Текст книги "Deadman’s Poker"

Автор книги: James Swain

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

21

If there is any electronic device that casinos hate, it is the cell phone. Card counters, shuffle trackers, roulette cheaters, and other sophisticated scammers can use cell phones to transmit information and give themselves an unbeatable edge at different casino games. As a result, their use is banned from every casino in Las Vegas.

Valentine was crossing Celebrity’s casino when his cell phone rang. Thirty minutes had passed since he’d contacted Gerry to tell him his life was in danger, and they’d been thirty of the longest minutes of his life. As he flipped the phone open, a hand came down squarely on his shoulder.

“Cell phones are not permitted inside the casino,” a security guard said.

“It’s an emergency.”

“I’m sure it is. Please take the call over there.”

He followed the direction of the guard’s finger, and crossed the casino to the front lobby with its screeching exotic birds. By now his cell phone had gone quiet, and the message icon was flashing on its face. He retrieved the message, and heard his son’s exuberant voice. The lobby noise was intense, and he pushed the volume control on high.

“Hey, Pop, it’s me. I don’t know how you knew my life was in danger, but your call saved my life.”

Valentine felt the air trapped in his lungs escape. His son was okay.

“I’m sure you’re pissed off that I didn’t tell you I was coming to Las Vegas, but I decided I had to find Jack Donovan’s killers,” his son went on. “You know what you’re always telling me about following my heart? Well, my heart told me to do this, so here I am. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me for disobeying you.

“I’ll call you later tonight. Maybe we can hook up. I’ve got some dirt on cheating that’s going on at ring games at the World Poker Showdown that I thought you’d like to hear. Oh, and Pop?—”

“What?” Valentine said without thinking.

“—Thanks for the save.”

He erased the message. He and Gerry hadn’t seen eye-to-eye since Gerry had been a teenager. After his wife had died, they’d tried to get back on neutral ground. Although the relationship wasn’t perfect, Gerry was getting better at explaining himself, and he was getting better at listening. As he shut the cell phone, a yellow-headed parrot in a nearby cage began to flap its wings.

“Thanks for the save, thanks for the save,” the bird screeched.

Taking the elevator upstairs, Valentine found himself thinking about his dinner with Gloria Curtis. He wanted to make a good impression, and wished Mabel were around to suggest what clothes he should wear. Not that he had much in the way of a wardrobe, but Mabel’s help would quell the tiny butterflies dancing in his stomach. As he entered his room, he saw the red light on his phone flashing. He picked up the message.

“Hey, Tony,” Rufus Steele’s voice rang out. “I’m in a jam and need your help. Would you mind coming down to my room? Thanks, pardner.”

He glanced at his watch. He had a few hours to kill before dinner, and guessed he could get Rufus to help him pick out his clothes. It wasn’t that Rufus was a great dresser either, but he needed another opinion to get his nerves calmed down. He took the elevator down to Rufus’s floor. The old cowboy answered the door on the first knock.

“Hey, Tony. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a real problem here.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Come inside and see for yourself.”

He entered the room expecting the worst, and was not disappointed. Everything was gone—the double bed, the night table, the couch, and the two chairs by the window they’d sat in earlier. Even the wall hangings and clock were gone. The place had been stripped clean, with Rufus’s clothes left in a sloppy pile in the room’s center.

“Who did this?” Valentine asked.

“The hotel,” Rufus said. “They really want me out of here.”

“Did they take any of your personal belongings?”

“No, they left those.”

“What about the twenty grand you won?”

“That’s in the vault behind the front desk,” Rufus said.

“Did you go downstairs and lodge a complaint?” Valentine asked.

“Sure did. They acted real concerned. Guy at the front desk said someone would be sent up to ‘look into things.’ That was an hour ago. That’s the thing I hate about this town. People will piss on your leg while swearing to you it’s raining.”

“How can I help?” Valentine asked.

The old cowboy removed his hat, and held it in front of his chest. “I hate to impose upon you, but I’m too old to be sleeping on the floor. I’d be forever grateful if you’d let me park these tired old bones on your couch.”

Having a roommate during an investigation was never a good idea. But Rufus had his pluses. He’d been the first to nail DeMarco for a cheat, and knew as much about playing poker as anyone alive. Valentine pointed at the pile of clothes on the floor.

