by James Swain
He laid the rabbit in the hole and covered it with dirt. With the toes of his shoes, he patted the mound down, then found a stick in the forest that resembled a cross. He plunged the stick into the mound, crossed himself, and went back inside the house.
10
Rising before dawn, Ricky Smith threw on a track suit and headed out the door, his trusty Doberman by his side, the dog enjoying this new habit his master had acquired. His name was Thor, and although he technically belonged to Ricky’s ex-wife, Thor had run away from her and back to Ricky so many times that she’d given up trying to make any claims on him. “Keep him!” she’d screamed into the phone the last time they’d spoken. Ricky had hung up, laughing his head off.
His feet quickly found the familiar trail through the woods, the matted leaves glistening from yesterday’s rain. Right after he’d come back from Las Vegas he’d started jogging, determined to shed the extra fifty pounds he’d been lugging around since high school. He’d started out slow, huffing and puffing, but after a few days tiny wings had sprung from his heels, allowing him to keep up with Thor’s medium-paced trot.
Hank Ridley’s woods backed up onto Ricky’s two acres, and as Ricky jogged down the path, Ridley’s falling-down barn became visible through the trees. A chemical in the shingles made them glow under the sunlight, and Ricky saw his rotund neighbor coming around the path, a joint palmed in his hand. Hank’s dog, a shaggy mutt named Buster, exploded through the trees and stopped dead upon seeing Thor. The two dogs sniffed tails, checking out what the other had for dinner, then started wagging.
“Morning, Hank,” Ricky said. Wherever Hank went, an aromatic fog of marijuana followed. He’d never been arrested, nor asked to curb his egregious behavior, and Ricky was one of the few in town who knew why: Hank’s family still held the lease on the land on which the police department was built.
“Morning, Ricky,” Hank said, exhaling a blue cloud. “How’s the rat race?”
Hank did not read the paper or watch TV and, like Roland, knew nothing of Ricky’s recent good fortune. It had kept their relationship normal, and Ricky said, “Not so bad. Yourself?”
“Can’t complain. Ever read any Walt Whitman?”
“Just Leaves of Grass back in junior high.”
“Didn’t make much of an impression, huh?” The joint dropped from Hank’s hand, and he ground it into the wet path. In Hank’s world there were people who read poetry and those who didn’t. “Didn’t know if you’d heard the latest, but we’ve got a new neighbor.”
“Someone rented the Muller place?”
“Yeah. Guy named Tony Valentine. Rumor is, he’s a retired cop writing his memoirs.”
The wind was blowing easterly, carrying the pungent smell of Hank’s breath away. Slippery Rock’s grapevine had many drums, and strangers didn’t stay that way very long.
“You talk to him?”
“Naw, but your ex has. She rented him the house.”
Ricky was getting cold standing still, the sun hanging like an ornament in the crisp blue sky. Talking about Polly always put him in a funk, and he shrugged. Hank snapped his fingers, and Buster exploded out of a bush, all out of breath.
“I’ll keep you posted once I find out what he’s up to.”
“You think he’s up to something?” Ricky asked.
“Why the hell else would someone come to Slippery Rock?”
“Thanks, Hank.”
Ricky took a long cut home, his legs having grown stiff from standing too long. He ran down a seldom used path, the steep descent made treacherous by the wet leaves. Clumps of mud flew up from his heels, and he found himself surfing down the hill with Thor by his side. At its bottom, he hung a sharp left and got onto a paved road.
A minute later he passed the old Muller place. A beat-up Honda Accord with Florida plates was parked in the drive. It was early May, and from what he’d seen on the Weather Channel, the weather in Florida was letter perfect. Slippery Rock was anything but perfect, with lots of rain and leftover cold winter air. Hank was right. It was a strange time of year for someone from Florida to be visiting.
Only after he had showered and was drinking coffee at the nook in his kitchen did Ricky give it any more thought. Polly had obviously checked the guy out. She checked out all her potential clients. If she thought Valentine was snooping around, would she have deliberately rented him a house nearby?
