(3) He always tossed his hundred-dollar chip on the table and asked a stickman to place his bet for him.
(4) He always asked the same stickman.
Valentine had pulled up the stickman’s record. In the past year, he’d filed several grievances with the casino’s human resources department, unhappy with his vacation time, his hours, and his level of pay. He was one angry individual.
The next day, Valentine had parked himself on a chair at a shoe-shine stand in the casino. In his lap he’d put a newspaper. Underneath the newspaper was a pair of binoculars. He’d talked baseball with the shoe-shine man until Saul had come in.
Saul had followed his usual routine. Valentine had watched with his binoculars, and what he’d seen was a thing of real beauty.
Approaching the roulette table, Saul said hello to the stickman, then tossed a black hundred-dollar chip on the table and asked the stickman to make his bet. Only Saul’s chip never hit the table. It was attached to a piece of monofilament and flew up his sleeve. At the same time, the stickman dropped a black chip that was palmed in his hand onto the table. To help disguise the switch, Saul blew smoke on the table.
Saul and the stickman did their thing three times. The stickman was stealing chips off the table and palming them, letting Saul play with the house’s money.
But what Saul had done next was even better. Instead of leaving with his winnings, he went and played blackjack. He was giving Resorts a chance to win its money back. More than 50 percent of the time, Resorts would. But the rest of the time, Saul would walk away a winner. And he wasn’t risking a dime.
Saul returned with a tray. He served his guest and made the couch sag as he sat down. “So what brings you to Miami?”
“I’m doing a job for the Micanopy casino,” Valentine said, deciding to get to the point. “A friend of yours is a suspect in a murder case.”
Saul put his drink down. Hustlers were a lot of things, but few were murderers. His voice turned serious. “Who?”
“Victor Marks.”
Saul blinked, and then blinked again. “Victor Marks is the gentlest guy I’ve ever known. You know what his nickname was? The Butterfly.”
“You talk to Victor recently?”
“We haven’t spoken in years. You sure Victor’s involved?”
Valentine nodded. “He’s working with a hood named Rico Blanco. The police fingered Rico in a murder at the Micanopy casino.”
Saul drew back in his seat. Valentine sensed that Saul was wrestling with his conscience. Every hustler had one, only it tended to follow a more convoluted path than most. Valentine lowered his voice.
“The victim was running a scam with Rico Blanco. Something went wrong, and Rico killed him. I don’t want the same thing to happen to Victor Marks.”
Valentine heard Saul mumble under his breath. Mabel did that a lot, and Valentine guessed he would one day, too. You grow old, lose your friends, you need someone to talk to. Saul’s filmy eyes rested on Valentine’s face.
“Neither do I,” the elderly con man said.
Valentine played the tape of Rico Blanco and Victor Marks on Saul Hyman’s stereo.
“They’re talking about conning a sucker out of a lot of money,” Saul said when the tape ended. “The raggle is a pretty girl who’s part of the scam. Playing an apple without a store, booster, or props means that Rico is running solo. The rest of it is Victor asking Rico if he’s got the moxie to pull it off. That’s the hard part.”
Valentine ejected the tape from the cassette player. “Why’s that?”
“It’s like fishing for marlin,” Saul said. “Anyone can throw a line in the water and snag one. But then you’ve got to fight the fish and reel it in. That’s the challenge.”
“Why does Victor use a voice-alteration machine?”
“Victor’s always been careful,” Saul said. “I’m probably the only person in the world who’s got a photograph of him.”
“Can I see it?”
There was no hesitation in Saul’s voice. “Yeah, sure.”
A minute later the two men were sitting on the couch leafing through a dusty photo album. Saul had spent his entire life on the wrong side of the law. In the 1930s, he’d worked on Coney Island as a spiritualist and worn a turban and walnut stain on his face. He’d graduated to being a three-card monte man, then a racetrack tout. Later, he’d moved to Palm Springs and played the sophisticate, and sold fake oil stock and rubber plantations.
“Here we go,” Saul said, finding the picture.
Valentine stared at two couples at a table in a nightclub. Saul with a pretty lady, Victor Marks with a frowning woman. Marks had his hand in front of his face. There wasn’t much to see except a thick head of hair and bushy eyebrows.
“That’s Vic and his date, and me and Sadie at the Copacabana in New York,” Saul said. “We were there to see Count Basie. Vic nearly punched the photographer for taking a photo. I paid the guy and made him destroy the negative.” Saul stared longingly at the photograph. His finger touched the picture and drew an outline around Sadie’s head.
“Your wife?”
“Yeah. Died last January.”
Valentine felt a fist tighten in his chest. Lois had died in her sleep two years ago January. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Me, too,” Saul said, swiping at his eyes. “I didn’t get where I am by sitting on my ass. Sadie was always there supporting me. When I was in the slammer, she came every week and brought me pies and cookies.” He spread his arms to indicate the room’s modest furnishings. “This was my way of paying her back.”
Loss. It was supposed to mean something was missing. But it was really a monster, ready at any moment to leap out of the shadows and snatch someone away. And when it did, nothing on this earth could replace the loss.
“And now it doesn’t mean shit,” the elderly con man said.
17
Candy Hart was taking a bubble bath when the phone rang. She ignored it, preferring to lie in the tub with her head partially submerged, blowing bubbles through her nose. It was a little kid’s trick and, like her collection of stuffed animals, something she never wanted to let go of.
The phone rang again while she was toweling off. She glanced at her watch on the sink. Nearly two. Nigel was a poor golfer, and she imagined him on the ninth hole of the Blue Monster, staring at a dozen balls in the drink. Picking up the receiver, she said, “Hi.”
“Ms. Hart?”
“Yes?”
“This is Carlos at the front desk. I’ve got a limo driver here who says Mr. Moon called his company and asked that you be picked up.”
“Did he say why?”
“I’ll ask him.” Candy heard Carlos say something to the driver, then come back on the line. “Mr. Moon says he wants you to meet him someplace special.”
Candy smiled. “Tell him to wait.”
Twenty minutes later she walked out of the hotel. The Delano was in a downtrodden neighborhood, and the owners had erected an impenetrable evergreen hedge around the front entrance. Next to the hedge, smoking a cigarette, was a skinny Cuban in a black driver’s uniform. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of gold, then opened the limo’s back door. It was filled with dozens of red roses. Candy got in and stuck her face in the flowers. The scent was intoxicating, and she felt the car pull away.