“Let me help you with those,” he said.

They stowed Rufus’s clothes in the closet of Valentine’s room, his shaving kit beneath the sink. Rufus was testing the softness of the couch when Valentine approached him.

“I need a favor,” Valentine said. “I’m having dinner with a woman tonight, and was going to buy a shirt down in the men’s shop. I was thinking of blue.”

Rufus threw his legs up onto the couch, and stretched out luxuriously. The couch was not long enough for him, and his cowboy boots dangled over the end.

“Light or navy?” he asked.

“Navy.”

He decided the accommodations were to his liking, and brought his feet back to the floor. “Navy’s strong. You seeing that newscaster woman?”

“Yeah, we’re getting together later. Too strong?”

“No, navy’s good, especially with your dark features. How long you known her?”

“We met this morning.”

“Heck, I’m going to start calling you Sir Speedy.”

Valentine laughed under his breath. “She likes hearing about scams.”

Rufus patted the cushion beside him, indicating he wanted Valentine to sit. Valentine accommodated him, and watched the old cowboy remove a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket and bang out a smoke.

“Sounds like a match made in heaven. She’s a smoker, isn’t she?”

Valentine nodded. Rufus placed the cigarette between his lips and took out a book of matches. He hesitated before lighting up. “Do you think it’s possible to light a cigarette, take four puffs, but not change the length of the cigarette?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think it’s possible,” Valentine said.

Rufus lit the match, and placed the flame in the center of the cigarette. It quickly caught fire, and he took four puffs without the cigarette shrinking in length. Valentine saw himself having fun with that, showing Gloria over dessert.

“Know any other pearls?” he asked.

“I know hundreds of the damn things,” Rufus said, exhaling two huge plumes of smoke. “Sometimes I think people take me up on them because they enjoy being hornswoggled. Say, do you mind if I help myself to something to drink?”

“Not at all,” Valentine said. “The minibar’s in the corner.”

Rufus went to the minibar and Valentine saw him remove the last Diet Coke. He sat down on the couch and started to twist it open, then stopped.

“Heck, that’s mighty rude of me. You want this?”

“Come to mention it, yes,” Valentine said.

Rufus was still holding the matches, and he tore one from the pack, then handed it and the pack to Valentine. “Light the match, and hold the flame lower than your fingers.”

Valentine lit the match and held the flame below his hand.

“How long do you think you can hold it that way?” Rufus asked.

The flame was racing up the paper match and starting to warm his fingers.

“I don’t know—five seconds?”

“Betcha this soda pop I can hold it for a minute.”

Valentine blew out the match that was starting to burn his fingers, and dropped it into an ashtray on the table. Then he tore a second match from the pack, and handed it and the pack to Rufus.

“You’re on,” he said.

Rufus put the soda down, then struck the match against the flint. It flamed, and he held it exactly as Valentine had, only moved his hand from side to side like a pendulum, effectively reducing the flame’s head to the size of a pin. Valentine timed him with the minute hand of his watch. Sixty seconds later the match was still quietly burning.

“That’s a keeper,” Valentine said.

Rufus smiled his best aw-shucks smile, then got two glasses from the minibar, and split the soda between them. He was still smiling when they clinked glasses.

22

“How long have you been legally blind?” the news-paper reporter asked.

Skip DeMarco leaned back on the leather couch in his penthouse suite in Celebrity’s hotel. He detected a faint Scottish brogue in the reporter’s voice, and put his age at about thirty, with a college education in the states that had softened his vowels. DeMarco had been blind for as long as he could remember, his condition a hereditary one, not that he was going to tell this son-of-a-bitch that.

There was a glass coffee table with sharp edges in front of the couch, and he leaned forward and found the tall glass of ice water that had been placed there for him. He raised it to his lips and enjoyed its coldness against his dry throat. In the next room, he could faintly hear his uncle George, whom everyone called the Tuna, on the phone, cursing up a storm at hotel management. Back home, if someone had robbed his uncle in broad daylight, they’d end up dead in a garbage can by sundown. But Las Vegas wasn’t home, and his uncle was having a hard time getting anyone to help him. He put his drink down, then raised his hands and held his hands approximately three feet apart.

