by James Swain
Name: Fontaine, Frank
Sex: Male
Height: 5'7”–5'10”
Weight: 150–160
Age: 40–45
Heritage: Italian
Hair color: black, weave
Facial hair: none
Identifying marks/tattoos: none observed
Disguises: none observed
Right- or left-handed: right
Smoke: expensive cigars, cigarettes
Drink: club soda
Nervous habits: none observed
Dress: designer, expensive
Attitude: cool, relaxed
Game(s) played: blackjack
Is dealer involved in scam? yes
Are other players involved? none observed
Player's betting habits: erratic
Range of player's bets: $100.00–$1,000.00
Does player conform to basic rules of game being played? no
How is player cheating (list all possible methods)? NA
Other known information: far-sighted; likes basketball
Done, Valentine hit the Enter button. Creep File would now take Fontaine's profile and compare it against every hustler in the database. Those who matched Fontaine's description in four or more categories would be pulled up in a separate file.
Within seconds, the program was done. Valentine scrolled through the matches and counted forty-eight profiles. Fontaine was finally going to get his mask ripped off. It was about time, for Valentine had come to the realization that if he didn't make this guy, he would never get to the bottom of what was going on here.
For the next hour, he read each profile while sipping on a Diet Coke. Thirty-six of the hustlers were serving time or deceased. Of the remaining twelve, he omitted nine because of age and one who'd had a sex change. That left two hustlers: Johnny Lonn and Frank “Bones” Garcia. Valentine knew each man well.
He jumped back and forth between their profiles, which included mug shots from recent arrests. Johnny and Bones were both Italian, were both world-class card counters, and they bore strong physical resemblances to Fontaine. Each man had also run with a gang and knew the ins and outs of orchestrating a major rip-off.
But with each man, there was a problem. In 1993, Johnny had lost his right thumb in a freak car accident; Bones had recently contracted a rare skin condition that had rendered him completely hairless. Neither man could be Fontaine. His hand slapped the dining-room table in frustration.
Pushing his chair back, Valentine went to the suite's picture window and stared down. Like an ugly woman without any makeup, the Strip was all warts and moles in the harsh daylight, and he watched a line of traffic slither snakelike past the hotel. Fontaine's cocky play was his calling card, and Valentine felt certain that he belonged to that elite club responsible not only for ruining casinos but also for fixing major sporting events, even bankrupting a small country or two. Fontaine was somebody special and had gone to a lot of trouble to keep his identity secret.
Calling room service, Valentine ordered a hamburger and a bucket of ice, then sat back down at the dining-room table. The computer had gone to sleep, and he impatiently tapped the Shift key with his finger. Finally, the screen lit up and he scrolled to page one of Creep File.
His eyes fell on the profile of Devon Ames, a Philadelphia-based dice scooter of some renown. Valentine began to read, determined to miss nothing. Like a bloodhound, he was going to sniff Fontaine out, even if meant reading all five thousand profiles in his computer, one at a time.
10
What do you mean, you're dropping charges?” Sammy Mann bellowed, his face a few inches from Pete Longo's.
“You heard me,” the chubby lieutenant replied, parking his butt on his trashed desk and firing up a Marlboro. It was Saturday afternoon, and he wanted to watch some college football; the last thing he needed to hear was this shriveled-up old hustler telling him how to run his investigation. “I'm dropping charges. If you were smart, you'd hire Nola Briggs back ASAP.”
“Are you crazy?” Sammy howled. “She ripped us off!”
“That's debatable. Look, Sammy, her defense attorney, the one and only Felix Underman, had Nola take a polygraph test a few hours ago. The man who administered the test is an ex-detective and a pal of mine. He was kind enough to messenger over a transcript of her questioning. Care to hear it?”
“I sure as hell would,” Sammy said, making the springs sag on the lumpy couch in Longo's rat-hole office. Wily, who sat on the other end, rose a few inches.
