More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

by Jeffery Deaver

  He glanced at the table. “Those’re your chips, huh?” he said to Tony. The boy didn’t answer but Fanelli didn’t seem to expect him to. He laughed and looked over the players. “And you call yourselves men — letting a boy whip your asses at poker.”

  “I’m not a boy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The detective turned back to the boxes one more time. He walked over to the officers. They held a brief, whispered conference then they nodded and stepped out of the room.

  “My boys need to check on a few things,” Fanelli said. “They’ve got to go corroborate some testimony or something. That’s a great word, isn’t it? ‘Corroborate.’” He laughed. “I love to say that.” He paced through the room, stopped at the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. “Why the hell doesn’t anybody ever drink booze at high-stakes games? Afraid you’ll get a queen mixed up with a jack?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Keller said, “yeah.”

  The cop sipped the coffee and said in a low voice, “Listen up, assholes. You especially, junior.” He pointed a finger at Tony and continued to pace. “This happened at a… let’s say a difficult time for me. We’re concerned about some serious crimes that happen to be going down in another part of town.”

  Serious crimes, Keller was thinking. Cops don’t talk that way. What the hell’s he getting at?

  A smile. “So here’s the deal. I don’t want to spend time booking you right now. It’d take me away from those other cases, you know. Now, you’ve lost the money one way or the other. If I take you in and book you the cash goes into evidence and when you’re convicted, which you will be, every penny goes to the state. But if… let’s just say if there was no evidence, well, I’d have to let you off with a warning. But that’d work out okay for me because I could get on to the other cases. The important cases.”

  “That’re being corroborated right now?” Tony asked.

  “Shut up, punk,” the detective muttered, echoing Keller’s thought.

  “So what do you say?”

  The men looked at each other.

  “Up to you,” the cop said. “Now what’s it going to be?”

  Keller surveyed the faces of the others around him. He glanced at Tony, who grimaced and nodded in disgust. Keller said to the detective, “We’d be happy to help you out here, Fanelli. Do our part to help you clean up some — what’d you call it? Serious crimes?”

  Stanton muttered, “We have to keep Ellridge the showplace that it is.”

  “And the citizens thank you for your efforts,” Detective Fanelli said, stuffing the money into his suit pockets.

  The detective unhooked the handcuffs, stuffed them in his pockets too and walked back out into the alley without another word.

  The players exchanged looks of relief — all except Tony, of course, on whose face the expression was one of pure dismay. After all, he was the big loser in all this.

  Keller shook his hand. “You played good tonight, kid. Sorry about that.”

  The boy nodded and, with an anemic wave to everyone, wandered out the back door.

  The Chicago players chattered nervously for a few minutes then nodded farewells and left the smoky room. Stanton asked Keller if he wanted another beer but the gambler shook his head and the old man walked into the bar. Keller sat down at the table, absently picked up a deck of cards, shuffled them and began to play solitaire. The shock of the bust was virtually gone now; what bothered him was losing to the boy, an okay player but not a great one.

  But after a few minutes of playing, his spirits improved and he reminded himself of another one of the Rules According to Keller: Smart always beats out luck in the end.

  Well, the kid’d been lucky this once. But there’d be other games, other chances to make the odds work and to relieve Tony, or others like him, of their bankrolls.

  There was an endless supply of cocky youngster to bleed dry, Keller reckoned, and placed the black ten on the red jack.

  * * *

  Standing on the overpass, watching a train disappear into the night, Tony Stigler tried not to think about the money he’d just won — and then had stolen away from him.

  Nearly a half million.

  Papers and dust swirled along the roadbed behind the train. Tony watched it absently and replayed something that Keller had said to him.

  It’s knowing everything about the game — even the little shit — that separates the men from the boys in poker.

  But that wasn’t right, Tony reflected. You only had to know one thing. That no matter how good you are, poker’s always a game of chance.

  And that’s not as good as a sure thing.

