Jackpot tv-8

by James Swain

  A week had not gone by when Gerry hadn’t thought about that night. Why hadn’t he blown the horn, and gotten an adult to come to his rescue? Why hadn’t he done something besides piss in his pants? It had been the first true test of his manhood, and he had blown it.

  But what Gerry remembered most was the mocking look on the man’s face. Later, when he learned that the man and his friends had murdered his Uncle Sal, that look had become burned in his memory. As he sprang across the room to help his father, it was that look that he was determined to wipe away, once and for all.

  Chapter 22

  Bronco had been punched in the face plenty of times. By security guards in casinos, cheaters he’d double-crossed, and by irate husbands who’d caught him making sandwiches with their wives. But, he’d never eaten a punch as hard as the one Gerry Valentine delivered to his jaw.

  Being cuffed to the chair didn’t help; he was a sitting duck, and even though he tried to get out of the way, he still caught most of it on the face. The blow hurt more than he could have imagined, and in Gerry’s eyes he saw the little boy he’d terrorized long ago in Atlantic City. Bronco had imagined that when he died there would be a lot of people waiting on the other side to pay him back for things he’d done, but he hadn’t imagined he’d encounter one during this lifetime.

  He released his grip on Tony Valentine’s nuts, and saw Valentine stagger away. Then, Bronco fell forward, his free, uncuffed hand grabbing Gerry’s leg. Gerry had continued to punch him on the shoulders and arms. Several guards came into the interview room, and Bronco waited for them to pull Gerry off of him. To his surprise, they didn’t, and Gerry kept hitting him. Bronco saw stars in front of his eyes, then for a brief instant, nothing at all.

  When Bronco came to, he was being half-carried by Klinghoffer back to his cell. The guard had stuck his head under Bronco’s armpit, and was guiding him down the hallway past several other guards going the other way. One guard leered at Bronco, and said, “You do that to him, Karl?”

  “Naw,” Klinghoffer said.

  Klinghoffer came to the electronically-operated door that led to the cellblock. A black guard sat on the stool with a shotgun in his lap. Normally, weapons were forbidden inside the cellblock.

  “What’s with the gun?” Klinghoffer asked.

  “Couple of inmates were giving us trouble.”

  The guard flipped a switch and the door swung open.

  Bronco had regained his senses and glanced upward. Above the stool was a video monitor the guard had to look at when someone wanted to come out of the cellblock. The screen’s picture was grainy.

  Bronco felt the strength slowly return to his legs and his head begin to clear. Tomorrow, he was going to feel like he’d been thrown off a cliff, but that was tomorrow. He pretended to still be half-conscious, and let Klinghoffer drag him.

  Reaching the cell, Klinghoffer stopped to dig a key ring out of his pants pocket. The cells were still operated manually, and he struggled to find the correct key. Bronco stole a glance into the cell. Johnny Norton lay on the top bunk with a smug look on his face. Bronco winked at him.

  “Can you stand on your own?” Klinghoffer asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then do it.”

  Bronco stood on shaky legs. Klinghoffer found the key and unlocked the cell. As he did, Bronco removed the pen he’d lifted from Gerry Valentine’s shirt from his underwear. He’d also gotten Gerry’s wallet, which was thick with cash. “In you go,” Klinghoffer said.

  “I’ve got another slot machine jackpot for you,” Bronco said under his breath. He saw Klinghoffer stiffen.

  “Yeah — where?”

  Bronco went into the cell and turned around. “Same routine as before — three, two, and one. Jackpot will be less than ten grand, so you won’t have to report it.”

  Klinghoffer stood in the open cell door. “Where?”

  Bronco told him, only he didn’t tell him, the word coming out of his mouth a jumble of syllables. Then, he pretended like he was going to faint.

  “I didn’t hear you,” the guard said.

  There was an open crapper in the cell. Bronco sat on it, and shook his head like he was trying to clear the cobwebs. Klinghoffer stepped into the cell, his huge feet scuffing the floor. A little closer, Bronco thought.

  “Say the name of the casino again,” Klinghoffer said.

