Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

13

Valentine landed at McCarran International Airport at nine thirty the next morning, and was greeted by Gloria Curtis as he stepped out of the jetway. She wore a striking blue suit and stood out among the poorly dressed tourists. He’d watched her announce sports for years, and always liked her direct, no-nonsense style. She looked younger than her age, which he guessed to be fifty. She was an attractive woman who’d opted for crow’s feet instead of a face lift. He liked that, too.

“Mr. Valentine, I’m Gloria Curtis with WSPN Sports,” she said.

He did not slow down, his clothing bag slung over his shoulder.

“How did you get out here without a ticket?” he asked.

It wasn’t the best lead, and he saw a twinge of hurt on her face. “I was just wondering,” he quickly added. “Being an ex-cop, my curiosity kind of runs away with my mouth sometimes.”

“I was supposed to be leaving this afternoon,” she said. “I used that ticket. Look, I’ll get right to the point. I need to air my story in a few hours.”

“Time’s a-wasting, huh?”

“Yes. I have a deadline to meet, and I’m hoping you’ll accommodate me.”

“Off camera, as we agreed,” he said.

“Yes. I rented one of the airport’s conference rooms.”

Valentine shook his head.

“Would you prefer one of the casinos, instead?” she asked.

He shook his head again. If there is anywhere in the world where the expression “The walls have ears” is true, it is in Las Vegas.

She made an annoyed face, and he said, “Don’t worry. I know the perfect place we can talk.”

There was something deliciously sweet about taking a woman that you’d always admired for a drive ten minutes after meeting her. But that was what Valentine was able to do, having rented a convertible at the Avis counter while convincing Gloria that a car would be the safest place to have their conversation about cheating at World Poker Showdown. As he opened the passenger door for her, she smiled.

“How nice. You’re also a gentleman,” she said.

Outside of the airport he got onto Tropicana Avenue and took it to Las Vegas Boulevard, then headed south, away from town. The pattern of two– and three-story condominiums broke after a few miles, the scenery changing to desert fields that lay in dusty rest. He glanced at his passenger and saw her eyeing the scenery.

“This feels like a date,” she said with a laugh in her voice.

“Does that mean the interview’s off?”

She turned in her seat, the shoulder harness pulling at her blouse.

“Don’t try to wiggle out of this one.”

He stared at the highway. “Fire away.”

“First of all, I’m pretty sure that Skip DeMarco cheated during the first day of the tournament,” she began.

“How did you do that?”

“I got my hands on the tournament registration logbook. DeMarco registered with the same seven guys he played with. I looked at the tapes from their table. They all folded to him, and gave him a huge advantage because he had so many chips. That let him beat Rufus Steele, plus a number of other top players. It was such an advantage that he’s currently the chip leader in the tournament. I also ran a background check on him. His uncle is a gangster from Newark named George ‘the Tuna’ Scalzo. Scalzo is out here, backing him.”

Gloria folded her hands in her lap, obviously pleased with herself.

“So what’s the question?” Valentine asked.

She shot him a bite-your-head-off look. “Are you trying to be funny? I want you to confirm what I just said.”

“Confirm what?”

“That DeMarco is a cheater.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t have any proof,” Valentine said.

“But I just told you my proof.”

“It won’t hold up. Play devil’s advocate with me for a minute. DeMarco registers with seven guys, and they end up at the same table. It looks suspicious, but maybe it’s a coincidence. He is blind, so you can’t blame him. Unless you can get one of those seven guys to admit it was done on purpose, you’ve got nothing.”

He took his eyes off the road and glanced at her. “Agreed?”

Gloria bit her lower lip. “I guess.”

“Now, those seven guys fold to DeMarco. Or did they just lose to him? Unless one of them says they gave him their chips, you’ve got nothing. Agreed?”

“Come on. You and I both know that DeMarco cheated.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. There are plenty of cheaters playing in the World Poker Showdown, including your source, Rufus Steele.”

“He is?”

