“Just don’t make me suffer,” Bronco said.
Leaving the cemetery parking lot, Valentine hung a left on Las Vegas Boulevard, and drove a mile before turning right on Stewart Avenue. The streets were deserted except for a city bus spitting black exhaust a few blocks away. Bronco felt his heart catch in his chest as Valentine pulled into the Las Vegas Metropolitan Sheriff’s Department headquarters, and parked near the gleaming front doors.
“You’re turning me in?”
“That’s right,” Valentine said.
“But we had a deal. I want to die.”
“You are going to die. But first, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison, thinking about all the rotten things you’ve done.”
Bronco stared at the ugly stucco that defined the building. Like a monster hidden beneath the surface, the fear welled up inside of him, knowing what his life was about to become.
“You bastard,” he swore.
Chapter 62
When Governor Smoltz was not in the state capital in Carson City conducting business, he could be found in his luxurious suite at the Grant Sawyer State Office Building in North Las Vegas, an attractive five-story structure painted in natural earth tones. Valentine entered the building a short while after turning Bronco over to the police, and asked for Smoltz at the reception area. The uniformed security guard, a ham-faced man with no neck, raised a suspicious eyebrow.
“Who are you? What do you want?” the guard said.
Valentine dropped a business card on the desk in front of the guard. “My name’s Tony Valentine. Tell the governor it’s urgent that he speak with me.”
“Is this a joke?”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who jokes?”
The guard studied him like he was in a line-up. “Have a seat.”
Valentine sat on a leather couch facing the window. Out in the parking lot, he could see Gerry sitting in the car, nervously waiting for his return. He had weighed having Gerry with him when he talked with Smoltz, but had decided against it. If Smoltz pitched a fit and threatened him, it would be better if his son wasn’t around.
He had done some stupid things in his life, no question about it. What he was about to do now would get added to the list. But he didn’t see that he had a choice. When he had first gone to work policing the casinos in Atlantic City, he’d discovered how the gambling business preyed on human weakness. It had bothered him to no end. Eventually, he’d decided the only way he could justify his work was to make sure the games were clean and honest. To accept anything else would have made him a hypocrite.
A minute later, the guard called him back to the desk, and handed him a plastic ID tag. “Clip that to your jacket. The governor’s office is on the top floor.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve been working here for a long time, and the governor’s never seen anyone who’s come in off the street. Who are you?”
Valentine hesitated. He could have given the guard several answers. He was a gaming consultant, and also an ex-cop. But that wasn’t why he was here now.
“A concerned citizen,” Valentine said.
Smoltz’s office was befitting the most powerful politician in the state. Wood floors covered with thick Persian rugs, fine antiques, the walls decorated with restored photographs of the city back when it had been run by gangsters and murderers.
Smoltz was on the phone when Valentine came in. His desk was covered with newspapers, and Valentine glanced at the headlines. The media had dubbed yesterday’s fiasco “The Afternoon the Lights Went Out,” and claimed over ten million dollars had been lost in gaming revenues, not to mention all the negative publicity. But in the end, it was nothing compared to the money that the casinos would have lost had the lights stayed on, and Valentine guessed that the next time Smoltz ran for office, the casino owners would happily bankroll his campaign. It was the least they could do to thank him.
Smoltz finished his call. His hair was unkempt, his face flush. He looked like a pressure cooker with too much steam, and glared harshly at Valentine.
“Sit down,” Smoltz said.
Valentine remained standing and crossed his arms. “Tough morning?”
“You have no idea.”
“Let me guess. The media wants a more thorough explanation of how the power went out yesterday. Only you can’t give it to them.”
“They’ll go away. They always do.”
Smoltz poured himself a glass of water, but did not offer his guest a glass. The gesture was not lost on Valentine.
“I need a favor. Actually, several of them,” Valentine said.
“Why should I do you a favor?”
“I caught Bronco Marchese this morning. He’s cooling his heals over at the Stewart Street jail. In Bronco’s car I found a tape he secretly recorded of Fred Friendly, talking about why he ripped off the casinos. It’s pretty heavy.”
“Did you give the tape to the police?”
Valentine shook his head.
“Will you give it to me?”
“Yes. But I want some things in return.”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Actually, I’m doing you a favor. This tape is evidence. By law, I should turn it over to the police, and give a copy to Bronco’s defense attorney. If I did that, it would eventually get played in court. Then you’d have to take the sign on Las Vegas Boulevard that says ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas!’ and replace it with one that says, ‘Hello, Suckers!’ It would be more appropriate.”
“You’re an asshole, Valentine.”
He had Smoltz exactly where he wanted him. He picked up an empty glass off the desk and poured himself some water. It tasted good and cold. A sheet of sweat did a death march down Smoltz’s face, and he stammered like a punk on the witness stand.
“What do you want in exchange for the tape?”
“Give Bill Higgins his job back, with the promise that you’ll let him keep his position until he’s ready for retirement. He did nothing wrong.”
“Very well. Have Bill call me, and I’ll reinstate him.”
“No. You have to call him.”
Smoltz grit his teeth. “You want me to eat crow? All right, I’ll eat crow. What else?”
“There’s a casino owner named Diamond Dave living in California,” Valentine said. “I want you to find a reason to arrest him, and throw his ass in jail. He cheated his customers, and is also responsible for the death of his casino manager.”
“I can’t go after Diamond Dave.”
“Why the hell not?”
“The evidence against him was destroyed. I ordered it.”
“Diamond Dave pocketed several million bucks in illegal winnings. I’m sure he didn’t report it on his income tax return. Sic the IRS on him.”
“You know all the angles, don’t you?”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“I have friends with the IRS. Consider it done. What else?”
“My fee.”
A look of indignation rose in Smoltz’s face.
“You want me to pay you myself?” the governor asked.
“Yes. I don’t work for free.”
“What are the damages?”
“Ten grand.”
Smoltz took a check book from his desk and wrote him a check. Ripping it out, he held it in the air and said, “Where’s the tape?”
Valentine removed the tape from his jacket pocket. They did the exchange. Then Valentine stuck out his hand. Smoltz stared at it.
“We have a deal,” Valentine said. “I don’t talk, and you keep up your end of the bargain. Agreed?”
The best deals were ones that weren’t written on paper. Smoltz stood up and shook his hand.
“Agreed,” the governor replied.
Valentine went to the door, then remembered something. He’d become a cop because he liked helping people. It was the same reason he ran his consulting business. If he could make someone’s life better, then he’d accomplished something far greater than earning a paycheck. Turning around, he walked back to the governor’s desk, and cleared his throat. “I have another request I’d like you to consider.”