Grift Sense

by James Swain

  “Which is?”

  “Nola is as crooked as a corkscrew,” Valentine said. “There's something bigger going on here, just like you said two days ago. Fontaine spent a long time planning this one, and Nola helped him.”

  Sammy boxed the deck, deep in thought.

  “How's Wily really doing?”

  “He's trying,” Valentine said.

  “Like a dog trying to walk on its hind legs?”

  Valentine smiled. “Something like that.”

  “One day, I caught Wily eating fried chicken behind the craps table. The guy shooting the dice is taking us to the cleaners. Wily goes over and throws the chicken bones under the table. I ask why, he says, ‘Well, it was bad luck for the chicken, wasn't it?'”

  “The place hasn't fallen down yet,” Valentine said. “He's beefed up security, has everybody on his toes.”

  “I begged Nick to do that years ago. We get so many hustlers it isn't funny.”

  “Why's that? The $4.99 buffet?”

  “Very funny,” Sammy said, suddenly getting cranky. He pushed a button and the bed tilted so he was sitting erect. “When it comes to running a casino, Nick's the squarest operator around. He gives people better value. We play handheld games of blackjack, and at craps we let punters press their frontline bets up to ten times at stake. That's true odds. Tell me another house on the Strip that does that.”

  There were a handful of casinos on Fremont Street that shaded the odds in the player's favor, but Valentine knew of no others on the Strip, which was where all the action was.

  “None.”

  “None is right. You don't have to cheat very hard to tilt the odds Nick's giving. When I arrived, the place was a candy store.”

  “Why doesn't Nick play the same odds as everyone else?”

  “I tried to talk him into it,” Sammy said. “Nick wouldn't budge.”

  “Why not?”

  “He's got principles.”

  Valentine thought Sammy was making a joke, and he laughed.

  Sammy's face turned to a snarl. “You spent your whole life in Atlantic City,” he said, making it sound like grade school. “Las Vegas is different. The turnover at most casinos is a hundred percent. Nick's a saint compared to the rest of these owners. He's got profit sharing and health insurance. This stay ain't costing me a dime. What more can I ask for?”

  Valentine looked around the room, which was sleek and contemporary. What was missing was a get-well card, or flowers, or balloons. But maybe that was too much to ask for. In that regard, Las Vegas really was different.

  “I had a visitor yesterday,” Valentine told him.

  “Someone I know?”

  Valentine told him about the cowboy's visit and Fontaine's threat.

  “You think it was the same guy that kneecapped me?”

  “Sure do,” Valentine said.

  “How the hell did he get into your room?”

  “Someone inside the hotel gave him a key.”

  Sammy sat up very straight. “Who?”

  “Could be anybody. A dishwasher, a bellboy, even Wily.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The head of surveillance turned pale. “Okay, so what are you going to do?”

  “Find Nola,” Valentine said.

  “If she's still alive, you mean.”

  “Trust me, she is.”

  Sammy took the blue Bees out of their box and put them through the motions. Valentine had watched a lot of top-notch mechanics over the years, but no one in Sammy's league. Others manipulated the cards; Sammy's fingers made love to them.

  “Start with Sherry Solomon,” Sammy suggested. “If anyone knows Nola's haunts, it's her. She works the graveyard shift, so you'll probably catch her at home.”

  Valentine scribbled the address on a paper napkin. “Thanks. I'll drop by tomorrow.”

  “Bring a good cigar, will you?”

  “You can't smoke in here.”

  “I just want to smell it,” Sammy said.

  In the hallway, Valentine ran into a bearded doctor clutching a clipboard. He wore a troubled expression, and Valentine got the sinking feeling that the news he was about to share with Sammy was not good. The doctor had a good Irish face, filled with freckles and lots of character, and Valentine guessed he was from Boston or New York or some other bastion of civilization back east.

  “How bad?” Valentine asked.

  “Bad enough,” the doctor replied.