“Yes. Rufus has been conning people for fifty years. Having one crook accuse another crook of cheating isn’t credible.”

“But Rufus has never been arrested,” she said. “I checked him out.”

“He’s still a crook.”

“But—”

“Trust me on this, okay?”

She acted wounded, and Valentine guessed she’d already written her story, and was just hoping he’d verify it so she could get in front of a camera and blow the lid off DeMarco’s scam. That wasn’t going to happen if he had a say in the matter, and he saw a gas station ahead and turned his indicator on.

“Look, Gloria,” he said when they were sitting in the gas station’s parking area. She had refused his offer of a hot drink, and stared coolly at him as he spoke. “A lot of gamblers are crooks. They try to get an edge whenever they can. Sometimes it means doing things that aren’t kosher.”

“And Rufus is one of these people.”

“He sure is.”

“Give me an example.”

The gambling world was replete with stories of how Rufus Steele had conned suckers out of their hardearned dough. He sensed that Gloria had taken a liking to Rufus, and he tried to pick a story that wouldn’t offend her too badly.

“Rufus is the master of the proposition bet. Know what those are?”

She shook her head.

“A proposition bet is one that you can’t win, even though it looks fair. Here’s one of my favorites. Rufus showed up at a dog track in Miami one day. It was early in the morning, and the track wasn’t officially open. With him is a greyhound with a big, lumpy belly. The dog looks like it’s pregnant. Rufus starts chiding the trainers, and tells them that his dog is faster than theirs. Within five minutes, he’s got everyone riled up, and a bunch of trainers willing to bet him otherwise. Needless to say, Rufus took them on.”

“Did he win the bet?”

“Of course he won,” Valentine said.

“But I thought you said the dog was pregnant.”

“The dog looked pregnant. Rufus had fed her a bowl of hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. For some reason, they blow up a dog’s stomach, but they don’t affect their movement. The dog was also a world-class runner. It beat the field by two lengths.”

“How clever.”

“Clever like a fox. Rufus won thirty grand on that bet.”

“Thirty grand? That’s cheating.”

“It sure is.”

Gloria stared out the windshield at the convenience store. She looked defeated, and glanced at her watch, then across the seat at him.

“I think I’ll take you up on that hot drink,” she said.

Valentine bought two cups of coffee and shared a cinnamon doughnut with her. He felt he needed to impress her, yet at the same time, didn’t want to get too close and blow his investigation. He pointed at the last piece of doughnut and said, “That’s got your name on it.”

She popped the piece into her mouth and smiled as she chewed.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she said.

“I get the feeling that I’ve put you in a bad spot.”

“Sort of.”

“Tell me what the problem is. If I can help you, I will.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course I mean it.”

She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “It’s like this, Tony. Next year, I turn fifty. In the broadcast news business, that’s a mature age for a man, ancient for a woman. I’m being put out to pasture. No more major league baseball games or NFL football analysis or any plum assignments. It’s billiards tournaments and lumberjack competitions these days. Covering the World Poker Showdown was a favor by the head of the network. And I blew it.”

“You mean by saying there was cheating.”

“Yes. Based on what you just told me, I can’t prove it. Mark Perrier, the guy who runs Celebrity, is threatening a lawsuit if I don’t recant the story. If I do recant, I’ll lose my job with the network. What’s the expression? I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, and I don’t know what to do.”

Perrier was the same guy who’d threatened him over the phone two nights ago. Valentine was seeing a pattern that he didn’t like. Perrier should be trying to get to the bottom of these allegations instead of covering them up. He reached over and touched Gloria’s sleeve. She looked into his face, her eyes hopeful.

“Do you know what the bad part about getting old is?” he asked.

“The wrinkles?”

“People don’t think you count anymore.”

“Oh,” she said.

“As a result, you spend a lot of time showing people you do count. Sort of like when you were a kid, and no one took you seriously.”

“You’re saying growing old is like regressing.”

“To other people it is. Now, I’m going to level with you, and I don’t want it going any further than this car. Understood?”

