by James Swain
“You can’t order me around.”
“I can’t?”
“No. I don’t work for you.”
Valentine leaned forward. “Your job is being paid for by casino dollars, just like every other employee in this prison. Think about it.”
Smith blinked as Valentine’s words registered in his brain. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. If I don’t cooperate, and get Lucy to look at these photographs, you’ll have me fired.”
“Not me. But maybe the people I’m working for.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“Call it whatever you want.”
“You realize Lucy will hate you for this.”
“That’s my cross to bear, not yours.”
Smith scooped the five photographs off the table and left the cafeteria. Valentine rose from the table, and bought a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine in the corner, pausing to read the Surgeon General’s warning stamped on the glass. Printed in bold letters, it said that smoking would eventually kill him.
He ripped open the pack and banged out a smoke. Sometimes, a person didn’t want to live forever. For those times, a cigarette was the perfect thing to stick in your mouth.
Smith returned fifteen minutes later. His face was flush. He angrily tossed the photographs into Valentine’s hands.
“It’s the guy on top,” the doctor said.
Valentine took another drag on his cigarette. An investigation was like running a race. Some were sprints, others marathons. The only thing they had in common was the finish line.
He stared down at the photo. It was Fred Friendly, the head of ESD.
Chapter 49
Gerry stood inside the lobby of the Acropolis feeling like he’d entered a 1970's sitcom. The carpeting was an ugly burnt orange color that he hadn’t seen since his grandparent’s house, the walls covered in dark smokey mirrors. Statues of half-dressed women with huge breasts were stuck in every corner, and appeared to be someone’s idea of art. It reminded him of the movie Casino without the beautiful people.
He entered the casino. It was also a time warp, and was designed like a wheel. A person could not walk through the main floor without passing through that wheel, and hopefully, stopping at a table and wagering a few dollars.
He went searching for the house phones. Before he could find them, a hulking security guard approached him.
“Your name Valentine?”
“That’s me.”
The guard pointed to the elevators. “You have a phone call.”
It had to be his father. Who else knew he was here? He thanked the guard, and went to the elevators where the house phones were located. He picked up a phone.
“Hey.”
“Hey?” an unfamiliar voice replied. “What kind of greeting is that?”
Not his father, but someone with the same attitude.
“Okay,” Gerry said, “Hey, you.”
The man snorted at him. “Where’d you go to charm school?”
“Sing-Sing prison.”
“You’re hysterical. You come into my casino and don’t say hello?”
“Who is this?” Gerry asked.
“Nick Nicocropolis, you pin head. I’m in the penthouse. Come on up.”
Gerry hung up with a grin on his face. Nick was the hard-headed little Greek who owned the Acropolis. Gerry guessed Nick had seen him in the casino, and mistaken him for his father. He’d heard stories about Nick for years — Nick had been married eight glorious times, all to Vegas knockouts — and had always wanted to meet him. He stepped into an elevator, and pressed the penthouse button. The buttons were made of see-through plastic, and featured silhouettes of naked women in provocative poses.
“That’s just beautiful,” Gerry said.
The penthouse was a major disappointment. Nick’s sexual prowess was legendary, and Gerry had expected Nick’s digs to be a living testimonial to his conquests. Instead, his office was a clone of Fortune 500 CEO’s digs, and as sterile as a hospital emergency room. Gerry was bummed.
Nick was something of a disappointment as well. He was a smallish Greek with a perfectly round pot-belly, bushy eyebrows, bushy hair, and other small bushes of hair sprouting from different parts of his body. As Gerry entered the office, Nick jumped out of his chair, and came around the desk to greet him.
“Holy shit, you’re not Tony,” the little Greek said.
“Gerry Valentine. I’m Tony’s son. Nice to meet you.”
“Nicky!” a woman’s voice crackled over the intercom on the desk.
Nick froze in his spot and hunched his shoulders. “Yes, honey.”
“Promise me you won’t swear again,” she purred.
“I promise, dear.” Smiling sheepishly, Nick lowered his voice. “That’s my wife Wanda. She works in the adjacent office.”
Gerry grinned. Talk about a short leash, he thought. As if reading his thoughts, Nick said, “It’s not what you think.”
“What’s not what I think?” Gerry asked.
“The office isn’t bugged.”
Nick was a client, and one of the few casino owners in the world who his father implicitly trusted. Gerry couldn’t make fun of him, only he couldn’t stop grinning.
“Stop laughing,” the little Greek scolded.
“Sorry.”
“Wanda’s developed a sixth sense to my swearing. It started right after she got pregnant. Every time I swear, she breaks out in hives, and chews me out.”
“Wow.”
“Shut up,” Nick told him.
Nick offered Gerry a seat, then settled into a leather chair behind the desk that made him look several inches taller than he really was.
“Your dad in town with you?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. He’s on a case.”
“I like your old man, even if he is from New Jersey.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell him to call me when he’s done. I’ll treat you boys to dinner in The Wanda Room. It’s our new steakhouse. You should see the waitresses.”
“Something else, huh?”
“They’ll poke your eyes out.”
Gerry smiled to himself. Nick was a dinosaur. Yet he’d managed to survive longer than any other casino boss in Las Vegas. There was a reason for that.