“This long,” he told the reporter. “Which paper did you say you were from?”

He heard the reporter’s intake of breath. He had put him on the defensive. Good.

“I’m a stringer for the International Herald Tribune,” the reporter said.

“I thought they went out of business.”

He heard the reporter shift in his chair. It was made of wood, and it’s feet moved slightly every time the reporter did.

“It’s still published in Europe and the Far East,” the reporter said.

DeMarco stared straight ahead. He knew where the reporter was sitting, but had decided not to gaze in his direction, further putting him on the defensive.

“Do you consider your blindness a handicap or an asset when you play poker?” the reporter asked him.

“An asset,” DeMarco said.

“Do you feel your opponents play you differently, knowing you’re blind?”

“Differently how?”

“Less competitively.”

DeMarco felt himself stiffen. The reporter was treating him like a three-legged dog that had learned how to run, and he wanted to crack him in the head with something very hard. Only, he told himself not to. He’d already created enemies by calling Rufus Steele an old man, and ripping this asshole wouldn’t win him any friends.

“No. When you sit down at a poker table, it’s like a bunch of piranhas in a swimming pool. Everyone tries to eat everyone else.”

He listened to the reporter scratch away on his notepad. The reporter had also brought a tape recorder, which sat on the coffee table in front of him.

“Can you tell me how your blindness is an asset?” the reporter asked.

“It helps me win,” DeMarco said.

“Would you explain?”

“And give away my secrets?”

“Well…yes.”

DeMarco sensed that the reporter was smiling, and he shifted his head so he was facing the reporter, and flashed a rare smile of his own. “It’s like this. When I was a teenager, I couldn’t play sports or do a lot of the things that my friends were doing. One day, my uncle George took me to Atlantic City and we went to a casino. There was a poker room, and my uncle sat me down, bought me some chips, and taught me how to play. He told me what the other players’ cards were, and then how to play my hand. Even though I lost, I had a great time.

“When I got home, I went to the local bookstore, and bought every book on poker they had. Reading is difficult for me—I have to hold the book up to my nose—but where there’s a will, there’s a way, and I read all of them. One of the books mentioned a store in Las Vegas called the Gambler’s Book Club, and I called there, and talked to the manager. He recommended a book that changed my life.”

DeMarco could hear the reporter scribbling away, and picked up his drink of water and finished it. Then he resumed speaking. “It was called Read the Dealer and was written by a gambler named Steve Forte. The book explained how players could get an advantage against casinos at blackjack. The information was so powerful that the casinos had to completely revamp the way blackjack was played.

“The part of the book that fascinated me was about language. It showed how a player could elicit responses from dealers with simple questions, and how those responses told you if the dealer liked you, or didn’t like you. The book also explained how language could be used to make dealers tip their hands.

“After I finished the book, I realized that the information could be used in poker. By listening to my opponents’ voices when they bet or checked, I would know if their cards were weak or strong. And since I’m very good at listening, I knew that I could compete with anyone in the world.”

“This must have been a wonderful revelation to you,” the reporter said.

DeMarco nodded. He’d been interviewed several times in the past two days and hadn’t enjoyed it, the reporters treating him either like a freak, or an object of sympathy. This was the first time a reporter had treated him seriously.

“It was like being handed the keys to the kingdom,” he said.

The reporter finished scribbling and shut off his recorder. Not once during the interview had Rufus Steele’s allegation of cheating come up, and DeMarco knew that he’d dodged a serious bullet. He heard the reporter rise from his chair.

“Thanks for the interview, and good luck,” the reporter said.

The reporter left, and DeMarco rose from the couch and shuffled across the room to the big picture window that radiated heat late in the day. He placed his fingers against the glass, and imagined the snow-tipped mountains that rimmed the western desert of Nevada. When the tournament was over, he planned to get someone to drive him into those mountains, and let him walk around and smell the mountain air. He heard a door click, and his uncle’s heavy footsteps as he crossed the suite and came up behind him.

“Hey, Skipper,” his uncle said. “How was the interview? Another asshole?”

“This one was okay.”

“You broke through to the guy?”

“Yeah, I broke through to him,” DeMarco said.

“That’s good. Really good.”