  He looked around, making sure he was alone, then reached into his pocket and extracted the Starbucks cup lid. He lifted off the false plastic disk on the bottom and shut off a tiny switch. He then wrapped it carefully in a bubble-wrap envelope and replaced it in his pocket. The device was his own invention. A miniature camera in the sipping hole of the lid had scanned each card whenever Tony’d been dealing and the tiny processor had sent the suit and rank to the computer in Tony’s car. All he had to do was tap the lid in a certain place to tell the computer how many people were in the game, so the program he’d written would know everyone’s hand. It determined how many cards he should draw and whether to bet or fold on each round. The computer then broadcast its instructions to the earpiece of his glasses, which vibrated according to a code, and Tony acted accordingly.

  “Cheating for Dummies,” he called the program.

  A perfect plan, perfectly executed — the only flaw being that he hadn’t thought about the goddamn police stealing his winnings.

  Tony looked at his watch. Nearly one a.m. No hurry to get back; his uncle was out of town on another one of his business trips. What to do? he wondered. Marconi Pizza was still open and he decided he’d stop by and see his buddy, the one who’d tipped him to Keller’s game. Have a slice and a Coke.

  Gritting footsteps sounded behind him and he turned, seeing Larry Stanton walking stiffly down the alley, heading for the bus stop.

  “Hey,” the old guy called, noticing him and walking over. “Licking your wounds? Or thinking of jumping?” He nodded toward the train tracks.

  Tony gave a sour laugh. “Can you believe that? Fucking bad luck.”

  “Ah, raids’re a part of the game, if you’re playing illegal,” Stanton said. “You got to build ’em into the equation.”

  “A half-million-dollar part of the equation?” Tony muttered.

  “That part’s gotta sting, true,” Stanton said, nodding. “But it’s better than a year in jail.”

  “I suppose.”

  The old man yawned. “Better get on home and pack. I’m going back to Florida tomorrow. Who’d spend the winter in Ellridge if they didn’t have to?”

  “You have anything left?” Tony asked.

  “Money?… A little.” A scowl. “But a hell of a lot less than I did, thanks to you and Keller.”

  “Hold on.” The boy took out his wallet and handed the man a hundred dollars.

  “I don’t take charity.”

  “Call it a loan.”

  Stanton debated for a moment. Then, embarrassed, he took the bill and pocketed it.

  “Thanks…. “He shoved the cash away fast. “Better get going. Buses stop running soon. Well, good playing with you, son. You’ve got potential. You’ll go places.”

  Yeah, the boy thought, I sure as hell will go places. The smart ones, the innovators, the young… we’ll always beat people like you and Keller in the end. It’s the way of the world. He watched Grandpa limp away, old and broke. Pathetic, the boy thought. Shoot me before I become him.

  Tony pulled his stocking cap on, stepped away from the railing and walked toward his car, his mind already thinking of who the next mark should be.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later the gassy municipal bus vehicle eased to the curb and Larry Stanton climbed off.

  He walked down the street until he came to a dark inter
section, the yellow caution light blinking for traffic on the main street, the red blinking for that on the cross. He turned the corner and stopped. In front of him was a navy-blue Crown Victoria. On the trunk were the words: Police Interceptor.

  And leaning against that trunk was the lean figure of Detective George Fanelli.

  The cop pushed away from the car and walked up to Stanton. The two other officers from the bust early that night were standing nearby. Both Fanelli and Stanton looked around and then shook hands. The detective took an envelope out of his pocket. Handed it to Stanton. “Your half — two hundred and twenty-two thousand.”

  Stanton didn’t bother to count it. He put the cash away.

  “This was a good one,” the cop said.

  “That it was,” Stanton agreed.

  He and the vice cop ran one of these scams every year when Stanton was up from Florida. Stanton’d work his way into somebody’s confidence, losing money in a couple of private games and then, on high-stakes night, tip the cops off ahead of time. Fanelli’d blame the bust on some anonymous snitch, take the bank as a bribe and release everybody; poker players were so happy to be able to stay out of jail and keep playing that they never complained.

