He went to the registration desk and asked for Bill Higgins. A man behind the desk picked up a walkie-talkie and called inside. Bill emerged through the doors thirty seconds later, all out of breath. Bill was Navajo by birth, and had the demeanor of a statue. Not only was he the most powerful law enforcement officer in Nevada, he was the best law enforcement person Valentine had ever known.
“One of the dealers is passed out cold,” Bill said.
“Heart attack?”
“Could be. He keeled over during the middle of his deal.” He turned to the guards. “An ambulance will be here soon. Be prepared to clear a path for them.”
“Yes, sir,” they both said.
Bill opened the doors, and Valentine followed him in. The unconscious dealer was in the room’s center, being attended to by several other dealers. A crowd of gamblers stood off to one side, making wagers on whether or not the dealer was going to live. Valentine went over and told them to knock it off.
“You a cop?” a guy holding a fan of bills asked.
“How bad do you want to find out?” Valentine replied.
The parasites scattered. He joined Bill, and knelt down beside the dealer. One of the other dealers was shaking his head.
“He just had radiation treatment for cancer a few weeks ago,” the dealer said. “I guess he wasn’t as strong as he thought.”
“What’s his name?” Valentine asked.
“Ray Callahan.”
The name was vaguely familiar. Valentine gently slapped Callahan on the cheek.
“Hey Ray, rise and shine. Breakfast is on, and everyone’s waiting for you.”
Callahan slowly came around. He blinked hard, and for a brief moment was wide awake. He stared at Valentine with a glint of recognition, then went back under. Three EMS guys pushing a gurney rushed into the room. They got Callahan on a stretcher, then rolled him out.
A gambler across the room called out, “Is he still alive?”
Valentine spotted the guy who asked this, and shook his fist at him.
“I met with Gloria Curtis earlier and got her under control,” Valentine said when he and Bill were in the coffee shop. “She’s willing to play ball.”
“You going to give her an exclusive if you find anything?” Bill asked, blowing the steam off his drink.
“I didn’t have a choice. Look, I need to level with you about something.”
Valentine took out his wallet, and removed the playing card Jack Donovan had given Gerry. Bill stared at the card, then turned it over and stared at it some more.
“This is from this casino, isn’t it?” Bill said.
“That’s right. It turned up in a murder investigation in Atlantic City. The victim gave the card to my son before he died. He claimed he could beat any poker game in the world. Trouble is, we can’t find anything wrong with the card.”
Bill dropped the playing card on the table. “Was this person credible?”
“He was a scammer. He and my son were childhood friends.”
“So the tournament is being cheated.”
“Yes. The problem is, I have no idea how. I’d suggest you start checking every deck of cards before and after it’s used. Especially those at Skip DeMarco’s table.”
Bill made a face. “So DeMarco is cheating.”
“That’s where the evidence is pointing.”
“But he’s legally blind. How could he be reading the cards?”
Valentine had thought about it during his flight out that morning, and had come to the conclusion that DeMarco, like many sight-impaired people, must have an elevated sense of hearing that compensated for his lack of sight. If someone at the table were reading the backs of the cards — such as the dealer — they could signal DeMarco by the way they breathed. Hustlers called this The Sniff and often used it to pass information.
“I think someone’s reading them for him,” Valentine said. “Start watching the dealers at DeMarco’s table.”
The waitress came and topped off their cups. As Valentine raised his to his lips, he stared at Bill. The look on his friend’s face said he was frustrated as hell. Despite his obnoxious behavior, Skip DeMarco was the darling of the tournament. Busting him for cheating was the last thing Bill wanted to do.
“Rufus Steele called me earlier,” Bill said. “He heard you were in town, and wants to talk to you. He’s staying in the hotel.”
Valentine put his cup down. Rufus’s interview with Gloria Curtis had bothered him. It was rare for a cheater to call another player a cheater. Rufus must have had good reason, and Valentine wanted to know what that reason was.
“Give me his room number,” Valentine said.
15
“It’s open, and I’ve got nothing worth stealing,” Rufus Steele called out.
Valentine opened the door to Rufus’s hotel room and poked his head in. Rufus was standing by the bed with the phone pressed to his chin, the look on his face pure agitation. Seeing Valentine in the doorway, he flashed a crooked grin, and motioned him inside.
“Hey, Tony, you’re a sight for sore eyes. How you been?”
“Fine,” Valentine said, shutting the door behind him.
Rufus hadn’t changed that much since Valentine had last seen him. He was in his scruffy cowboy clothes and looked like he’d just stepped out of a spaghetti western. Back in his day, he’d been the greatest poker player in the world, but that had been a long time ago. Compared to the brash young kids who now ruled the poker world, Rufus looked sadly out of place.
“Hello,” Rufus said into the phone. “Is this the hotel’s general manager? Well, listen to what I’m about to say. You have as much chance of getting me to leave this room as you do getting French kissed by the Statue of Liberty. That’s right, son. I know the law, and you can’t throw me out. You think I’m mistaken? Well, here’s an idea. Why don’t you take this phone and shove it up your ass?”
Rufus dropped the receiver into its cradle. Then he grabbed two sodas from the minibar, and pointed at a pair of chairs by the room’s window. They made themselves comfortable and clinked bottles.
“They trying to throw you out?” Valentine asked.
“They sure are. They’re mad I blew the whistle on that smart-aleck DeMarco kid,” Rufus said. He took a long swig of soda and let out a belch. “Besides, I can’t leave the hotel even if I wanted to.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t pay the bill. I blew the last of my money on the entry fee.”
“Times been hard?”
Rufus tilted back his cowboy hat. His forehead was covered with liver spots and his hair was a thin reminder of the mane he’d once sported. “Yeah, but I guess I should have expected it. They say a poker player spends the first twenty years of his life learning, the second twenty years earning, and the last twenty years yearning for what he once was. I believe I may have entered into that third stage.”
“You can still beat ninety-nine percent of these kids,” Valentine said.
“Thanks. I needed that.”
“Bill Higgins said you had something to tell me.”
Rufus raised the soda to his lips and all the liquid inside disappeared. “You need to grill the tournament director. He seated those boys together with DeMarco. It was fixed from the start.”
“Can you prove that?”
Rufus frowned. “No, but it’s obvious what happened.”