  Normally, Valentine would have hung around and lent Sammy some moral support. But his friend lived in a world where compassion was seen as weakness, and Valentine didn't think he'd appreciate the gesture.

  “Take care of my friend,” he whispered.

  Sherry Solomon lived in a futuristic development built on the rocky plains leading up to Red Rock Canyon. Turning the car off the highway, Valentine stared at the endless repetition of yellow stucco homes, their terra-cotta roofs framed by an angry copper sky, the color so vibrant it made his eyes hurt. A cheerful billboard welcomed him to Rainbow Valley, home to future country clubs, Pete Dye golf courses, schools, a hospital, police and fire departments, and, he imagined, lots of ugly strip malls.

  He drove for miles, the rows of identical homes nearly putting him to sleep. As habitats went, it was about as inviting as the surface of the moon. Sherry lived in the last cluster, the remnants of a yard sale littering her front lawn.

  He parked and strolled up the walk. On a card table sat mismatched dishes, plastic coffee mugs, and assorted knickknacks, twenty-five cents each. Also for sale was an assortment of furniture, a deflated waterbed, a ThighMaster, and a box of Cindy Crawford workout tapes. Post-its had been stuck to each with the words Best Offer.

  The front door was ajar. Sticking his head in, Valentine said, “Anybody home?” and heard a shrill voice bid him entrance. It did not sound at all like the young woman he remembered from Nick's office.

  “Is this Sherry Solomon's house?” he inquired.

  “Damn straight. I said come on in!”

  So much for first impressions. Shutting the door behind him, he was greeted by a miniature canine with a pink ribbon in its hair. It was a cockapoo, normally a docile breed. This one was all teeth, and Valentine kicked it in the mouth.

  “Scram,” he said.

  He found Sherry in the dining room yakking on a cell phone. She wore ultratight gym shorts and a sleeveless UNLV jersey, her bronzed skin looking radioactive in the bright sunlight that poured through the curtainless windows. She gave him a puzzled look.

  “You the real estate guy?”

  “Tony Valentine,” he said. “We met in Nick's office.”

  “Oh yeah. What can I do for you, Tony?”

  “I'm helping the police look for Nola,” he lied.

  “I gotta run,” she said into the phone, and killed the power. She eyed him suspiciously. “You're helping the police? I thought you were working for Nick.”

  Valentine swallowed hard. There was no dumber lie than the one he'd just told. All Sherry had to do was call Longo and his goose was cooked. In answer to his prayers, the dog staggered in looking as drunk as a sailor and peed on the salmon-colored carpet.

  “Aw, for the love of Christ,” Sherry screeched, running to the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels. Sponging up the mess, she said, “Look, Tony, I don't know what you're up to, and I don't care. Personally, I don't give a rat's ass what happens to Nola. She had her chance to grab the brass ring and she blew it.”

  The brass ring. Valentine had to think hard about that one.

  “Any idea where she might be hiding out?”

  “In the arms of Frank Fontaine.”

  “You think so? The police don't think she had anything to do with it. Neither does Sammy Mann.”

  “Screw Sammy and screw the police,” Sherry swore. “She's guilty as sin.”

  The cockapoo was peeing again. Bending down, she cleaned the mess up, then stuck the wet paper towel in the dog's face. “See this, you stupid little mutt? Keep it up and you can
live at the pound.”

  “Maybe there's something wrong with its bladder,” Valentine said, not wanting to see the dog punished on his account.

  “It's always something,” Sherry replied, without a hint of sympathy. “Look, I need to run.”

  “One more question,” he said.

  “You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

  He'd been called a lot worse over the years, but never by someone as downright mean as this snake. In a measured tone, he said, “You and Nola were living together when she and Nick had their fling, right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “The night Nick took Nola on the catwalk and they had sex, Nola told you she saw something that wasn't kosher with the casino's security.”

  “That's right. She said there was a fight or something.”

  “A fight?”

  “Some drunk broad took a swing at a dealer and all hell broke loose. Broad's husband went ballistic, started beating people up. Guy was a professional wrestler or something.”