“I need to ask you a question,” Gerry said. “My father says that you know everything that’s going on in this town.”
Nick kissed the end of an unlit cigar. “Correct.”
“This in confidence.”
“Won’t leave this room.”
“What happened in the past three years that would make seven Nevada Gaming Control Board’s top agents turn into thieves?”
Nick’s eyes narrowed, and Gerry almost thought he heard the gears shifting in the little Greek’s head. He tossed his cigar down, made a face that said he wasn’t happy.
“That’s a loaded question, kid.”
“Something did happen,” Gerry said.
“Lots of crap happens in this town. Most of it gets buried in the desert.”
“My father would be indebted to you if you’d tell me what it is,” Gerry said. Then added, “And, so would I.”
Nick pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to the mini bar. He fixed two Scotches on the rocks and gave one to his guest. Gerry hadn’t had a drink before noon in forever, but this was Vegas, and the rules were different here.
They clinked glasses, and then Nick told him a story.
According to Nick, only two things mattered in Las Vegas. Sex, and money. Everything else was just camouflage.
The story Nick told him was about money. Lots of it. And it did not have a happy ending. It had started three years ago in a casino called Diamond Dave’s.
Diamond Dave’s was what locals called a sawdust joint, its clientele consisting of tour bus gamblers and locals. Dave’s shouldn’t have been making much money, yet it was. In fact, it was making more than many of its bigger rivals in town.
A routine audit b
y the Gaming Commission had uncovered a serious problem. The games at Diamond Dave’s were raking in the cash. The hold, which was the amount of money the casino kept, was double what it was supposed to be. The Gaming Commission had smelled a rat, and asked the Gaming Control Board to investigate.
The GCB had raided Diamond Dave’s, and shut it down. They’d brought in their experts, and carefully examined each game. What they’d found had shocked them. On every blackjack table the dealing shoes were missing high cards, making it impossible for the players to win. On the craps tables, the dice were shaved so only certain combinations would come up. At the roulette tables, the wheels were magnetized so management could make the ball stop wherever they choose. The slot machines were also rigged so players hardly won; even the lowly Keno game was fixed.
The casino’s manager was hauled off to jail, and soon confessed. His owner was losing money, and had ordered the casino manager to rig the games. Under pressure from the police, the casino manager agreed to testify against his employer, and was released on bail. Three days later, he was found in his car with two bullets in the back of his head.
Gerry sat on the edge of his chair, hanging on every word. He’d heard stories about casinos cheating their customers, but never anything on a scope like this.
“What happened then?” he asked.
Nick swirled the cubes in his drink. “That’s when things got interesting.”
Chapter 50
At eleven-thirty, Bronco took the elevator downstairs and gave the claim check for his car to the hotel valet. Minutes later he was driving south on Las Vegas Boulevard. It was a sunny day, the desert colors so vivid that they hurt his eyes. He’d always loved the fact that Las Vegas was in the desert. The town was like a mirage that did nothing but rip off suckers, and it was fitting that nothing grew here.
The Instant Replay was five miles from the hotel. He pulled into the gas station across the street and got out of his car. There was a phone booth beside the station, and he made sure the phone was working, then went inside the tiny convenience store, and talked the clerk at the register into giving him a rubber band and some scotch tape.
Back outside, he got into the booth, took out his wallet, and removed twenty single dollar bills and a single hundred. He wrapped the hundred around the wad of singles, secured it with the rubber band, and used the scotch tape to attach it beneath the pay phone. Then, he dialed the phone’s number into his own cell phone.
When he was done, Bronco glanced across the street at the Instant Replay’s parking lot. No cars had come in since he’d arrived, and he guessed Carmichael was still at the hotel with his son.
Bronco drove around until he found a boarded-up Mexican restaurant a block away. Behind the restaurant was a dusty lot. He parked beside the building, got out and popped the trunk, and removed the interior liner which covered the car’s spare tire. In the tire’s spot was an aluminum briefcase, which he removed, then slammed the trunk shut.
The restaurant had been closed a long time, its windows boarded with plywood. He removed his shoes and socks, and climbed onto the roof of the car clutching the briefcase. He placed the briefcase onto the restaurant’s roof, then used both hands to hoist himself up.
The restaurant’s roof was flat and covered with broken glass, and Bronco guessed it was a meeting place for kids to drink beer. The nearby buildings were also one-story, and he didn’t think anyone was going to see him if he kept low. Sitting cross-legged on the roof, he popped the briefcase, and removed the telescopic lens, barrel, and stock of the Sauer 202 “varmint” hunting rifle. He took his time assembling the weapon.
At ten minutes of twelve, Bronco raised his rifle, and began to take note of the cars entering the Instant Replay’s parking lot through the cross hairs of its telescopic lens. It was a busy place, and he saw a variety of different people pull into the lot, and go inside.
At noon, a black Mercedes with tinted windows came into the lot. The driver’s door sprung open, and a man wearing lots of gold chains hopped out and hurried inside. He looked like a two-bit hustler, and Bronco guessed this was Joey Carmichael.
