“What plan?” he asked Vinny.
“The plan to get us out of this rat hole,” Vinny said.
“I don’t have a plan.”
“So, come up with one. You were always the man with the plan when it came to disaster relief.”
“I was?”
“Yeah. Remember the time I owed that money to those gangsters in Atlantic City? You came up with the best plan.”
“I did?”
Vinny spit something onto the floor, and Gerry watched it roll past his feet and stop. It was small and white. A tooth.
“Yeah,” Vinny said, making himself talk so he wouldn’t be scared. “I borrowed five grand from two gumbas who ran the Italian Men’s Social Club on Fairmont Avenue. I was supposed to pay them back on Wednesday at noon, only I wasn’t going to have the money to pay them back until Saturday. You remembering this?”
Gerry was watching two of the goons take turns whacking Nunzie in the kisser. Nunzie had a neck like a weight lifter and his head hardly moved from the blows.
“A little,” he said.
“So, I called you up, and you came up with the best plan.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“You knew two squares who worked at a bank,” Vinny said. “They had short hair and wore blue suits and neckties. You called them, and talked them into helping me out. They agreed to meet me on Wednesday at a few minutes before noon in the parking lot of Harold’s House of Pancakes where I was supposed to be paying off the gumbas.”
One of the goons connected with a solid right cross. Nunzie let out a soft grunt, the sound being amplified in the warehouse’s high ceiling.
“You left a part out,” Gerry said.
“I did?”
“Yeah. I also told you to buy the bank guys attaché cases and dark sunglasses to wear so they’d look like FBI agents.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Vinny said. “It was a nice touch.”
“Thanks.”
“So, I pull into Harold’s at a minute before noon on Wednesday, and the gumbas are sitting there in their Caddy, waiting for me. I hop out of my car holding a brown paper bag stuffed with crumpled newspaper—”
“I think that was my idea, too.”
“It was, and as I’m crossing the parking lot, the two bank guys jump out of their car holding their attaché cases. They stopped me, pulled out their wallets, and shoved them in my face. I never understood that part.”
“They were supposed to be showing you their badges,” Gerry explained. “You know, like they were FBI agents.”
Vinny looked stunned. “So that was what it was about. Well, they hustled me across the parking lot, shoved me into their car, and we drove away. I was in the backseat with the paper bag in my lap, and saw the gumbas standing in the parking lot by their Caddy with these looks on their face. It was fucking priceless.”
“Did you give them their money?”
“Oh yeah,” Vinny said. “On Saturday I went to the club and paid them off. They took me aside and said, ‘We saw what happened. You took it like a man.’”
“You made two new friends.”
“That’s right. So, come up with a plan like that.”
Gerry stared at the ceiling. Bound to a chair in a warehouse in the middle of the desert and Vinny was telling him to come up with a plan to let them escape. If he had that kind of power, he wouldn’t have gotten himself in this situation to begin with.
“Let me think about it.”
“Hey,” Vinny said, “we’ve got all day.”
The sound of a man screaming snapped their heads. Gerry stared across the warehouse at one of the goons who’d been punishing Nunzie. He was clutching his hand and dancing around in agony. Nunzie, his face swollen and distorted, was laughing at him. Frank was laughing as well. Three down, one to go, Gerry thought.
“We need to keep stalling these guys,” Gerry said.
“That’s your plan?” Vinny asked.
“Yeah. My guess is, my old man has the cavalry looking for us. If we keep stalling and don’t tell them what they want to know, they won’t kill us right away.”
Vinny spit some bloody mucus on the floor. His eyes had been bulging out of his head, his heart racing out of control, and now, finally, he was beginning to look normal.
“If we get out of this alive, you’ve got to explain how it works between you and your old man.”
“How what works?”
“How you manage to get along, but not always like each other.”
That was a good question, and one that Gerry wasn’t sure he knew the answer to. He and his old man had always been civil to each other. Over the years, that civility had turned into tolerance, and now it was bordering on something that felt like what a father and son were supposed to feel toward each other. But it sure hadn’t started out that way.
The guy who’d broken his hand came over to where Gerry and Vinny were sitting. The look on his face said he’d had enough screwing around, and wanted a straight answer out of one of them.
“You assholes going to tell us which one of you killed Russ?” he asked.
“You want to know who killed Russ?” Vinny replied.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Russ died of a broken heart,” Vinny said. “He couldn’t stand being in love with Jinky, and not having his love returned. So Russ shot himself.”
There was only so much nonsense a person could take, and Gerry thought the mutt was going to shoot Vinny right there. Instead, he walked to the center of the warehouse, and took out a cell phone. He made a call, and spoke to someone in a hushed voice while glaring at them. Hanging up, he turned to his partners and called out in a loud voice.
“They’re bringing over the flamethrower,” he said.
46
At exactly two o’clock in the afternoon, Gloria Curtis appeared in the lobby of Celebrity’s hotel with her cameraman. She wore a white blouse and a black suit with a diamond broach on the lapel that made her look like a million bucks. Valentine stood near the lobby phone booth, watching. She saw him as she passed, and winked.
Gloria walked over to the doors leading to the World Poker Showdown, and stood a few yards away from the pair of stern-faced security guards blocking the entrance. Zack’s camera had a light, and it basked Gloria in its artificial glow. Her presence immediately drew a crowd of curious passersby coming out of the casino.
“Good afternoon. This is Gloria Curtis reporting from the World Poker Showdown in Las Vegas. Today is day four of the tournament, and folks, if you don’t mind my saying so, we’ve got a couple of bombshells for you.”
Valentine saw three men in tailored suits standing on the far side of the lobby. The man in the middle appeared to be in charge, and had dyed black hair, padded shoulders, and teeth so artificially white they appeared to glow. Valentine guessed this was Karl Jasper, president of the WPS. He had called Jasper’s room ten minutes ago, and left an anonymous message to be in the lobby at two if Jasper knew what was good for him.
“But first, a rundown on today’s tournament,” Gloria said, her eyes focused on the camera. “Skip DeMarco, the blind poker phenom from New Jersey, is still in first place, and has accumulated four million dollars in chips. In second place with two million dollars is last year’s winner, Gene Mydlowski. The rest of the pack is far, far behind.
“But the real story is not the action taking place behind these doors. The real story comes from Rufus Steele, the legendary poker player who lost in the first round, and claims he was cheated. Rufus has told me that he’s learned from the Metro Las Vegas Police Department that a dealer who was working the tournament is a known cheater, and was prosecuted in New Jersey for cold-decking a poker game. For those of our viewers who don’t know what cold-decking a poker game means, we’re going to show you a clip of this cheating move in action.”