For a while neither man said anything, which suited DeMarco just fine. Although he loved his uncle more than anyone in the world, he did not always enjoy their conversations. They were like conversations on TV cop shows, with the guy in charge asking a lot of pointed questions, and everyone else forced to give answers. Uncle George was like that: he was always the one asking questions, and never giving answers. It was a one-way street, and usually left his nephew feeling put out.

“Listen, about what happened in the lobby,” his uncle said. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Uncle George.”

“I called the local hospital. They’re sending replacements. We’re covered.”

“Thanks, Uncle George.”

His uncle snorted contemptuously under his breath. “Those motherfuckers are going to pay for stealing that bag, mark my words.”

The bodyguard had told DeMarco how his uncle had been made to look like a fool, the bag being taken from his hands without his uncle putting up a fight, and that his uncle was going to have those responsible killed if it was the last thing he did.

“You know who did it?” DeMarco asked.

“Yeah,” his uncle said. “I know.”

“How did you find out?”

“A local mob guy fingered them for me.”

“They from New Jersey?”

“Don’t ask so many questions.”

DeMarco turned from the window so he was facing his uncle. He hated it when his uncle addressed him like a child. “I have a right to know, Uncle George.”

“According to who?”

“According to me. I want to know who’s after me.”

“Yeah, they’re from Jersey.”

“Atlantic City?”

There was a long pause.

“Yeah,” his uncle finally said.

DeMarco felt himself shudder. There was only one good reason why four guys from Atlantic City would come to Las Vegas to rob them, and he found himself wishing he’d never allowed his uncle to talk him into playing in the World Poker Showdown. He felt his uncle put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and leave it there.

“There ain’t nothing to worry about, Skipper,” his uncle said.

“You sure, Uncle George?”

“Yeah. Those guys will pay. Just leave everything to me.”

23

While Vinny drove back to their motel, Gerry stared at the Tuna’s canvas bag sitting on the floor between his feet. He’d come to Las Vegas for two reasons—to get Jack’s poker secret, and to pay back Jack’s killers—only now the payback scenario didn’t seem like such a good idea. His father telling him that no job was worth getting killed over suddenly sounded real smart.

“What do you say we get this over with?” Gerry asked.

Vinny took his eyes off the highway and stared at him. “How so?”

“I’m ready to go home. Let’s take a look at Jack’s secret, then split up. I’ll fly up to Atlantic City next week, collect the money you owe Jack, and give it to Jack’s mom.”

“You want to scram, huh?” Vinny asked.

“Let’s just say I’ve had enough of this town. How about you?”

Vinny said yes, then looked in the mirror at Nunzie and Frank.

“What do you guys say?”

Nunzie and Frank nodded vigorously. The scene at the Voodoo Lounge had put the fear of God into them, and they’d hardly spoken a word since leaving.

“Then I guess it’s unanimous,” Vinny said.

They were on Tropicana Avenue heading into town, and Vinny aimed the car at an off-the-strip casino called Lucky Lou’s. Lou’s was a locals’ hangout, and known for its homey atmosphere and endless buffet.

“Why are you going there?” Gerry asked.

“There’s a blackjack dealer on the afternoon shift that flashes her hole card,” Vinny said. “I figured we could see what Jack’s secret is, and make a little pocket money.”

“Who told you about the dealer?”

“The albino at the Laughing Jackalope,” Vinny said. “He got the information from the newest edition of the notebook. He said this dealer was an easy target.”

The notebook was the holy grail for Nevada hustlers, and contained the names of blackjack dealers who flashed their hole card during the deal. By knowing the dealer’s hole card, the player had a 15 percent edge over the house. Gerry didn’t like it, and shook his head. He wanted to get out of Vegas, not scam a BJ dealer.

“Come on, it’s easy pickings,” Vinny said.

“I’m out of the rackets, remember?”

“Then have a beer. Come on.”

The car was drifting across the lanes, heading toward Lucky Lou’s on its own. There was no stopping Vinny when there was easy money to be made, and Gerry picked up the canvas bag from the floor.

“All right,” he said.

Like many off-the-strip casinos, Lucky Lou’s gave gamblers good value, with slot machines that paid out more regularly, and table games that offered better rules. Gerry had always thought it wrong that Las Vegas casinos were allowed to control the odds they offered gamblers, but that was the way the town worked.

