Grift Sense

by James Swain

  The Mexican frowned, not seeing the humor. “Who you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Never seen you before,” the Mexican said.

  The Intrepid's interior was heating up, his precious cool air escaping. With sweat pouring down his brow, Underman said, “Look, do I look like trouble to you?”

  The Mexican lifted his head, peering inside the rental.

  “Maybe,” he said. He picked up a walkie-talkie from the floor and called inside. “What your name?”

  “Don't push it,” Underman said.

  The Mexican's brow furrowed suspiciously.

  “You not gonna tell me your name?”

  “I don't think so,” Underman said through clenched teeth. “Let me ask you a question. How well do you know Little Hands?”

  The Mexican's face turned blank.

  Underman smiled. “Good. I just wanted to be sure we understood each other.”

  The Mexican chewed his lip, considering. Then said, “He's behind trailer with red door.”

  Underman pulled into the squalid compound and got out of his car. The ground was soft beneath his feet and he saw a squashed scorpion where his tires had been. He walked around the trailer with the red door, the sun beating down mercilessly on his head and shoulders. It was like descending into hell, one step at a time.

  Little Hands was in the back with his shirt off. It was a frightening sight, his muscles popping grotesquely as he stuck a crowbar into the dashboard of a Volkswagen Beetle and tore it from the car. The Beetle was brand new, a temporary license taped to the rear window. Its owner, a freckle-faced whore wearing a pink nightshirt, stood helplessly nearby, kicking the ground with her bare feet.

  Underman found a shady spot and watched Little Hands dismantle the vehicle. The rules against the women stashing money were strict. Every room was wired, allowing management to listen in as negotiations were made and prices settled on. Once the money was collected, it was the woman's responsibility to deliver it to the office, where it was held, to be split in half later.

  “You gonna tell me where you're hiding it?” Little Hands said when he had reduced the Beetle to a worthless shell. He ripped the last seat apart and tossed the stuffing at the freckle-faced whore's feet. “Or what?”

  “Ain't nothing to tell,” she said sullenly.

  “You think I'm fucking stupid?”

  “Never gave it much thought.”

  Little Hands went to work on the body. German engineering was no match for American bodybuilding, and soon the car looked like a hot rod, its frame stripped down to almost nothing.

  “These Michelins are worth something,” Little Hands said, whacking the front tires with the crowbar. “You want me to puncture them, or are you going to tell me where it is?”

  The freckle-faced whore crossed her arms. Little Hands jabbed the right front tire, causing it to explode. Underman jumped as the hubcap went flying. A small, tightly wrapped plastic bag fell out of a hollow cavity in the tire. The whore burst into tears, then ran into one of the trailers.

  Underman approached Little Hands, his floppy hat in his hand. Little Hands squinted at him.

  “Mr. Underman,” he said with surprise. “Fancy seeing you out here. Looking for a little action?”

  “You and I need to talk,” Underman said under his breath.

  Little Hands pulled a sleeveless T-shirt on over his sweaty, bulging torso. “I got my own trailer; nobody will bother us.”

  “In my car,” Underman said.

  “I'm not supposed to leave the premises. I'm locked up in here, just like the whores.”

  “Can you get a pass?”

  Picking up a towel, Little Hands wiped the sweat from his little hands. Underman tried not to stare, knowing how it would set his client into a rampage.

  “What's this all about, Mr. Underman?”

  Underman got right up next to him. “Guess who ripped off the Acropolis the other night.”

  “I dunno. Who?”

  “Sonny Fontana.”

  “Come on, Mr. Underman. You and I both know that ain't so. I snuffed that greaseball up in Lake Tahoe.”

  “You killed someone else,” Underman said.

  “Can't be.”

  Underman nodded. “Fontana's alive. Now, how about you and I take a little drive?”

  Underman had defended Little Hands four times in jury trials, all of which ended in acquittals. In each trial, the charge had been murder in the first degree, and in each case Underman had swayed the jury to believe his client's side of the story without ever putting his client on the witness stand. To do otherwise would have been suicide.