“He asked her fifty questions,” Longo said, flipping through the typed transcript. “I'll just share the juicy stuff with you gentlemen. Here's one. ‘Miss Briggs, before he walked into your casino and sat down at your table, had you ever met a gambler named Frank Fontaine before?' Answer: ‘No, it was the first time I ever saw him.'”
Longo looked up into their faces. “The polygraph says she's telling the truth. Here's some more. Question: ‘Do you know what it means to flash?' Answer: ‘Yes. It means that the dealer is illegally flashing her hole card to a player.' Question: ‘Were you flashing your hole card to Frank Fontaine when he was sitting at your table?' Answer: ‘No, I did not flash my hole card to Frank Fontaine.' Question: ‘Have you ever flashed a hole card to a player?' Answer: ‘I'm sure I have, but never intentionally.' Question: ‘Was Frank Fontaine sitting in such a manner that he would have been able to glimpse your hole card?' Answer: ‘No, he was upright. You have to drop your head on the table to glimpse a dealer's hole card. He wasn't doing that.' Question: ‘Did you signal Frank Fontaine in any fashion?' Answer: ‘No, I did not.' Question: ‘Did Frank Fontaine solicit you in any way before this incident took place?' Answer: ‘No, he did not.'”
Longo put the transcript down and gazed tiredly at his two guests. “Her answers are all reading true. I'm sorry to spoil your party, but I've got to let her walk.”
“Maybe she took speed and got her heart racing before she took the test,” Wily suggested, a worried look distorting his blunt features. “Maybe everything she's saying is actually a lie.”
Longo shook his head wearily. “The examiner took her pulse before and after the test was administered. Seventy beats a minute before, eighty-two after. That's within the normal range that the heart rate jumps when someone's strapped to a polygraph.”
“You're saying she's telling the truth,” Sammy said, his face deadpan. “You're saying we're screwed.”
“I don't know if you're screwed or not,” Longo said, glancing impatiently at his watch. “I do know that the guy who administered this test worked for Metro LVPD for eleven years and is the same guy we use when we want a second opinion. He's the best.”
“Nick's going to kill us,” Sammy said. He glanced sideways at Wily, who was nervously scratching a stain on his necktie. “He'll fire us for making him look bad. We're fucked.”
“Don't let her go, Pete,” Wily begged, standing up to plead their case before the chubby lieutenant. “If she walks, we get the blame. We'll never be able to work in Las Vegas again. I got a wife and two kids; Sammy's ready for retirement. You can't make us walk the plank.”
Longo held his palm up like he was directing traffic. “Guys, stop—you're killing me. Evidence is evidence, and you don't have any. I gotta drop the charges.”
“You can't,” Wily insisted.
“Hey,” Longo said, “you should be thanking me. And so should Nick.”
“Thanking you for what?”
“If I drop charges and get you guys to say you're sorry, Nola says she won't sue for false arrest and slander. That lets you boys off the hook.”
“She's threatening to sue us?”
“She sure is. Seems she's got a pretty good case. After all, we arrested her on the basis of evidence you gave us, and that makes Nick liable.”
“You're shitting me,” Wily said.
“No, I'm not. If she can prove that Nick had it out for her and you two were following Nick's orders . . .” Longo shook his head sadly. “I hate to
think of the consequences.”
It was Sammy's turn to stand up. Every time he got together with Longo, the lieutenant made him feel two feet tall. He was always shaking them down for fight tickets and comps and an occasional suite so he could hire a college-age hooker to give him a blow job or entertain his girlfriend of the month. Whoever said gangsters no longer ran in Las Vegas had never been worked over by this lowlife two-bit mutt. It was the experience of a lifetime.
Digging into his pocket, Sammy begrudgingly extracted a Ticket Master envelope. It contained a seat for Tuesday night's Evander Holyfield heavyweight title fight at Caesars, third row center. Scalpers were getting five grand and more for seats this good. He handed it to Longo.