  “Swordfish,” Bronco said.

  Johnny Norton leapt off the bunk and grabbed Klinghoffer from behind in a bear hug. For a little guy, Johnny was strong, and for a moment Klinghoffer couldn’t use his arms. A look of desperation crossed his face, like he suddenly realized that everything Bronco had done and said in the past twenty-four hours had been setting him up for this moment. He wasn’t as dumb as he acted, Bronco thought.

  Bronco jumped to his feet, plunging the pen into Klinghoffer’s throat, piercing his windpipe and sending a stream of blood spurting out of his neck and onto the floor.

  “What in God’s name is wrong with you?” Valentine asked his son. They were driving away from the Washoe County Detention Center in their rental, Gerry holding an ice pack over his bruised hand while staring out the windshield. His son had been disobeying him for as long as Valentine could remember. It was about to stop, or Gerry was going to start working for someone else. “I told you not to touch the guy, didn’t I? His lawyer was sitting right there. Garrow is going to claim police brutality, and you and I will have to explain ourselves in front of a judge.”

  “He had your balls in a vice grip,” Gerry said.

  “So what? I told you not to touch him, and you disobeyed me.”

  His son shot him a look. “If a guy was holding my balls like that, I sure hope you’d hit him.”

  Valentine stared at the road. His son didn’t get it. Gerry had let the situation dictate him, instead of him dictating the situation.

  “Would you?” his son demanded.

  “Beat up a guy squeezing your balls?”

  “Yeah,” he said indignantly, his eyes burning a hole in his father’s face. “Or would you just stand there and whistle the Star Spangled Banner?”

  They came to a traffic stop. Valentine braked the car while laughing silently to himself. He loved his boy more than anyone in the world, but that didn’t change who Gerry was, or the fact that his son wasn’t going to change his stripes. The quicker Valentine accepted that, the better off he was going to be. He said, “Yeah, probably.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’d probably beat up a guy doing that to you.”

  “So what makes what I did to Bronco any different?”

  “I’m thirty years older than you.”

  “So?”

  He tapped the accelerator. “I’m not using my balls as much as you.”

  They came to a shopping center with a pharmacy, and Gerry asked his father to pull in so he could buy some painkillers for his hand. There was an empty spot by the front door, and he pulled in and Gerry hopped out. Before he shut his door, he stuck his head into the car. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Pop, but Bronco had it coming, and I gave it to him.” Then his son went inside.

  A minute later, Gerry came out of the pharmacy and jumped into the car, his face a deep crimson.

  “What’s wrong?” his father said.

  “That son-of-a bitch stole my wallet and my pen!” Gerry exclaimed.

  “The guy inside the store?”

  “Bronco! He picked my pocket.”

  Valentine stared at his son. The first thing a cop did when he got into an altercation was to check his pockets, and make sure they hadn’t been picked. He ran over the curb leaving the pharmacy’s parking lot.

  Chapter 23

  Johnny Norton walked out of the cell with his arms handcuffed behind his back. Bronco came out behind him, wearing Klinghoffer’s baggy uniform. As he closed the cell door, he glanced at Karl lying face-down on the bunk bed, bleeding to death. He hadn’t wanted to murder him, but sometimes there was no avoidi
ng it.

  They walked down the hall toward the electronic door. Beyond that door was the booking room, and beyond that the entrance to the jail. Maybe a hundred yards from here to freedom. Bronco kept his face hidden behind Johnny’s back and whispered, “You’re doing great. Walk with a scowl on your face, and keep talking.”

  Johnny obliged him, and spit out a steady stream of chatter. He spoke to the new arrivals, while keeping a running commentary on the crummy food. If someone was watching them on a surveillance camera, they would be drawn to Johnny’s mouth, and not focus on Bronco. Hustlers called it the turn, and had been using it for years to distract casino security.

  They came to the electronic door. It was massive, like something you’d see inside a bank. Bronco got behind Johnny and said, “Open sesame.” to the speaker in the wall, trying to imitate Klinghoffer’s delivery. As if by magic, the door slid open.

