famous for wearing tailored suits, murdering anyone who got in his way, and helping Meyer Lansky and Al Capone start organized crime in America. Bugsy believed Las Vegas could be turned into Monte Carlo, and had sunk millions of the mob’s money into building the town’s first mega-resort on Las Vegas Boulevard. It was called the Flamingo, and was the beginning of the fabled “Strip.”

The second was a Texas gambler named Benny Binion. Benny had a police record a mile long, and liked to say, “I never killed a man that didn’t deserve it.” Benny left Texas after learning that the Rangers had orders to kill him on sight. Las Vegas welcomed him with open arms, and he bought the Horseshoe on Fremont Street in old downtown. His first day open, Benny hung out a sign that said WORLD’S HIGHEST LIMITS, and attracted every serious gambler around.

According to Gerry’s father, these two men had created modern Las Vegas. It was the town’s legacy, and no one was ashamed of it. But it did bother his father. His father believed that casinos, and the people who ran them, must have integrity. The majority of casino owners did not share this view, and had given his father a nickname. They called him Mr. Black and White.

This was on Gerry’s mind as he stepped off the plane at McCarran International Airport. A lot of people in Las Vegas knew his father and didn’t like him. And because Gerry was looking more like his father every day, people were going to recognize him. What were they going to call him? Mr. Black and White Jr.?

He ducked into a gift shop inside the terminal. Five minutes later he emerged wearing a Dodgers’ baseball cap, cheap sunglasses, and his shirt pulled out of his pants. He glanced at himself in the reflection in the gift shop’s window.

“Beautiful,” he said.

He rented a car, and drove to a joint on Las Vegas Boulevard called the Laughing Jackalope. Las Vegas was always boasting about being the fastest-growing city in the country, and about all the great jobs the city offered, but only the casinos made serious money. Every other place struggled to make ends meet. The Jackalope was no exception.

He squeezed the rental between a maxed-out Harley and a mud-caked junker. The Jackalope’s cross-eyed, albino bartender was considered a good source of information, and Gerry found him at the bar, standing like a statue beneath the TV. There was a hockey game on, a dozen guys slugging it out on the ice.

“A draft,” Gerry said, taking a stool.

The albino filled a mug with beer. He put a giant head on it, and plunked it onto the water-stained bar; the beer rolled down the glass. Having once run a bar himself, Gerry realized he was being insulted.

“Two bucks fifty,” the albino said.

“Can I get a scoop of ice cream with my drink?”

The albino didn’t laugh, nor did the drunken prophets sitting at the bar.

“Two bucks fifty,” the albino repeated.

“You always so hospitable?” Gerry asked as he paid up.

The albino eyed the C-note that Gerry had tugged out of his wallet. “I remember you,” the albino said. “You’re from New York.”

“Was,” Gerry said.

“Where you living now?”

“Sunny Florida.”

“You like it down there?”

“Love it.”

“I hear the summers are murder.”

“They’re not as bad as here.”

“Here? Give me a break. You have the fucking humidity. We don’t.”

“No, you just step outside and burst into flames.”

The albino’s face cracked. Almost a smile, but not quite there.

“Drink your beer,” he said.

The albino walked down the bar to take care of a female customer. The woman didn’t have any money but wanted another drink. The albino showed her to the door, then returned.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a couple of brothers who came into town yesterday,” Gerry said, a frosty beer moustache painting his upper lip. “Their names are Nunzie and Vinny Fountain. There’s a third guy with them, a gorilla named Frank.”

“Tush hog?” the albino asked.

Gerry had never heard anyone use that expression except his father. A tush hog was a muscleman employed by mobsters who enjoyed putting the hurt on people. Usually, their presence was enough to settle things.

“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen him fight,” Gerry said.

“Let me make a phone call, see what I can find out,” the albino said.

Gerry reached into his wallet and folded the C-note. He handed the money to the albino along with his empty mug. The albino walked down the bar, picked up the house phone, and made a call. Gerry lifted his gaze and stared at the TV. The hockey players were still fighting, their masks and gloves lying on the ice. He remembered going to a hockey game at Madison Square Garden with Jack Donovan, and Jack saying that hockey games had to have fights. Otherwise, they would last only about fifteen minutes.

The albino came back. “Your friends are staying at the Riviera.”

“Thanks,” Gerry said.

