he was a kid, they’d vacationed at a resort in the Catskill Mountains, and his father had taught him a mind-reading trick called Second Sight. His father would stand on one side of the room, holding a coin given to him by a spectator in his fist. He’d say, “I want you to think hard. Please . . . be quick.”
“You’re holding a quarter,” Gerry would say. “The date is nineteen sixty-five.”
The trick was a real fooler. It was based on a simple code.
They had done the trick for every guest at the resort. One of the older guests had christened him Wonder Boy, and the name had stuck. He heard his father come back on the line.
“Was that Mabel? How’s Yolanda doing?”
“I wasn’t talking to Mabel,” his father replied. “It was a woman I met.”
Gerry perked up. “She got a name?”
“Lucy Price.”
“You like her?”
“I met her yesterday.”
“Does she like you?”
“It seems that way.”
Gerry threw his legs over the side of the bed. He’d been hoping his father would start courting again. He’d hung out with a female wrestler for a while, but that had been a grief thing. “Good for you, Pop,” he said.
He heard his father breathing into the phone, and guessed he didn’t want to talk about it. Gerry said, “So how can you prove that I didn’t kill this stripper?”
“Easy,” his father said. “Nevada requires its gun stores to have surveillance cameras in case of robbery. That means there’s a picture of whoever bought the three fifty-seven with your credit card.”
Gerry smiled into the receiver. Leave it to his old man to save the day. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes past eight. “I’m going to pack my stuff and check out. I’ll meet you at nine-thirty.”
“Why so long?” his father asked suspiciously.
“Pop, it’s Saturday night. Traffic is going to be horrible. I’ll meet you at the Jokers Wild casino on Boulder Highway. There’s a small theater inside the lobby.”
“Why that dump?”
“There’s an act playing there you have to see.”
“This is no time to be seeing acts,” his father scolded him. “The FBI wants to talk to you.”
“You said we have until midnight.”
“Why push it?”
“Pop, this will take ten minutes. You won’t regret it. Trust me.”
He heard his father breathing into the phone.
“The Jokers Wild it is,” his father said.
Gerry hung up feeling good about things. There wasn’t that much in his life except Yolanda to feel good about, but his father could do that to him. Sometimes, his father could be the best person in the whole world.
He got his suitcase from the closet and opened it on the bed. He put his dirty clothes on one side, his clean on the other. Sandwiched between them, he put the Gucci loafers he’d bought in a casino gift shop. He’d seen them in the store’s window, and even though he was broke he knew he had to have them. From the bathroom he got his toilet kit, and he was done.
He went to the door and stopped. Should he say good-bye to Pash? Deep down, he still liked the guy—even if he was a chip off his brother’s block in the lying department. Better not, he decided. There was no telling how Amin might react.
He put his ear to the wall that separated their rooms. Pash and Amin were on the other side, engaged in a heated conversation. Their TV set was on, and he realized they were watching the same baseball game.
He had an idea, and turned up the volume of the set in his room. It would blend in with their set; he could leave without anyone being the wiser.
He opened his door. A gust of night air blew into his room and made him shiver. A highway ran parallel to the inn, and he saw globes of yellow light float mysteriously by, the headlights disembodied from their vehicles. He could hear boom boxes and people trash-talking in cars.
He took a deep breath. It was time for him to face the music. He crossed the gravel lot, his shoes crunching loudly. His suitcase was heavy, and halfway to his car he started to drag it. Popping the rental’s trunk, he hoisted the suitcase off the ground and threw it into the back.
He heard footsteps. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Amin coming up behind him wearing a grim look on his face. He didn’t think Amin was stupid enough to try something out in the open, and he started to walk around to the front of the car.
Amin called his name.
“Not interested,” Gerry said.
Amin yelled at him. Gerry slowly spun around and saw Amin standing ten feet away. Amin had stuck the .357 behind his belt buckle. Gerry glanced over his shoulder at the hundreds of cars passing by. Whoever had said there was strength in numbers hadn’t been kidding. He looked Amin in the eye.
“Go ahead and try something,” he said.
34
Valentine had taken Gerry’s call standing outside Nick’s Bar. Hanging up, he tried to remember where the Jokers Wild was situated on the Boulder Highway. He thought it was halfway to Henderson, on a deserted stretch of desert. A real down-and-dirty kind of place. He could only imagine what his son wanted to show him.
His cell phone was ringing, and he stared at the caller ID. It was Bill Higgins. He felt his jaw tighten. Bill had betrayed him. There was no other explanation for the FBI appearing at Lucy’s house. The bad part was, Bill knew that he and Fuller hated each other.
“Hey,” he said.
“We need to talk,” Bill said.
“I’m busy.”
“This is about your son. How soon can you get to my house?”
Valentine frowned into the phone. He had no intention of driving to Bill’s house tonight, and started to tell him so. Bill cut him short.
“You need to hear this, Tony. I don’t want to see your boy getting hurt.”
Valentine heard the warning in Bill’s voice. Bill’s house was due south, Jokers Wild southwest. Fifteen minutes max from one to the other. “I’ll be right over,” he said.
Bill’s partner, Alex, greeted him at the front door. Alex was a veteran ATF agent, a tall, gravel-voiced outdoorsman who spent his weekends rappelling in the mountains.
“What happened to your face?” Alex asked.
“A cheater over at the Acropolis cut me.”
“Pay him back?”
“In spades.”
Alex smiled and led him to Bill’s study. Tapping on the door, he said, “Tony’s here,” then walked away. Valentine went in. The room’s light was muted, the shades drawn. Bill sat behind his desk, wearing the same clothes from the day before. His TV was on, the image frozen. It was a surveillance tape, and showed an Ivy League guy in a Brooks Brothers suit playing blackjack. His stacks of chips reached just below his chin. If Bill was watching him, he was either a card-counter or a cheater.
“Have a seat,” Bill said.
Valentine sat across from the desk and watched Bill rub his face with his hands. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble was predominantly gray. He was up for retirement in a few years, and Valentine guessed he’d take the