  As for Stanton, the gaff like this had always suited him better than gambling.

  I play all right but the odds’re still against you. Anything serious I do with money? I make sure the odds’re on my side.

  “Hey, Larry,” one of the cops called to Stanton. “Didn’t mean to be an asshole when I collared you. Just thought it’d be more, you know, realistic.”

  “Handled it just right, Moscawitz. You’re a born actor.”

  Stanton and the detective walked past the unmarked squad car and continued down the dirty sidewalk. They’d known each other for years, ever since Stanton had worked as head of security at Midwest Metal Products.

  “You okay?” Fanelli glanced down at Stanton’s limp.

  “I was racing somebody on a Jet Ski up at Lake Geneva. Hit a wake. It’s nothing.”

  “So when’re you going back to Tampa?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You flying down?”

  “Nope. Driving.” He pulled keys out of his pocket and opened the door of a new BMW sports car.

  Fanelli looked it over admiringly. “Sold the Lexus?”

  “Decided to keep it.” A nod toward the sleek silver wheels. “I just wanted something sexier, you know. The ladies in my golf club love a man in a sports car. Even if he’s got knobby knees.”

  Fanelli shook his head. “Felt bad about that kid. Where’d he get the money to sit in on a high-stakes game?”

  “Tuition money or something. He inherited it from his folks.”

  “You mean we just dipped an orphan? I’ll be in confession for a month.”

  “He’s an orphan who cheated the pants off Keller and everybody else.”

  “What?”

  Stanton laughed. “Took me a while to tip to it. Finally figured it out. He must’ve had some kind of electronic shiner or camera or something in his coffee cup lid. He was always playing with it on the table, moving it close to the cards when he dealt — and the only time he won big was on the deal. Then after the bust I checked out his car — there was a computer and some kind of antenna in the backseat.”

  “Damn,” Fanelli said. “That was stupid. He’ll end up dead, he’s not careful. I’m surprised Keller didn’t spot it.”

  “Keller was too busy running his own scam, trying to take the kid.” Stanton told him about the pro’s setup of Tony.

  The detective laughed. “He tried to take the boy, the boy tried to take the table, and it was us old guys who took ’em both. There’s a lesson there someplace.” The men shook hands in farewell. “See you next spring, my friend. Let’s try Greenpoint. I hear they’ve got some good high-stakes games over there.”

  “We’ll do that.” Stanton nodded and fired up the sports car. He drove to the intersection, carefully checked for cross traffic and turned onto the main street that would take him to the expressway.

  NINETY-EIGHT POINT SIX

  Suit jacket slung over his shoulder, the man trudged up the long walk to the bungalow, his lungs aching, breathless in the astonishing heat, which had persisted well after sundown.

  Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the house, trying to catch his breath, he believed he heard troubled voices from inside. Still, he’d had no choice but to come here. This was the only house he’d seen along the highway.

  He climbed the stairs to the unwelcomingly dark porch and rang the bell.

  The voices ceased immediately.

  There was a shuffle. Two or three words spoken.

  He rang the bell again and finally the door opened.

  Sloan observed that the three people inside gazed at him with different expressions on their faces.

  The woman on the couch, in her fifties, wearing an over-washed sleeveless house dress, appeared relieved. The man sitting beside her — about the same age, rounding and bald — was wary.

  And the man who’d opened the door and stood closest to Sloan had a grin on his face — a thick-lipped grin that really meant, What the hell do you want? He was about Sloan’s own age — late thirties — and his tattooed arms were long. He gripped the side of the door defensively with a massive hand. His clothes were gray, stained dungarees and a torn work shirt. His shaved scalp glistened.

  “Help you?” the tattooed man asked.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Sloan said. “My car broke down — it overheated. I need to call Triple A. You mind if I use your phone?”

  “Phone company’s having problems, I heard,” the tattooed man replied. Nodding toward the dense, still night sky. “With the heat — those rolling brownouts or blackouts, whatever.”

