Deadman's Bluff (14 page)

26

I
t doesn’t get any better than this,
Karl Jasper thought.

Jasper stood at the rear of the crowd in Celebrity’s poker room, chewing an unlit cigar. The scene was absolutely beautiful. Skip DeMarco was beating the pants off the competition and the spectators were cheering his every move. The kid was going to be known in every home in America by the tournament’s end.
Every home.

Jasper watched the action while trying to calculate how much money DeMarco would make in endorsements. He’d cut his teeth working for a Madison Avenue ad agency, and could not look at success without equating it with a dollar figure.

Only trying to figure out DeMarco’s worth was tricky. The kid was an overnight sensation, and advertisers tended to be wary of those. But DeMarco appealed to that all-important demographic—males eighteen to forty-nine—which meant he could endorse anything from condoms to cars, and be a hit.

Finally Jasper hit on a number. Twenty million in endorsements the first year, not including any deals from Europe, and that was being conservative. He would have to talk to Scalzo about managing the kid.

The crowd had grown quiet, and Jasper stood on his tiptoes to watch. A monster pot was building, with three players in the hunt. Fred Rea, an amateur player from Vero Beach, Florida, “Skins” Turner, a seasoned pro from Houston, and DeMarco.

Rea was the short stack at the table with four million in chips. It sounded like a lot, only his opponents had more. By declaring himself “all in,” Rea was putting his tournament life at stake.

Skins called him, and shoved four million in chips into the pot as well.

DeMarco immediately called Rea and Skins. The kid had a special savoir faire that Jasper loved. The five community cards had already been dealt and were lying face up on the table. Each player was allowed to use his two cards plus the community cards to make the best possible hand.

Rea turned over his two cards. He had two pair, fours and sevens.

DeMarco turned over his cards. He also had two pair, kings and sevens. He’d beaten Rea, and the crowd broke into wild applause. Jasper clapped along with them.

When the applause died, Skins Turner cleared his throat. “Afraid I’ve got you beat, son.” Skins turned over his cards. He had three kings, or what gamblers called “a set.” He raked in the pot while laughing under his breath.

The crowd let out a collective groan, and so did Jasper. Even though he didn’t know how Scalzo’s scam worked, he knew that DeMarco couldn’t lose. Yet somehow, DeMarco
had
lost. Jasper stared at the electronic leader board hanging over the feature table. DeMarco was now in third place.

Jasper’s cell phone was vibrating in his pocket. He pulled the phone out, and stared at the face. Mark Perrier, the hotel’s general manager, had sent him a text message:
COME TO MY OFFICE
! Jasper punched in Perrier’s number, heard Perrier pick up on the first ring.

“What’s going on?” Jasper asked.

“I’m going to close down your fucking tournament,” Perrier informed him.

“I’ll be right up,” Jasper said.

Perrier’s office was on the hotel’s top floor, not big, but with a breathtaking view. Jasper took the private elevator up while staring at the bad carpeting job. The hotel was a big white elephant, and once the newness wore off, its bad location was going to catch up with it. Perrier knew this, so he’d agreed to host the World Poker Showdown.

Perrier was standing by the window when Jasper walked in.

“Have a chair,” the general manager said.

Perrier was a drop of water in an Armani suit, and not the kind of guy Jasper took orders from. He joined him by the window.

“Great view. What’s the problem?”

Perrier’s eyes bore into Jasper’s face with an animallike intensity. “Were you aware that I sicced the police on Valentine?”

“No, but it was a good idea,” Jasper said.

“Do you know why I did that?”

“You wanted him out of the way?”

“I wanted to buy time,” Perrier said.

“To do what?”

“Sit down, and I’ll show you,” Perrier said.

The sitting area in Perrier’s office was dwarfed by his desk, and Jasper wedged himself into the stiff-backed chair that sat in front of it. Perrier went to the DVD player that was part of an entertainment unit, and fiddled with the remote. A flat-screen plasma-TV flickered to life.

