Disco music rocked the club. Up on the stage, three girls in G-strings were playing with hula hoops. One of them was a cutie, and Gerry could not help but stare. Knowing a sucker when she saw one, the girl motioned him over. Embarrassed, Gerry bellied up to the bar.
“Tell Rico the Valentines are here to see him,” he told the bartender, then ordered a couple of sodas.
“You dated a topless dancer, didn’t you?” his father said.
“A couple of them. Why?”
“I was wondering what you saw in them.”
“They were fun in bed,” he admitted.
“I bet you had an exit line before you started taking them out,” his father said.
Gerry felt his neck burn. It was the truth, although why it shamed him now, he had no idea. In the back bar mirror he saw the cute dancer standing on the edge of the stage, waiting for him to come over. That’s it, he thought. Shame me in front of my old man. The bartender returned with their drinks.
“Rico will be right out,” he said.
Gerry sipped his drink. In the mirror he saw the stripper sticking her tongue out at him. “So how do you want me to handle this?” he asked his father.
“Handle what?”
“What should I do when Rico comes out?”
“Introduce us.”
His neck burned some more. “And then what?”
“Watch the fun.”
Rico strolled out of his office. He’d replaced his New York hoodlum attire with a pair of pleated pants, a silk shirt, and a thick gold chain. A million-dollar suntan rounded out the reformation. He came over and slapped Gerry’s shoulder.
“Gerry-o, how’s it hanging?”
“Same as you left it,” Gerry said.
“So this must be your famous father. I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Valentine.”
“Same here,” Valentine said.
Rico pointed to a corner table in the back, and they crossed the room in a blinding snowstorm of strobe lights. Rico pulled back two chairs, showing some manners. Valentine cased the room, then sat down. Rico sat next to him, then got in his face.
“So, Mr. Valentine, or should I call you Tony?”
“Call me Mr. Valentine,” Valentine said.
Rico cleared his throat. “Okay, Mr. Valentine. You and I have a little bit of a history, but I’m willing to consider that water under the bridge.”
“Same here.”
“Gerry tells me you’re connected in Atlantic City.”
Valentine felt his son kick him beneath the table.
“That’s right,” he said.
“Matter of fact, Gerry says you’re the most connected guy in AC.”
Another kick.
“So what if I am?” Valentine said.
Rico leaned back in his chair and gave him a hard look. From his jacket he removed a deck of playing cards. They hit Valentine squarely in the chest.
“Prove it,” Rico said.
Valentine squinted at the cards in the crummy bar light. They were from the Riverboat Casino in Atlantic City. Every hood from Maine to Miami had heard about the scam going on there. A gang of Riverboat employees was getting marked decks onto the blackjack tables. They weren’t stealing a lot of money, but a computer analysis done by the casino had picked up the fluctuation. The problem was, no one could figure out how the scam was working. Valentine had a theory, which was that someone with juice—maybe a pit boss—had found a weak link in the system.
Because the scam had been going on for so long, it had grown into the stuff of legend, with the Riverboat’s losses reputed to be in the millions, and the thieves actually a group of well-connected insiders that included local politicians, the police, and the casino’s flamboyant owner.
The cute stripper appeared and sat in Gerry’s lap. Her blond dye job, fake tits, and rhinestone G-string clashed with her schoolgirl innocence. Nibbling on Gerry’s ear, she said, “Give me some money.”
Stone-faced, Gerry shook his head. “We’re here on business.”
Valentine tossed the Riverboat’s cards back to Rico. “How long you had these?”
“About a year,” Rico replied.
“And you couldn’t find the marks?”
Rico shook his head.
“Shuffle them.”
Rico took the deck out of the box. He gave the cards a riffle shuffle. Valentine took them, shuffled, then held the top card away from the deck with his forefinger and thumb.
“Nine of clubs,” he said.
Rico snatched the card out of his hand and turned it over. “Do it again.”
Valentine did it three more times. The playing card’s logo was the paddlewheel to a riverboat, and he pointed at the spokes on the wheel, and said, “It’s called juice. It’s a combination of clear nail polish and ink. When it dries, it’s invisible to the naked eye. But if you train yourself to throw your eye out, you can just see it.”
“That’s how it works?” Rico said.
No, it wasn’t, but Valentine took pleasure in imagining Rico giving himself headaches for a while. He handed the cards back, then spoke to the stripper.
“Get lost,” he said.
Rico put the cards away. He had lost his bluster, and Valentine leaned over and gave him a hard poke in the chest. A big guy, but totally out of shape.
“You’re stepping on my toes,” Valentine said.
“I am?”
“This is my turf.”
“Hey, I didn’t—”
“How long you been down here?” Valentine said. “A couple months? And already you’ve scammed the Micanopy Indians and put a bullet in one of their dealers. Now I hear you’re planning to take a bookie for a few million. You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, son.”
The bartender came over. Valentine ordered a round of sodas. Once the bartender was gone, Valentine continued. “Normally, I’d toss you in the ocean, only my son says you’re someone who can be talked to. So, here’s the deal. You take us on as partners, or you get lost.”
“Partners?” Rico said.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Valentine gave an exaggerated shake of the head. “You don’t?”
“No,” Rico said.
Valentine leaned over and lowered his voice. “Nigel Moon, asshole.”
Rico acted like he’d been kicked. He drew back in his chair and stared at the floor. Valentine would have given anything to know what Rico’s pulse was at that moment. A hundred fifty? Two hundred? He loved making punks sweat, especially lowlifes like this who gave Italians a bad name.
Their sodas came. The bartender could sense the tension, and placed the glasses on the table without a word. Rico picked up his glass and held it a few inches off the table. Valentine and his son did the same. Rico clinked their glasses with his.
“Partners it is,” he said.
27
Climbing into his father’s Honda, Gerry said, “Pop, no offense, but your car smells like something died in it. It’s time.”
Valentine pulled away from Club Hedo’s valet stand, got onto Collins Avenue, and headed north in heavy traffic. “For what?”
“A new set of wheels. You’ve got the dough. What about a Beamer, or a Lexus?”
That was the thing about his son’s generation; they assumed that if you had money, you were dying to spend it. Valentine’s generation was exactly the opposite. If you had it, you wanted to keep it. “I like this car,” he said.
They drove in silence. Then his son popped the question.
“So, are you going to tell me, or what?”
“Tell you what?”
“How you know all that stuff about Rico.”
“No,” he said.
“At least tell me how you read the backs of those cards.”
“You didn’t believe what I told him?”
“About throwing your eyes out of focus?” Gerry pointed at his left eye. “This eye is out of focus. There was no writing on the back of those cards.”