the names of three horses for a race at Belmont Park in New York and pushed the slip back through the bars. From his pants pocket he extracted three crisp hundred-dollar bills. He shoved them through the bars into the teller’s hands.
“Those three horses to show,” Ricky said.
Valentine watched the teller place the three bets. To show meant that Ricky would win money if the horse came in first, second, or third. It was a safe bet, except the three horses Ricky had picked were long shots. The odds were heavily against him winning any money at all.
They crossed the room to the TV sets to watch the race. The room was a smoker’s paradise, and Valentine found himself struggling not to grab a pack out of the nearest guy’s hand.
“You a punter?” Ricky asked.
It was an English expression for a gambler, and Valentine shook his head. “My father was. He lost all our money.”
“And the son was forever cured,” Ricky said. He pointed at a TV set in the center of the wall and said, “That’s us.”
Valentine stared at the set. Belmont Park near Queens, New York, was one of the most respected thoroughbred tracks in the world. He remembered once hearing about a race that was fixed by a jockey at Belmont. Somehow, the track stewards had found out the moment the race was about to start. Instead of letting the horses run, they’d shut off the power to the starting gate and offered refunds to everyone who’d placed a bet. Ricky Smith might somehow rig a casino game or a high school lottery, but he wasn’t capable of rigging a race out of Belmont. No one was.
The race was a mile and a half long. There were nine horses, a crowded field. Valentine had memorized the numbers of the horses Ricky had picked. As they came out of the gate, all three horses started strong. Ricky broke out in a crazy dance, drawing the ire of his fellow bettors.
“Sorry, guys,” he said. “Just working my mojo.”
At the mile marker, Ricky’s horses were lined up in a row and fighting for the lead. In fourth place was the favorite, a horse named Four Leaf Clover. The jockey had run a poor race and allowed himself to get boxed in. His horse had the speed; he just couldn’t properly use it.
A cry went up among the other bettors. As Four Leaf Clover faded from the picture and Ricky’s three picks crossed the finish line, they tore up their tickets and stomped their feet. Ricky was oblivious to their pain and started doing a faithful rendition of the twist. Valentine saw a bettor ball his hand into a fist, and instinctively stepped between him and Ricky.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Valentine said.
“Your friend’s a flaming jerk,” the man growled.
“I’m not arguing with you there,” Valentine said.
Ricky had shut his eyes and was rolling his head like Stevie Wonder. He was making fun of them, and the men quickly surrounded them. They had wolflike looks on their faces, as if they were planning to tear Ricky up and devour him.
“Cut it out,” Valentine told him.
Ricky’s eyes snapped open. Seeing the situation he had created, he stuck his leg out and gyrated like Elvis Presley.
A door banged open on the far side of the room. The teller who’d taken Ricky’s bet stuck his head out. “Knock it off!” he exclaimed.
Ricky kept doing his crazy dance. The teller marched across the room and shoved Ricky’s winnings into his hand. Then he pointed at the door.
“Get the hell out of here.”
Ricky was still gyrating as Valentine dragged him out the door.
15
Gerry stopped at the Holiday Inn’s front doors. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Lamar give a short nod. He nodded back and watched Lamar drive away, then went inside.
The lobby floors glistened from a recent mopping. If there was one thing he liked about the south, it was how clean people kept things. The bank of elevators was next to the reception area. As he started to push the call button, an elevator’s doors opened.
A beautiful young woman came out and swept past him. She wore tight black pants and a clinging red blouse. Her gaze met his, and she flashed a coy smile. She was a few eyelashes short from being a supermodel, and Gerry watched her cross the shiny lobby in her stiletto heels, pausing at the glass doors to steal a glance over her shoulder. The look was just long enough to be an invitation.
He got in the elevator and pushed a button for the top floor. As the doors closed, he turned and saw the woman still looking his way. Before Yolanda, he would have stopped to talk with her. Now that he was married with a kid, that talk would take on a different meaning. It would be like chatting with the devil, and he didn’t need any of that in his life right now.
Tex “All In” Snyder was staying in a suite. The door was ajar, and Gerry peeked inside. A maid’s cart sat in the center of the living room. The place looked like a crazy New Year’s Eve party had just taken place, with stuff hanging from the walls and light shades tilted to one side. He spotted Tex sitting on a couch, talking on a cell phone. His trademark black ten-gallon Stetson sat in his lap. Looking up, he quizzed Gerry with a frown.
“Who’re you?” he asked.
“Lamar’s friend,” Gerry replied.
“Who’s Lamar?”
“Head of security at the Dixie Magic.”
“Oh, right.” Into the phone he said, “Well, I’m sorry I pissed you off, lady, but that’s life.” Hanging up, he barked in Spanish at the chambermaid, and she stopped her cleaning and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Tex pointed at a chair directly across from the couch. “How about a little liquid libation?”
Gerry waved off the invitation and took the seat. Tex smoothed out his thinning hair with his fingers, then stuck his hat on like he was about to be photographed. He was in his late sixties, with a face as rough as raw-hide and gray eyes that could pierce steel. Lowering his voice, he said, “Know what the hard part about being a celebrity is?”
“No.”
“Watching your mouth. That lady on the phone, she’s the mayor of the town I was born in. A week ago, a newspaper reporter asked me if there was anything unusual about the place. I said that the most unusual thing was that the population never changed. Every time a girl got pregnant, some guy always left town.”
Tex slapped his knees and guffawed. Gerry started to laugh, then saw Tex’s face turn dead serious.
“The mayor caught wind of it, and now she’s threatening to drag my name through the mud if I don’t apologize. Guess I eventually will. Then again, maybe not.” Tex rose from the couch and pulled an ice-cold beer out of a bucket sitting on the wet bar. Turning, he caught Gerry’s eye. “Sure you don’t want one?”
Gerry stared at the dripping beer bottle. His father had told him no drinking on the job, and he reluctantly said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Tex returned to the couch. “So, what can I do for you? Lamar was a little vague on what you wanted to talk to me about.”
Gerry removed his wallet and handed Tex his business card. While the older man studied it, Gerry said, “My company has been hired by the Mint in Las Vegas to look into Ricky Smith’s winning streak. We want to be sure everything is on the up-and-up. The Mint asked us to talk to you and get your feelings on what happened.”
“Your father’s Tony Valentine?”
“That’s right.”
“Heard his name when I played in Atlantic City.” Tex put the card on the coffee table, then lifted his eyes. He had his poker face on. His features were stone hard, his eyes as friendly as a snake’s. “It’s like this, son. I got beat by a guy on a lucky streak. Ricky Smith doesn’t know shit about cards, but sometimes that doesn’t matter in poker.”
“Could he have been cheating?”