  “And during the commotion, Nola saw the flaw.”

  “I guess.”

  “She never elaborated?”

  “She said that she could close Nick down if she wanted to. I tried to pump her, but she wouldn't tell. I think it made her feel powerful, knowing she had Nick by the balls.”

  The cockapoo was clawing her leg, feeling better, and Sherry scooped him up and let him lick her face.

  “That's momma's little boy,” she cooed, trading kisses. “Nasty man got you all upset, didn't he? Coming in here and pissing Mommy off. We won't let that happen again, will we?”

  To her visitor she said, “Anything else?”

  “You moving in with Nick?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Yeah, I'm moving in with Nick.”

  “Does he know, or were you going to make it a surprise?”

  Sherry marched him to the front door. Stepping outside into the desert inferno, Valentine spied a three-hundred-pound whale of a woman lugging the ThighMaster down the street. On the card table, she'd left three dollars as payment.

  “Can I give you some advice?” he asked.

  “Get lost,” Sherry replied, slamming the door.

  “Don't sell your house,” he said anyway, then traipsed across the lawn to his baking car.

  On the way back into town, Valentine stopped by Bill Higgins's office on Clark Street and talked his friend into going off campus for a cup of coffee and a chat. Higgins chose a greasy spoon within spitting distance of Glitter Gulch, a four-block galaxy of neon and twinkling lights that defined the original downtown of Las Vegas. The Gulch was the epitome of Old West boomtown decadence, the smaller hotels and casinos still clinging to their seedy homespun ways.

  “Coffee's okay, but the food will kill you,” Higgins cautioned as a sullen waitress approached their booth. “I once saw a guy nearly choke to death on a jelly doughnut.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  The waitress took their order and sauntered off. Higgins pointed out the window at a row of dilapidated buildings across the street. “See that gym on the second floor? The toughest guys in Vegas hang out in that gym, guys who used boxing to climb out of the ghetto. When Marvin Hagler fought Tommy Hearns, that was where he worked out. No air-conditioned tent at Caesars for him.”

  Valentine remembered the bout well, nine minutes of glorious mayhem that ended with Hagler's arm raised in triumph and Hearns on his back counting stars. Hearns had been younger, taller, and the superior ring technician. Hagler's only advantage had been his heart.

  “You get to see Hagler train?”

  “I went one day at lunch. The gym was like an oven. I lasted twenty minutes.”

  “How long was Hagler there?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Their coffee came, a witch's brew that Higgins tempered with two packets of cream and plenty of sugar. Valentine drank his black.

  “Any luck finding Nola?” Higgins asked, blowing on his cup.

  “Not yet. How about you?”

  “Nothing. We're kind of strapped right now with all the big hitters rolling into town for the Holyfield fight.”

  “Wouldn't be too hard for Fontaine to go out to the airport and come back in as a tourist, would it?”

  Higgins put his cup down. “That's an interesting idea. You really think he'd try something as brazen as that?”

  “He did it in Atlantic City once,” Valentine said. “We missed him completely.”

  “You think Nola's with him?”

  “I do. In disguise, of course.”

  “Where's he staying?”

  “Hard to say. Someplace large and impersonal that's in walking distance to the Acropolis. He's probably checking out the new security measures as we speak.”

  “What's his identity this time?”

  “Something ordinary, like a lightbulb salesman from Minnesota with two-point-four kids and a doting wife. His hair is a different color and he's wearing elevators in his shoes. He probably has some new facial hair and a really ugly wardrobe.”

  “You know this guy pretty well.”

  “Not well enough to catch him.”

  “When's he going to take another stab at Nick's?”

  “Soon. He'll wait until the casino is packed. The day after the fight might be an opportune time. Lots of noise and adrenaline.”

  “Any idea how he'll do it?”

  “No. But I think someone inside the casino will be helping him.”

  Higgins winced like he'd been kicked in the solar plexus. Inventory was impossible to track on a casino floor, and if an employee was involved in a scam, millions of dollars could walk out the front door.