“Nice picture,” Jasper said. “That high definition?”

Perrier remained standing, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “When you came to me with this tournament, I knew it wasn’t clean, and that I’d probably have to cover your tracks. That’s why I’ve put up with that mobster Scalzo in my hotel, and why I didn’t say anything when I heard you were using dealers with criminal records. I kept my mouth shut, and cleaned up your mess as best I could. But we’ve got a new mess, a real big one, Karl, and I’m not going to clean it up for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Jasper asked.

Perrier jerked his thumb at the TV screen. “Take a look.”

Jasper squinted at the flickering images on the screen. The picture was grainy black-and-white, and taken from above. “What am I looking at?”

“A surveillance tape.”

Jasper took out his glasses, fitted them on, and squinted at the screen. The tape showed two men standing at the bottom of a stairwell, one black, the other white, the camera’s angle revealing the worried looks on their faces. Jasper stared at the bottom right-hand corner of the tape. It contained the date and time the tape had been recorded, which was at a few minutes past midnight. He felt himself growing restless. “Come on, Mark, what am I looking at?”

Perrier continued looking at the screen. “Here we go.”

On the tape, the door to the stairwell burst open, and a silver-haired man rushed in wielding a handgun. He shot each man in the forehead, then ran out of the picture. It was over in a matter of seconds.

Jasper heard himself exhale. On the tape, the two guys lay dead, blood pooling around their heads. He knew who they were. Hitmen, hired to kill Valentine. Scalzo had said that Valentine had shot them in the stairwell, only now Jasper knew otherwise. It was Scalzo who’d shot them. Jasper rose from his chair.

“Give me a drink,” he said.

Perrier poured Jasper a Scotch on the rocks at the bar. The drink was strong and made Jasper’s mouth burn. They stood by the window, staring into the distance.

“The police asked me about the surveillance camera in the stairwell,” Perrier said, sipping water. “I lied, and told them it didn’t exist.”

“Good move,” Jasper said.

“Maybe. I could tell them I was wrong, and turn the tape over to them. Or, I could destroy the tape. What I do depends on you.”

Jasper stared at Perrier’s reflection in the glass. “How so?”

“The tournament is a winner, and everyone wants it to continue. But there’s a hitch. We have a mobster running around killing people in the hotel. I want you to make the mobster go away.”

“I can’t do that,” Jasper said.

“No?”

“He’s my partner. He put up the cash.”

“Make him go away, anyway.”

“How? You saw what kind of person he is.”

“That’s your problem. All I’m doing is giving you an out,” Perrier said. “If I turn over the tape to the police, you and Scalzo will go to jail, and the World Poker Showdown will go up in flames. Your career and everything you’ve worked for will be ruined. You don’t want that, do you?”

Jasper took a gulp of his drink. His stomach was empty and the booze went down hard. It made him nauseous, and he felt cold beads of sweat march down his neck. He’d always wondered what his day of reckoning would feel like, and now he knew.

“No,” Jasper heard himself say.

“The tournament is a huge success. Get rid of the mobster.”

Jasper nodded stiffly. The tournament was making money, so he was being given another chance. It was better than the alternative, he supposed.

“Okay,” Jasper said.

27

L
eaving police headquarters, Bill Higgins drove Valentine back to Celebrity. The freeway was jammed with traffic, and Valentine sat in the passenger seat with his window cracked, staring at a cloudless sky and leaden sun.

“There’s one part of this case that I can’t figure out,” Valentine said.

“What’s that?” Bill asked.

“Why haven’t you run George Scalzo out of Las Vegas? Nevada has spent twenty-five years cleaning up its image of being controlled by the mob, yet this guy runs around town like he’s Teflon-coated. I don’t get it.”

Eyes glued to the car in front of him, Bill emitted an exasperated breath. “I’ve tried to run him out.”

“Did someone stop you?”

