by James Swain
The Dresser ran the shotgun’s barrel between Fuller’s legs. “Is that a promise?”
Fuller grit his teeth. “Yes.”
“Scout’s honor?”
“You have my word.”
“And I’m sure your friend will also keep her mouth shut.”
“I won’t say nothing,” Krista said.
The Dresser picked up the snapshots from the bed and slipped them into his pocket. “I’ll keep these, just in case you change your mind. Have a nice day.”
He went to the door, opened it, and another blast of cold air invaded the room. It was snowing outside, and he walked backwards out the door, and disappeared.
Fuller felt Krista’s legs untangle themselves from his own. Climbing off the bed, he went to the open doorway and stared outside. The snow was coming down hard, the giant flakes covering everything in sight. He envisioned himself running naked down the street after a man with a shotgun. He shut the door and locked it.
“Let me go,” Krista said.
He untied Krista from the headboard. She grabbed her clothes from the closet and started to throw them on. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her violently.
“You’re not going to go to the police, understand?”
She looked into his eyes. “You’re just as crazy as he is.”
“Answer me.”
“You’re hurting me…”
“This is nothing.”
“Okay… no police. I promise.”
Fuller let her go, and she ran half-naked out the door.
Chapter 27
There was a cork bulletin board hanging in Resorts’ surveillance control room. Pinned to it were pictures of known cheaters. Each cheater had been christened with a nickname. That way, if one of them came into the casino, a tech could put out an alert, and everyone would know who he was talking about. It was another Bill Higgins trick.
Valentine awoke to a ringing phone. The bedroom was dark, and he stared at the luminous clock on his bedside table. Midnight. He snatched up the receiver.
“This had better be good.”
“The Marx Brothers are in the casino,” a tech named Romaine said.
The Marx Brothers were the nickname Valentine had given the Hirsch brothers. He’d stuck their photo on the cork board, hoping they’d show up again. He threw his legs over the side of the bed. “What are they doing?”
“One’s playing craps, another blackjack, and the third is in the bar.”
“Keep watching them. I’ll be right over.”
“What if they try to leave?” Romaine asked.
“Have security grab them.”
He killed the connection and called Doyle’s house, woke him from a dead asleep, and told him to meet him inside Resorts’ casino in twenty minutes. Hanging up, he glanced over at Lois’s side of the bed. His wife’s eyes were wide open.
“You don’t have to explain,” she said.
Normally, he wouldn’t have left his bed for the likes of the Hirschs. Security could detain them until he got there in the morning. But the Hirschs were his thread to the man they’d seen with Mickey Wright, and he needed to pump them before they started screaming for lawyers. Leaning over, he kissed his wife on the lips.
“Thanks,” he said.
He broke every speed limit on the island getting to the casino. Leaving his car with the valet, he hurried inside. Just off the front doors were the house phones. He picked one up, and was connected to the surveillance control room.
“Marx Brothers are still here,” Romaine told him.
“Keep watching them.”
“I won’t let them out of my sights.”
Two minutes later, Doyle hobbled through the front door with his cane. Valentine pulled his partner to the side. “Here’s the deal. We’re going to pretend we’re gamblers. I’ll run into Izzie Hirsch and strike up a conversation. I’ll introduce you as my buddy.”
“Then what?” Doyle said.
“We improvise.”
They entered the packed casino. Watching people gamble reminded Valentine of a movie he’d seen about the Titanic. In the movie, everyone on the ship was having a great time, not knowing they were about to go down. Resorts’ casino was no different. Nearly every player would go down tonight as well.
He spotted Izzie Hirsch standing next to a blackjack table. Izzie had beefed up since his Catskill days, and was as fat as a tick. Izzie was chatting with a high-roller with a castle of black hundred dollar chips. Valentine approached him with a smile on his face.
“Izzie? Izzie Hirsch?”
Izzie took a giant step away from the table. “Who are you?”
“Tony Valentine.”
“Who?”
“Tony Valentine. We hung out in the Catskills when we were kids.”
Izzie feigned recognition and slapped Valentine’s arm. “Tony Valentine! How the hell are you? You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you. This is my buddy, Doyle.”
“Nice to meet you,” Izzie pumped Doyle’s hand.
Izzie introduced the high-roller. He was a jeweler named Moskowitz, and was playing a hundred bucks a hand while banging the table with his fist. Moskowitz was drunk, and had sucker written all over him.
Josh and Seymour Hirsch appeared a few minutes later. Introductions were made, and soon everyone was having a swell time. The Hirsch brothers were as smooth as snake oil salesmen, and Valentine wondered where this was heading.
