“You’re from Atlantic City?” Jinky asked.
“That’s right,” Vinny said.
“I hate Atlantic City. What can I do for you?”
“We’re in town to settle a score,” Vinny said. “I didn’t want to bother any of your operations.”
Jinky plunged his fork into a steaming mound of chow mein. “A score with who?”
“George Scalzo. He’s scamming World Poker Showdown,” Vinny said.
“George ‘the Tuna’ Scalzo?”
“That’s right.”
“Another New Jersey scumbag. What did Scalzo do to you?”
“He stole something of mine, and killed our friend.”
Jinky twirled the noodles on his fork, then stuck the fork into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then turned to glance at the giant, who stood behind him.
“We got any action at the WPS?” Jinky asked.
“Just the ring games,” the giant replied.
“You rig them?”
“Yeah,” the giant said.
Ring games were the side games at poker tournaments, and usually played for high stakes. By rigging these games, Jinky would make a killing without coming under the scrutiny of the tournament’s rules and regulations.
“Stay away from the ring games,” Jinky told them.
“Won’t touch them,” Vinny said.
Gerry’s stomach emitted a growl. The smell of the food was too much for his digestive system to bear. Jinky dropped his fork onto his plate.
“What, your mother doesn’t feed you?”
Gerry couldn’t believe Jinky was treating them this way. Had Jinky walked into his bar in Brooklyn, he would have shown him a certain level of hospitality. Like a cup of coffee and a chair.
“I caught him stealing an egg roll,” the giant said.
“Don’t ever step into my club again,” Jinky said.
Gerry nearly told him to shove it, but instead removed his baseball cap. “I haven’t eaten all day, and my hunger got the best of me. I meant no disrespect.”
Jinky leaned back in his wheelchair and scratched his beard. If he didn’t accept the apology, he’d look like an ingrate. As the boss, he was supposed to be above that.
“Apology accepted,” Jinky said.
Gerry put his baseball cap back on.
“Now get the hell out of my club, and don’t ever come back.”
Gerry felt like he’d been backhanded across the face. Had the giant not been standing there, he would have said something. He noticed a framed photo sitting on the desk. It showed Jinky holding a plaque outside the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans. Gerry had gone to New Orleans with Yolanda before the baby had been born, and had eaten at the Acme. He remembered seeing the plaque hanging above the main shucking area. He looked at his host.
“I can’t believe it. You’re the guy who ate forty-two dozen oysters at the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans, aren’t you?”
Jinky leaned forward. “Forty-two and a half. You been there?”
“Sure,” Gerry said. “I could only eat two dozen.”
“You like oysters?”
“Love ’em. I also love milk.”
Jinky picked up the glass of milk on the desk. “Me too. Since I was a kid.”
“How much do you drink a day?” Gerry asked.
Jinky counted on his fingers. “Ten glasses, at least.”
“Over a gallon?”
“More than a gallon.”
“Think you could drink a gallon of milk in an hour?”
“With my eyes closed,” Jinky said.
Gerry took his wallet out and removed all his cash, which he tossed on the desk.
“Bet you can’t,” he said.
Hustlers have an expression: “Pigs get fed, hogs get slaughtered.” Gerry had decided that it was time for Jinky to get slaughtered. He was going to pay this bastard back for not showing them any respect, and he was going to do it in a mean way.
The giant took Gerry’s money and counted it on the desk. There was exactly four hundred dollars, which wasn’t much by Vegas standards.
Jinky glanced up at Vinny. “You want some of this action?”
Vinny started to say no, but Gerry elbowed him in the ribs.
“Take the man’s bet,” Gerry said under his breath.
“What?”
“Just do as I say.”
Vinny blew out his lungs and removed a wad of cash from his pocket. He threw half of it onto the desk beside Gerry’s money. The giant counted it as well. Twenty-six hundred bucks, all in C-notes.
“Three thousand bucks says I can’t drink a gallon of milk in an hour?” Jinky said. “What if I drink it in half an hour?”
“We’ll pay you double,” Gerry said.
Vinny let out a gasp.
“You’re on!” Jinky exclaimed.
The giant went down the hall to the kitchen. When he returned he was holding a fresh gallon of milk. He opened it, and poured a tall glass for his boss. Jinky raised it in a mock toast.
“Here’s to the easiest six grand I’ve ever made. Thanks, boys.”
Jinky drank the first four glasses of milk without a problem. But by the fifth glass, he began to slow down, the color of his face turning from deep red to a subdued pink. He was struggling to keep the liquid down, and placed the empty glass on his desk and filled his lungs with air. A little over half the gallon was gone.
“How much time have I used?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” the giant said. He sat on the edge of his boss’s desk, guarding the money.
“Give me a minute to catch my breath.”
“You’ve got another forty-five minutes, boss.”
“Fifteen,” Jinky said. “I’m going to drink the rest in fifteen.”
“Don’t hurt yourself, boss.”
“Shut your mouth,” Jinky said.
The sixth glass was a monumental achievement, and went down as slow as honey. By the time the seventh had been raised to Jinky’s lips, five more minutes had passed, and Jinky’s face had turned as white as the liquid in the glass. He was a goner, and Gerry tugged Vinny on the sleeve.
“Get out of his way,” he said beneath his breath.
“He gonna blow?” Vinny whispered back.
“Any second.”
“You slip something into his drink?”
“No. It’s all the enzymes in the milk. The stomach can’t tolerate them all at once. The king is about to be dethroned.”
Vinny hid the smile on his lips. “Long live the king,” he said.
13
Valentine landed at McCarran International Airport at nine thirty the next morning, and was greeted by Gloria Curtis as he stepped out of the jetway. She wore a striking blue suit and stood out among the poorly dressed tourists. He’d watched her announce sports for years, and always liked her direct, no-nonsense style. She looked younger than her age, which he guessed to be fifty. She was an attractive woman who’d opted for crow’s feet instead of a face lift. He liked that, too.
“Mr. Valentine, I’m Gloria Curtis with WSPN Sports,” she said.
He did not slow down, his clothing bag slung over his shoulder.
“How did you get out here without a ticket?” he asked.
It wasn’t the best lead, and he saw a twinge of hurt on her face. “I was just wondering,” he quickly added. “Being an ex-cop, my curiosity kind of runs away with my mouth sometimes.”