Bill nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

“Mind telling me who?”

“Call them the powers that be,” Bill said.

Valentine knew that the rules were different in Vegas. There were only a handful of ways to make money in the desert, and right and wrong sometimes got a little fuzzy.

“But the guy’s a crook,” Valentine argued.

“Scalzo is a
reputed
crook,” Bill said. Traffic was moving, and he inched the car ahead. “The fact is, he’s never spent a day in jail, never been convicted of a crime, has paid his income taxes every year, and enjoys all the freedoms and protections of every other law-abiding citizen. He’s just as entitled to come here as you are.”

“But he’s helping his nephew scam the tournament,” Valentine said.

“Trust me, Tony, I’ve told everyone who’ll listen that I think Scalzo and Skip DeMarco are up to no good.”

“And?”

“Everyone asks me what the scam is. I say I don’t know, and they change the subject.”

“But you and I both
know
that they’re cheating. Together, we’ve got over fifty years’ experience catching cheaters. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Traffic again halted and Bill slammed on his brakes. Moments later, a motorcyclist driving on the white line in the highway sped past, mocking them. Bill watched the motorcyclist with a disgusted look on his face, then faced his friend.

“When it comes to Scalzo and DeMarco, it doesn’t mean shit,” Bill said.

“How’s your blood pressure?” Bill asked as they climbed the stairs to Celebrity’s surveillance control room on the third floor.

“A little high,” Valentine admitted.

“So’s mine. My doctor wants me to monitor my blood pressure regularly. I bought one of those machines from CVS. You should think about doing the same thing.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. It’s a silent killer.”

They had reached the third floor and Valentine was puffing. He walked two miles a day, and kept in good shape. Maybe he
was
stressed out. Perhaps it had some thing to do with George Scalzo and his nephew robbing the joint blind. Or perhaps it was that this was his fifth day in Vegas, and the town had become transparent. They marched down the hallway to the steel door at the end where the surveillance control room was housed. A security camera was perched above the door, and Bill knocked loudly, then peered up into its lenses.

“So what are we doing here, anyway?” his friend asked.

“I had an epiphany during the drive over,” Valentine said. “Somebody I spoke with the other day lied to me, and I want to talk to him with you present.”

Bill’s face hardened. “Someone working in Celebrity’s surveillance department?”

“Yes.”

“Am I going to have to arrest him?”

“You might.”

The door opened and a lanky shift supervisor greeted them.

“We need to talk to one of your people,” Bill said.

The shift supervisor blinked. “Is there something wrong?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Who do you want to talk to?” the shift supervisor asked.

Bill looked at Valentine.

“Sammy Mann,” Valentine said.

The shift supervisor led them through the surveillance control room to the offices that lined the back wall. He knocked on a door, then cracked it open. “You’ve got visitors,” he announced.

The shift supervisor left, and Bill and Valentine entered. The office was hardly big enough for them to squeeze in, and Valentine sucked in his breath as he shut the door. Sammy Mann sat behind the desk, staring at computer screen containing a live feed from a surveillance camera on the casino floor. Seeing them, he smiled. Sammy was a man of sartorial splendor, and wore a silk sports jackets with mother-of-pearl buttons, a baby blue shirt with French cuffs, and a gold tie with a perfect Windsor knot. He was the classiest cheater Valentine had ever known. Now retired, he hired himself out to Las Vegas casinos as a consultant.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Sammy said pleasantly. “Welcome to my humble abode. Make yourselves at home.”

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Valentine said.

The smile left Sammy’s face. “You’re here on business?”

“That’s right,” Bill said.

“What’s wrong?” Sammy asked.

Valentine dug out of his pocket the Silly Putty and paper clip that Rufus had found in Celebrity’s poker room, and placed them on the desk. He deliberately shoved the paper clip into the putty, and saw Sammy wince.

“We’ve got a mucker cheating the World Poker Showdown, and I think you might know who it is,” Valentine said.