Longo removed the ticket and examined it. “Only one?” he asked innocently.
Wily shot Sammy a helpless glance.
“For the love of Christ,” Sammy swore under his breath. From his other pocket, he removed a second ticket and handed it over.
“You know, I've always been a big fight fan,” Longo said, slipping the two tickets into his sharkskin wallet.
“Me, too,” Wily said. “So's Sammy. Aren't you, Sammy?”
Sammy didn't say anything. They were his tickets. Now he'd have to watch the fight at home on Pay-Per-View or go to a bar with a bunch of other clowns who couldn't afford a real seat.
“What are friends for,” he said through clenched teeth. “So, are you going to help us or not?”
“I can buy you a few days,” Longo said.
Sammy jerked his head around to stare at Longo. “A few days?”
“I should let her walk right now.”
“A few days?”
“Here's what I'll do,” Longo said. “I'm going to ask the judge who arraigned Nola to stall Underman until next week. Tomorrow's Sunday and Monday's a state holiday. That gives you three days to come back to me with hard evidence. Bring me something credible, and I'll gladly lock horns with Underman on Tuesday morning.”
Sammy ran his hand through his thinning hair, not believing what he was hearing. He'd known hoods with better manners than this sorry excuse for a law enforcement officer. Biting his tongue, he said, “We really appreciate it, Pete.”
“You da man,” Wily said apishly.
“It's been a pleasure doing business with you,” Longo said, shaking their hands at the door. “See you boys at the fight.”
“I wish I was going to the fight,” Wily said, pouting as Sammy paid three bucks to get his car out of the lot. “How about you?”
“I'll probably go to a bar or watch it on Pay-Per-View,” Sammy admitted. “I love the fights.”
“Pay-Per-View sucks,” Wily said.
“Well, you can see it on cable. They usually show it a week later.”
“Cable sucks, too. I won't watch cable.”
It was rare for Wily to have an opinion about anything. He was vanilla and proud of it. When they were on the Maryland Parkway, Sammy said, “You got something against the cable company?”
“How many times you seen the fights on cable?” Wily asked.
“I don't know. Say a thousand.”
“A thousand even?”
“No, a thousand and one. Get to the fucking point.”
“You've seen a thousand and one fights, and how many ring girls have you ever seen? Bet you can't count them on the fingers of one hand. The best-looking broads at a fight are the ring girls, and they never show them on cable.”
“And that's why cable sucks.”
“Sucks the big one,” Wily said.
Reaching beneath his seat, Sammy removed a flask of whiskey and removed the top with his teeth. He took a long pull, licking his lips when he was done.
“Why are you drinking again?” Wily asked.
“Because we're screwed.”
“You think Nick will can us?”
“He should.”
For a while they rode in silence, each man considering what that meant. For Sammy, it meant retiring to someplace cheap like Arizona or Florida where he'd spend his days hustling loose change at cards so he could afford to buy premium cigars. Wily's future was not as bleak; for him, there was always a decent-paying job at an Indian reservation casino or on a cruise ship. He'd survive, but he'd do so knowing his best days were behind him.
“Nola was in on it,” Wily said. “You agreed with me.”
“Stupid me,” Sammy said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I didn't think it through. If I'd known this broad was holding a grudge against Nick, I never would have had her arrested. I would have watched her, figured out what she was up to. The scam with Fontaine was a smoke screen; something else was going down, a big con, and we didn't see it.”
They were back at the Acropolis. Sammy lapsed into silence as he passed the busty statuary that illustrated Nick's checkered marital history. He thought about Nola driving past the fountains each day, her hatred ignited by the sculpted mountains of silicone. No wonder she had it in for the boss.
Sammy pulled his car up to the front doors and threw it into park. The casino was dead, the uniformed valet nowhere to be seen. Letting the engine idle, he said, “What the hell is Valentine doing anyway?”
