“I was writing my memoirs,” Valentine mumbled.
“I heard what happened last night. Are you okay?”
“My neck’s a little sore, but I’ll live.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Face to face,” Bill said. “Not over the phone.”
Before going to sleep, Valentine had shut the room’s curtains and turned the air-conditioning down to its coldest setting. Snuggled beneath the blankets was the place to be, and his body was fighting to go back to sleep.
“How about lunch?”
“How about right now?” Bill snapped.
Valentine opened his eyes and stared at the imaginary face of Bill hovering on the ceiling. One of his best friends, Bill was also director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, and the most powerful law enforcement officer in the state of Nevada. Bill didn’t have to ask nicely if he didn’t want to.
“You’re sure this can’t wait?”
“George Scalzo sent those hitmen last night.”
“Who told you that?”
“The FBI are wiretapping Scalzo’s phones and over heard him putting out the contract. He did it in code, though, so they can’t arrest him.”
The FBI ran a special operation in Las Vegas that did nothing but try to prevent contract killings. Murder-for-hire was prevalent in Sin City, and the bureau paid snitches to keep their ears to the ground to hear when a contract came up.
“Scalzo doesn’t give up easily,” Bill went on. “Mark my words, he’s going to hire someone else to kill you.”
Valentine’s eyes had shut as his head sunk deeper into his pillow. Thirty more minutes of blessed sleep was all he wanted. “I’ll change rooms and grow a moustache.”
“Tony, I want to discuss this with you,” Bill said, growing agitated. “It’s my responsibility to make sure nothing happens to you while you’re in Las Vegas. I hired you for this job, remember?”
His eyes remained shut. Thirty years ago, having two guys try to kill him would have resulted in a sleepless night. He’d had a wife and a kid and a mortgage to worry about. But time had changed his situation: his wife was dead, the house sold, and Gerry a grown man. Being threatened didn’t have the same consequences anymore.
“I get it. This is one of those cover-your-ass phone calls.”
“Eight-fifteen in front of your hotel,” Bill said. “Be there.”
Bill’s shining Volvo C70 convertible was parked by the entrance when Valentine stepped through the hotel’s front doors thirty minutes later. Bill had driven Volvos well before they’d become fashionable, claiming that Swedish engineering and Native American sensibilities shared a lot in common. He sat behind the wheel, his protruding chin marred by random specks of gray. Valentine climbed in and they sped away.
The Volvo raced across the flat, sun-baked desert, the engine starting to breathe around ninety. Valentine tilted his seat back and stared at the endless highway ahead. Years ago, he’d considered retiring out west with his wife, having often heard it referred to as God’s country. Seeing it unfold in this morning light, he understood why.
Fifteen minutes later, they sat in the parking lot of a roadside gas station that sold hot coffee and fresh doughnuts. The woman behind the counter had made them out as law enforcement, and given them freebies. It made their day.
“Listen, I’ve got some bad news,” Bill said.
Valentine stared into his friend’s face while biting his doughnut. Bill was a Navajo, and kept his emotions well below the surface. “I hate to start the day with bad news. Tell me something funny first.”
“Why does it have to be funny?”
“Because you’re about to give me bad news. I’d like a good laugh first.”
Bill scrunched up his face. “Okay. Here’s a joke I heard. How do you get an eighty-year-old woman to say ‘Shit!’”
Valentine should know this one. He lived in Florida.
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Get another eighty-year-old woman to yell ‘Bingo!’”
He laughed. Definitely a Floridian joke. He washed down his last bite of doughnut with a gulp of coffee. It hit his stomach like a bomb, and he felt himself wake up. “Okay, I’m ready for your bad news.”
“I know this is going to sound harsh, but I’m taking you off the case,” Bill said.
“You’re firing me?”
“Yes,” Bill said.
Valentine didn’t know what to say. He stared out the windshield at the big, cloudless Nevada sky. Bill started the engine and pulled onto the highway, pointing the Volvo back toward town. A long minute passed.
“It’s like this, Tony,” his friend said. “Yesterday, I was given twenty-four hours by the governor of Nevada to produce hard evidence that there was cheating taking place at the World Poker Showdown. If I couldn’t prove there was cheating, I was told in no uncertain terms to leave the tournament alone. That also meant letting you go.”
“The governor told you to end the investigation?”
“That’s right,” Bill said.
“Is he being pressured?”
“Yes. The World Poker Showdown is helping every casino in town get business.”
“So the casino owners asked the governor to squash the investigation.”
“Bingo.”
“Shit.” Valentine’s eyes shifted to the ruler-straight highway. It resembled a tunnel, the desert scenery compressed. If he left Las Vegas, George Scalzo won, and Valentine wasn’t going to let that happen. He had never run away from a fight in his life.
“What if you could prove there wascheating at the tournament? Would the governor let the investigation continue?”
“He’d have to,” Bill said.
“Would you keep me on the job?”
“Of course I’d keep you on the job.”
From his jacket pocket Valentine removed the Silly Putty and paper clip he’d discovered in Celebrity’s poker room the night before. Sticking the Silly Putty on the dashboard, he plunged the paper clip into it like a flag.
“I didn’t know you were into toy figures,” Bill said.
“They help pass the time,” Valentine said. “Guess what this one is.”
Bill stared at the dashboard. “A bug?”
“That’s right. Rufus Steele found it stuck beneath a table in Celebrity’s poker room last night. There’s a mucker scamming the tournament.”
The Volvo slowed so they were actually doing the speed limit. Bill removed the bug from the dash and held it in his hand.
“Skip DeMarco?” he asked.
“No, it’s someone else. The folks running the World Poker Showdown should be watching for stuff like this, considering there’s already been one allegation of foul play. But they’re not. They’re running a loose ship.”
Bill frowned. He had joined the Nevada Gaming Control Board twenty-five years ago, and had spent much of that time changing Las Vegas’s image from a mob-run town to a family-friendly destination. One bad incident could change that overnight.
“Are you suggesting I ask the governor to stop the tournament?” Bill asked.
“No. Tell him you want him to keep the tournament going so you can nail the mucker, and show everyone that Vegas doesn’t tolerate cheating. It would be good for business, and there will also be another benefit.”
“Which is?”
“While we’re catching the mucker, we can scrutinize DeMarco’s play, and figure out what the hell he’s doing.”
“What about Scalzo? I’d bet my paycheck he’s going to hire another hitman to whack you.”
“I’ve got a bodyguard, remember? Rufus cracks a mean bullwhip.”
“Be serious.”
Valentine wasbeing serious. The truth was, Scalzo was afraid of him. That gave him the upper hand, and he planned to take full advantage of it.
“I’ll deal with Scalzo,” he said.
12
“Detective Davis wasn’t seriously hurt,” the doctor at the Atlantic City Medical Center emergency room told Gerry. “He landed on a piece of glass on the pavement that put a gash in his back. He’ll be good to go once we stitch him up.”
Gerry wanted to give the doctor a hug but instead just nodded. She was a fiftyish woman with steel gray hair and sunken eyes that had seen their share of heartache. She gently touched Gerry’s sleeve. “You look pale. Are you going to be okay?”