Smart crooks never lied; they just kept their mouths shut. Sammy’s lips closed and he continued to stare at the bug. Sammy’s speciality had been switching decks of cards at casino blackjack tables. Because of him and his well-trained gangs, every casino in the world now chained their dealing shoes to their tables.

“Start talking,” Bill said.

Sammy wore a perpetual tan, and it was unsettling to see the color drain from his cheeks. “Are you going to arrest me?” he asked.

“I might if you don’t give us some straight answers,” Bill said.

“On what grounds?”

“Collusion,” Bill said.

“With who?”

“You know every mucker in the country,” Valentine jumped in. “Hell, you trained most of them. The question is, did you see one working the tournament?”

Sammy reached into the pocket of his sports jacket and removed a medicine bottle. He spilled a few dozen tiny pills onto the table, then stuck one on the tip of his tongue. He washed it down with a glass of water sitting on the desk.

“For my heart,” he said, taking a deep breath.

They waited him out. Las Vegas’s casinos liked to boast that they didn’t use ex-cheaters in surveillance, but it wasn’t true. Nearly every casino used them, and for good reason. There was no other way to learn how grifters worked.

“To answer your question,” Sammy finally said, “no, I have not seen anyone I know from the past scamming the poker tournament.”

Valentine slammed his hand on the desk, making Sammy jump.

“That wasn’t the question.”

“It wasn’t?” Sammy asked meekly.

“No. I asked you if you’d spotted any muckers you know, not if you saw them switching cards. My guess is, if you recognized someone, you
wouldn’t
watch them, just so you couldn’t be pinned down later.”

Sammy was breathing hard. Not reporting a scam was a felony, punishable by up to three years in state prison. Sammy had visited the crossbar motel before, and knew how harsh prison life was for cheaters.

“If you’re asking me if I spotted anyone in the tournament who I know from the past, the answer is yes,” Sammy said. “There are many guys playing here who cheated at one time or another. But that doesn’t mean they’re cheating here.”

“Did you
watch
them to make sure they weren’t cheating?” Valentine asked.

A sweat moustache appeared above Sammy’s upper lip.

“No,” he said.

“You’re in serious trouble,” Bill informed him.

The best thing a cop could do to a crook was make him sweat. Leaving Sammy in the office, they went into the surveillance control room to have a little chat.

“What a crummy prick,” Bill said. “He’s sitting there collecting a paycheck to catch cheaters, yet isn’t reporting cheaters he knows are playing in the tournament. When I’m finished with him, he won’t be able to get another job in town.”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d let him skate,” Valentine said.

Bill’s mouth opened a few centimeters. “You were?”

“Yes. I want him working for us.”

“You sound like you’ve got a soft spot for the guy.”

Bill wasn’t far off the mark. Sammy had class. Like Rufus, he could charm the pants off a person while stealing their money. “I wanted to scare him, and we have,” Valentine said. “If you give Sammy another chance, I feel certain he’ll lead us to the mucker. When he does, you can call the governor, and tell him you want to raid the tournament. That way, we’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

“We will?”

“Yes. I watched DeMarco play earlier, and I’d be willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that the dealer at his table is involved in the scam.”

“Which dealer are you talking about?”

“Heavyset guy with a walrus moustache. He’s doing something fishy when he deals. His movements are too slow.”

“Is he reading the cards and somehow signaling DeMarco?”

The air-conditioning never stopped blowing in a surveillance control room, and Valentine shivered and said, “No. The dealer hardly looked at the deck when he dealt. But I’m certain he’s involved.”

“So the mucker is an excuse to raid the game,” Bill said.

Valentine nodded. He had been studying DeMarco’s scam for a week, and was no closer to the solution than the day he’d started. The proverbial sand was slipping from the hourglass. If he didn’t solve this puzzle soon, DeMarco would be crowned the champion, and he and Bill would look like chumps.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Bill said.