Bronco carefully put his rifle onto the roof. Opening his cell phone, he got the Instant Replay’s phone number from information, and called the number. A few moments later was talking to a girl who sounded sixteen. He asked for Carmichael.
“Anybody here named Carmichael?” she called into the bar.
Someone said yes, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Guess who,” Bronco said.
“Tommy Pico? Where are you?”
“I’m nearby. There’s a pay phone across the street at the gas station,” Bronco said. “I’ll call you there in a minute.”
“What the hell are you trying to pull?”
“I wanted to make sure you came by yourself. You can never be too careful.”
“Don’t screw with me, Pico. I’m warning you.”
“Goodbye.”
Bronco killed the connection. He retrieved the pay phone’s number from his cell phone’s memory bank, and hit Send. Hearing the call go through, he placed the phone down on the roof, then picked up his rifle, and stared through the telescopic lens at the Instant Replay’s front door.
Carmichael came out of the restaurant a few moments later. He could have shot him right then, only he’d learned that it was damn hard to hit a moving target, especially at this range. Carmichael crossed the street and entered the phone booth. He looked around suspiciously, then snatched up the receiver. Bronco picked up his cell phone, and stuck it into the crook of his neck.
“Hello?” Carmichael said suspiciously.
“Hey,” Bronco said.
“This better not be a trick.”
“No tricks. I want to ask you something before I give you the money.”
“You’re pushing it, Pico.”
“Who else did you tell about me?”
“Why? Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“I didn’t tell a soul. I didn’t think anyone would care. Now, where’s the money?”
“Reach beneath the phone. I left a present for you.”
Through the lenses, he watched Carmichael stick his hand underneath the pay phone, and tear away the wad of money. Carmichael was no fool, and he pulled off the rubber band, and saw the deception.
“You lousy bastard,” he said.
“See yah.”
He squeezed the trigger, then felt the rifle’s sharp recoil. The plexiglass wall of the phone booth exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. The bullet had blown off the front plate of the machine, causing hundreds of coins to spill out. Carmichael spun around, and started to run, his body covered in broken glass.
He took aim and fired again. Carmichael had reached the curb. His body twisted violently as a giant blood stain appeared in the center of his shirt. He halted momentarily, then somehow found the strength to start walking across the street toward his car in the restaurant lot. In the middle of the street he stopped, and fell to his knees.
Carmichael looked up into the cloudless sky. The bills were still clutched in his hands. His fingers opened, and they fell and were picked up by the wind. He pitched forward and lay motionless on the pavement.
Bronco lowered the rifle. Served the bastard right.
“Daddy!”
Bronco felt his heart start to race. The voice had come from the vicinity of the restaurant. He lifted the rifle, and found the child through the lenses. A boy of maybe ten, with cute blond bangs and an iPhone dangling around his neck. He had jumped out of the Mercedes, and was running toward his father’s lifeless body.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
The boy knelt down and tried to gather his father in his arms. He started to scream, his youthful wail ripping into Bronco’s very soul.
What have I done? Bronco thought.
Bronco thought he was going to be sick. He jumped off the roof and tossed the rifle into the trunk of his Lexus. Normally, he would have cleaned up a
fter himself, and made sure nothing was left behind that might lead the police to him. But those were the farthest thoughts from his mind. All he could think about was the boy, and the fact that he’d just seen his old man die. He drove back to the Mandalay Bay hearing police sirens going in the opposite direction, filling the air with panic.
He walked into the Mandalay Bay five minutes later, still feeling sick. He needed to lie down, and headed for the bank of elevators to go upstairs to his room. A brightly colored parrot in a cage in the lobby screeched at him. Someone said, “Mr. Pico?” and he went to the concierge desk where an attractive young woman stood.
“What’s up.”
She held a ticket in her hand. “The Loopers are playing in the House of Blues tonight. Front row ticket, compliments of the house.”
He waved her off. The image of the kid holding his dead father in his arms was stuck in his head like a bad dream. He couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how hard he tried. He went to the elevators and pulled out his room key. Across the way were a bank of glittering slot machines with yellow police tape stretched across several of the machines. A bellman walked by, and he stopped him.
“What’s wrong with those slot machines?”
“A group of gaming agents shut them down,” the bellman explained.
“Any idea why?
“I guess they’re not working right. Have a nice day.”
Bronco went over to check the slot machines out. The manufacturer’s plate was usually found on the left side. Kneeling, he stuck his head between two of the machines, and read the plate. It was made by Universal. Then he checked out the others. They were made by Universal as well.
Shit.
Going upstairs to his suite, he sat on the couch, and stared into space. The slot machine scam was worthless now that the police knew about it. He could only hope that Xing hadn’t heard, and that he’d be able to make the exchange before they found out.
If he didn’t get the Pai Gow scam, his cheating days were over. And then what was he going to do? Live a normal life? He didn’t know what that meant.
He went into the bathroom and washed his face, then stared into the mirror at the black hole that was his soul. He’d wanted to be normal once. Falling in love with Marie had done that to him, and having a kid. But it hadn’t lasted. His wife had gone to jail, and the court had thrown Mikey into a foster home. That was the extent of what he knew about the normal life. It didn’t last.