Lucky Lou’s was busy, and they passed through a sea of denim and polyester to reach the bar. Gerry ordered draft beers all the way around, and when they were delivered, found a table in the corner of the room. When he was sure no one was watching, he put the canvas bag on the table, and opened it. Inside was a white plastic box wrapped in see-through plastic. Gerry undid the plastic, which was cold to the touch, and handed the box to Vinny.

“For me?” Vinny said, like it was a birthday gift.

“You paid for it,” Gerry said.

Vinny shook the box, then looked at Nunzie and Frank.

“Maybe I should wait and open it later,” he said teasingly.

“Come on, open the box,” Frank said impatiently.

“Yeah, dickhead, open it,” Nunzie chorused.

The box had a plastic clasp, which Vinny undid, then lifted the lid. The four men dropped their heads and stared. Inside were a dozen tiny bottles of yellow liquid, and a hypodermic with several spare needles. For a long moment, no one said anything. Vinny picked up one of the bottles, and held it up to the crummy bar light. He squinted to read the printing on the label, then cursed under his breath.

“We stole the guy’s insulin,” he said.

Gerry grabbed the bottle from Vinny. “Maybe this is the secret.”

“Insulin?” Vinny asked.

“Jack said he came up with the scam while getting radiation treatment in the hospital,” Gerry said. “Maybe he found a way to mark playing cards with insulin.”

Gerry poured some insulin onto a white cocktail napkin. It had no color, and when he wiped it away a moment later, there was no stain. Substances used to mark playing cards were usually derived from ink, and almost always left marks on white surfaces.

“I don’t think so,” Vinny said in disgust.

A minute passed with no one saying anything. For Vinny, that was a rare event. Finally he blew out his lungs and looked at Frank and Nunzie.

“What do you say we go make some easy money?”

“Yeah,” they both said.

The three men rose from the table. Without a word they left the bar and went into the casino. The bar’s walls were made of tinted glass, and Gerry watched them roam the blackjack pit in search of their easy dealer. Then he stared at the box of insulin and felt his spirits drop. He felt like he’d dug himself a hole, and it was growing deeper by the minute. He needed to fix things, and then he needed to get the hell out of Las Vegas.

He spied a cute waitress circling the table. She wore a spandex outfit that was several sizes too small for her, and seemed embarrassed by all the skin she was showing. He motioned her over to the table.

“I need a bag of ice,” he said.

She scurried away. From his pocket he removed the pages he’d lifted from the Voodoo Lounge showing the odds of each player winning the World Poker Showdown, and found the odds on Skip DeMarco. DeMarco was running at 40 to 1. Odds were only meaningful if there was real money being bet on the tournament. He knew plenty of bookies, and took his cell phone and called one in New York named Big Dave.

“As I live and breathe,” Big Dave said. “I heard you’d gone legit.”

“I have,” Gerry said. “I need a favor.”

“Fire away.”

“How much action is on the World Poker Showdown?”

“The last I heard, over twelve million,” the bookie said, a police siren wailing in the background. “And the tournament doesn’t end until next week.”

“Where do you think it will top out?”

“Twenty million, easy.”

“Any idea where it’s coming from?”

“Here, there, and everywhere,” Big Dave said, the siren gradually fading. “There’s a lot of money on that blind guy, DeMarco.”

“How much is a lot?”

“A million, so far. Personally, I don’t think he’s got a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“Why not?”

“He bad-mouthed Rufus Steele. The other players will be gunning for him, mark my words.”

Gerry thanked him and killed the connection. If the tournament ended up taking in twenty million in total wagers, it would be easy for DeMarco’s backers to put a couple million on their boy without drawing suspicion. That would net them a cool eighty million bucks, along with the ten million first prize. It was a hell of a lot of money for a stinking poker tournament.

The waitress appeared with a large Ziplock filled with ice. He placed the ice in the canvas bag with the insulin, then fished out his wallet and tossed a twenty onto her tray. The help got paid dirt in Las Vegas, and she smiled appreciatively.

“Thanks a lot, mister.”

Gerry walked into the blackjack pit, and found Vinny, Nunzie, and Frank sitting at a table with an older woman dealer. Each man had an imposing stack of chips, and was oblivious to the gray-haired pit boss standing nearby, watching them.