“Certainly,” Gloria said.

“I didn’t travel three thousand miles to investigate some pissant scam. There’s something seriously wrong with this tournament and I’m going to find out what it is. It might take me a few days, so here’s what I suggest you do. Have your boss at the network call me. I’ll tell him what I just told you. I’ll also promise him that you’ll get an exclusive once I’m done. That should get you off the hook.”

“You mean that?”

“Of course I mean it.”

The look on her face was something special. Surprise and happiness and something akin to admiration all rolled into one. She brought her body across the seat, placed her hand against his chin, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Her lips were soft, and brought back long-buried memories that made his heart stir.

“Thank you, Tony,” she said.

14

Valentine took out his business card and wrote his cell number on the back. He’d only given his cell number to a handful of people over the years, yet handed it readily to Gloria Curtis. He started the car and pointed it toward Las Vegas.

“Tell your boss to call me anytime,” he said.

“I will. His name is Ralph. He has a tough exterior, but deep down he’s a real jerk.”

Valentine laughed. “He ride you hard?”

“Like a mule.” She pulled a pack of Kools from her purse and banged one out. “Mind if I smoke?”

“I might attack you.”

“Trying to quit?”

“Yes. I kicked the habit when I was a cop, didn’t smoke for twenty years. Two years ago I started again. Now, I’m not sure if I’ll ever quit.”

“Why did you start again?”

“My wife died.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Then my son joined my business,” he added, forcing a smile. “I think that was the clincher.”

“May I ask you a question about your son?”

Valentine stiffened. Talking about Gerry with strangers was never a favorite subject: too many surprises came up. He pointed out the window at the buff desert ringed with bluish mountains. “Sure is beautiful scenery,” he said.

“Did you bring him to Las Vegas to help you with this case?”

The road back to town was as straight as an arrow. He stared at the double line in its center while playing her question back in his head. The first part was a statement of fact—Gerry was here, and somehow Gloria had found out—the second a question.

“How did you know my son was in Las Vegas?”

“Guess,” she said. “I already gave you a clue.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Remember how we met?”

Valentine continued to stare at the road. “You met me at my plane, meaning you have a contact with the airlines who told you what flight I was on.”

“That’s right,” she said, lighting up.

“That’s illegal, you know.”

She choked on the cigarette’s smoke. “You sound like a cop when you say that.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you want a cigarette or not?”

“Can I just have a puff of yours?”

She shook her head, and he took one and let her light it. He filled his lungs with the great-tasting smoke, and for about five seconds the world felt right again. It wasn’t long, but sometimes that was all you needed.

“Your airport contact must have seen that Gerry flew here, and told you,” he said.

“Your powers of deduction are amazing,” Gloria replied, holding her cigarette like a movie starlet. “So, do you work cases often with your son?”

“Sometimes.”

“Bringing a kid into a family business must be hard,” she said.

The road had become super-sized, as had the cars passing by. Gerry was supposed to be in Puerto Rico, looking after his wife and baby, and not here in Sin City, doing whatever the hell he was doing. Valentine took several deep breaths and felt himself calm down.

“You have no idea,” he said. “Where are you staying?”

“Celebrity,” she said.

“Me too.”

A mile before town he got onto Highway 105, and ten minutes later pulled into Celebrity’s main entrance. Las Vegas casinos were designed like carnival attractions, the casino willing to say or do anything to get you inside its doors. Celebrity was no different. Its exterior looked like the entrance to Tarzan’s lair, with elephants and giraffes and other jungle beasts roaming the grounds, the animals kept in check by natural deterrents. A valet dressed like Jungle Jim hustled over to take his car.

Gloria started to get out, then turned to face him. “I’m going to need filler to run while I’m waiting for your case to break. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.”

“Filler?”

“Stories, human interest stuff.”

“I can make some introductions. I know a lot of the famous players.”

“Let’s talk later about it, okay?”

