The desk sergeant returned a few minutes later. Davis pulled a notepad and pen out of the glove compartment, and started writing. He wrote in furious script, and covered two pages with notes. Done, he thanked the desk sergeant and hung up.
“Do you believe in fate?” Davis asked.
“Not really,” Gerry said.
“Well, maybe you should start. The owner of the Audi is Kenny “the Clown” Abruzzi, age fifty-two, born and raised in Newark, his father, brother, and three uncles all mobsters. Kenny was inducted into the Mafia at age twenty, has been arrested nine times, and gone to prison three.”
“Sounds like a real charmer,” Gerry said. “What does that have to do with fate?”
“He works for George Scalzo,” Davis said.
Gerry felt the blood drain from his head. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not about something like that,” Davis said.
Gerry heard the sound of a car door opening. Davis heard it as well, and jerked his head. Together they stared through the windshield. Kenny Abruzzi had climbed out of his Audi, and was coming directly toward them. He was built like a refrigerator, his face cast in stone. Something long and dark was clutched in his hand.
9
Canada Bob Jones, a famous card cheater who’d specialized in fleecing the clergy on America’s railroads during the early twentieth century, had once said that it was morally wrong to let suckers keep money. This was also Rufus Steele’s mantra, and Valentine sat in Celebrity’s sports bar, watching Rufus fleece a couple of suckers at darts.
It was three A.M. and the bar was mobbed with the day’s losers from the tournament. Every single one had a sob story to tell about how or why he’d gotten knocked out. It was like listening to fishermen talk about the big one that got away.
The bar had a retro motif, and posters of half-naked starlets who were now card-carrying members of AARP hung from the walls. Valentine removed the Silly Putty they’d found in the poker room and started to play with it. It wasn’t unusual to find a mucker in a poker tournament, but there was something not right about finding one in thistournament. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, he’d figure out what it was.
“Hey Tony, come here and take a look at this,” Rufus said.
Valentine slipped out of his chair and went to where Rufus stood at the dartboard, attaching a hundred-dollar bill to the cork with colored toothpicks. Finished, Rufus stepped back and studied his handiwork. “Pretty big target, wouldn’t you say?”
“Looks big from here,” Valentine said.
The suckers came over to stare at the bill. Their names were Larry and Earl, and they’d gotten knocked out of the World Poker Showdown on the first day. Each had won a satellite event in his hometown, and believed he was a world-class player. In fact, they both knew little about cards, and had simply beaten a bunch of guys who knew less than they did. Each man ran his fingers across the bill’s face.
“Explain the rules again,” Earl said.
“Be more than happy to,” Rufus replied. Picking up three darts from the holder beneath the board, he stepped back to the blue line on the floor, toed it, and lined up to throw a dart. “First, you have to throw a dart from the blue line, and hit the bill.”
“Anywhere?” Earl asked.
“That’s right,” Rufus said. He tossed the dart, and it did a graceful arc through the air and hit the board with a loud plunk,impaling the bill. “Then, you have to step forward, stop, throw a second dart, and hit the bill.”
“A giant step or a baby step?” Earl asked.
“A moderate step,” Rufus replied. Taking a moderate step forward, he lined up his shot and threw the dart, hitting the bill in its center with another plunk.“Last but not least, you have to return to the blue line, take a moderate step backward, and throw the last dart.” Suiting action to words, Rufus returned to the blue line, took a moderate step backward, and lined up his shot. The dart flew gracefully through the air, and hit Benjamin Franklin in the center of his forehead. Rufus smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “That’s all there is to it, boys. Hit the hundred-dollar bill three times, and it’s yours. If you don’t, you have to pay me a hundred dollars. It’s that simple.”
Larry and Earl stepped away to talk it over. Valentine knew plenty of bar room hustles and saw nothing transparent with Rufus’s proposition. Throw three darts, hit the bill, and win a hundred dollars. Rufus lowered his voice.
“You know this one?”
“No. Is it a scam?”
The old cowboy chuckled under his breath. “Of course.”
“What’s the trick?”
“Just watch, pardner.”
“You’re on!” Earl called out.
“This handsome fellow has agreed to referee,” Rufus said, pointing to Valentine. “He’s an ex-cop, so you can trust him with your money.”
Earl and Larry each gave Valentine a hundred dollars for safekeeping. Earl pulled the three darts out of the board, and went to the blue line. He let the first dart fly, and it landed in the center of the bill. “Bingo!” Earl exclaimed.
“One down, two to go,” Larry exhorted him.
Earl took a moderate step forward, lined up his shot, and threw his second dart. The dart seemed to take on a life of its own, and sailed over the dartboard and hit the wall, pocking it in the process. The dart fell to the floor with Earl staring at it.
“Must be the beer,” Earl said.
Taking out a money clip stuffed with cash, Earl peeled off another hundred and handed it to Valentine. “I want to try again,” he said.
“Be my guest,” Rufus replied.
The first dart was easy; the second again went high.
Earl cursed like he’d hit his thumb with a hammer and threw another hundred Valentine’s way. “Again,” he said.
“Of course,” Rufus said.
Earl’s first dart hit the bill. He stepped forward for the second shot, lifted his leg like a dog watering a bush, and let the second dart fly. It hit the hundred-dollar bill, but just barely. Earl let out a war whoop.
“One more to go,” Larry said encouragingly. “Come on, Earl, you can do it.”
Earl returned to the blue line and took a moderate step backward. His beer was sitting on the corner of the pool table. He stared at it, then shook his head like he wanted to have nothing to do with it. He lined up his shot and let the dart fly. It flew over the board and hit a poster of a bikini-clad Farrah Fawcett squarely in her navel.
“God damn!” Earl screamed.
“Let me have a try,” Larry said.
Ten minutes later, Valentine and Rufus left the bar with most of Larry’s and Earl’s money. The suckers had not gone quietly, and were demanding a rematch on the golf course. Rufus had politely declined and bid them good night.
“I thought you were good at golf,” Valentine said.
“Only when the price is right,” Rufus replied.
On the elevator ride to their room, Valentine finally broke down and asked Rufus to explain how he’d managed the dart trick.
“Ain’t no trick,” Rufus said, smothering a yawn.
“You didn’t put something in their drinks?”
“Naw.”
“Then how does it work?”
“Throwing a dart is harder than you think,” Rufus explained. “Even the best players have to take a few practice throws before they play. The arm’s muscles have a memory, and it takes a while for the memory to kick in. By changing the distance for each throw, the muscles in the thrower’s arm get confused, and the darts miss the target.”
“You made it look easy when you threw the darts.”
“That comes from years of practice and self-denial.”
The elevator reached their floor and they got out. Valentine took the Silly Putty and paper clip from his pocket, and stared at them while walking down the hallway to his suite.
“That bug’s still bothering you, huh?” Rufus said.
“It sure is,” Valentine said.
“Sort of makes you wonder what kind of tournament they’re running.”
“How do you mean?”
“First DeMarco cheats me, and now this.”