“What was he doing the rest of the time?”
“A job for me. Who’s the stiff?”
“A local dirtbag named Russell John Watson,” Longo said. “His death is no great loss to the world. Watson was put in your son’s room, then shot again in the head.”
Longo’s admission was surprising. The detective was saying more than he was supposed to, considering it was Gerry’s room the stiff had ended up in.
“How can you tell that?” Valentine asked.
“Lack of blood,” Longo said. “Whoever brought Watson here propped him up in a chair, stuck a gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. His head had already drained, so there wasn’t much blood on the wall when the bullet came out, just bone and brain tissue. Believe it or not, I’ve seen this before.”
“Sorry.”
Longo smiled thinly. He looked different from the last time Valentine had seen him, and it wasn’t just the loss of weight. His face had taken on a gravity, like he knew how lucky he was to be getting a second chance at life.
“I need to talk to your son and his friends,” the detective said.
“Of course.”
“Any idea why someone might be trying to set up your son?”
“It’s a bad world, Pete. I have no idea.”
A uniformed cop standing in the doorway to Gerry’s room called to Longo, and the detective turned and hurried across the lot to where the cop was standing. Valentine went back to his car, and saw Gerry roll down his window.
“You fix it, Pop?”
“Yeah, I fixed it. You’re going to need to talk to the cops. Stick to your story, and you’re home free.”
“Oh man, Pop, that’s great.”
Gerry was smiling like he’d won the lottery. It was a look that Valentine had seen on Gerry’s face many times before, and had always reminded him of a pardoned man on death row. He knelt down so he was eyeball-to-eyeball with his son.
“Where’s the bag of insulin you stole?”
Gerry produced the bag and passed it through the window. Valentine peered into it, and saw a white plastic box and a baggie of melting ice. Gerry had been telling him the truth, and planned to give the insulin back. His son was learning, even if he was doing it the hard way, and Valentine guessed that was all he could ask for.
“Call me when you’re finished with the police,” Valentine said.
30
Las Vegas sat in a desert basin surrounded by mountains, and nighttime seemed to settle over the town more slowly than anyplace else Valentine had ever been. It was like a big party was about to begin, the house lights slowly being dimmed.
By the time he pulled into Celebrity’s valet stand, the casino’s blazing neon was the only thing visible across the vast desert. He grabbed the bag of insulin off the front seat and got out. Tossing his keys to the valet, he glanced at the tiny TV sitting in the valet’s alcove. It was tuned to the World Poker Showdown, and showed Skip DeMarco playing earlier that day. The kid looked good on TV, and the camera was showing him to the exclusion of the other players at the table. As Valentine went into the hotel, a concierge appeared before him.
“Mr. Valentine?”
“That’s me.”
“There’s a call for you on the house phone.”
He followed the concierge to his desk, and was handed a white house phone. He guessed it was Bill Higgins, spying on him from the surveillance control room.
“Valentine, here.”
“Sammy Mann, at your service,” a man’s voice said.
“Not the Sammy Mann, king of the cooler mobs?”
“In the flesh,” Sammy said. “I’m upstairs in surveillance, doing a job for Bill Higgins.”
“So I heard. Want to get together?”
“Yeah, but don’t bother coming up here,” the retired hustler said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby bar, if that’s okay with you.”
Valentine was tired, and felt like going to his room and taking a nap. Only he’d learned a long time ago that when crooks wanted to talk, he needed to listen.
“Sure. I’ll grab us a table inside.”
“See you in ten minutes,” Sammy said.
Hanging up, Valentine turned to the concierge, and handed him the canvas bag with the insulin. “I need you to put this someplace cold for a little while.”
“Certainly, Mr. Valentine,” the concierge said.
“I took your advice, and started hiring myself out to the casinos,” Sammy said ten minutes later, nursing a ginger ale while untying his necktie. In his day, Sammy had been the epitome of a classy cheat, and had gone back to wearing his trademark clothes — a navy sports jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons, silk tie, and white shirt with French cuffs. He’d once run with a cooler mob, and could take eight decks of prearranged playing cards out of an arm sling he was wearing, and exchange it with eight decks being held by a crooked blackjack dealer, all in three seconds flat.
“They paying you good?” Valentine asked, sipping a decaf.
“Like a king. I went through chemotherapy two years ago, and came out a new man. I decided the best way to stay alive was by working.”
“What did you think of DeMarco?” Valentine asked.
“What do you think of him?”
“I never played poker, so I don’t know,” Valentine said.
Sammy’s coal dark eyes scanned the crowded casino bar. He was Arab, and had the dark good looks of an aging movie star. Valentine was glad to see that he was doing well, but still wouldn’t confide in him. Sammy had been a thief for too long to be fully trusted.
“He’s cheating,” Sammy said quietly.
There were plenty of people inside the bar, many of them associated with the WPS. Valentine raised his glass to his lips. “How?”
Sammy smiled. “My guess is, he’s being fed information.”
“By who?”
“The dealer. The cards are marked. The dealer reads the marks during the deal, and signals DeMarco what his opponents are holding.”
“But the kid is blind.”
Sammy leaned back in his chair. The bar had a plasma-screen TV, and was broadcasting the same rerun of the tournament Valentine had seen at the valet stand. DeMarco was on, and had just knocked another world-class player out of the tournament.
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Sammy said. “Maybe the signal is verbal — you know, by breathing loudly. Or maybe it’s the way the dealer pitches the cards to DeMarco during the deal. DeMarco has some vision.”
Valentine had already considered those methods, and ruled them out. Breathing loudly — called The Sniff — was too noticeable, and so was The Pitch. He sensed that Sammy was taking stabs in the dark.
“Any other ideas?” Valentine asked.
Sammy stared at him coolly. “You think I’m wrong?”
“Yes.”
Sammy grabbed a passing waitress and bummed a cigarette off her. He could have been the greatest salesman who’d ever lived, so natural were his charms of persuasion. He lit up, and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. “Tony, that’s the only explanation for what’s going on. The kid is getting outside help. Period.”
There was real resentment in Sammy’s voice, and Valentine guessed he’d heard DeMarco call Rufus Steele an old man on TV, and taken exception to it.
“Maybe he’s lucky,” Valentine said.
“Poker isn’t about luck, and it isn’t about the cards you get dealt,” Sammy said. “It’s about playing your opponent, and knowing when he’s strong or weak. That’s the entire formula in a nutshell. This kid is being fed information.”
The smell of Sammy’s cigarette reminded Valentine of every cigarette he’d ever smoked. He tagged the waitress and talked her into giving him a cigarette as well.
“The cards aren’t marked,” he said after he’d lit up.