Going out, Gerry stopped to watch two guys at the pool table playing one-pocket. One-pocket was the favorite game among skilled players. Both players were too drunk to make any decent shots, and he left before the game ended.

He stepped outside into a blast of heat coming off the desert. The sunlight was fading, and the casinos’ feverishly pulsing neon was beginning to define the skyline. Standing in the parking lot, he stared northward at the brilliant sphere of light coming out of the Luxor’s towering green glass pyramid. The light had attracted thousands of moths, which in turn attracted hundreds of bats, and their wings beat furiously against the sky. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen a bat in the desert. Behind him, a car pulled into the lot, and two guys jumped out.

“Is that supposed to be a disguise?” one said sarcastically.

Gerry spun around. It was Vinny and the tush hog. He glanced into the idling car, and saw Nunzie behind the wheel.

“How did you find me?” Gerry asked.

“The albino called me,” Vinny said. “We’ve got an arrangement.”

“You sleeping with him?”

The tush hog laughed under his breath. Vinny threw an elbow into the bigger man’s ribs. Then Vinny stared at Gerry for what seemed like an eternity.

“Is your father with you?” Vinny asked.

“No, I came alone,” Gerry said.

Vinny rubbed his jaw. It was still swollen from where his father had popped him. Vinny’s eyes were burning, the ignominy of the punch slow to fade.

“Let’s go for a drive,” Vinny said.

11

Valentine said good-bye to Bill and hung up the phone, then went to his bedroom and started packing for Las Vegas. Into his hanging bag went two pairs of black slacks, two white button-down cotton shirts, and two black sports jackets that dated back to his days policing Atlantic City’s casinos. He threw in a gold necktie his wife had given him and zippered the bag closed. The clothes were the same ones he always wore when he was working—his uniform.

The phone rang while he was eating supper. He’d recently gotten Caller ID, and saw that it was Bill. He answered with a bite of sandwich still in his mouth.

“What would you say to appearing on TV when you come out here?” Bill asked.

He swallowed the food in his mouth and nearly choked.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Afraid not. Gloria Curtis won’t let this story die, and neither will the network she works for. They’re hounding me about Rufus Steele’s allegations of being cheated. I told Gloria that I’d hired an outsider to investigate. Now she’s wants an interview with you.”

“You know how I feel about going on TV,” Valentine said.

“Yes, that it’s stupid and has ruined more investigations than it’s helped,” Bill said. “But here’s my problem. Gloria broke this story. If you don’t talk to her, she’ll go on air, and start speculating about why the Nevada Gaming Control Board hired you. That would hurt your investigation and the tournament.”

He put his dirty plate in the sink and ran warm water over it. He’d appeared on television a handful of times while working on cases, and always regretted it. His statements had been distorted, and he’d been challenged by nitwits who knew nothing about the gaming industry or cheating. Worse, his mug had gotten put out there for everyone to see, something that was unhealthy in his line of work.

“Sounds like you’ve gotten yourself painted into a corner,” Valentine said. “How about we offer her a compromise?”

“Name it.”

“I’ll talk to Gloria, but not on the air, because showing my face would compromise the investigation. She can ask me questions, and I’ll answer them to the best of my ability. Then she can tell her viewers what’s going on.”

“You’d be willing to do that?”

“Sure.”

“Will you tell her anything?”

“Of course not,” Valentine said. “It’s none of her flipping business. Can I make another suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Get ahold of Rufus Steele, and tell him to keep his mouth shut until I get out there and get to the bottom of what’s going on. If he gives you any lip, tell him I’ll expose his sorry ass.”

“Expose him how?”

“Rufus got arrested when he was a teenager. He rescued stray dogs from the pound, paid a groomer to make them look like an exotic breed, then went into wealthy neighborhoods, and sold them to widows with a sob story about needing money. At his trial, he told the judge he was doing the town a favor, because the women became attached to the dogs, and kept them after their coats grew out. The judge gave him ninety days.”

He dried the plate with a towel and heard Bill laughing.

“That’s wonderful,” his friend said.

Valentine went into his study and printed his flight itinerary off the computer. His flight left Tampa at seven A.M., which meant he needed to get up by four thirty in order to drive to the airport and deal with security. It made him tired just thinking about it, and he folded the itinerary into a square and stuck it into his wallet.

He shuffled into his bedroom and set the alarm clock, then undressed and lay naked on his bed. Nighttime was the most difficult time, and sometimes he imagined that everything that had happened since Lois’s death was a dream, and that she would walk into the room, and his life would return to normal. A stupid dream, but one he still held on to.

