Grift Sense

by James Swain

  The crowd parted and Nick drove through.

  “He doesn't look sick,” a man in a tuxedo yelled.

  “He married his sister,” Nick yelled back. “That sick enough for you, buddy?”

  The cart still on the sidewalk, Nick pulled up to the busy valet stand, hopped out, and tossed the uniformed kid a fifty.

  “I'll take good care of her, Mr. Nicocropolis,” the kid promised.

  “You'd better,” Nick said.

  Valentine followed his host into Caesars plush casino. The tables were jumping, the players wall to wall. Nick did a little jig as they sifted through the crowd, the electric atmosphere putting a noticeable jump in his step. Jay Sarno, the impresario who had single-handedly built Caesars, had themed the hotel after a Roman orgy. It had not been planned as a family destination and never would be one.

  Passing a sea of blinking slots, they detoured into a shopping promenade with artificial waterfalls and lifelike statues that shifted poses every few minutes. Pleasant 3-D images lit up the domed ceiling, the air filled with the soothing sounds of a rain forest.

  “I hate this crap,” Nick swore under his breath. “Casinos are supposed to sell dreams, not illusions. You know what I'm saying?”

  Valentine nodded, remembering Sammy Mann's comments about the odds Nick offered. “No magic acts for you, huh?”

  “Never,” Nick swore.

  Signs directed them to a bank of doors, which opened onto a parking lot. The boxing ring sat a hundred yards behind the casino, hemmed in by rows of bleachers that rose straight up into the sky. Nick handed his tickets to an attendant, and a toga-clad waitress escorted them to their seats, which were fifth row center. Then she took their drink order.

  “Jay Sarno is the smartest guy who's ever lived,” Nick said when their drinks came. “Back in '78 when Atlantic City opened, everyone out here panicked. But not Jay. Instead, he started staging prizefights. Each fight got a little better, then Jay went and staked fifteen million for Leonard–Hearns. What a night that was!”

  Valentine remembered the fight well. Sugar Ray Leonard and Tommy Hearns, two undefeated, charismatic boxers, fought in Caesars parking lot for the undisputed welterweight championship. The fight had attracted every major gambler in the world and disappointed no one. Atlantic City never recovered.

  Nick clicked his fake beer against Valentine's bottled water.

  “Here's to catching Frank Fontaine.”

  “I'll drink to that,” Valentine said.

  Two Hispanic flyweights entered the diamond-bright boxing ring. A referee gave them their instructions. The bell rang. The fighters met in the ring's center and whaled away at each other.

  They fought to a draw and a chorus of boos. Valentine clapped anyway. Fighting to a draw was considered noble in most parts of the world, even worthy of celebration. So what if the kids stunk? They'd fought their hearts out and deserved something for it.

  “My boy's up next,” Nick announced.

  “Is he any good?”

  Nick's eyes twinkled. “Yeah, and nobody knows it.”

  The wind shifted and the rumble of traffic from the nearby highway infused the air with a sense of impending combat. Colored spotlights perched above the ring came on, bathing the canvas in soft hues. The arena was filling quickly, and in the front rows sat several male movie stars and their stunning dates. This was the “exposure section,” and Nick explained that the studios paid obscene sums to put their stars in these seats.

  Nick's ringer performed as expected and pounded his opponent like a hammer pounding a nail, winning in two rounds. Standing, Nick said, “I'd better go collect my dough. Want anything?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Be back in a few.”

  Nick strode down the aisle. The next bout was about to start and the referee motioned two snarling females to the center of the ring. Then the bell sounded and they started brawling like alley cats. It was ugly, and the crowd quickly made its displeasure known. Luckily, it ended quickly, a physician climbing into the ring to tend to a young skinny black woman sitting on a stool. Nick returned with his cash.

  “If you or I did that,” he remarked, “we'd do time.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Look,” Nick said, elbowing him in the ribs.

  Valentine stared across the ring at a well-known movie actor getting his picture taken with a star-struck fan.

  “I hate that prick,” Nick swore.

