“You bet,” Valentine replied.
Valentine said good-bye and folded his cell phone. His son was standing beside him. Valentine removed the playing card from his wallet, and handed it to him. “The secret of how DeMarco is cheating is in the hospital where Jack Donovan died. Jack found something there that can be used to mark cards. It doesn’t leave a trace, and is dangerous if not handled properly. I know it’s been a rough couple of days, but I want you to go to Atlantic City, look through the hospital records, and find out what it is. I’ll ask one of my police buddies to accompany you, so no one tries to whack you.”
Gerry blinked, and then he blinked again.
“I thought you wanted me to go home.”
“I changed my mind.”
“So I’m still working with you on the case?”
“You were never off the case.”
“I wasn’t?”
“Of course not. You’re my partner, aren’t you?”
The happy look in Gerry’s eyes was one Valentine hadn’t seen in a long time. There was a time in every man’s life when he had to emerge from his father’s shadow, and this was Gerry’s time. His son slipped Jack’s playing card into his shirt pocket, and hugged his father again. Valentine was surprised at how good it made him feel.
52
“My producer thinks this story would make a terrific made-for-TV movie,” Gloria Curtis said, microphone in hand.
Valentine nodded, staring at the magnificently conditioned racehorse standing a dozen yards away. The horse’s front legs were going up and down like pistons while a trainer held it in check with a lead rope. Valentine had put Gerry on a plane for Atlantic City, then driven to the University of Nevada football field where Gloria and several hundred gamblers were preparing to watch Rufus Steele challenge the horse in the hundred-yard dash.
“It isn’t over yet,” he reminded her.
“You sound awfully pessimistic,” Gloria said, shivering from a breeze.
He continued to watch the horse, which had deposited a steaming pile of manure on the field. His late father had liked to bet on the ponies, and had always run to the betting windows after seeing a horse take a crap.
“Just being realistic,” he said.
“Meaning this may not having a happy ending.”
Valentine didn’t say anything, not wanting to jinx Rufus, who stood on the fifty-yard line, doing jumping jacks in his Skivvies T-shirt and black boxing shorts while exhorting his fellow gamblers with nonstop banter.
“Come on, boys, what do you say? I’ll give you even money I can beat that nag in the hundred-yard dash. That’s even money!”
A group of gamblers stood around the horse, and appeared to be making sure the animal hadn’t been doped. The group included the Greek, who asked the trainer to lift the horse’s saddle, then peered beneath it to make sure there were no hidden electronic devices that might slow the animal down. Satisfied, he turned to his fellow gamblers.
“Looks good to me.”
“Check its hooves,” one of the gamblers said. “Maybe Rufus took off its shoes.”
The Greek decided this was a good idea, and went to the noneating end of the horse and attempted to lift one of its hind legs. Before he could say Jack Robinson, the Greek was sitting on his rump in the grass, having been kicked solidly in the thigh. The other gamblers rushed to his aid.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” the Greek said, rising and dusting himself off. “That’s one hell of an animal. I think we just might have a bet here.”
The horse was led to the center of the field where it began to prance around on its hind legs. Valentine wondered if Rufus had bitten off more than he could chew, and glanced at Gloria. She looked equally worried.
“Maybe I’d better go talk to him,” he said.
Rufus was still doing his exercises. He was all skin and bones, with some sinew thrown in for good measure. He winked as Valentine approached.
“Hey, Tony, you ready to help me fleece these suckers?”
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Rufus said, stopping to suck down the cool night air. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re losing faith in me?”
Valentine looked across the field at the competition. The Greek had hired a professional jockey to ride the horse, unwilling to let Rufus provide the rider. The Greek’s jockey was a diminutive man with a pinched face and expressionless eyes, his uniform the color of money. With the trainer holding the horse, the jockey climbed into the saddle, then took the horse down the field at a canter.
“A little,” Valentine admitted.
“You don’t think I can beat Greased Lightning?”
“Is that the horse’s name?”
“Yeah. Raced in the Kentucky Derby a few years back, came in fourth,” Rufus said. “The owners use it for stud now. A real nag, if you ask me.”
Valentine knew enough about horses to know that nags weren’t used for stud. The jockey had stopped in the end zone and turned Greased Lightning around. With a tip of the hat to the Greek and his friends, he took off at a dead gallop. A football field is exactly one hundred yards long, and Valentine clocked the horse with his watch. Greased Lightning went from end zone to end zone in seven seconds flat.
He turned to see Rufus removing a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros. The Greek and his cronies were standing nearby, and watched Rufus light up and take a deep drag.
“Rufus,” Valentine said, “you can’t beat what I just saw. Give up.”
Rufus exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the still night air.
“Say that a little louder,” he said under his breath.
“Why?”
“Because I want those boys standing nearby to hear you.”
Valentine raised his voice. “Rufus, you can’t beat what I just saw.”
Rufus looked pleased and offered the pack. Valentine reached for it, then hesitated. He was going to quit smoking, even if it killed him, and withdrew his hand.
The Greek and his cronies stepped forward.
“We want to make a wager,” the Greek announced.
Rufus ground his cigarette into the grass. “How much?”
“First we want to settle the odds,” the Greek said. “We want three-to-one on Greased Lightning. Take it, or leave it.”
Rufus held his chin and gave it some thought. Of all the gamblers assembled on the field, the Greek had the biggest bankroll, and his action would dominate the wagering. He said, “I’ll do it, with one stipulation. You get in front of the TV camera, and say what you just said into a mike. That you want three-to-one odds on a champion racehorse beating a seventy-two-year-old broken-down cowboy in the hundred-yard dash. Say that, and it’s a deal.”
The Greek looked crushed. He had won a TV poker tournament recently, and was a celebrity in the poker world. He liked being famous, and was what gamblers called a trophy hunter. Using the palms of his hands, he smoothed out the creases in his bowling shirt, and let the appropriate amount of time pass before speaking again.
“Even money it is,” the Greek said.
“How much?”
“I’ll bet you a half-million that you can’t beat Greased Lightning in the hundred-yard dash.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars?” Rufus asked.
“That’s right,” the Greek said.
“Tony, you hear that?” Rufus asked.
It was more money than most people made in an entire lifetime, and Valentine slowly nodded.
“I heard,” he said.
The Greek and Rufus shook hands, and the deal was struck.
“Good evening and welcome to the playing field of the University of Nevada,” Gloria Curtis said, staring into the camera. “This is Gloria Curtis, reporting to you from Las Vegas, the city that never sleeps. Standing beside me is a man who never sleeps, Rufus Steele, legendary poker player and gambler. Tonight, Rufus is betting a sizable sum—”