An hour later the phone rang. He answered it with a groggy “Hello.”

“Hey, Tony, hope I didn’t wake you,” Eddie Davis’s voice rang out.

“You did, but that’s okay.”

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you,” his friend from the Atlantic City Police Department said, “but it’s been a long day. I did a background check on those three names you gave me. I also took it upon myself to ask my pal over at the New Jersey Gambling Commission if they had a file on those boys.”

“Did they?”

“Yeah. Look, are you someplace where you can talk?”

Valentine’s eyes opened wide. His bedroom was pitch dark, and except for the light creeping through the blinds from a streetlight, he couldn’t see a blessed thing.

“I can talk. What did you find?”

“It isn’t good, Tony.”

He sat up straight and immediately felt light-headed. The phone had a short cord, and he heard it go crashing to the floor. He groped in the dark, found the phone, and clumsily replaced it on the night table.

“You still there, Eddie?”

“I sure am. Here’s the down and dirty, Tony. According to police records, Vinny Fountain, Nunzie Fountain, and Frank DeCesar are small-time scammers who’ve had a hand in dozens of shady operations on the island in the past ten years. Mind you, they’ve never been arrested, but their names have come up during plenty of investigations.”

“Wise guy wannabes,” Valentine said.

“Exactly,” Eddie said. “Now, here’s what I got from the New Jersey Gambling Commission. The GC got a tip several years ago that the Fountains were conspiring to scam a casino in Atlantic City, and decided to conduct an investigation. The Fountains were followed and had their phones tapped.”

Valentine threw his legs over the edge of the bed. What the hell was Eddie talking about? He’d never heard of the Fountains in conjunction with any scam, and there wasn’t an Atlantic City scam that he hadn’t known about when he was a cop.

“What year was this?” he asked.

“It was 1998.”

That was three years before he’d retired.

“You’re sure?” Valentine asked.

“Positive.”

“But that’s impossible. I would have known.”

“Just listen,” Eddie said. “The Fountains moved around a lot, and did most of their talking on pay phones. There was a bar in Brooklyn where they went a few times, and made some calls. Guess which one.”

Valentine blinked in the dark. “My son’s.”

“There you go.”

Which was why he’d never heard about the investigation. Someone over at the Gambling Commission had made the link, and decided to keep Valentine out of the loop. He thought back to the scene in Gerry’s house the day before, and what Vinny Fountain had said to him. We’re just discussing a business proposition with your son. He turned on the night table lamp, and flooded the bedroom with light.

“What happened to the investigation?” he asked.

“It fell apart,” Eddie said. “The Fountains never went through with the scam for whatever reason. There wasn’t enough evidence on the wiretaps to convict them of conspiracy, so the GC dropped it.”

Valentine rubbed his face with his hand. It would have been nice to think that Gerry hadn’t known what the Fountains were doing in his bar. After all, guys made phone calls in bars all the time. Only Gerry had run an illegal bookmaking operation and had known every scammer that had stepped into the joint. Gerry had been involved with these hoodlums, maybe even had a part in their scam. It was embarrassing as hell.

“Thanks, Eddie. I really appreciate you going to the trouble.”

“Sorry to ruin your night,” Eddie said.

12

“What the hell is a tush hog?” Frank asked.

They were in Vinny’s rental, cruising the strip. Nunzie was driving, Frank riding shotgun, Vinny and Gerry in the backseat acting like sightseers. Nighttime in Vegas was a trip, the sky so brilliantly lit that it put the brain on overload. They’d been driving around for a while. Vinny had apologized to Gerry for coming to his house the day before without calling, and Gerry had apologized for his father roughing Vinny and Frank and Nunzie up. That had been the nature of their relationship for as long as Gerry could remember. He would do a deal with Vinny, they’d have a fight, then later end up apologizing.

“A tush hog is an old-timer’s expression for an enforcer,” Gerry said.

“Is that what I am, an enforcer?”

“You were a professional boxer once, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, but all my fights were in Europe,” Frank said.

“So?”

“No one in the United States saw them. If my fights had been over here, people would be afraid of me, you know?”

“You’re still a tush hog,” Gerry said.

Frank shook his head, not liking it. “It makes it sound like I have a big ass.”

“You do have a big ass,” Nunzie said.