At two A.M., a groan went up inside the casino as the house lights were raised.
“Closing time,” Izzie said. “Let’s go to our place.”
Everyone agreed to follow Izzie home. Moskowitz took his chips to the cage and cashed out, then went outside stuffing the money into his pockets. He climbed into the back of the Hirsch’s car, and it pulled out of the valet area.
Valentine and Doyle followed in the Pinto. Valentine had been around some smooth operators before, but the Hirsch brothers were in another league. They were funny and smart and impossible not to like.
“What do you think these guys are up to?” Doyle asked.
“I don’t know. But I think we’re about to find out.”
They drove to a small house on the outskirts of Ventnor. Parking in the driveway, Valentine realized he knew the place. Up until a few months ago, it had housed a gang of drug dealers. They followed the Hirschs and Moskowitz inside.
The place had been spruced up. A coat of fresh paint hid the cracked walls and misshapen door frames. There was a pool table in the living room, two card tables in the den. Valentine found a triangle and racked up the balls. Taking a twenty dollar bill from his pocket, he slapped it on the felt.
“Hey, Izzie. You ever play a game called Watermelon Seed?”
Izzie entered, and spied the money on the table. “No. How do you play?”
Valentine took two balls out of a pocket and placed them on the table. “ Each of us puts a ball on the rail. Then we push down on our balls like a watermelon seed. Whichever ball goes farthest wins.”
He saw the hint of suspicion in Izzie’s eyes.
“Do we have to use these balls?” Izzie asked.
“Use any balls you want,” Valentine replied.
Izzie took two balls out of another pocket and rubbed them on his shirt. Valentine came down to his end of the table. They lined their balls up, then shot them. Izzie’s ball went a foot, while Valentine’s ball went a few inches further.
“You owe me twenty bucks,” Valentine said.
“Double or nothing,” Izzie said.
They played five more times. Each time, Valentine’s ball went a few inches farther on the felt. As a kid, Valentine had learned a few tricks from his old man. The secret to playing Watermelon Seed was moisture. By wetting your shooting finger with saliva, the ball lost its backspin, and could be shot anywhere on the table.
Izzie was not a good loser, and demanded a chance to win his money back. Valentine agreed, and they sat down at one of the card tables.
“Shuffle them.” Izzie handed him a deck.
Valentine mixed the cards and gave them a cut. Most card cheating required misdirection, and he knew Izzie was going to have to “move” during the game in order to steal his money. He slid the deck towards his opponent.
“They’re made.”
“You ever hear the joke about the Polish peeping Tom?” Izzie asked.
“Afraid I haven’t.”
“He got caught looking down his own pants.”
Valentine acted like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. He saw Izzie drop his hands into his lap, then bring his hands back up, and start to deal. The deck had been out of sight for a few seconds. It was so obvious.
Valentine glanced over his shoulder. Doyle stood behind the table with Moskowitz, shooting the breeze. His partner hadn’t seen a thing.
It was time for the charade to end. Valentine took his wallet, and dropped it on the floor. Bending down, he stuck his head under the table, and saw a black velvet bag hanging underneath. He grabbed it, and heard the fabric tear. Bringing his head up, he tossed the bag on the table. The deck of cards he’d just shuffled spilled out.
“Game’s over,” he announced.
Chapter 28
It was illegal to run a private card game in Atlantic City. They let Moskowitz go with a warning, then took the Hirsch brothers to the station house, put them in separate interrogation rooms, and sweated them.
The brothers did not act terribly concerned. They were pros, and quoted the law during the ride in: The crime they were accused of was a misdemeanor, and would cost them a few hundred dollar fine and a warning from the judge. It was a slap on the wrist, which was why Valentine asked the DA, a local legend named Stump Hammer, to prosecute them for cheating. Stump had gotten his name after a heroic goal line stand during a high school football game. When he dug his heels in, there was no getting around him.
“Tony, I can’t prosecute them for running a card game, much less pulling some hanky-panky,” Stump said over the phone. “You’re have to let them go.”
“But they’re crooks,” Valentine protested.
“We’re a casino town, Tony. These guys were gambling after the casino closed. You think the governor wants me prosecuting people for doing that?”
“This is different. These guys are professional cheaters.”
“How am I going to pick a jury? ‘Sir, have you ever cheated at cards? You have? Well, you’re excused.’ It won’t fly, Tony. Sorry.”
Valentine felt the cold plastic of the phone seep into his hand. Justice wasn’t blind, but sometimes it was stupid as hell. “These guys are siphoning off players from the casino and stealing their winnings. It’s hurting the casino.”