  “Oh, baby,” Johnny said under his breath.

  They marched out of the cellblock. In the hallway sat a big, bored black guard with a twelve-gauge shotgun lying across his lap. It was rare to see a firearm inside a jail, and Bronco felt like he’d hit the lottery.

  “Top of the morning,” Johnny said.

  “Same to you,” the guard said.

  Drawing the baton from his belt, Bronco whacked the guard in the head, and dropped him to the floor. Placing the shotgun on the stool, he dragged the guard into the cellblock. Coming back, he closed the electronic door, then picked up the shotgun, and placed it vertically against Johnny’s back.

  “You’re one smooth talker.”

  “My speciality,” Johnny said.

  “I’m going to buy you a steak and a Lowenbrau when we get out.”

  They walked down the hallway to the next door, which led to the booking room. Then, they waited. Bronco had told Johnny that he didn’t know how this door operated. Not that it mattered: There were so many prisoners flowing through, he’d assumed the door opened fairly regularly.

  “You sure this is gonna work?” Johnny whispered.

  “Positive.”

  Sweat was pouring down Johnny’s face and drenching the collar of his shirt. Bronco kept whispering sweet nothings in his ear, knowing Johnny was scared. Thirty seconds later, a white cop leading a black prisoner came through the door. The cop was pushing his prisoner like he had a grudge. Bronco gave him room, then grabbed the door before it closed. In the next room he could hear lots of men talking and phones ringing. Stupid sounds, yet beautiful to someone facing a life without them.

  “Start walking,” he said.

  Johnny stepped into the booking room. Bronco followed him, his eyes doing a quick sweep. A half-dozen cops in uniform, another five or six dressed in street clothes, a couple of secretaries, and a bunch of punks getting booked. The punks sat at desks with their wrists handcuffed to their chairs, giving information to the cops who’d arrested them. Just one big happy family, Bronco thought.

  Johnny stiffened, and Bronco followed the path of his eyes. Johnny was staring at a skinny cop with sandy brown hair sitting at one of the desks. Bronco guessed this was the cop who’d arrested Johnny. All the cop had to do was lift his head, and he was going to see Johnny and Bronco and know something wasn’t right. Bronco thought back to the inscription on the desk in the interview room. NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE

  No one but me, he thought.

  Bronco removed the handcuff key resting in his pants pocket. He shoved the key into the handcuff on Johnny’s right wrist, and heard the lock click open. Johnny whispered “What you doing?” and Bronco said, “Shhh,” then took the baton hanging from his belt, and shoved it into Johnny’s hands. Johnny’s fingers clumsily grabbed the handle.

  “This my ticket to freedom?” he whispered.

  “You bet,” Bronco said.

  Lifting his foot, Bronco placed the heel of his shoe into the small of Johnny’s back, and shoved him into the center of the booking room. Johnny fell forward like a man slipping on ice, then righted himself, the baton clutched in his hands.

  “Escaped prisoner!” Bronco yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Johnny Norton had killed a girl named Sandy the day before he’d been arrested. He’d met her in a roadside bar and seen she wasn’t all right in the head. That and she was all liquored up had told her she’d be easy pickings. He’d taken her out to his car and screwed her in the backseat. When they were done and Sandy asked for the fifty dollars he’d promised her, Johnny strangled her. There had been no reason to kill her, only a repulsed look in her eyes he wanted to extinguish. All his life, Johnny had been seeing that look in other’s people’s faces. Like he wasn’t clean or something.

  The cops were going to find out he’d killed Sandy. He’d left his prints on her clothes and done a crummy job of dumping her body in a deserted lot. The other times he’d killed girls, he’d dumped them in bodies of water, only those were hard to find in the desert. He’d left too many clues, and it was just a matter of time before the police connected him to the crime.

  These were the thoughts going through Johnny’s mind as he swung the billy club at the cop closest to him. He was a goner, so he was going to go out in style. It didn’t bother him that Bronco had betrayed him, just that he hadn’t seen it coming. Given the chance, Johnny would have done the same.