Everyone in the car laughed. Then Frank punched Nunzie in the arm, and the rental crossed the double line on the highway. Suddenly they were driving straight into oncoming traffic. Nunzie spun the wheel, and they recrossed the line to safety.

Gerry released his death grip on the door handle, took a few deep breaths, and felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal. That was the bad thing about working with the Fountain brothers. Everything would be going along just fine; then, without warning, your life was dangling in front of your face.

Vinny told Nunzie to drive to an area of town called Naked City. It was on the north end of Las Vegas, stuck between the strip and Fremont Street, and was filled with sleazy strip clubs, adult bookstores and fetish shops, and run-down massage parlors. Gerry had heard that every business in Naked City had ties to organized crime. The mob had once run the town’s casinos; now they just ran the flesh trade.

Nunzie pulled up to the valet in front of a strip club called the Sugar Shack. The valets were all grown men and not moving terribly fast. Gerry had seen similar setups in strip joints up and down the East Coast. The mob ran the valet concession, and gave jobs to made guys just out of prison.

As they waited for a valet to take their car, Vinny said, “I set up a meeting with Jinky Harris. He owns this joint. He also runs the town’s rackets. I wanted him to know what we were doing out here, make sure he was cool with it.”

“I’ve got a question,” Nunzie said.

“What?”

“If this guy’s so important, how did he get a name like Jinky?”

Vinny reached around the headrest and grabbed Nunzie by the ear. No words were spoken, just a gentle twist of the lower lobe. Nunzie twisted painfully in his seat.

“All right, all right, it was a dumb question,” Nunzie said.

The club’s interior was upscale as far as strip clubs went. On three brightly lit stages, dozens of naked young women pranced and danced and gyrated on brass poles, their bodies showing more silicone than Palo Alto. It was a feast for the eyes, but what got Gerry’s attention was the free buffet laid out on two long tables beside the main bar. He stared longingly at the steaming food while Vinny asked the bartender if the boss was in.

“Who wants to know?” the bartender replied.

“Vinny Fountain and associates,” Vinny replied.

The bartender picked up the house phone and made a call. Gerry continued to stare at the food. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starving. He waited until the guy serving the food turned his head, and tried to pilfer an egg roll.

“The food’s for customers,” a booming voice said.

Gerry looked up into the face of a black guy easily seven feet tall. His head was shaved and the strobe lights in the club danced off his skull. Gerry removed his hand.

“Sorry.”

“As well you should be,” the giant said. “Which one of you is Vinny?”

“I am,” Vinny said.

“Mr. Harris will see you now,” the giant said.

They followed him through a red-beaded curtain, then down a dimly lit hallway to a blue door. As the giant rapped on the door, Nunzie whispered to Frank, “Now, that’s a tush hog.”

Jinky’s office was straight out of the movie Scarface, with thick white carpet, luxurious leather furniture, and ugly wall hangings. The boss sat in a motorized wheelchair behind a massive marble desk. In his fifties, he wore a purple velour tracksuit, had a full beard, and looked wider than he was tall. On the desk were four plates of food from the buffet, along with a tall glass of milk. The sizes of the portions were phenomenal. Jinky shook out a cloth napkin, and tucked it into his collar.

“You’re from Atlantic City?” Jinky asked.

“That’s right,” Vinny said.

“I hate Atlantic City. What can I do for you?”

“We’re in town to settle a score,” Vinny said. “I didn’t want to bother any of your operations.”

Jinky plunged his fork into a steaming mound of chow mein. “A score with who?”

“George Scalzo. He’s scamming World Poker Showdown,” Vinny said.

“George ‘the Tuna’ Scalzo?”

“That’s right.”

“Another New Jersey scumbag. What did Scalzo do to you?”

“He stole something of mine, and killed our friend.”

Jinky twirled the noodles on his fork, then stuck the fork into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then turned to glance at the giant, who stood behind him.

“We got any action at the WPS?” Jinky asked.

“Just the ring games,” the giant replied.

“You rig them?”

“Yeah,” the giant said.

Ring games were the side games at poker tournaments, and usually played for high stakes. By rigging these games, Jinky would make a killing without coming under the scrutiny of the tournament’s rules and regulations.

“Stay away from the ring games,” Jinky told them.

“Won’t touch them,” Vinny said.

Gerry’s stomach emitted a growl. The smell of the food was too much for his digestive system to bear. Jinky dropped his fork onto his plate.