Going to his study, he booted up the computer on his desk and got on the Internet. He went to Ask Jeeves, typed in Valentine’s name, then hit Search. A split second later, he was staring at a menu of Internet articles that included Valentine’s name. The first item immediately caught his eye. The guy had a Web site called Grift Sense.
Ricky went onto the site. Valentine ran a consulting business and helped casinos around the world catch cheaters. The site included articles he’d written for Casino Times on the subject and a long list of satisfied clients. Ricky leaned back in his chair. The Mint had sent Valentine to Slippery Rock, convinced Ricky had cheated them.
“Thanks, Polly,” he said.
The alarm clock in the kitchen buzzed. He went and turned it off, then fiddled with the radio on the kitchen table until he found WADU. He pumped up the volume as they played a roadhouse boogie of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Love Struck Baby,” the supercharged twelve-bar shuffles getting Ricky’s toe tapping. WADU was public, and therefore at the mercy of those who gave it money. Upon receiving Ricky’s promise of a generous donation, the station manager had been more than willing to review a list of his “favorite artists” as well as the “time of day” that Ricky usually tuned in. According to a blurb he’d seen in the paper, the station had put out a call for Stevie Ray’s old bootlegs. He could hardly wait to see what they turned up.
Thor came into the kitchen followed by Miss Marples. She, too, had refused his ex’s company, tearing up so much furniture that Polly had appeared on his doorstep one day and handed her over, not a word spoken. Miss Marples was old and slept in most mornings, asking to be fed whenever she awakened, and Ricky opened the fridge and got the Friskies Senior dinner that was precut into bite-size pieces. The cat rubbed against his legs and arched its back.
With a soft moan, Thor settled down in the corner. Miss Marples usually left food, which ended up in Thor’s stomach. Ricky slid into the nook with his cup of coffee in one hand, the cat food in the other. Putting his cup down, he slid the food onto his ex’s former spot, then slapped his hand on the table, indicating it was okay for Miss Marples to come up. With age had come bad hips, and Miss Marples hit the table edge with her belly, her back end dangling in space. Ricky lifted her onto the table, where she promptly knocked over his coffee.
He watched the steaming black liquid sweep toward him. He had nothing to stop it with, and not enough time to get out of the way. Just a split second, really, so he sat very still and watched the coffee split into two distinct streams as it hit a bulge in the table and poured down the floor to either side of him. Not a drop touched his left leg, nor his right. The cat, who had not touched her food, stared at him quizzically.
Lucky me, he thought.
11
Valentine found instant coffee in the cupboard, boiled water, and fixed himself a mug. It tasted horrible, but that was okay. Not every cup was going to be perfect.
He sipped his drink while thinking about Lucy Price. He’d met her by accident while doing a job in Las Vegas. She was a degenerate gambler and not the kind of person he normally gravitated to. Only, Lucy had ignited a spark in him; an emotion he’d thought long-dead had flickered to life. So he’d given her some money and tried to help her.
She’d taken the money and gone on a gambling bender. First she was up—at one point, her winnings had totaled more than a hundred fifty thousand dollars—then down, then up again. Feeling invincible, she went to the Bellagio and blew it all on the hundred-dollar slot machines. The casino’s staff treated her like a princess and showered her with attention until her money ran out. Then, th
ey turned a cold shoulder.
Devastated, Lucy got her car from the valet and drove away. Five blocks from the casino, she jumped a concrete median on Las Vegas Boulevard and broadsided a rental car filled with British tourists. One died.
Lucy was arrested and charged with vehicular homicide. Her trial was scheduled to begin in a few days. She was facing hard time and was terrified of going to prison.
Valentine put his empty mug into the sink and stared out the window at the forest behind the house. Giving Lucy money had been a terrible mistake. He’d set into motion a series of events that could not be fixed. It was a nightmare he couldn’t wash from his mind.
At precisely eight o’clock, he powered up his cell phone. He hated his cell phone almost as much as he hated screaming brats on airplanes. But he had to use one to stay in business. To compromise, he turned his phone on only at certain times of the day. So far, it seemed to be working out okay.
