adjacent to the highway. Next was a large store that sold nothing but Bibles. Then he passed a town that consisted of one building that housed two restaurants, and a state trooper’s car hiding in the shadows looking for speeders.
The highway eventually dead-ended at a beachfront marina and amusement park. Beneath the glare of a full moon, the park had a ghoulish, otherworld quality that reminded him of a horror film called
He was about a quarter mile from the front doors, but that was okay. His legs were stiff, and he stretched his hamstrings as he walked. He’d never been to Mississippi, and his father had explained the deal to him. By law, casinos couldn’t be on Mississippi soil, so several local businessmen had dug out huge craters of beachfront, flooded them with water you wouldn’t swim in, and floated barges whose interiors were giant casinos. To lessen the cheesy effect, the barges were covered in blinking lights and garish neon.
He crossed the metal gangplank with a bounce in his step. Find Tex, have a chat, and go home to his wife and beautiful baby. It didn’t get any easier than that.
At the front door, a security guard counted him with a clicker. The barge could hold only a certain number of passengers, and a running count was kept of everyone inside.
“Busy night?” Gerry asked.
“Every night’s busy,” the guard said.
Gerry pushed open the glass door, and the smell almost knocked him over. Adrenaline and cheap after-shave, a thousand cigarettes, free booze. The smell of a few thousand people compressed in a tiny space, gambling. For years, people swore that the casinos pumped extra oxygen through the air vents to keep players going, but it wasn’t true. The games kept people going.
He caught the eye of a cute change girl, and learned the poker tournament was on the second floor. He made his way to a bank of elevators. Down in Key West, his father had given him a videotape of Ricky Smith’s winning streak, and he’d watched it with Yolanda. Ricky Smith had played poker with Tex Snyder for twenty minutes and won two hundred grand. He’d made Snyder look like a chump. Surely Snyder would have some interesting thoughts on what happened. The challenge would be making him open up.
Gerry got on a crowded elevator. On the way up, he found himself checking out the other haircuts. He fit right in. Great.
The poker tournament was in the casino’s card room and was being filmed by a cable station for a later showing. Tournament poker was the rage on TV and, according to his father, was creating a whole new legion of suckers. Anyone could enter, and as Gerry started to walk in, he noticed the guy by the entrance. Black, six-two, a soul patch on his chin, his black shirt hanging outside his pants, disguising his massive girth. Stepping forward, he placed his forefinger on Gerry’s shoulder. It was as big as a blood sausage.
“Your name Gerry Valentine?” he asked.
“That’s me,” Gerry said.
“My name’s Lamar Biggs. I run the casino’s security. You’re not wanted here. I’m going to show you out. If you try to resist, I’ll hurt you.”
Gerry flashed Lamar his best smile. “Au contraire. That’s been cleared up. If you call Bill Higgins at the Nevada Gaming Control—”
“Au what?”
“Au contraire. It’s French. It means, on the contrary.”
“So you just told me in French that I’m an idiot,” Lamar said, his eyes narrowing.
“I told you that it’s been cleared up,” Gerry replied stiffly.
Lamar tried to squeeze his shoulder, and Gerry instinctively pulled back. It took all the sting out of whatever nerve Lamar was trying to pinch, and the big man looked surprised. Then his face hardened into a piece of granite, and with his head, he indicated the EMERGENCY EXIT sign. “That way,” he ordered.
Gerry did as told. Walking down the stairway, he felt Lamar’s hot breath on his neck. He’d had onions for dinner. Gerry’s father had told him not to get upset with heads of security who had bad attitudes. Usually, it meant they’d been ripped off and needed to release some anger. At the first-floor landing Gerry stopped and stared straight up. What looked like a water sprinkler hung from the ceiling. It was only a few inches long and covered in tiny hair.
“What’s that?”
“A bat,” Lamar said. “Barge is filled with them. Rats, too. Keep walking.”
“That’s why you have this stairway closed except for emergencies, huh?” Gerry said. “Never show them the inside of the sausage factory.”
“The what?”
“The sausage factory. It’s an old expression. It means, don’t—”
Lamar gave him a push. “I don’t care what it means. Keep walking.”
Gerry had a good idea what was coming next. Outside, Lamar took him to the parking lot to a spot Gerry guessed wasn’t being watched by the cameras. He saw Lamar pull back his sleeves.
“Having a bad day, huh?”
Lamar grunted something under his breath and threw a punch at his face. Gerry wasn’t good at judo like his old man, but he knew a couple of moves. Ducking the big man’s fist, Gerry grabbed his wrist and within seconds spun Lamar around and held his arm firmly behind his back. He hadn’t liked being pushed in the stairwell, and gave Lamar’s arm a little extra twist. Lamar grimaced and muttered, “Okay, okay.”
“We need to get something straight,” Gerry said. Holding Lamar’s wrist with one hand, he dug out his cell phone and said, “What’s the number of your surveillance control room?”
“Why? You want to call them and embarrass me?”
“No. I just want to clear something up.”
Lamar gave him the number. Gerry punched it in, stuck the phone up to Lamar’s face, and said, “Tell whoever answers the phone to go to your desk and look through your mail for a letter from the Nevada Gaming Control Board.”
A woman with a Southern accent answered, and Lamar told her to go to his office. She came back a few moments later.
“Sorry, Lamar, but I can’t find any letter.”
“Tell her to try your e-mail,” Gerry whispered in his ear.
“Try my e-mail,” Lamar said.
“Got it,” the woman said a few moments later.
“Read it to me,” Lamar said.
“It’s from William Higgins, director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board,” the woman said. “It says, ‘It has been brought to my attention that several casinos in Las Vegas recently sent out a warning regarding an individual named Gerry Valentine. This warning was sent in error. Gerry Valentine is not a casino cheater, nor is he a card counter. He is employed by his father, a highly regarded gaming consultant named Tony Valentine. Please disregard this warning. Thank you.’”
“When was this sent?” Lamar asked.
“Yesterday. This is the guy you just pulled off the floor, isn’t it?” the woman said.
Lamar hesitated, clearly at a loss for words. In his ear, Gerry whispered, “Say, ‘That’s right. Guess I’ll have to let him go.’”
Lamar glanced at him over his shoulder. Something resembling a smile crossed his lips. He repeated the words to the woman, then said good-bye. Gerry killed the connection and released Lamar’s wrist. The big man turned around, shaking his arm.
“Thanks for doing that,” he said.
“Anytime,” Gerry replied.
The problem with running a casino off a barge, Lamar explained when they were sitting in his office, was that there were weight restrictions. To allow more passengers to gamble, the owners had cut down on the amount of