The words were slow to sink in. He’d been wondering what kind of impression he’d made on her, and guessed it was several notches above what he’d thought. She scribbled her cell phone number on the back of her business card, then stuck the card between his fingers. “Call me when it’s convenient,” she said.

He watched Gloria walk away, then got out of his rental and pulled his garment bag from the trunk. Every dark cloud had a silver lining. Hearing that Gerry was in Las Vegas was bad news, yet meeting Gloria was not. There was a bounce in his step as he went inside.

Celebrity’s lobby had an enormous atrium filled with screeching macaws and giant yellow-headed parrots. It was fun for about five minutes, which was how long he had to wait in line to get registered. After that, the panicked look on the birds’ faces started to bother him, and he stopped looking at them.

His room wasn’t clean, so he parked his garment bag with the concierge, and crossed the lobby to the casino. Like every joint in town, Celebrity’s casino offered the same money-losing games, except for one difference. They had built a huge card room designed exclusively to hold the World Poker Showdown. It was as long as a football field, and had plush carpeting and real crystal chandeliers. Considering that most poker players would rather drink out of a toilet than tip a cocktail waitress, Celebrity’s management had made a huge investment.

Two armed guards stood outside the card room. The WPS’s main prize was ten million in cash, and it was on display inside in a Plexiglas box. Each night, the money was put into a vault. As publicity gimmicks went, there was nothing like it.

A giant-screen TV showed the action inside, with thousands of men and women sitting at green baize tables. The game was Texas Hold ’Em and each player was dealt two face-down cards to start. After a round of betting, three communal cards, called the flop, were dealt face up in the center of the table, followed by another round of betting. Then two more cards, known as Fourth Street, or the turn, and Fifth Street, called the river, were dealt face up, with a round of betting after each card. The five cards in the center were common to all players, who used them with their hole cards to make the best hand.

He went to the registration desk and asked for Bill Higgins. A man behind the desk picked up a walkie-talkie and called inside. Bill emerged through the doors thirty seconds later, all out of breath. Bill was Navajo by birth, and had the demeanor of a statue. Not only was he the most powerful law enforcement officer in Nevada, he was the best law enforcement person Valentine had ever known.

“One of the dealers is passed out cold,” Bill said.

“Heart attack?”

“Could be. He keeled over during the middle of his deal.” He turned to the guards. “An ambulance will be here soon. Be prepared to clear a path for them.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

Bill opened the doors, and Valentine followed him in. The unconscious dealer was in the room’s center, being attended to by several other dealers. A crowd of gamblers stood off to one side, making wagers on whether or not the dealer was going to live. Valentine went over and told them to knock it off.

“You a cop?” a guy holding a fan of bills asked.

“How bad do you want to find out?” Valentine replied.

The parasites scattered. He joined Bill, and knelt down beside the dealer. One of the other dealers was shaking his head.

“He just had radiation treatment for cancer a few weeks ago,” the dealer said. “I guess he wasn’t as strong as he thought.”

“What’s his name?” Valentine asked.

“Ray Callahan.”

The name was vaguely familiar. Valentine gently slapped Callahan on the cheek.

“Hey Ray, rise and shine. Breakfast is on, and everyone’s waiting for you.”

Callahan slowly came around. He blinked hard, and for a brief moment was wide awake. He stared at Valentine with a glint of recognition, then went back under. Three EMS guys pushing a gurney rushed into the room. They got Callahan on a stretcher, then rolled him out.

A gambler across the room called out, “Is he still alive?”

Valentine spotted the guy who asked this, and shook his fist at him.

“I met with Gloria Curtis earlier and got her under control,” Valentine said when he and Bill were in the coffee shop. “She’s willing to play ball.”

“You going to give her an exclusive if you find anything?” Bill asked, blowing the steam off his drink.

“I didn’t have a choice. Look, I need to level with you about something.”

Valentine took out his wallet, and removed the playing card Jack Donovan had given Gerry. Bill stared at the card, then turned it over and stared at it some more.

