“I think I was out sick that day.”
Smith blew the steam off his cup. “Darwin said that evolution relentlessly encouraged the survival of the fittest. If that’s true, human beings should be naturally selfish, and only care for themselves. Yet, the fact is, we are not a selfish species, per se. We interact with scores of individuals, sometimes hundreds or even thousands, and we cooperatewith them.”
“We do?” Valentine said.
“Of course. We tip waiters in restaurants, give blood, drive on the correct side of the street, obey rules, and cooperate with people we’ll never see again. And we do it for a purely selfish reason. We want to survive.”
“You’ve lost me. How does that lead to survival?”
Smith put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Throughout human history, groups of cooperators have been more successful than groups of selfish individuals, and have driven the selfish individuals into extinction. Darwin believed that the desire for survival led to humans’ mutual aid and trust. He called it the evolution of cooperation.”
The coffee tasted like rocket fuel, and Valentine felt it kick his brain into another gear. “Let me see if I can guess where you’re taking this. You think Darwin’s evolution of cooperation is happening inside casinos. People like Lucy Price cooperate with cheaters because they want to beat the casinos, just like every other player. Lucy helps, even though she knows it’s wrong.”
“Wrong in a legal sense, but not in a cooperative one,” the doctor said. “Inside a casino, it’s us vs. them, and them is the casino.”
“If that were the case, lots of people would be helping cheaters.”
“They are. Lucy told me you work with the casinos. How often do players turn in other players for cheating, or stealing, or not playing by the rules?”
“Hardly ever,” Valentine conceded.
“But those things go on. The casino is the oppressor. The casino never loses. The players know this, and they hate it. As a result, players who see cheating either turn a blind eye, or become accomplices. Make sense?”
Valentine’s coffee suddenly didn’t taste so good. He’d assumed that people like Bo and Karen Farmer had been talked into becoming thieves by promises of lots of money. But Smith was saying that money was only a part of it. The Farmers had turned bad because it was human nature to fight something that was beating you silly.
“You still haven’t told me why Lucy won’t speak to me,” Valentine said.
“Lucy is afraid that by talking to you, she’ll regress,” Smith said. “She believes that by seeing you again, she’ll undo all therapy.”
“I need her help. Doesn’t she know that?”
“She knows, but she has to think about herself.”
Valentine drummed the table. Where was the evolution of cooperation that Smith had just spoken about? Valentine had helped Lucy plenty of times, even given her money when her situation had seemed hopeless. How could she now be so unwilling to help him? He didn’t like it. In fact, it made him mad as hell.
He’d been walking around with an envelope tucked under his arm since he’d entered the prison. Opening it, he laid the photographs of the seven suspected gaming agents on the table. Five men, two women. He removed the photos of the five men, and handed them to Smith.
“One of these five guys is the ringleader of a major casino scam. In the spirit of cooperation that you’re so fond of talking about, I want you to show these photographs to Lucy. Tell her it would be therapeutic for her to turn in a cheater.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Do it anyway.”
“You can’t order me around.”
“I can’t?”
“No. I don’t work for you.”
Valentine leaned forward. “Your job is being paid for by casino dollars, just like every other employee in this prison. Think about it.”
Smith blinked as Valentine’s words registered in his brain. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. If I don’t cooperate, and get Lucy to look at these photographs, you’ll have me fired.”
“Not me. But maybe the people I’m working for.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“Call it whatever you want.”
“You realize Lucy will hate you for this.”
“That’s my cross to bear, not yours.”
Smith scooped the five photographs off the table and left the cafeteria. Valentine rose from the table, and bought a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine in the corner, pausing to read the Surgeon General’s warning stamped on the glass. Printed in bold letters, it said that smoking would eventually kill him.
He ripped open the pack and banged out a smoke. Sometimes, a person didn’t want to live forever. For those times, a cigarette was the perfect thing to stick in your mouth.
Smith returned fifteen minutes later. His face was flush. He angrily tossed the photographs into Valentine’s hands.
“It’s the guy on top,” the doctor said.
Valentine took another drag on his cigarette. An investigation was like running a race. Some were sprints, others marathons. The only thing they had in common was the finish line.
He stared down at the photo. It was Fred Friendly, the head of ESD.
Chapter 49
Gerry stood inside the lobby of the Acropolis feeling like he’d entered a 1970's sitcom. The carpeting was an ugly burnt orange color that he hadn’t seen since his grandparent’s house, the walls covered in dark smokey mirrors. Statues of half-dressed women with huge breasts were stuck in every corner, and appeared to be someone’s idea of art. It reminded him of the movie Casinowithout the beautiful people.
He entered the casino. It was also a time warp, and was designed like a wheel. A person could not walk through the main floor without passing through that wheel, and hopefully, stopping at a table and wagering a few dollars.
He went searching for the house phones. Before he could find them, a hulking security guard approached him.
“Your name Valentine?”
“That’s me.”
The guard pointed to the elevators. “You have a phone call.”
It had to be his father. Who else knew he was here? He thanked the guard, and went to the elevators where the house phones were located. He picked up a phone.
“Hey.”
“Hey?” an unfamiliar voice replied. “What kind of greeting is that?”
Not his father, but someone with the same attitude.
“Okay,” Gerry said, “Hey, you.”
The man snorted at him. “Where’d you go to charm school?”
“Sing-Sing prison.”
“You’re hysterical. You come into my casino and don’t say hello?”
“Who is this?” Gerry asked.
“Nick Nicocropolis, you pin head. I’m in the penthouse. Come on up.”
Gerry hung up with a grin on his face. Nick was the hard-headed little Greek who owned the Acropolis. Gerry guessed Nick had seen him in the casino, and mistaken him for his father. He’d heard stories about Nick for years — Nick had been married eight glorious times, all to Vegas knockouts — and had always wanted to meet him. He stepped into an elevator, and pressed the penthouse button. The buttons were made of see-through plastic, and featured silhouettes of naked women in provocative poses.
“That’s just beautiful,” Gerry said.
The penthouse was a major disappointment. Nick’s sexual prowess was legendary, and Gerry had expected Nick’s digs to be a living testimonial to his conquests. Instead, his office was a clone of Fortune 500 CEO’s digs, and as sterile as a hospital emergency room. Gerry was bummed.
Nick was something of a disappointment as well. He was a smallish Greek with a perfectly round pot-belly, bushy eyebrows, bushy hair, and other small bushes of hair sprouting from different parts of his body. As Gerry entered the office, Nick jumped out of his chair, and came around the desk to greet him.
“Holy shit, you’re not Tony,” the little Greek said.