  “You're giving me an ulcer, you know that?”

  “There's still time,” Valentine said.

  “To do what? Update my résumé? Look Tony, every time a casino gets whacked in this town, I get my tit put in a wringer. I'm going to be out of work if this thing comes down.”

  “I can stop him.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I'm not a cop anymore. I don't have to stay within the letter of the law, if you know what I mean.” Valentine leaned back from the table as their waitress rudely slapped down a check. Only when she was out of earshot did he speak again. “Give me the information you have, including the wiretaps of Nola's phone.”

  “No,” Higgins said.

  “Why not?”

  “Let's say you hunt Fontana down and you end up killing him. That makes me an accessory to murder.”

  Valentine saw where he was going. “So I won't kill him.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  Valentine nodded.

  “Come again?”

  “Yes, it's a promise.”

  Higgins finished his coffee, grimacing until the very last drop. He tossed a few dollars on the table and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I'm off at six. I'll come by the Acropolis and drop off what I have. I'll bring a tape recorder so you can listen to the wiretaps.”

  “I really appreciate it, Bill.”

  “Hey, look,” Higgins said.

  Valentine followed Higgins's gaze out the window. Across the street, four black gladiators in skimpy gym clothes emerged, their sinewy bodies dripping perspiration. A playful exchange of punches quickly escalated into warfare. A hooded figure, taller and broader in the shoulders, came out of the stairwell and began to mix it up with them, slapping the combatants with his open palms, sending them reeling into parked cars until they begged uncle.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Valentine asked.

  “The People's Champ,” Higgins said. “I got two hundred bucks riding on his winning. How about you?”

  Valentine shrugged. Holyfield's opponent was a foul-mouthed tattoo-covered ex-con who exemplified everything wrong with sports in America. Valentine wanted to see him lose, but the desire was not great enough to overcome the even greater aversion he
had for wagering on sporting events.

  “You should,” Higgins said.

  Valentine shrugged again.

  “I'm serious.”

  “Give me one good reason why.”

  “Because it's good versus evil, that's why.”

  “And betting on Holyfield is good?”

  “It most certainly is.”

  Valentine had never looked at it that way. Betting tended to bring out the worst in people, and it had never occurred to him that by putting a few bucks down, he'd be striking a blow for the sake of humanity. He slid out of the booth.

  “I'll have to think about it,” Valentine said.

  20

  Twenty minutes later, Valentine found himself stuck in traffic on the Strip. Thousands of newly arrived tourists had hit the streets and transformed the city's main thoroughfare into a pedestrian walkway. Horns blared, engines overheated, and cabbies stood on the hoods of their cars and shouted in murderous rage.

  Where's a cop when you need one? he wondered. He'd promised to call Roxanne and like an idiot had left her home number on his night table. It hadn't helped that he didn't know her last name and couldn't look her up. He glanced at his watch—nearly five. Flipping the turn indicator on, he maneuvered the Cadillac Nick had loaned him into the front entrance of the Desert Inn. Tossing the valet a twenty, he threw his sports jacket over his shoulder and hit the pavement, the Acropolis shimmering miragelike in the distance.

  Florida was never this hot. You could go out at night, walk around, and not be afraid of bursting into flames. He crossed the street in slow motion and caught his breath in the welcome shade of a bus stop. It wasn't any cooler.

  By the next block, the heat had risen through his loafers and his feet were burning up. Hundreds of people streamed around him, oblivious to his condition. He looked hopelessly up and down the street. In any other city, there would be someone hawking ice-cold drinks and umbrellas. Not Las Vegas—the only free enterprise here was located inside the casinos.

  He heard voices. Women singing, the melodious words floating above his head. No one else seemed to notice. What the hell was going on? Crossing at the light, the voices grew stronger, and he shaded his eyes and stared straight ahead. A block away, he saw Nick's harem of ex-wives standing in the fountains, serenading him.