  It took a moment for Valentine to realize that Nick was referring not to the actor but to Nola Briggs's defense attorney, who rose from a nearby seat. He was small in stature and looked even smaller in the company of the larger-than-life characters that stood yukking it up around the ring apron. Cupping his hands over his mouth, Nick yelled, “Hey, Felix, how's the leg holding up?”

  Valentine stiffened. And it hit him: Felix Underman was the F. U. who'd hired Little Hands. He seemed smarter than that, but people often did stupid things when backed into a corner.

  Valentine watched Underman leave the arena. Then he rose himself.

  “I'll be right back,” he said.

  Underman wasn't walking very fast and seemed to favor the leg that Nick had kicked, and Valentine quickly caught up to him. Valentine followed him into the casino and through a buzzing mob of gamblers whose excitement was palpable: The odds had dropped, making Holyfield's opponent a two-to-one proposition. Underman went into the men's room, and Valentine followed.

  Caesars' johns were something special. Travertine marble ran floor to ceiling and the brass fixtures were so shiny you could see well enough in them to shave. Valentine stood at the sinks and watched Underman enter a stall; then he dropped two fifties in the attendant's tip basket.

  “Get lost for a few minutes.”

  “I could lose my job,” the attendant said.

  Valentine tossed another hundred into the basket.

  “You a cop?” the attendant asked.

  “What do you think?”

  The attendant left without another word. At the sink, Valentine wadded a handful of paper towels and soaked them with cold water. Then he went to Underman's stall and waited. The defense attorney emerged tugging up his fly. Valentine slapped the towels over his mouth, pushed him into the stall, and shut the door, latching it with his free hand.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Trembling, Underman lowered himself onto the toilet.

  “Look at me,” Valentine said.

  Underman stared into his eyes.

  “See the purple bump on my nose?”

  Underman nodded his head vigorously.

  “Know who put it there?”

  Underman made a noise that sounded like no.

  “You sure you don't know?”

  A sound like no again.

  “A guy you hired put it there. Little Hands Scarpi. Said you sent him to find Fontaine. This ringing any bells?”

  Underman took the Fifth.

  Valentine cuffed him in the head the way his own old man used to. With feeling. Underman made a sound like stop. Valentine cuffed him again. The defense attorney's breathing grew shallow. Valentine took the towels away and heard Underman's chest rattle.

  “I made a mistake,” Underman gasped. “I was out of my mind with worry.”

  “That's no excuse for breaking the law,” Valentine said.

  “You think I don't know that?” Underman said, sounding more defiant than he had any right to. He tore off a sheet of toilet paper and wiped the spittle that had gathered at the corners of his mouth. “Look, you seem like a reasonable man. I'll give you fifty thousand dollars to forget about this.”

  Valentine slammed Underman's head against the imported marble. “I don't take bribes, asshole.”

  “Seventy-five,” Underman gasped.

  Valentine brought his mouth an inch from the defense attorney's ear. “You're busted, Underman. I'm going to make sure you spend your golden years teaching lifers how to file appeals.”

  “Now you listen to
me—”

  Attorneys always had to get in the last word; it was why people hated them so much. A short, quick uppercut snapped Underman's head straight back. His body turned to jelly and he slid off the toilet.

  Valentine left him lying on the bathroom floor to think about his future.

  The next fight turned out to be the real thing and let Valentine forget his troubles for a little while. The bout was a twelve-round light heavyweight contest for one of the alphabet-soup championship belts. The challenger—a Compton kid named Benny “Lightning” Gonzalez—had more talent than experience and a murderous right hand. His opponent, champion Barry “the Blarney Stone” Ross, had started his career kickboxing in Europe, switched to the sweet science, and won his first thirty fights, knocking out all. It was a classic match-up, boxer versus brawler, age versus experience.

  “Something you and I can relate to,” Nick said.

  As fights went, it was pure drama, with each man pressing the action only to have the other come roaring back. First Gonzalez was ahead, then Ross; then Gonzalez charged back; then Ross asserted himself. When the final bell sounded, both men were still standing, and the crowd rose, cheering itself hoarse.

