The piece of paper from Smooth Stone’s ledger lay on the desk. Picking it up, he stared at the numbers beside Blackhorn’s name.
DROP: 12,104 WINNINGS: 5,812 HOLD: 42%
Blackhorn had kept 42 percent of the bets wagered at his
table. The best blackjack dealers in the world kept 20 percent. These dealers were considered A dealers and assigned to work the tables when “whales” came to town. And here was a wet-
behind-the-ears kid winning twice as much money.
“Let me see his file,” Valentine said.
Gladys handed him a Pendaflex folder. Valentine read it, then said, “Blackhorn was in prison for armed robbery. Your casino did a background check and turned it up. Yet you still hired him.”
“That’s right.”
“Let me guess. This was Running Bear’s doing.”
“Yes. Running Bear spent time in prison. So do a lot of boys on the reservation. It’s a by-product of high unemployment and poor schooling.”
So what, Valentine nearly said. No legitimate casino would allow a person with a criminal record to work for them. It was too damn tempting, the money flowing back and forth, night after night. Running Bear had a vision and thought he could change people by treating them well. Only, it didn’t work that way with criminals.
“I’d like to see another tape of this guy,” Valentine said.
They found Billy Tiger standing in front of a curved wall of video monitors, watching the action in the casino. Without taking his eyes away, he said, “You done?”
“We want to see another tape of Blackhorn,” Gladys said.
Tiger peeled his eyes away. And hesitated.
Gladys said, “Is that a problem?”
His bemused expression had faded. “Not at all,” he said.
While Gladys and Tiger went looking for the tape, Valentine returned to the office. He suddenly felt exhausted. Maybe wrestling alligators had something to do with it. Or the sheer physical exertion of having to be nice with his son. His eyes started to droop, and he stared at the TV on the desk. It contained live feeds of the casino’s hot zones and included the parking lot. A black limousine was parked by the entrance. Beside it stood a redhead smoking a cigarette. He put his face so close to the screen that his nose touched it. One thing that hadn’t slowed down as he’d gotten older was his memory. He’d seen this woman before.
She tossed her cigarette. Then said something to the skinny Hispanic driver and pointed at her watch. The driver made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. The tape of Jack Lightfoot, Valentine thought. The redhead was the raggle.
She got into the limo. So did the driver. Reaching down, the driver removed a handgun from a pocket on the door and slipped it into his lap. Then he shut the door and drove away.
Valentine ran out of the room, looking for Gladys Soft Wings.
19
Splinters had always considered casinos filthy places. In Havana, he’d gone to school in a building that had housed a casino during the Batista regime. Castro had closed the casino after the revolution, along with whorehouses and sex shows, and replaced them with schools and hospitals. Every schoolkid knew the story by heart. Even the bad ones.
“You’re sure Nigel Moon said he’d meet me outside the Micanopy casino,” Candy said from the backseat.
Splinters was driving on the twisting, single-lane road that eventually returned to the turnpike, and his eyes searched for the break in the mangroves where he and Rico had dumped Jack Lightfoot’s body. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what he said.”
In his mirror, Candy had a cell phone against her ear. They were in a dead zone, and she could not get a connection. She tossed the phone into her bag.
“I’m going to kill him. Why are you driving so slow, anyway?”
On the shoulder of the road Splinters saw a sleek black racer. It looked dead until it sprang to life and slithered away.
“Kill who?” he asked.
“Nigel fucking Moon, the bozo who hired you.”
Splinters didn’t like that. Did she have a gun? That could be a problem.
“How?” he asked.
“How what?” she said indignantly.
Splinters looked in the mirror. The hooker’s face was flushed and had turned hot pink. With the hair it almost made her look like she was on fire. He’d watched her from afar a couple of times and had memorized the contours of her body. More than once he’d imagined her naked, and him inside of her, and what her reaction would be.
“You’re going to kill him,” he said.
“With my bare hands.”
He felt himself relax. The break in the road appeared. He tapped the brakes and tucked the gun in his lap behind his belt. “Damn,” he said loudly. “I got a flat tire.” He pulled off the road and parked beside the trail. It was well-worn, and he looked down it but saw no hikers or fishermen. He got out and opened Candy’s door. She gave him a look that suggested her patience had run out.
“I’m not getting out in this fucking swamp.”
“But—”
“You heard me.”
Her face was still a hot pink. The effect it had on him was remarkable, and he hid behind the door, not wanting her to see the erection in his trousers. He imagined screwing her, and her fighting with him like a wild animal. “Tire’s flat,” he explained. “I gotta change the tire.” She wasn’t budging, so he said, “It’s dangerous for you to stay in the car.”
She got out and brushed past him. He saw her walk toward the front of the car and pulled the gun from behind his waistband. Coming up from behind her, he shoved the barrel into the small of her back. “Know what this is?”
She froze, her head tilting slightly back. “Your dick?”
He started grinning. He hadn’t known many whores with a sense of humor. He took the purse from her outstretched hand and tossed it into a stand of mangroves. “It’s a gun. Would you rather see my dick?”
Candy looked over her shoulder into his eyes. She was scared.
“Okay,” she said.
“You want to fuck me?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“I wanna hear you say it.”
“I want your big Cuban prick inside of me.”
Splinters made her turn around and say it again. Then he made her undress herself. She wore a red lace bra, one of those garments that cost hundreds of dollars. She slipped out of it without being asked. Heaven. Pointing at the trail, he said, “You first.”
“Speed up, will you?” Valentine said.
Gladys Soft Wings’s hands gripped the wheel of her Volvo. Valentine had run out of Billy Tiger’s office, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her to the parking lot. Now he was insisting she speed down tribal roads, something she was loath to do.
“Someone’s life is at stake.”
She hit the gas. The roads twisted like a corkscrew, and the tires screeched on every curve. She’d bought the car to drive on I-95, south Florida’s crazy drivers more frightening than anything she’d ever known. Rounding a curve, she saw a black limo on the side of the road and slammed on the brakes.
Valentine hit the windshield. He saw stars, then pulled himself off the dashboard, the warm sensation of blood creeping down his face. He touched his nostril and swore.
“Sorry. Why aren’t you wearing your belt?”
“Because I’m a dope.” He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against his nose. “Do you have a gun by any chance?”