He had a message in voice mail. It was Gerry, the prodigal son. He hoped Gerry’s trip to Gulfport was going okay, and that he hadn’t gone and done something stupid. His son had been doing stupid things since early adolescence. Gerry believed there was such a thing as a fast buck, and two months ago, that belief had nearly cost him his life. Gerry swore he’d learned his lesson, but Valentine had a feeling that only time would truly tell.
“Hey, Pop, guess what?” his son’s voice rang out. “I think I got us a new client. It’s a floating casino in Gulfport called the Dixie Magic. I met the head of security last night. I sort of went out on a limb and said I’d help him nail some employees who are stealing from him. Problem is, I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
Valentine swore into the phone. Didn’t Gerry know not to go around bullshitting people like that? The casino business was small. If Gerry got caught with his pants down, every casino manager from Atlantic City to Reno would hear about it.
“So here’s the deal, Pop. The money isn’t being stolen from either the hard-count or soft-count rooms. Lamar, the head of security, has cased them both. So it has to be coming off the tables. They only have one craps table and one roulette wheel, but more than sixty blackjack tables. My guess is, it’s coming off a blackjack table.”
“Brilliant,” Valentine said.
“The shuffling procedures here are pretty rigid, and the players can’t touch their cards, so the cards probably aren’t being manipulated. That leaves an employee either stealing chips from the tray, or stealing chips from other players. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. So I was wondering…would you mind calling me and giving me some hints of what to look for? I’d really appreciate it, and so would Lamar.”
Valentine took the cell phone away from his ear and stared at it. What about Tex Snyder? Had Gerry bothered to locate him yet? Wasn’t that why he’d sent Gerry to Gulfport? He angrily dialed his son’s cell number.
“Hello…”
“Get out of bed,” Valentine said.
“Pop, is that you?”
“No, it’s an impersonator. Rise and shine.”
“It’s an hour earlier here,” his son protested. “It’s still dark outside.”
Valentine told himself to calm down. His son had gotten a new client. That was a good thing, so why was he barking at him like a junkyard dog? Because he’d been pissed off since Lucy Price had entered his thoughts, and needed to vent his anger on someone before he popped a blood vessel and had a stroke.
“Sorry,” he heard himself say.
“No, that’s okay,” Gerry replied, sounding more awake. “I need to get up and call Yolanda. Thanks for calling me back.”
“You’re welcome. You said in your message that the Dixie Magic is losing money to insiders. Based upon what you told me, I have a couple of theories of what’s going on. Get something to write with. I’ll tell you everything you need to know to help your friend Lamar.”
“Great. Did I tell you I think he wants to hire us?”
“Yeah,” Valentine said. Then added, “Good going.”
Valentine had decided that the Dixie Magic was getting ripped off by chip scams. They were practically undetectable and a favorite among employees looking for quick money. So he spent twenty minutes explaining to his son how they worked.
Before casinos had surveillance cameras in the ceiling, dealers who wanted to steal chips simply handed off a stack to an accomplice while paying off a winning bet. So long as the boss wasn’t looking, the theft was invisible.
Then, eye-in-the-sky cameras had come along. Part of surveillance’s job was to watch dealers paying off customers. If an overpayment or “dumping” was detected, the dealer was terminated on the spot and often prosecuted.
But some cheating dealers had gotten clever and devised techniques to steal chips while fooling the cameras. Valentine had seen many during his years policing Atlantic City’s casinos. They were like magic tricks. They happened in front of your nose; only, you couldn’t see them, unless you knew what to look for.
He spoke in a slow, relaxed tone to his son, pausing occasionally when he thought Gerry was getting behind. His son was smart; he’d just never applied himself. Someday, Gerry would start using the brains God gave him, and the world would be a better place.
“That pretty much covers it,” Valentine said. He heard the unmistakable clicking of poker chips on the line. “What are you doing? Practicing?”
“Got a stack of ten green chips right here,” Gerry said proudly. “It’s amazing how deceptive these scams are.”