  Underman drove to a spot in the desert directly between the two brothels and pulled off the road. Leaving the engine running, he reached beneath his seat and removed a manila envelope. Little Hands was watching a rattler crawl beneath the car and did not seem to notice when the envelope was dropped into his lap.

  “They threw a big party for me at Caesars,” he said, glancing Underman's way. “There were girls and booze and a band.”

  “I heard about it,” Underman said.

  “And there was a cake. No one ever threw a party for me for snuffing somebody before. It was special, you know?”

  “I'm sure it was,” Underman said.

  “And now you're telling me it wasn't Sonny Fontana. Shit. You think they're going to ask for their money back?”

  “They might,” Underman said truthfully.

  “So what am I gonna do?”

  “Find Fontana,” Underman said. “Do the job right this time.”

  Little Hands tore the envelope open. Two black-and-white photographs fell in his lap. He picked up Fontaine's first and examined it.

  “This what the greaseball looks like now?”

  Underman nodded. “My sources say he's living near the Strip.”

  “Cute bitch,” Little Hands said, examining the second photo.

  “Name's Nola Briggs,” Underman said. “She's a blackjack dealer at the casino. She's holed up with Fontana.”

  “So what you're saying is, I find her, he'll be nearby.”

  “That's exactly what I'm saying.”

  “This might take a while,” Little Hands said.

  For an old man, Underman could move like lightning when he had to. Jumping out of the rental, he popped the trunk, retrieved a heavy paper bag, and was back behind the wheel before a drop of sweat could form on his forehead. The paper bag landed with a loud thump! in Little Hands's lap.

  Little Hands peered inside the bag. “Jesus. There must be—”

  “Fifty grand,” Underman said. “Turn the town upside down if you have to. Just find that son of a bitch. You think you can do that?”

  Little Hands was all smiles. “Mr. Underman, with this much money, I could invade a country.”

  “It shouldn't be that hard.”

  “No, sir.”

  On the drive back, Little Hands memorized the photos, shredded them and tossed them out the window. Underman had once visited an apartment where Little Hands had holed up for a while. Every single thing that could be torn into little pieces had been. It was simply the way he was.

  “The casino bosses sent you, didn't they?” Little Hands asked as the migrant brothel came into view.

  Underman said nothing, letting him believe what he wanted.

  “I appreciate it, is what I'm saying. Getting a second chance and all. I won't let them down. That's a promise.”

  “I'll pass it along,” Underman said.

  “What about the bitch?”

  “What about her?”

  “I find her . . . what?”

  Underman had wondered about that very thing during the drive up. Having Fontaine killed wasn't going to bother anyone—hell, the casino owners might throw Little Hands another party—but Nola was a different story. She appeared to be an unwilling pawn, and he felt genuinely sorry for her. Still, she had dragged him into this, and he was not prepared to lose his license or go to jail be
cause of her misfortune. The best thing that could happen to her would be if she disappeared as well.

  “I'll leave that up to you,” the defense attorney said.

  19

  Only in Las Vegas did Valentine think he could start his day by having an argument over whether a guy was dead.

  He'd been waiting for an elevator to take him downstairs when two medics pushing a corpse on a gurney came out of a room. Ignoring him, one of the medics punched the button for the service elevator, then popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

  Valentine tried to act nonchalant. The corpse's feet were visible, and he guessed the deceased to be a middle-aged white male of medium height and above-average weight. Back in Atlantic City, guys fitting this profile had dropped about once a week. Their stories were always the same: In for a convention or trade show, they'd hit the town like a runaway train, gambling and drinking and whoring for a few days without sleep or proper nourishment until the ole ticker finally had enough and quit.

  “Service elevator must be out of order,” the gum-chewing medic remarked, the name skull stitched above his breast pocket. “We're going to have to wheel him through the lobby, Larry.”

  “That's just swell,” Larry said. “Better pull the sheet back.”