“This is from this casino, isn’t it?” Bill said.

“That’s right. It turned up in a murder investigation in Atlantic City. The victim gave the card to my son before he died. He claimed he could beat any poker game in the world. Trouble is, we can’t find anything wrong with the card.”

Bill dropped the playing card on the table. “Was this person credible?”

“He was a scammer. He and my son were childhood friends.”

“So the tournament is being cheated.”

“Yes. The problem is, I have no idea how. I’d suggest you start checking every deck of cards before and after it’s used. Especially those at Skip DeMarco’s table.”

Bill made a face. “So DeMarco is cheating.”

“That’s where the evidence is pointing.”

“But he’s legally blind. How could he be reading the cards?”

Valentine had thought about it during his flight out that morning, and had come to the conclusion that DeMarco, like many sight-impaired people, must have an elevated sense of hearing that compensated for his lack of sight. If someone at the table were reading the backs of the cards—such as the dealer—they could signal DeMarco by the way they breathed. Hustlers called this The Sniff and often used it to pass information.

“I think someone’s reading them for him,” Valentine said. “Start watching the dealers at DeMarco’s table.”

The waitress came and topped off their cups. As Valentine raised his to his lips, he stared at Bill. The look on his friend’s face said he was frustrated as hell. Despite his obnoxious behavior, Skip DeMarco was the darling of the tournament. Busting him for cheating was the last thing Bill wanted to do.

“Rufus Steele called me earlier,” Bill said. “He heard you were in town, and wants to talk to you. He’s staying in the hotel.”

Valentine put his cup down. Rufus’s interview with Gloria Curtis had bothered him. It was rare for a cheater to call another player a cheater. Rufus must have had good reason, and Valentine wanted to know what that reason was.

“Give me his room number,” Valentine said.

15

“It’s open, and I’ve got nothing worth stealing,” Rufus Steele called out.

Valentine opened the door to Rufus’s hotel room and poked his head in. Rufus was standing by the bed with the phone pressed to his chin, the look on his face pure agitation. Seeing Valentine in the doorway, he flashed a crooked grin, and motioned him inside.

“Hey, Tony, you’re a sight for sore eyes. How you been?”

“Fine,” Valentine said, shutting the door behind him.

Rufus hadn’t changed that much since Valentine had last seen him. He was in his scruffy cowboy clothes and looked like he’d just stepped out of a spaghetti western. Back in his day, he’d been the greatest poker player in the world, but that had been a long time ago. Compared to the brash young kids who now ruled the poker world, Rufus looked sadly out of place.

“Hello,” Rufus said into the phone. “Is this the hotel’s general manager? Well, listen to what I’m about to say. You have as much chance of getting me to leave this room as you do getting French kissed by the Statue of Liberty. That’s right, son. I know the law, and you can’t throw me out. You think I’m mistaken? Well, here’s an idea. Why don’t you take this phone and shove it up your ass?”

Rufus dropped the receiver into its cradle. Then he grabbed two sodas from the minibar, and pointed at a pair of chairs by the room’s window. They made themselves comfortable and clinked bottles.

“They trying to throw you out?” Valentine asked.

“They sure are. They’re mad I blew the whistle on that smart-aleck DeMarco kid,” Rufus said. He took a long swig of soda and let out a belch. “Besides, I can’t leave the hotel even if I wanted to.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t pay the bill. I blew the last of my money on the entry fee.”

“Times been hard?”

Rufus tilted back his cowboy hat. His forehead was covered with liver spots and his hair was a thin reminder of the mane he’d once sported. “Yeah, but I guess I should have expected it. They say a poker player spends the first twenty years of his life learning, the second twenty years earning, and the last twenty years yearning for what he once was. I believe I may have entered into that third stage.”

“You can still beat ninety-nine percent of these kids,” Valentine said.

“Thanks. I needed that.”

“Bill Higgins said you had something to tell me.”

Rufus raised the soda to his lips and all the liquid inside disappeared. “You need to grill the tournament director. He seated those boys together with DeMarco. It was fixed from the start.”