“I talked to him a few hours ago,” Wily said. “He's holed up in his suite on his computer.”
“Did he make Fontaine?”
“Not yet.”
“Who put him in the suite, anyway?”
“I sure as hell didn't.”
Sammy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “What's he charging us, anyway?”
“Thousand bucks a day, plus expenses.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sammy muttered, getting out as the valet came running. “What a thief.”
Sammy found Nick alone on the catwalk, hunched over the railing, his attention consumed by the torrid action on a craps table below. Shadows danced on his face, tiny angels of light coming off a big-chested woman dripping with cubic zirconias. She was trying to make eight the hard way and kissed the dice like she was planning to make love to them if they pulled through.
“Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night,” Nick said after she crapped out, “and I lie in the dark and think about all the crummy things I've done in my life. At least the ones I can remember. They gnaw at you, especially the ones that ended up being worse than you had in mind.”
“Like Nola,” Sammy said quietly.
“I swear to God I don't remember her,” Nick said, breathing heavily. “Now, with her clothes off, it might be a different story.”
Sammy was in no mood to laugh. If Nick was trying to make a confession, it certainly wasn't coming across that way.
“Anyway,” Nick went on, “Nola is a good example. Sherry said we dated for ten days. My guess is we fucked like bunnies for nine, then finally got down to talking. Maybe I did ask her to get her tits blown up; stupider things have come out of my mouth. But the truth is, I was being honest with her. I like my women a certain way. There isn't a crime against that, is there?”
“Not that I know of,” Sammy said.
“So look where my honesty got me,” Nick said, glancing briefly at Sammy before returning his attention to the tables. “I've got a real enemy in this broad.”
“You think Sherry's leveling with us?”
“She's not clever enough to make something like that up,” Nick said. “Nola definitely has it in for me.”
Sensing Nick's reflective mood, Sammy gently broke the bad news to him. “The police want to drop charges. Seems she passed a polygraph with flying colors.”
“Beautiful,” Nick said.
Nick began to take a walk. Sammy followed, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. They stopped at the blackjack pit and both men put their elbows on the railing. The tables were half full, the action light.
“I do know one thing,” Sammy said after a minute.
“Only one?” Nick said.
“It's a figure of speech.”
> “I know what it is,” Nick snapped. “So what's this one thing you know?”
“I know there isn't a flaw in our security system,” Sammy replied. “Nobody can waltz in here and start robbing us without the alarms going off. No one's going to ruin you, boss.”
Down below, a dealer had busted and was paying off the table. Several players had doubled down on their bets and the two men silently added up the house's losses: over twelve hundred on the turn of a single card.
Nick said, “It won't take much. Fifty grand here, a hundred grand there. It all adds up. You hear what I'm saying?”
Sammy swallowed hard: It was the first time Nick had come out and admitted his financial shape was nothing to write home about. If the Acropolis had to shut down because of losses at the tables, he and Wily would never find work anywhere ever again.
“I won't let you down,” Sammy promised him.
Nick thumped him fondly on the back.
“Glad to hear it,” he said.
11
It was past nine o'clock when Valentine scrolled up the last profile in Creep File. He stared at the computer screen, his eyes aching. Outside, the neon city had come alive, and he was itching to go downstairs and take a walk, his brain fried by his notebook's little blue screen.
Staring him in the face was Chan Zing, a notorious card marker from Taiwan. Using the finely sharpened nail on his left pinky, Zing would edge-nick all the high cards in a blackjack game, allowing him to know if the dealer's hole card was high or low. Zing was a crafty guy capable of many things, but turning himself into a sweet-talking Italian was not one of them.
Valentine exited the program and shut down the notebook. This was turning into a nightmare. Frank Fontaine was hiding in his computer and he couldn't find the guy. Was old age robbing him of his powers of deduction, or was Fontaine a hell of a lot more clever than he'd originally thought?