“In college?” the secretary asked suspiciously.
“When he was at St. Joseph.”
“Please hold for a moment.”
The secretary put him on hold. DeMarco lay motionless, no longer sleepy. One of the things he’d wondered about was his father’s voice. Would it be strong or soft, deep or high-pitched? The secretary came back on.
“Still there?” she asked.
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Russo does not take calls from anonymous callers. If you’d care to leave a message, I’m sure—”
“Tell him it’s Skip,” DeMarco said.
“Skip?”
“That’s right. Skip.”
“Skip who?”
“He’ll know who it is.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but Mr. Russo won’t talk to you now. If you’ll leave a message, Mr. Russo will get back to you once his trial is finished.”
She sounded ready to hang up on him. DeMarco couldn’t let that happen. He had to hear Russo’s voice, and connect to the man that, until now, he’d only dreamed about.
“Tell him it’s his son,” he said.
41
Little Hands sat in his car in Celebrity’s parking lot, the rising sun searing his eyes. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and he’d driven to Celebrity prepared to kill Tony Valentine. He’d killed several dozen men in Las Vegas, and it usually went like this: He went to their hotel room early in the morning, kicked the door down, ran in, and strangled them with his bare hands. Usually the victim was sleeping and didn’t put up a fight, or he was in the john, which made it harder; one guy had sliced him with a razor before Little Hands broke his neck. But, whatever the situation, the result was always the same. He caught his victims with their guards down and ended their miserable lives. Tony Valentine would be no different.
As the sun crested over the distant mountains, Celebrity’s neon sign went off, and he smothered a yawn. After leaving the Peppermill, he’d gotten involved in a craps game at a joint called Lots of Slots across the street. The craps table was on the sidewalk in front of the casino, the action hot. He’d gotten on a roll, and had turned five hundred bucks into a thousand, then two, and finally built his winnings up to seven grand. The process had taken him well into the night, and by the time he’d gotten into his car, his heart had been pounding so hard he couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.
His money sat in a paper bag on the seat beside him. It contained seventeen hundred from the video poker game at the Peppermill, seven grand from the craps game at Lots of Slots, and the thousand down payment for whacking Valentine. It was enough to go to Mexico, and start his life over.
He stared up at Celebrity’s top floors, and envisioned Valentine fast asleep in one of the rooms. The last time they’d tangoed, Valentine had tricked him and broken Little Hands’s nose. A dirty movie had been playing in the motel room they were fighting in, and Little Hands had seen the movie and given up. He’d always had a thing about dirty movies. According to the prison psychiatrist at Ely, it was his mother’s fault. He’d seen her having rough sex when he was a kid, and never gotten over it.
The clock in the dashboard said 7:05. He picked up the paper bag from the passenger seat and looked at the money. It was morethan enough to start his life over. So what the hell was he doing here, risking everything?
“Screw this,” he said aloud.
He pulled the car out of the lot and drove down a winding road that took him past Celebrity’s front entrance. Celebrity hadn’t existed the last time he’d been in Las Vegas, and he slowed down, craning his neck to look at the array of colorful parrots trapped in giant cages by the front door.
Satisfied, he started to speed up, then spotted Valentine walking out the front door with a nice-looking blonde on his arm. With them was a lanky cowboy carrying a golf bag filled with clubs. Little Hands had thought about Valentine every day since going to prison, and fantasized about paying him back. Pulling up along side the curb, he threw his vehicle into park.
Valentine and the woman were holding hands and sharing meaningful glances. Another car pulled up to the curb; a valet jumped out. Valentine tipped the valet while the cowboy put his clubs into the trunk. The cow boy got into the back, the blonde into the passenger seat, and Valentine slipped behind the wheel. The car pulled away from the curb.
Little Hands decided to follow them.
Soon he was on a narrow road heading toward Celebrity’s golf course. His window was open, and the wind rustled the paper bag on the passenger seat. The mouth of the bag was open, and he glanced at the money and imagined all it would buy down in Mexico. He didn’t need to kill Valentine. His life was set.
He continued to follow Valentine’s car anyway.
Valentine had always been a fan of the Marx Brothers, his favorite film being A Night at the Opera.In the film, Chico Marx plays an unusual piano solo. Beginning on the lower keys, he performs a lightning-fast run until his fingers run off the piano and continue to play furiously in midair.
Whenever Rufus Steele tried to persuade suckers to bet against him, Valentine was reminded of that magical piano solo. Like Chico Marx, Rufus always went well past the end, his language as outlandish as music produced in thin air.
“Come on, boys, what do you say? Money talks, nobody walks. It’s time to put up or shut up.” Rufus smiled at the group of suckers who’d come to Celebrity’s golf course to watch him play the Greek. “This is one you can’t lose, what my daddy called a mortal cinch. No tricks, no deception, just a friendly game of golf. My opponent was a runner-up in the National Amateur Championship and is a scratch golfer. Isn’t that so, Greek?”
The Greek and Marcy Baldwin sat stoically in a golf cart. Lying in Marcy’s lap was Medusa, who’d emitted a horrified shriek upon seeing Rufus.
“That’s right,” the Greek replied.
“What’s yourhandicap?” a sucker asked Rufus suspiciously. He was a squirrel-like guy with a sprout of hair on his chin that resembled a dirty paintbrush.
“Besides my shining personality?” Rufus said. “It’s a ten. If you don’t believe me, call the pro at Caesars’ golf shop. I’ve been playing his course for twenty years.”
“Did you check that out?” the sucker asked the Greek.
“Yes,” the Greek said. “His handicap is ten.”
“What is Rufus trying to pull?” Gloria whispered in Valentine’s ear. “He’s going to lose if he’s not careful.”
Valentine felt the same way. He and Gloria stood by the practice tees, a small but dedicated rooting section. Golf was a game where you beat yourself, not your opponent. He couldn’t see Rufus overcoming ten strokes no matter how well he played.
“Explain the rules again,” the sucker said.
“Be happy to,” Rufus said. “The Greek and I are going to play eighteen holes of golf. Because many of you expect me to pull a fast one, I’ve given the Greek an edge. He gets to hit three drives on every hole, then pick the best ball to play with.”
“How many drives do you get?” the sucker asked.
“Just one,” Rufus replied.
“What kind of odds are you offering?”
“Even money. The Greek is betting me half a million dollars. I’d be happy to take your action or anyone else’s, if you’re so inclined.”
The suckers went into a huddle. Gloria nudged Valentine with her elbow, and he reluctantly went over to where Rufus stood. “How you feeling?” Valentine asked.
“Never better,” the old cowboy replied.
“You don’t think this is a mistake?”
“Only suckers make mistakes,” Rufus said.
The suckers ponied up another thirty grand, which Valentine agreed to hold for safekeeping. Rufus went to where their caddies stood by the bags. The Greek joined him and said, “I’ve got one stipulation before we start.”
“What’s that?” Rufus asked.
“I want our caddies to take off their shoes,” the Greek said.
“You got a shoe fetish or something?”
“No, I just want to look at them.”
Rufus turned to the caddies. “Boys, what do you say?”
The caddies removed their spiked golf shoes and handed them over. The Greek examined each shoe, pulling forcefully at the sole.