“Did they?”
“Yeah. Look, are you someplace where you can talk?”
Valentine’s eyes opened wide. His bedroom was pitch dark, and except for the light creeping through the blinds from a streetlight, he couldn’t see a blessed thing.
“I can talk. What did you find?”
“It isn’t good, Tony.”
He sat up straight and immediately felt light-headed. The phone had a short cord, and he heard it go crashing to the floor. He groped in the dark, found the phone, and clumsily replaced it on the night table.
“You still there, Eddie?”
“I sure am. Here’s the down and dirty, Tony. According to police records, Vinny Fountain, Nunzie Fountain, and Frank DeCesar are small-time scammers who’ve had a hand in dozens of shady operations on the island in the past ten years. Mind you, they’ve never been arrested, but their names have come up during plenty of investigations.”
“Wise guy wannabes,” Valentine said.
“Exactly,” Eddie said. “Now, here’s what I got from the New Jersey Gambling Commission. The GC got a tip several years ago that the Fountains were conspiring to scam a casino in Atlantic City, and decided to conduct an investigation. The Fountains were followed and had their phones tapped.”
Valentine threw his legs over the edge of the bed. What the hell was Eddie talking about? He’d never heard of the Fountains in conjunction with any scam, and there wasn’t an Atlantic City scam that he hadn’t known about when he was a cop.
“What year was this?” he asked.
“It was 1998.”
That was three years before he’d retired.
“You’re sure?” Valentine asked.
“Positive.”
“But that’s impossible. I would have known.”
“Just listen,” Eddie said. “The Fountains moved around a lot, and did most of their talking on pay phones. There was a bar in Brooklyn where they went a few times, and made some calls. Guess which one.”
Valentine blinked in the dark. “My son’s.”
“There you go.”
Which was why he’d never heard about the investigation. Someone over at the Gambling Commission had made the link, and decided to keep Valentine out of the loop. He thought back to the scene in Gerry’s house the day before, and what Vinny Fountain had said to him. We’re just discussing a business proposition with your son. He turned on the night table lamp, and flooded the bedroom with light.
“What happened to the investigation?” he asked.
“It fell apart,” Eddie said. “The Fountains never went through with the scam for whatever reason. There wasn’t enough evidence on the wiretaps to convict them of conspiracy, so the GC dropped it.”
Valentine rubbed his face with his hand. It would have been nice to think that Gerry hadn’t known what the Fountains were doing in his bar. After all, guys made phone calls in bars all the time. Only Gerry had run an illegal bookmaking operation and had known every scammer that had stepped into the joint. Gerry had been involved with these hoodlums, maybe even had a part in their scam. It was embarrassing as hell.
“Thanks, Eddie. I really appreciate you going to the trouble.”
“Sorry to ruin your night,” Eddie said.
12
“What the hell is a tush hog?” Frank asked.
They were in Vinny’s rental, cruising the strip. Nunzie was driving, Frank riding shotgun, Vinny and Gerry in the backseat acting like sightseers. Nighttime in Vegas was a trip, the sky so brilliantly lit that it put the brain on overload. They’d been driving around for a while. Vinny had apologized to Gerry for coming to his house the day before without calling, and Gerry had apologized for his father roughing Vinny and Frank and Nunzie up. That had been the nature of their relationship for as long as Gerry could remember. He would do a deal with Vinny, they’d have a fight, then later end up apologizing.
“A tush hog is an old-timer’s expression for an enforcer,” Gerry said.
“Is that what I am, an enforcer?”
“You were a professional boxer once, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, but all my fights were in Europe,” Frank said.
“So?”
“No one in the United States saw them. If my fights had been over here, people would be afraid of me, you know?”
“You’re still a tush hog,” Gerry said.
Frank shook his head, not liking it. “It makes it sound like I have a big ass.”
“You do have a big ass,” Nunzie said.
Everyone in the car laughed. Then Frank punched Nunzie in the arm, and the rental crossed the double line on the highway. Suddenly they were driving straight into oncoming traffic. Nunzie spun the wheel, and they recrossed the line to safety.
Gerry released his death grip on the door handle, took a few deep breaths, and felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal. That was the bad thing about working with the Fountain brothers. Everything would be going along just fine; then, without warning, your life was dangling in front of your face.
Vinny told Nunzie to drive to an area of town called Naked City. It was on the north end of Las Vegas, stuck between the strip and Fremont Street, and was filled with sleazy strip clubs, adult bookstores and fetish shops, and run-down massage parlors. Gerry had heard that every business in Naked City had ties to organized crime. The mob had once run the town’s casinos; now they just ran the flesh trade.
Nunzie pulled up to the valet in front of a strip club called the Sugar Shack. The valets were all grown men and not moving terribly fast. Gerry had seen similar setups in strip joints up and down the East Coast. The mob ran the valet concession, and gave jobs to made guys just out of prison.
As they waited for a valet to take their car, Vinny said, “I set up a meeting with Jinky Harris. He owns this joint. He also runs the town’s rackets. I wanted him to know what we were doing out here, make sure he was cool with it.”
“I’ve got a question,” Nunzie said.
“What?”
“If this guy’s so important, how did he get a name like Jinky?”
Vinny reached around the headrest and grabbed Nunzie by the ear. No words were spoken, just a gentle twist of the lower lobe. Nunzie twisted painfully in his seat.
“All right, all right, it was a dumb question,” Nunzie said.
The club’s interior was upscale as far as strip clubs went. On three brightly lit stages, dozens of naked young women pranced and danced and gyrated on brass poles, their bodies showing more silicone than Palo Alto. It was a feast for the eyes, but what got Gerry’s attention was the free buffet laid out on two long tables beside the main bar. He stared longingly at the steaming food while Vinny asked the bartender if the boss was in.
“Who wants to know?” the bartender replied.
“Vinny Fountain and associates,” Vinny replied.
The bartender picked up the house phone and made a call. Gerry continued to stare at the food. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starving. He waited until the guy serving the food turned his head, and tried to pilfer an egg roll.
“The food’s for customers,” a booming voice said.
Gerry looked up into the face of a black guy easily seven feet tall. His head was shaved and the strobe lights in the club danced off his skull. Gerry removed his hand.
“Sorry.”
“As well you should be,” the giant said. “Which one of you is Vinny?”
“I am,” Vinny said.
“Mr. Harris will see you now,” the giant said.
They followed him through a red-beaded curtain, then down a dimly lit hallway to a blue door. As the giant rapped on the door, Nunzie whispered to Frank, “Now, that’s a tush hog.”
Jinky’s office was straight out of the movie Scarface, with thick white carpet, luxurious leather furniture, and ugly wall hangings. The boss sat in a motorized wheelchair behind a massive marble desk. In his fifties, he wore a purple velour tracksuit, had a full beard, and looked wider than he was tall. On the desk were four plates of food from the buffet, along with a tall glass of milk. The sizes of the portions were phenomenal. Jinky shook out a cloth napkin, and tucked it into his collar.