Green chips were worth twenty-five bucks apiece. His son didn’t have two nickels to rub together, and was traveling on money his father had given him.
“What are you doing with those chips?” Valentine said.
“Pop, it’s not what you think.”
“You’re supposed to be hunting down Tex Snyder, remember? Come on, Gerry, get with the program.”
The line grew silent.
“That woman out in Vegas still calling you?”
Valentine rubbed his face with his hand. “Yeah. Is it that obvious?”
“She’s got you climbing up the walls,” his son said. “She’s a stalker, Pop. You need to get your cell number changed. Maybe she’ll get the hint and leave you alone.”
The front doorbell rang. It was a cheap sound, as if someone had replaced the bell with a joy buzzer. He told his son good-bye and got off the line.
Valentine recognized Ricky Smith the moment he opened the front door. Ricky’s picture had been splashed across every TV news show in the country: a sloppy, boyish grin offset by eyes always looking somewhere else. He was a self-professed geek who liked to eat junk food and as Valentine stepped onto the front stoop, Ricky stuck out a big paw of a hand and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood. My name’s Richard Smith, but everyone calls me Ricky. I live two houses away.”
“The guy with the loud music,” Valentine said.
Ricky flashed a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Hope it didn’t keep you up.”
“Only half the night. You like the blues?”
“I like Stevie Ray Vaughan,” Ricky confessed. “Lucky for me, Stevie Ray recorded just about everything—rock, blues, rockabilly, surfer music, acoustic—so it never gets tiring.”
“Except for your neighbors,” Valentine said.
Ricky let out a laugh that caused his whole body to shake. On the surveillance tape from the Mint, he had acted like a zombie, and no emotion had registered on his face as he’d beaten the casino silly. In real life he was playful and animated, with the face of a kid who’s just gotten caught stealing a cookie out of a jar.
“So, listen,” Ricky said, “I wanted to invite you to the May Day Annual Fair. It’s being held down at the local high school. There’s lots of good food, and exhibits from the school, and it’s a great way to meet your neighbors.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. It goes on all day. I’d be happy to drive you.”
Valentine considered the offer. He needed to meet people in town, and
establish who he was, and put them at ease when he came around later and started poking his nose where it didn’t belong. Only, something was wrong with Ricky’s offer. Guys didn’t drive the welcome wagons in most neighborhoods. Women did. Ricky was up to something. Valentine saw him look at his watch.
“They’re having a drawing at the fair at eleven,” Ricky explained. “You can’t claim the grand prize if you’re not there.”
“What is it?”
“An all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.”
“Think you’re going to win?”
Ricky took out his wallet and removed a brown ticket with five numbers printed on it. “I bought this ticket before I went out to Las Vegas and won a million bucks. I figure if I’m going to win that trip, now’s the time.”
Valentine looked at the numbers on the ticket, then into Ricky’s pale blue eyes. Ricky made it sound like a given. Valentine realized his neighbor was challenging him. That was why he’d come to the house and rang the bell. He’d found out who Valentine was and why he was visiting Slippery Rock. He wanted Valentine to see it himself and decide.
“Let me get my jacket,” Valentine said.
12
Slippery Rock High School was a rambling one-story structure nestled behind a stand of poplars and pines. A colorful banner announced that today was the May Day Annual Fair, Come One, Come All. The parking lot was nearly full, and as Ricky parked his Lexus in the last available space, he explained how different buildings had been added on as local townspeople had passed away and willed their money to their favorite departments.
“It’s sort of a tradition,” he said, killing the engine.
For a long moment they sat silently. In the nearby woods, a deer with two fawns lifted its head to stare at them. Its mouth was full of leaves, and it munched away, convinced they posed no threat.
“Which department are you going to will yours to?” Valentine asked.
“The art department. It was the only class I ever really liked. I wanted to be a commercial artist, but my parents drummed it into my head that it was a bad career choice.” He looked at his watch, then popped open his door. “Better hurry. The drawing is in five minutes. Don’t want to miss winning the big prize.”