  A regular elevator came and Valentine held the door. As they descended, he watched Larry draw the sheet back and expose the deceased's head, which bore the bemused expression of someone who'd died doing something he probably shouldn't have been.

  “So how long's he been dead?” Valentine asked.

  “He's not dead,” Larry said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me,” Larry said. “Man's not dead.”

  Valentine put his hand on the deceased's neck. The pulse was long gone, the skin ice cold. He guessed six hours.

  “You willing to swear to that?” Valentine asked.

  “Why?” Larry said. “You a cop?”

  “Ex. And having been around a few corpses, I'd say you'd be doing this gentleman's memory a disservice by claiming he's still alive.”

  “Man's not dead,” Larry said, stone-faced.

  Valentine became incensed. What kind of fool did this gruesome twosome take him for? Reaching the lobby, he put his hand on the gurney, halting the medics' departure.

  “You'll lose your license if I report you,” Valentine said.

  “Like hell we will,” Larry said.

  “Man's not dead,” Skull said, cracking a loopy smile. When Valentine would not let go, he added, “It's a game, mister. Make a scene, and you'll get thrown out of the casino.”

  “Like hell I will!”

  The two medics burst out laughing. They both had a ghoulish sense of humor, which Valentine found distasteful. Respect the dead, and they won't come back to haunt you. Releasing the gurney, he ran to the front desk. It was empty; he went into the casino looking for someone who wasn't sleepwalking.

  The casino was empty except for an old lady with liver-spotted forearms as big as two-by-fours pumping the slots. Desperate, he ducked into the alcove that housed One-Armed Billy and grabbed Joe Smith by the arm.

  “Come here,” Valentine said, pulling Joe toward the front door as the medics loaded the corpse into a waiting ambulance. “I want you to be a witness to something.”

  “I'm not supposed to leave my post,” Joe said without conviction, eager for something to do. “What's up?”

  “I want you to look at this guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “This dead guy.”

  Outside, Valentine stopped the medics and drew the sheet back. Joe put his giant hand on the dead guy's chest and felt for a heartbeat.

  “He's mighty cold,” Joe said, crossing himself.

  “Does he appear to be breathing?” Valentine asked.

  The dead guy broke wind, cracking up the medics. Holding a smile, Joe said, “No, sir.”

  “Any signs of life?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “So you'd agree that he's dead?”

  Joe shook his head in the negative.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Man's not dead,” Joe muttered.

  The medics slapped their sides and laughed some more. Thinking the whole world crazy, Valentine ran back inside, hoping Roxanne was in the back room doing the books, only to hear the ambulance turn on its siren and peel out. Joe came inside, and Valentine followed him into the alcove.

  “You just broke the law, you know that,” Valentine said, steaming.

  “Law's different here,” Joe said, sitting on his stool.

  “Care to fill me in?”

  “Nobody dies in the Acropolis,” Joe replied.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nick's rule.”

  “Well, it didn't work with that guy. He was as dead as roadkill.”

  Joe flashed a toothy grin. “Yes, he was. But it don't get reported until they reach the hospital.”

  “You're saying that Nick pays the coroner's office to say that every stiff that gets wheeled out of here still has a pulse.”

  “You catch on fast.”

  “Any other rules of King Nick that I should be aware of?”

  Joe rubbed his chin, his pose reminiscent of a great thinker. “Well, there's the rule about me and this chair. I'm supposed to keep my butt glued to it.”

  “All the time?”

  “Uh-huh. Ain't supposed to leave Billy.”

  “You mean what I just did could have gotten you fired?”

  “Yes, sir. Nick's afraid of getting ripped off.”

  “Doesn't want to make that twenty-six million payoff unless he has to, huh?”

  “You got that.”

  “Mind if I examine your bride?”

  “Be my guest.”

