up.
Stopping Bart hadn’t been easy. Technically, he wasn’t counting, so barring him wasn’t an option. Valentine had solved the problem by contacting the IRS and making them aware of the gigantic sums Bart was winning. They had swooped down like vultures, and Bart had run.
Most counters had phenomenal memories, and he was sure Bart remembered him. The question was, was he holding a grudge? There was only one way to find out. Going inside, he found the cordless phone and dialed the number on Nick’s note.
“Who’s this?” a husky voice answered.
“Hi. My son is enrolled at your school, and I need to speak to him.”
“How’d you get this number?”
“A friend gave it to me.”
“Who’s that?”
Valentine had learned that when you were bullshitting someone, it was best to tell as few lies as possible. “Nick Nicocropolis.”
There was a long pause. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Gerry.”
The sound of a match being struck against a flint crackled across the phone line.
“What’s this about?”
“His wife is going to have a baby.”
Calhoun snorted. “Figures. She’s been calling him every ten minutes. Hold on.” He put him on hold, then returned a few moments later. “Most of my students stay at the Red Roost Inn while they’re here. It’s in Henderson. 702-691-4852.”
Valentine thanked him and started to write the number down.
“Mind answering a question, mister?” Calhoun asked.
“Not at all.”
“Is this Tony Valentine I’m speaking with?”
Valentine stopped writing. He hated it when people he’d once chased got the goods on him. “Yeah. What did Gerry do? Use his real name when he registered?”
“Naw, he used a phony,” Calhoun said. “He just looks like you. It’s a funny world. You ran me out of Atlantic City, and now your son is learning to be a crook.”
“Hysterical,” Valentine replied.
Calhoun hung up on him. Valentine smiled, happy he’d gotten in the last jab. He punched in the number for the Red Roost Inn.
Gerry was lying in bed in his motel room when the phone rang. He tried to imagine who it was. Yolanda? Or his father? He didn’t want to speak to either one, fearful of the tongue-lashing he knew was coming. Better to let his caller leave a message.
The ringing stopped. He waited a minute, then went into voice mail and found a message. His father, sounding pissed off.
“Your wife is worried sick, and so am I,” his father said. “I’m staying at the Acropolis. 611-4571. Suite Four. Call me when you get this. You hear me?”
Gerry realized he was grinding his teeth. Leave it to his old man to track him down. He’d call his father back, but not right away. He erased the message and climbed out of bed.
He took his time dressing. He hadn’t slept much, too worried by what had happened at the MGM Grand. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d gotten photographed, and that his face was now in a computer. His days of rat-holing chips for Amin and Pash were over.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t make money together. He had an idea, a really good idea. But he needed to run it by Pash first. He went to the door that separated their rooms and knocked. Pash appeared, holding a toothbrush.
“Want to take a road trip?” Gerry asked.
“What do you have in mind?”
“A whorehouse.”
Pash smiled, the toothpaste making him look like he was foaming at the mouth.
“A
Gerry stared through the open door. Amin lay naked in bed, staring at the mute TV. He watched Pash tell him he was going out. Amin cast him a disapproving stare. Pash shrugged and went into the bathroom. A minute later he emerged with his hair freshly parted and smelling of aftershave.
Pash pulled out his cell phone when they were on the road, and called a brothel. They were legal in every county in the state with less than four hundred thousand residents. Gerry pulled into a convenience mart and went inside.
When he came out, Pash was in the middle of a heated negotiation. Pash’s taste was for dark-skinned girls, and he knew to call ahead to avoid being disappointed. He also knew it was best to hammer out a rate before stepping foot in a place.
“Hey,” Pash said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. “The madam said she’ll give us a deal for two. What kind of girl you want?”
Gerry sucked on his Slurpee. He’d planned to take Pash to the brothel and pretend none of the ladies were to his liking. “I’ll decide when I get there,” he said.
“Come on, what do you want?”
“Do your own deal,” Gerry said.
“But—”
“I’m doing this for you, buddy.”
The words were slow to sink in. Pash’s face brightened. “You are?”
“Yeah,” Gerry said. “You need to get laid.”
Nevada had thirty licensed brothels, or ranches as everyone liked to call them. Pash had decided that he wanted to try the Chicken Ranch.
“Everyone says it’s the best,” he explained to Gerry.
It was in a burg called Pahrump, the town a shining example of what would happen if the nation’s gun laws were repealed. In Pahrump, rifles and shotguns were displayed in gun racks of every pickup, the locals proud of their Wild West heritage.
“There’s the sign,” Pash said excitedly.
A billboard loomed ahead. HIT THE GAS! THE WORLD-FAMOUS CHICKEN RANCH, FIVE MILES. They pulled into the gravel lot a few minutes later.
It resembled an oversized motel, with rocking chairs on the front porch and smoke pouring out of a stone chimney. As they got out, Gerry spied a surveillance camera perched beneath the corner of the building.
A plump, grayish woman greeted them at the door. She reminded Gerry of his Cub Scout den mother. It was a bad image to be carrying around inside a whorehouse, and he tried to erase it from his mind.
“You must be the fellow I spoke to earlier,” she said to Pash.
“That’s me,” Pash said brightly.
“You like dark.”
“That’s right.”
“Very dark?”
She made it sound like he was ordering chicken. Pash nodded vigorously.
“You came to the right place, young man. The Chicken Ranch was voted best brothel in Nevada last year. Best accommodations, best food, best bar, and best of all—”
“The best women,” Pash jumped in.
“You saw our ad.”
“Yes. Your Web site is very good, too.”
She slung her arm through Pash’s and escorted him inside. Gerry stayed two steps behind, grateful she hadn’t latched onto him. Maybe she’d spied the hesitation in his face, or the cowardice in his eyes. He and Yolanda had