  He didn’t move out of the doorway.

  But the woman said quickly, “No, please come in,” with curious eagerness. “Our phone just rang a bit ago. I’m sure it’s working fine.”

  “Please,” echoed the older man, who was holding her hand.

  The tattooed man looked Sloan over cautiously, as people often did. Unsmiling by nature, Sloan was a big man, and muscular — he’d worked out every day for the past three years — and at the moment he was a mess; tonight he’d trekked through the brush to take a shortcut to the lights of this house. And like anyone walking around on this overwhelmingly humid and hot night, every inch of his skin was slick with sweat.

  Finally the tattooed man gestured him inside. Sloan noticed a bad scar across the back of his hand. It looked like a knife wound and it was recent.

  The house was overly bright and painfully hot. A tiny air conditioner moaned but did nothing to cool the still air. He glanced at the walls, taking in fast vignettes of lives spent in a small bubble of the world. He deduced careers with Allstate Insurance and a high school library and nebulous involvement in the Rotary Club, church groups and parent-teacher organizations. Busmen’s holidays of fishing trips to Saginaw or Minnesota. A vacation to Chicago memorialized in framed, yellowing snapshots.

  Introductions were made. “I’m Dave Sloan.”

  Agnes and Bill Willis were the couple. Sloan observed immediately that they shared an ambiguous similarity of manner that characterized people long married. The tattooed man said nothing about himself. He tinkered with the air conditioner, turning the compressor knob up and down.

  “I’m not interrupting supper, I hope.”

  There was a moment of silence. It was eight p.m. and Sloan could see no dirty dishes from the night’s meal.

  “No” was Agnes’s soft reply.

  “Nope, no food here,” the tattooed man said with a cryptic edge to the comment. He looked angrily at the air conditioner as if he were going to kick it out the window but he controlled himself and walked back to the place he’d staked out for himself — an over-stuffed Naugahyde armchair that still glistened with the sweat that’d leached from his skin before he stood to answer the door.

  “P
hone’s in there,” Bill pointed.

  Sloan thanked him and went into the kitchen. He made his call. As soon as he stepped back into the living room, Bill and the younger man, who’d been talking, fell silent fast.

  Sloan looked at Bill and said, “They’ll tow it to Hatfield. The truck should be here in twenty minutes. I can wait outside.”

  “No,” Agnes said. Then seemed to decide she’d been too forceful and glanced at the tattooed man with a squint, almost as if she was afraid of being hit.

  “Too hot outside,” Bill said.

  “No hotter’n in here,” the tattooed man replied caustically, with that grin back. His lips were bulbous and the top one was beaded with sweat — an image that made Sloan itch.

  “Set yourself down,” Bill said cautiously. Sloan looked around and found the only unoccupied piece of furniture, an uncomfortable couch, covered in pink and green chintz, flowers everywhere. The gaudy pattern, combined with the still heat in the room and the nervous fidgeting of the large tattooed man, set him on edge.

  “Can I get you anything?” the woman asked.

  “Maybe some water if it’s not too much trouble.” Sloan wiped his face with his hand.

  The woman rose.

  “Notice,” the tattooed man said coolly, “they didn’t introduce me.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean—” Bill began.

  The man waved him silent.

  “My name’s Greg.” Another hesitation. “I’m their nephew. Just stopped by for a visit. Right, Bill? Aren’t we having a high old time?”

  Bill nodded, looking down at the frayed carpet. “High old time.”

  Sloan was suddenly aware of something — a curious noise. A scraping. A faint bang. No one else seemed to hear it. He looked up as Agnes returned. She handed Sloan the glass and he drank half of it down immediately.

  She said, “I was thinking, maybe you could look at Mr. Sloan’s car, Bill. Why don’t you and Greg go take a look at it?”

  “Dave,” Sloan said, “Please. Call me Dave.”

  “Maybe save Dave some money.”

  “Sure—” Bill began.