  One-Armed Billy was made of cast iron and had six reels and a single pay line—line up the cherries and win the jackpot. It was an antique, its popularity probably the only thing keeping it from the scrap heap. Today's slots were computer driven, with microprocessors controlling the reels and sophisticated silicon chips to deter tampering. Slots like Billy were easily ripped off, but Valentine didn't think Nick had anything to worry about. By law, all gaming areas in a casino had to be under the watchful eye of a surveillance camera. Slots came under the heaviest scrutiny, and Billy's alcove had two ceiling-mounted pan/tilt/zoom cameras, commonly called PTZs.

  “Why's Nick so paranoid?” Valentine asked.

  Joe shrugged his broad shoulders. “Beats me. I just do what I'm told, you know?”

  “Sure. I'd better run.”

  “Don't go turning up any more dead guys.”

  “I'll try not to,” Valentine promised.

  “I figured you'd be back in Florida counting your money,” Sammy Mann said from behind a gauzy white curtain.

  Valentine stood in an otherwise empty hospital room, a plastic bag from the gift shop dangling between his hands. Shadows played on the curtain's hot fabric, and he watched a nurse stick a needle in Sammy's arm.

  “Ouch,” Sammy yelped. “Take it easy, will you, honey?” To Valentine, he said, “So how's the joint holding up without me?”

  “Nick's got Wily running security.”

  Sammy emitted a deathly groan, its timbre sending a shiver down Valentine's spine. He whisked away the curtain to see the nurse frantically shaking her patient. Sammy looked like he'd just checked out and the poor nurse looked ready to join him. Valentine caught the nurse's eye, then grabbed the black onyx ring on Sammy's third finger and tugged. Sammy's eyes snapped open.

  “That's not funny,” the patient said.

  “You know what they say. You can't take it with you.”

  The nurse got out of their hair. Valentine tossed the gift-shop bag onto Sammy's chest and pulled up a chair. Sammy was in traction, his left leg dangling from a Rube Goldberg contraption hanging from the ceiling. He wore a loose-fitting cotton gown that exposed the tired, ropy flesh of his neck and spindly arms. On the night table sat
the TV remote, a buzzer for the nurse, water, and a stack of crossword puzzle books. Sammy beamed as two decks of Bees, one red, the other blue, fell from the bag.

  “You remembered,” he mumbled.

  “I figured you still practiced,” Valentine said.

  “Every day.”

  Tearing away the plastic, Sammy removed the red deck from its cardboard box. Tossing away the junk cards and jokers, he began to expertly riffle-shuffle and cut the cards on the sheet, which lay flat across his stomach, the pasteboards moving with such unerring precision that even to Valentine's trained eye there did not appear to be a hint of subterfuge. Squaring the deck, Sammy turned the cards face up and ribbon-spread them in a wide arc. Not a single card was out of the deck's original order.

  Valentine let out a whistle. Back in the fifties, a New Jersey certified public accountant named Herb Zarrow had devised a revolutionary way to false-shuffle a deck, the mechanics perfectly miming a real mix. Sammy's rendition was pure poetry, and Valentine guessed he had a game on the side he was working; probably a bunch of old geezers he squeezed for pocket change.

  “I need your help,” Valentine said.

  “You still on the case?”

  “Nick's got me on a new assignment. He wants me to find Nola.”

  “Has Cupid's bow struck again?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “I think Nola's dead,” Sammy said.

  “I don't,” Valentine replied. “But I'd like to hear your theory.”

  Gathering the cards, Sammy spoke as if he'd already given the matter serious thought. “I think Nola went to Mexico with some cockamamie notion that she could rip off Nick and pay him back for humiliating her. Sonny played along until he realized she was the perfect patsy.”

  “Learned how to read her and sent her home?”

  “Exactly. There's no law against reading a dealer. He's done nothing illegal, and neither has she.”

  “Then why did do you think he killed her?”

  “Because she knows where he lives. Mexico City isn't as far away as you might think. She's a risk.”

  “And he kneecapped you for old times' sake,” Valentine said.

  “Exactly. You agree?”

  “I'm sticking with my original theory.”