Gerry watched his friends read the dealer’s hole card. Nunzie sat to the dealer’s right, and stayed low in his chair. This allowed him to peek at the corner of the dealer’s hole card as it was slipped under her face card. If he saw paint, indicating a king, jack, or queen, he puffed twice on his cigarette. If he saw white, indicating a number card, he puffed once. It was enough information to give everyone at the table an unbeatable edge.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gerry saw the pit boss lift a walkie-talkie to his face. He guessed the pit boss was talking to someone in the surveillance control room about what was happening at the table. It didn’t matter if what was happening was legal, or illegal. The pit boss had a quota to meet for his shift, and if Nunzie, Frank, and Vinny prevented him from achieving that quota, he’d catch hell from his bosses.

Gerry felt the pit boss’s eyes on him, and saw a look of recognition spread across the man’s face. Gerry was sure he’d never laid eyes on the guy in his life. To his surprise, the man came out of the pit like he wanted to shake hands. Then it dawned on Gerry what was going on. The pit boss knew his father.

Gerry bumped Vinny’s chair, and Vinny turned around to stare at him.

“Start losing,” Gerry said under his breath.

“What?”

“Start losing. All of you.”

“But—”

“Do it.”

The pit boss was a few feet away, and had stopped. Gerry turned around.

“I’m sorry,” the pit boss said. “I thought you were someone else.”

“I’m Gerry Valentine. My father’s Tony Valentine.” Gerry removed his business card from his wallet, and handed it to him. The pit boss’s eyesight wasn’t good, and he put his glasses on, read the card, then looked into Gerry’s face.

“You’re the spitting image of your father.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You here on a job?”

“Yes,” Gerry said. “My associates and I are working with my father on a case.”

The pit boss’s expression changed. He looked at Vinny, Frank, and Nunzie, then back at Gerry. “These three guys are with you?” he asked.

Gerry could have cut the suspicion in the pit boss’s voice with a chain saw, and he placed his hand firmly on the back of Vinny’s chair. “Yes. We’re all together.”

“Your friends are taking us to the cleaners,” the pit boss said.

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. Gerry glanced at the table. Each man’s stack of chips had dwindled to practically nothing. As Gerry watched, the three men drew cards on another hand, and all lost. Gerry looked innocently at the pit boss.

“You could have fooled me,” he said.

“What the hell are you doing?” Vinny asked as they marched out the casino’s front doors. “We were up three grand!”

“Yeah,” Nunzie piped in. “That dealer was a piece of cake. I was thinking of asking her to marry me.”

No one laughed. The late afternoon sun was blinding, and Gerry shielded his eyes and searched the endless rows of cars in the parking lot for their rental.

“The pit boss knows my father,” Gerry said.

“And because of that, you told us to lose?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t get it,” Vinny said. To Nunzie and Frank he asked, “Do you?”

“No,” they both said.

Gerry could tell they wanted an explanation, only he didn’t feel like giving it to them, and continued to look for their vehicle. He didn’t like giving up a score any more than Vinny or Nunzie or Frank, but some things were more important than money, like his father’s business.

It was strange how things worked out. Growing up, he’d hated that his father was a cop, and been glad when he retired. Then his mother had passed away, and his father had nearly died of a broken heart. One day, a casino in Atlantic City had asked his father to do some consulting work, and in no time his father was back on his feet, busting cheaters. The work had been his salvation, and Gerry wasn’t going to screw that up.

He found the rental car sandwiched between two rusted old junkers that looked ready for the scrap heap. That was one of the bad things about casinos. They attracted people who’d run out of everything but dreams. The space between the cars was narrow, and Gerry was sliding between them to unlock the driver’s door when he saw a long shadow on the asphalt. He turned around slowly, fearing the worst. Sensing his alarm, his friends also turned.

Standing twenty yards away was a man who looked familiar. Tall, lanky, wearing faded blue jeans and a dungaree shirt with a square bulge in the pocket, the man wore his hair straight back, and had a look on his face of pure menace. The handgun that dangled by his side rounded out the picture. Then Gerry recognized him. It was the construction worker from the Voodoo Lounge, the guy that Gerry knew was part of the scheme to kill them. Their eyes met, and the construction worker raised his gun.