  The cop shielded his head with his arms, and the club bounced off his forearms. People in the room were yelling, the noise so loud that Johnny couldn’t hear himself think. The cop who’d arrested him, a Pollock named Turkowski, rose from his desk with his gun drawn, and shot Johnny in the stomach.

  Johnny flew backwards into a wall, then sank to the floor. He stared down at himself. The hole in his stomach was as big as his fist, his blood gushing out. The baton slipped out of his hand and pools of black appeared before his eyes. He saw Bronco slip out the door with the shotgun cradled to his chest.

  As he died, Johnny closed his eyes, and wished it was him going out that door.

  “You’re not yelling at me,” Gerry said.

  Valentine saw the Washoe County Detention center a block ahead. “Is that a statement or a question?”

  “You’re not mad?”

  Valentine shook his head. He’d had his pocket picked several times when he was a cop. There was nothing you could do except be more careful the next time.

  “Hopefully, the guard that led Bronco back to his cell kept him handcuffed,” Valentine said.

  “You think Bronco would use my pen to attack him?”

  He nodded. The gambling world was replete with stories of Bronco wrestling with security guards and jumping through plate glass windows rather than allow himself to be captured by the police. He pulled into the visitor parking lot. It backed up on the employee lot, and he saw a cop wearing a baggy uniform running up and down the aisle of cars, pointing his key chain at the vehicle.

  “What's that guy doing?”

  “Looks like he's using the unlock mechanism in his key chain to find his car,” Valentine replied.

  “How does that work?”

  “You forget where your car is parked, you point the key chain, and press the unlock button until your car lights up. I do it all the time.”

  “Holy shit — he's got a shotgun.”

  The cop in the baggy uniform was running directly toward them. It was Bronco, and he raised the shotgun hanging by his side, and aimed at their windshield.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Valentine said.

  Chapter 24

  Mabel was examining a double-sided chip when the phone rang. The chip had been sent by a grateful casino boss, along with a thank-you card. Tony had spotted the gaff while watching a surveillance tape, and alerted the casino to the theft.

  The double-sided chip was a marvel of ingenuity. On one side was a $5.00 red chip; on the other, a $25.00 dollar green chip. The scam used two people — a crooked blackjack dealer, and a dishonest player. The player would make a bet with his double-sided chip, with the $25.00 side showing. If the player won,
the dealer paid him even money. If the player lost, the dealer would pick the losing bet up, flip it over secretly in his hand, and place it in his tray with the $5.00 dollar chips. The player would toss twenty-five dollars in bills on the table, and ask for chips. The dealer would give him five $5.00 chips, including the double-sided chip. What made the scam so deadly was no matter what happened, the player always came out ahead.

  “Grift Sense,” she answered.

  “Good afternoon,” a man said. “May I please speak to Mabel Stuck.”

  Mabel Stuck? It sounded like some pesky telemarketer.

  “The name’s Struck, not Stuck, and this number is on the national Do-Not-Call-Registry,” she informed her caller. “Please remove us from your list, or we will contact the Florida attorney general.”

  “Ms. Struck, I’m terribly sorry. Please accept my apology.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Chief Running Bear of the Micanopy nation,” the man said.

  Mabel brought her hand up to her mouth. Running Bear ran the show at the Micanopy Indian Reservation casino. Because of a court fight he’d waged twenty-five years ago, casino gambling was now legal on over four hundred Indian reservations. All Mabel could think was he’d read the e-mail she’d sent, and had called to fire her.

  “Hello, chief,” she said.

  “Please call me Running Bear.”

  “Sure. Please call me Mabel.”

  “I’m calling in response to the e-mail which you sent my director of surveillance. You were rather blunt in your assessment of how we are handling this situation.”

  Mabel liked the chief’s choice of words. Tony had worked for Running Bear before, and had said the chief was as honest as the day was long. “You have a dealer who has been caught on videotape using known cheating techniques. The fact that this dealer is still working for you is absolutely shocking.”

  There was a pause on the other end. Mabel liked how her response had come out. Not too harsh or prickly. And calling their inaction shocking was a nice touch.