  Valentine had lost his voice in the eighth during one of Gonzalez's furious attempts to finish Ross off, and he stomped his feet and whistled. As the scorecards were read and Ross's arm was raised in triumph, Nick screamed at Ross's corner.

  “Who says white guys can't fight?”

  A tuxedoed announcer climbed through the ropes. Mike in hand, he introduced the boxing luminaries at ringside, the names spanning several decades. Over the PA system, gospel music was being played, the singer the great Mahalia Jackson.

  “It's part of Holyfield's contract,” Nick explained. “Gotta play gospel music before every fight. He says it inspires him. Personally, I wish he'd tone down the religious stuff.”

  “You think it's a put-on?”

  “Naw,” Nick said. “He's religious. I just think it's silly. After every bout, he thanks God for letting him win. Do you really think God gets some kind of joy out of him turning a guy's face into a pizza?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I'm hungry. Want anything?”

  “No, thanks. Mind if I borrow your cell phone?”

  “Sure,” said Nick as he handed over his phone and left. Taking a scrap of paper with Bill Higgins's cell number on it from his wallet, Valentine punched in the numbers. His friend answered from a bar, shouting to be heard over the televised highlights of the Ross–Gonzalez fight. “I'm not talking to you,” Higgins said, sounding drunk.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you're holding out, that's why. I show you the police evidence and you suddenly clam up.”

  Valentine heard real anger in Bill's voice. He wanted to explain that he had his reasons, but he knew that would only upset his friend more. He tried another tack.

  “I've got a hot tip for you,” Valentine said.

  “Sure you do,” Higgins said sarcastically.

  Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, Valentine said, “Felix Underman hired Little Hands Scarpi to kill Frank Fontaine.”

  Higgins's tone changed. “You can prove this?”

  “I sure can.”

  “Where's Underman now?”

  “Probably trying to get out of town.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I'm at Caesars with Nick.”

  Higgins belched into the phone. “I hate you.”

  “I'm sure it's nothing personal,” Valentine replied.

  Nick returned with a bag of peanuts, which he shared, along with the latest line from Caesars' sports book.

  “They're giving even money inside,” he said breathlessly. “Can you believe that? I put ten grand on Holyfield. You'd better hurry before they stop taking bets.”

  “I don't bet on sports,” Valentine replied.

  Nick looked at him like he was an alien.

  “It makes you root for the wrong reason,” Valentine explained.

  “How so?”

  “There's a difference between wanting someone to win and wanting someone to win because you've got money on them.”

  “Betting on Holyfield is different,” Nick said.

  “How so?”

  “Holyfield's a great fighter who has never broken the law. How many boxers can you say that about these days? By betting on him, you're supporting him. Trust me: He'll know what the odds are before he steps in that ring. Fighters always do.”

  Valentine found Nick's argument oddly appealing. He'd always liked Holyfield, and those feelings turned into adulation the night Holyfield had dethroned Mike Tyson. You could attribute his victory to many things, but what it had boiled down to was a decent guy fighting a not-so-decent guy. And the decent guy won. It was sweet redemption for every person who believed in playing by the rules.

  “All right,” he told his host. “I'll do it.”

  Following Nick's instructions, Valentine entered the casino and sifted his way to Caesars' sports book. It was a large, windowless room with cages for bets and a big electronic board that flashed the odds. He got on the end of a long line. As he waited, he watched the odds change. It was like bingo—pick the right combination and win a prize. Five had always been his lucky number and he checked the odds of Holyfield's winning in that many rounds. Thirty to one. He extracted a crisp C-note from his wallet.

  The line inched ahead. As if by magic, the big board turned into a digital TV screen. Holyfield and the Animal were in the ring being introduced by the announcer. When the announcer was done, a bloated Wayne Newton look-alike belted out the national anthem. Reaching the betting cages, Valentine saw that the singer was Wayne Newton.