“What, your mother doesn’t feed you?”

Gerry couldn’t believe Jinky was treating them this way. Had Jinky walked into his bar in Brooklyn, he would have shown him a certain level of hospitality. Like a cup of coffee and a chair.

“I caught him stealing an egg roll,” the giant said.

“Don’t ever step into my club again,” Jinky said.

Gerry nearly told him to shove it, but instead removed his baseball cap. “I haven’t eaten all day, and my hunger got the best of me. I meant no disrespect.”

Jinky leaned back in his wheelchair and scratched his beard. If he didn’t accept the apology, he’d look like an ingrate. As the boss, he was supposed to be above that.

“Apology accepted,” Jinky said.

Gerry put his baseball cap back on.

“Now get the hell out of my club, and don’t ever come back.”

Gerry felt like he’d been backhanded across the face. Had the giant not been standing there, he would have said something. He noticed a framed photo sitting on the desk. It showed Jinky holding a plaque outside the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans. Gerry had gone to New Orleans with Yolanda before the baby had been born, and had eaten at the Acme. He remembered seeing the plaque hanging above the main shucking area. He looked at his host.

“I can’t believe it. You’re the guy who ate forty-two dozen oysters at the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans, aren’t you?”

Jinky leaned forward. “Forty-two and a half. You been there?”

“Sure,” Gerry said. “I could only eat two dozen.”

“You like oysters?”

“Love ’em. I also love milk.”

Jinky picked up the glass of milk on the desk. “Me too. Since I was a kid.”

“How much do you drink a day?” Gerry asked.

Jinky counted on his fingers. “Ten glasses, at least.”

“Over a gallon?”

“More than a gallon.”

“Think you could drink a gallon of milk in an hour?”

“With my eyes closed,” Jinky said.

Gerry took his wallet out and removed all his cash, which he tossed on the desk.

“Bet you can’t,” he said.

Hustlers have an expression: “Pigs get fed, hogs get slaughtered.” Gerry had decided that it was time for Jinky to get slaughtered. He was going to pay this bastard back for not showing them any respect, and he was going to do it in a mean way.

The giant took Gerry’s money and counted it on the desk. There was exactly four hundred dollars, which wasn’t much by Vegas standards.

Jinky glanced up at Vinny. “You want some of this action?”

Vinny started to say no, but Gerry elbowed him in the ribs.

“Take the man’s bet,” Gerry said under his breath.

“What?”

“Just do as I say.”

Vinny blew out his lungs and removed a wad of cash from his pocket. He threw half of it onto the desk beside Gerry’s money. The giant counted it as well. Twenty-six hundred bucks, all in C-notes.

“Three thousand bucks says I can’t drink a gallon of milk in an hour?” Jinky said. “What if I drink it in half an hour?”

“We’ll pay you double,” Gerry said.

Vinny let out a gasp.

“You’re on!” Jinky exclaimed.

The giant went down the hall to the kitchen. When he returned he was holding a fresh gallon of milk. He opened it, and poured a tall glass for his boss. Jinky raised it in a mock toast.

“Here’s to the easiest six grand I’ve ever made. Thanks, boys.”

Jinky drank the first four glasses of milk without a problem. But by the fifth glass, he began to slow down, the color of his face turning from deep red to a subdued pink. He was struggling to keep the liquid down, and placed the empty glass on his desk and filled his lungs with air. A little over half the gallon was gone.

“How much time have I used?” he asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” the giant said. He sat on the edge of his boss’s desk, guarding the money.

“Give me a minute to catch my breath.”

“You’ve got another forty-five minutes, boss.”

“Fifteen,” Jinky said. “I’m going to drink the rest in fifteen.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, boss.”

“Shut your mouth,” Jinky said.

The sixth glass was a monumental achievement, and went down as slow as honey. By the time the seventh had been raised to Jinky’s lips, five more minutes had passed, and Jinky’s face had turned as white as the liquid in the glass. He was a goner, and Gerry tugged Vinny on the sleeve.

“Get out of his way,” he said beneath his breath.

“He gonna blow?” Vinny whispered back.

“Any second.”

“You slip something into his drink?”

“No. It’s all the enzymes in the milk. The stomach can’t tolerate them all at once. The king is about to be dethroned.”

Vinny hid the smile on his lips. “Long live the king,” he said.