“It goes good with my gray hair,” Valentine said.
Bill drove to Naked City. Naked City sold sex in the private VIP rooms of strip clubs, in massage parlors, and behind closed doors of dirty bookstores. The only place you couldn’t find sex in Naked City was on the streets. Bill pulled up in front of a medical supply store called ABC Medical and Valentine hopped out.
Five minutes later, Valentine emerged from the store walking with a burnished wood walking stick. He’d also purchased a pair of dark sunglasses, and a white captain’s fishing hat. As he slid into the passenger seat, Bill stared at him.
“You bought the hat and glasses in there?”
“I bought them from the guy behind the counter,” Valentine said.
“How much?”
“Thirty bucks.”
“You got hosed.”
As Bill pulled out of the lot, Valentine adjusted his hat and glasses. The guy behind the counter had worn the hat with the sides pulled down, like Gilligan on the old TV show. It had a comical effect, and he tried it, then appraised himself in the reflection of his window. He looked like the captain of a shuffleboard team. Perfect.
Bill drove several blocks, then turned down the street to Jinky’s club. The Sugar Shack was at the very end of the street. The club was doing brisk business, with several black stretch limousines parked by the curb.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Bill asked.
“Sure, I’m sure,” Valentine said.
Bill looked at his watch. “The raid will take place in exactly five minutes.”
Valentine didn’t need to look at his watch. He knew how long five minutes was, and whacked the burnished walking stick against the palm of his hand.
The Sugar Shack’s admission fee was fifteen bucks. Valentine asked for a senior discount and thought the cashier was going to physically throw him out the door. He paid up, got his hand stamped, and ventured inside.
The club was a sprawling, multilevel room filled with pulsating strobe lights, blaring disco music, and exposed female flesh. There were three stages, just like at Barnum & Bailey’s circus, and they were filled with naked women doing exotic dances and swinging on brass poles. He guessed the crowd of guys watching them to number eighty, which meant almost half of them were Bill’s agents. He found an empty spot at the bar and ordered a club soda.
“Seven bucks,” the bartender said, serving him the drink.
Valentine slid a twenty his way. “Tell Jinky his appointment is here.”
The bartender gave him the hairy eyeball. “Who are you?”
“George Scalzo’s brother, Louie.”
The bartender walked down to the end of the bar and disappeared through a beaded curtain. Valentine followed him, practicing his limp. The short time he’d been living in Florida had convinced him that older people were invisible, and were therefore entitled to go wherever they pleased. He passed through the beaded curtain without anyone saying anything, and entered a narrow hallway illuminated by a red bulb hanging from the ceiling. He spied the bartender at the hallway’s end. The bartender rapped three times on a blue door, then spotted Valentine.
“Hey mister, you’re not supposed to be back here.”
“I thought you told me to follow you,” Valentine said, shuffling toward him.
“I didn’t say no such thing.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. You need to go back inside.”
Valentine caught up to him, and pretended to be breathing heavily. He put his free hand on the bartender’s shoulder and took several deep breaths.
“Sorry, son. My hearing’s going. Old age ain’t for sissies.”
The blue door opened, and a seven-foot-tall black guy emerged. Valentine guessed this was Finesse, the guy with designs on being a professional fighter. Finesse looked like he’d been lifting weights, his pectoral muscles bulging through his turtleneck sweater. He glared down at the tops of their heads.
“Who’s this guy?” Finesse asked the bartender.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” Valentine said, touching the brim of his hat. “Louis Scalzo, also known as Louie the Lip. I believe you’re expecting me.”
“He’s George Scalzo’s brother,” the bartender explained.
Finesse scratched his chin like a great thinker. “George Scalzo’s brother? How come I never heard of you?”
Valentine leaned on his cane with both hands and looked up into the giant’s face.
“Your boss has,” he said.
Finesse motioned him inside and shut the door. Jinky’s office had a large desk, several plush leather chairs, and several ugly paintings hanging on the walls. Next to the desk was a trestle tray loaded with food, and Valentine eyed the chicken chow mein and barbecue spare ribs.
“You guys throwing a party?” Valentine asked.
Finesse put his finger to his lips and shushed him. Jinky was at his desk, talking on the phone while gnawing on a spare rib. He had a napkin tucked into his collar, yet had managed to smear sauce all over his face. Hanging up, he stared at his bodyguard.
“Who’s this clown?” Jinky asked.
“Your appointment,” Finesse said.
“I don’t have an appointment,” Jinky said.
“You don’t?”
“No. Get rid of him.”
Valentine had edged up beside Finesse. Holding his walking stick by its center, he whacked Finesse in the kneecap with the round handle. It made a clean sound against the bone, and Finesse’s mouth opened in a perfect O. Valentine brought the stick straight up, and caught him on the tip of the nose. A torrent of blood spurted across the desk, and Finesse went down clutching his face with both hands.
There was only so much threat in a walking stick, and Valentine dropped it on the floor, then drew the Sig Sauer from behind his belt, and aimed it a few feet above Jinky’s head. Jinky did not seem terribly concerned, and continued eating.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Jinky said.
Valentine squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the frame of the painting hanging behind Jinky, ruining it. Jinky’s napkin slowly fell from his collar.
“You’re crazy, mister.”
Taking the snapshot of his bloodied son from his pocket, Valentine dropped it on Jinky’s desk, then aimed the gun at an imaginary bull’s eye on Jinky’s forehead.
“You have something of mine,” Valentine said, “and I want it back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jinky said.
Valentine picked up the walking stick from the floor. He was prepared to beat the information out of Jinky if he had to. Jinky looked at him defiantly.
“Hit me all you want,” Jinky said. “It won’t get you anywhere.”
Valentine sensed Jinky wasn’t the type to squeal. He patted Jinky down, then made him go down the hallway in his electric wheelchair and through the beaded curtain into the club. The raid was in progress, with club employees and strippers lined up against one wall, the scared-out-of-their-wits patrons on the other. Valentine pulled a Gaming Control Board agent aside, and asked him where Bill Higgins was.
“By the VIP rooms,” the agent replied. “I think he found the mother lode.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re running a gambling den,” the agent said.
Next to murder, there was no worse crime in Las Vegas than running an illegal casino, and Valentine tapped Jinky’s chair with his walking stick.
“You’re going down,” Valentine told him.
Valentine made Jinky lead him to the VIP rooms. A swarm of agents was standing by a door marked PRIVATE and parted as the two men entered. The room had plush carpeting and subdued lighting, with a bar covering one wall, and four blackjack tables, a roulette table, and a craps table in the room’s center. Bill was standing by one of the blackjack tables and had pulled several decks of playing cards out of the shoe. He looked up as they entered.