  He threw his money down. “Holyfield in five.”

  “You're in the minority on that one,” the man in the cage informed him.

  “Keep it that way.”

  Valentine shoved the ticket into his pocket and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Nick, and his face was flushed.

  “Wily just called. He just spoke to Nola,” Nick said excitedly.

  “Where is she?”

  “Hiding out on the west side of town. She escaped from Fontaine.”

  “Did Wily call the police?”

  “No. I want to talk to her first.”

  “Nick,” Valentine said. “Call the police.”

  “I've got to talk to her,” Nick insisted. “Come on.”

  They jogged through Caesars to the front doors. All gambling had stopped and all eyes were glued to the giant-screen TVs that had been erected throughout the casino. The fight was less than a minute old and Holyfield had already eaten a punch and was lying flat on his back. The Animal stood in a neutral corner, taunting him. The champ staggered to his feet on the count of eight.

  “There goes my hard-earned dough,” Nick lamented. “Come on Evander, you lousy bum!”

  Valentine found himself thinking the same thing and realized he was more concerned about his C-note than Holyfield's health. He took the bet ticket from his pocket and tore it into pieces. They left the casino and got into Nick's golf cart.

  “You've got to call the police,” Valentine said as Nick sped them up the Strip.

  “No, I don't,” Nick replied.

  “Nola's a fugitive. Knowing where she's hiding makes you an accomplice. That's a felony.”

  Nick gave him a sideways glance.

  “You, too,” Nick said.

  “You want me to make the call?”

  “No,” Nick said. He raced to the entrance to the Acropolis, where the harem of his ex-wives glowed eerily beneath amber spotlights. “Look—I want to apologize to her like a gentleman. You think Longo will let me do that?”

  Valentine wanted to say yes, but knew he'd be telling a lie. Sympathy was for doctors and the clergy, not the police.

  “No,” he said.

  “I just want five minutes with her,” Nick said. “That's all.”

  “Just five minutes?”


  “That's all.”

  “Is that a promise?” Valentine said skeptically.

  “On my mother's grave,” Nick swore.

  25

  Nola was holed up at the Lucky Boy, a motel on the west side of town. Las Vegas got progressively worse the farther you strayed from the Strip, and the Lucky Boy was a wrecking ball away from being turned into a parking lot, the broken neon sign spelling something slightly obscene. Nick parked his Caddy in the motel's deserted lot and killed the headlights. For a long moment, neither man cared to speak.

  “I still think you should call the police,” Valentine said.

  “Fuck the police.”

  “What if there's trouble?”

  Reaching across Valentine's lap, Nick opened the glove compartment and removed a pearl-handled .38 that looked like a novelty-store item.

  “Put that thing away before you hurt yourself,” Valentine said.

  “I'm not going in there unprotected,” Nick said, slipping the piece under his belt. “Anything else on your mind?”

  “Yeah,” Valentine said. “You'd better call Wily.”

  Nick wiped his face on his sleeve. Twenty seconds without AC and the car was already an oven. “What for?”

  “Tell him to put everyone on alert.”

  “Why?”

  Valentine stared at him in the dark. Why couldn't Nick see it? Or was it one of those things that was so obvious it somehow became invisible? “Because the last act of Frank Fontaine and Nola Briggs is about to start.”

  “You think I'm about to get ripped off?”

  “I sure do.”

  Sweat poured off Nick's nose. “How can you be sure?”

  “I can feel it in my bones,” Valentine said.

  “What are you, psychic?”

  “For this kind of thing, yes.”

  Nick made the call. Valentine played with the radio and found the news. A loudmouthed announcer was reading the sporting news. The fight was still on and Holyfield was getting the living daylights beat out of him. At the end of the fourth round, he'd eaten another vicious right and taken a breather on one knee. The champ sounded finished.

  They got out of the Caddy. A nasty wind blew invisible grains of sand in their faces. Blinded, Valentine rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. He'd take Florida's blood-sucking mosquitos any day. Nick banged loudly on the peeling red door of 66-A.