“Thanks, Uncle George.”
His uncle snorted contemptuously under his breath. “Those motherfuckers are going to pay for stealing that bag, mark my words.”
The bodyguard had told DeMarco how his uncle had been made to look like a fool, the bag being taken from his hands without his uncle putting up a fight, and that his uncle was going to have those responsible killed if it was the last thing he did.
“You know who did it?” DeMarco asked.
“Yeah,” his uncle said. “I know.”
“How did you find out?”
“A local mob guy fingered them for me.”
“They from New Jersey?”
“Don’t ask so many questions.”
DeMarco turned from the window so he was facing his uncle. He hated it when his uncle addressed him like a child. “I have a right to know, Uncle George.”
“According to who?”
“According to me. I want to know who’s after me.”
“Yeah, they’re from Jersey.”
“Atlantic City?”
There was a long pause.
“Yeah,” his uncle finally said.
DeMarco felt himself shudder. There was only one good reason why four guys from Atlantic City would come to Las Vegas to rob them, and he found himself wishing he’d never allowed his uncle to talk him into playing in the World Poker Showdown. He felt his uncle put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and leave it there.
“There ain’t nothing to worry about, Skipper,” his uncle said.
“You sure, Uncle George?”
“Yeah. Those guys will pay. Just leave everything to me.”
23
While Vinny drove back to their motel, Gerry stared at the Tuna’s canvas bag sitting on the floor between his feet. He’d come to Las Vegas for two reasons — to get Jack’s poker secret, and to pay back Jack’s killers — only now the payback scenario didn’t seem like such a good idea. His father telling him that no job was worth getting killed over suddenly sounded real smart.
“What do you say we get this over with?” Gerry asked.
Vinny took his eyes off the highway and stared at him. “How so?”
“I’m ready to go home. Let’s take a look at Jack’s secret, then split up. I’ll fly up to Atlantic City next week, collect the money you owe Jack, and give it to Jack’s mom.”
“You want to scram, huh?” Vinny asked.
“Let’s just say I’ve had enough of this town. How about you?”
Vinny said yes, then looked in the mirror at Nunzie and Frank.
“What do you guys say?”
Nunzie and Frank nodded vigorously. The scene at the Voodoo Lounge had put the fear of God into them, and they’d hardly spoken a word since leaving.
“Then I guess it’s unanimous,” Vinny said.
They were on Tropicana Avenue heading into town, and Vinny aimed the car at an off-the-strip casino called Lucky Lou’s. Lou’s was a locals’ hangout, and known for its homey atmosphere and endless buffet.
“Why are you going there?” Gerry asked.
“There’s a blackjack dealer on the afternoon shift that flashes her hole card,” Vinny said. “I figured we could see what Jack’s secret is, and make a little pocket money.”
“Who told you about the dealer?”
“The albino at the Laughing Jackalope,” Vinny said. “He got the information from the newest edition of the notebook. He said this dealer was an easy target.”
The notebook was the holy grail for Nevada hustlers, and contained the names of blackjack dealers who flashed their hole card during the deal. By knowing the dealer’s hole card, the player had a 15 percent edge over the house. Gerry didn’t like it, and shook his head. He wanted to get out of Vegas, not scam a BJ dealer.
“Come on, it’s easy pickings,” Vinny said.
“I’m out of the rackets, remember?”
“Then have a beer. Come on.”
The car was drifting across the lanes, heading toward Lucky Lou’s on its own. There was no stopping Vinny when there was easy money to be made, and Gerry picked up the canvas bag from the floor.
“All right,” he said.
Like many off-the-strip casinos, Lucky Lou’s gave gamblers good value, with slot machines that paid out more regularly, and table games that offered better rules. Gerry had always thought it wrong that Las Vegas casinos were allowed to control the odds they offered gamblers, but that was the way the town worked.
Lucky Lou’s was busy, and they passed through a sea of denim and polyester to reach the bar. Gerry ordered draft beers all the way around, and when they were delivered, found a table in the corner of the room. When he was sure no one was watching, he put the canvas bag on the table, and opened it. Inside was a white plastic box wrapped in see-through plastic. Gerry undid the plastic, which was cold to the touch, and handed the box to Vinny.
“For me?” Vinny said, like it was a birthday gift.
“You paid for it,” Gerry said.
Vinny shook the box, then looked at Nunzie and Frank.
“Maybe I should wait and open it later,” he said teasingly.
“Come on, open the box,” Frank said impatiently.
“Yeah, dickhead, open it,” Nunzie chorused.
The box had a plastic clasp, which Vinny undid, then lifted the lid. The four men dropped their heads and stared. Inside were a dozen tiny bottles of yellow liquid, and a hypodermic with several spare needles. For a long moment, no one said anything. Vinny picked up one of the bottles, and held it up to the crummy bar light. He squinted to read the printing on the label, then cursed under his breath.
“We stole the guy’s insulin,” he said.
Gerry grabbed the bottle from Vinny. “Maybe this is the secret.”
“Insulin?” Vinny asked.
“Jack said he came up with the scam while getting radiation treatment in the hospital,” Gerry said. “Maybe he found a way to mark playing cards with insulin.”
Gerry poured some insulin onto a white cocktail napkin. It had no color, and when he wiped it away a moment later, there was no stain. Substances used to mark playing cards were usually derived from ink, and almost always left marks on white surfaces.
“I don’t think so,” Vinny said in disgust.
A minute passed with no one saying anything. For Vinny, that was a rare event. Finally he blew out his lungs and looked at Frank and Nunzie.
“What do you say we go make some easy money?”
“Yeah,” they both said.
The three men rose from the table. Without a word they left the bar and went into the casino. The bar’s walls were made of tinted glass, and Gerry watched them roam the blackjack pit in search of their easy dealer. Then he stared at the box of insulin and felt his spirits drop. He felt like he’d dug himself a hole, and it was growing deeper by the minute. He needed to fix things, and then he needed to get the hell out of Las Vegas.
He spied a cute waitress circling the table. She wore a spandex outfit that was several sizes too small for her, and seemed embarrassed by all the skin she was showing. He motioned her over to the table.
“I need a bag of ice,” he said.
She scurried away. From his pocket he removed the pages he’d lifted from the Voodoo Lounge showing the odds of each player winning the World Poker Showdown, and found the odds on Skip DeMarco. DeMarco was running at 40 to 1. Odds were only meaningful if there was real money being bet on the tournament. He knew plenty of bookies, and took his cell phone and called one in New York named Big Dave.
“As I live and breathe,” Big Dave said. “I heard you’d gone legit.”
“I have,” Gerry said. “I need a favor.”
“Fire away.”
“How much action is on the World Poker Showdown?”