“Can you prove that?”

Rufus frowned. “No, but it’s obvious what happened.”

Valentine leaned forward in his chair. He remembered Rufus once telling him about poker games in Texas where they’d put guys with machine guns on the roof of the house to protect the players inside. Rufus had seen plenty of thieves in his day, and would undoubtedly run across plenty more. “Rufus, you’re taking this personally. That’s not like you. There will be other tournaments.”

“This is different,” Rufus said.

“How so?”

“That kid bad-mouthed me on national television. My ninety-eight-year-old momma called me from the Sunset Nursing Home. She said, ‘You need to teach that loudmouth a lesson, Rufus.’”

Valentine put his soda on the windowsill. Then he pulled his chair a few inches closer to his host. “I want you to do me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Stop calling DeMarco a cheater. That’s my job.”

“So what should I call him?”

“A worm, a toad, a snot-nosed schoolboy who doesn’t know his ass from third base, a rank amateur, whatever you want.”

Rufus grinned, getting his drift. “I’ll do it, provided that you return the favor, and let me go about my business.”

“Meaning what?”

“I made a bet with a guy in the tournament which I’m about to go downstairs and settle.”

“A sucker?”

“I suppose you could call him that. He fancies himself a professional poker player.”

“What’s the bet?”

“I bet him ten thousand dollars that I could make a fly land on a sugar cube. The sucker thinks I’m off my rocker. I ask that you not tell him otherwise.”

“I thought you said you were broke,” Valentine said.

Rufus put down his drink, then pulled out both his pockets. There was nothing in either of them. “I am. That’s what makes the bet so intriguing.”

There was an impatient knock on the door. Rufus took his time getting to his feet, his old bones moaning and creaking. He’d been a cowboy all his life, had a wife and a bunch of screaming grandkids, and still called Texas home. He’d once told Valentine that he didn’t permit gambling around the house, and Valentine had believed him.

Rufus opened the door and stuck his head into the hallway. A hotel maintenance man stood outside accompanied by a beefy security guard. The guard did the talking.

“Mr. Steele? I’m with hotel security. We’d like to come into your room.”

“What for?” Rufus asked.

“The general manager informed me that you swore at him a few minutes ago,” the guard said.

“All I did was ask him to shove the phone up his ass,” Rufus said.

“He was deeply offended by the remark.”

“Guess he doesn’t spend much time inside his casino, huh?”

“The general manager has instructed our maintenance man to take your phone out of your room,” the guard said.

“You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

“Afraid not,” the guard said. “Please step aside.”

Rufus’s shoulders sagged. He turned and looked back into the room at Valentine sitting by the window. “Can you talk to this guy, Tony?”

“I’m afraid it won’t do any good,” Valentine said.

“I thought you were here on behalf of the hotel.”

“The Gaming Control Board hired me.”

Rufus’s shoulders sagged some more. He stepped away from the door, and gestured weakly with his arm. The two men entered the suite. The maintenance man took an electric screwdriver off his belt, and placed it on the bed. Then he dropped to his knees, and peered behind the bed, looking for the electrical outlet that the phone was plugged into. Valentine got out of his chair, and came over to where Rufus stood. He felt bad for Rufus, but didn’t know how to express it without offending him any further. Take away a man’s pride, and there wasn’t much left.

Rufus turned to the guard. “Can I make one last call?”

The guard scratched his chin. “Is it local?”

“It’s right here in the hotel,” Rufus said.

“I don’t see why not.”

“I have your permission?”

“Sure,” the guard said. “Go ahead.”

The maintenance man got off the floor, and gave Rufus some room. Rufus picked up the phone’s receiver, and punched in zero. An operator came on the line, and Rufus asked to speak to the hotel’s general manager. A few moments later, he was put through.

“This is Rufus Steele,” he said when the GM came on. “Remember that phone I suggested you shove up your ass? Well, hold on, son. They’re about to deliver it to you.”