“The casino is making twenty million a month. How much are these guys taking?”
Valentine had found the strongbox with the Hirsch’s money when they’d searched the house. “About five grand a week.”
“Pleeease,” Stump said.
“You’re not going prosecute?”
“No. Sorry.”
Valentine had learned never to let a DA end a conversation by saying ‘No.’, so he said, “How about coming down to the station house, and rattling their cages?”
“You want me to threaten these guys?”
“Just the ringleader. I need to get him talking.”
“All right. I’ll be right over.”
Stump worked over Izzie in one of the interrogation rooms. By the time he was finished, Izzie had sweated through his clothes, and looked like he might get sick.
Stump left, and Valentine remained in the interrogation room with Izzie. The room had a window covered by a grille, and furniture bolted to the floor. It also smelled of fear.
“I want a lawyer,” Izzie demanded.
“No, you don’t,” Valentine said.
“Yes, I do. You hustled us with that pool trick. You stole my money, and I tried to win it back. That’s entrapment. I’m going to get the best lawyer this two-bit town has. You’ll rue the day you pulled that crap with me. And so will that DA.”
“If you get a lawyer, then I’m going to formally charge you, and your brothers. And so far, I haven’t done that.”
Izzie thought it over. “You offering me a deal?”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever it is, it’s got to include my brothers.”
“How touching.”
“I’m not kidding around. All or none.”
“It will include all of you.”
Doyle entered with two steaming cups of coffee, then left. Valentine handed one of the cups to Izzie, and watched him gulp it down.
“I finally remembered you,” Izzie said when the coffee was gone. “You came up to the Catskills with your folks one summer. Thought you knew how to play ping pong.”
“I beat you,” Valentine reminded him.
“Yeah, but Josh creamed you. Took all your money, as I recall.”
“Josh was good.”
“He took lessons. This might sound funny, but my brothers and I wanted to recruit you. We were trimming the bus boys on the weekends at poker. We wanted you to act as our take-off man.”
“What’s that?”
“The take-off man wins the money from the suckers. He has to be a square john that everyone trusts.”
“Sounds right up my alley,” Valentine said.
“That’s what we thought. Only you had the hots for Lois Fabio.” Izzie let out a laugh. “God, was she a little tart.”
Valentine lowered his cup. “How so?”
“I got her on the golf course one night and tried to hump her in a sand trap. She let me take off her bra, but not her pants.”
“She showed you her breasts?”
“Yeah. They weren’t that great.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me she was your wife?” Izzie wailed ten minutes later, holding an ice pack to his swollen left eye.
Valentine’s hand was singing with pain. If they kept reminiscing, he might end up killing Izzie, so he decided to get to the point. “Two nights ago, you and your brothers dragged a guy through the lobby of Resorts’ hotel, and our surveillance cameras caught you stuffing money back into his shirt. Who was he?”
Izzie lowered the ice bag. “Some guy named Vinny.”
“What was his last name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I picked him up inside the casino, and brought him over to the house. There was a misunderstanding, and Josh broke a bottle over his head.”
“A misunderstanding?”
“Yeah. We decided to take him back to his hotel room. While we were dragging him through the lobby, the money fell out of his shirt. Being an honest person, I put it back.”
“Was he wearing a money belt?”
“I believe he was.”
“How much was in it?”
“A hundred big ones.”
“That’s a lot of cash to be carrying around. You think the guy was mafia?”
“Beats me.”
“What happened when you got him into his room?”
Izzie’s ice pack had sprung a leak and was trickling down his forearm. Turning it upside down, he reapplied it to his eye. “Vinny woke up. Didn’t remember a damn thing. We got him a beer from the mini-bar and turned on the TV. He really had amnesia. We shot the breeze for a while, then left.”
“I want his last name, Izzie.”
“Why don’t you call the hotel and ask them?”
“The name.”
“I told you everything I know,” Izzie said angrily.
“No, you didn’t.”
“You’re not going to drop charges?”
“No.”
Izzie threw the leaking ice bag at him. “You prick!”
Valentine jumped up and kicked Izzie’s chair out from under him. It was a move that Banko had taught every cop in Atlantic City, and Izzie hit the floor and yelped.
“Cut it out!” he cried.
“Come on, let’s make a deal,” Izzie said an hour later. Handcuffed to the leg of his chair, he sat with his shoulders hunched forward and a pained expression on his face. Stump had made a second appearance, and done a good job convincing Izzie that he and his brothers were going to the big house, where, because of their diminutive size, they would be brutally victimized by the other prisoners. As Stump had left, he’d shot Valentine a little smile.