Deadman's Bluff

asked.

“Of course,” Rufus said. “The question is, is he ready to play me?”

“He sure is. A half million dollars to the first player to reach twenty-one?”

“Correct,” Rufus said. “The only stipulation is, I supply the paddles. Your man gets to choose his weapon, and if he wants to switch at any time in the match, he can.”

“Agreed,” the Greek said.

Rufus and the Greek shook hands. Then Rufus turned to Valentine.

“Tony, I need to you to do me a little favor,” Rufus said. “Go to the casino’s main restaurant, ask for Chef Robert, and get the bag he’s holding for me.”

Valentine was nobody’s caddy, but was willing to make an exception for Rufus.

“Sure,” he said.

To reach the restaurant, Valentine had to walk through the casino. It was packed, the noise deafening. One of the great urban myths was that casinos pumped oxygen onto the floor to make people gamble. The truth was, they kept the air-conditioning down and made their cocktail waitresses wear tiny outfits, which accomplished the same thing.

The restaurant was called Auditions, and he walked past the empty hostess stand and looked around. It was decorated like a Hollywood sound stage, with fake movie sets and glossies of stars hanging on the walls. The kitchen was in back, and he cautiously pushed open a swinging door. A man wearing a chef’s hat stood at an island.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Chef Robert,” Valentine said.

“I’m Chef Robert. Are you with the health department?”

Once a cop, always a cop. “Rufus Steele sent me.”

“Oh yes.”

From beneath the island Chef Robert produced a canvas bag with Celebrity’s logo splashed across the front. Valentine took the bag from his hands, and nearly dropped it on the floor.

“What’s in it, bricks?”

“Cooking utensils, per Mr. Steele’s request,” Chef Robert said.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Mr. Steele has already compensated me.”

Valentine tipped him anyway, then walked out of the kitchen, the bag pulling at his arm like a little kid. His curiosity was killing him, and he opened the bag and looked inside. It contained two cast-iron skillets. He thought Chef Robert had made a mistake. Then it dawned on him what Rufus was up to.

Pulling out his cell phone, he called Gloria Curtis.

“This is bullshit,” the Greek said. “You can’t play Ping-Pong with those!”

“Who says I can’t?” Rufus replied, holding a cast-iron skillet in both hands. “I said I’d supply the paddles. Well, these are the paddles.”

“I won’t stand for this,” the Greek replied.

“Are you welching on our bet?”

“You’re damn right I am,” the Greek said.

In a huff, the Greek started to walk out. Valentine was standing next to the Ping-Pong table, and as the Greek neared the doors, saw Gloria and Zack come in. She cornered the Greek, sticking a mike in his face. Zack started to film them.

“I hear you and Rufus Steele have an interesting wager going,” she said.

The Greek raised his arms as if to strangle an imaginary victim. He quickly lowered them. “The bet’s off,” he said.

“Oh no,” she said. “It sounded like it would make a wonderful piece.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” The Greek raised his voice. “The bet’s off.”

Gloria stepped back, unsure of what was happening. Takarama, who’d been leaning against the wall with a stoic look on his face, tapped the Greek on the shoulder.

“What?” the Greek said.

“You are dishonoring me,” Takarama said.

“But he’s trying to trick us,” the Greek said.

“A man’s word is his bond.”

“But—”

“No exceptions,” Takarama declared. He crossed the room to where Rufus was standing. “May I see one?”

Rufus handed him a skillet. Takarama pulled a Ping-Pong ball out of the pocket of his shorts, and bounced it on the flat side. The ball went up and down with the precision of a metronome. Takarama’s eyes glanced into the Greek’s unshaven face.

“I can beat him,” he said.

The Greek’s expression changed.

“Are you sure?”

Takarama nodded solemnly, the ball still going up and down.

“But you’ve never played with a skillet,” the Greek said.

“It does not matter,” Takarama said.

“Rufus has,” the Greek said.

“He is not Takarama,” the former world champion said.

19

Valentine’s son knew a lot about sports. When it came to exceptionally gifted athletes, Gerry had a theory that he claimed most bookies shared: Great athletes were not normal. They were freaks.

His son’s definition of a freak didn’t match Webster’s. According to Gerry, freaks could run faster, jump higher, and recuperate more quickly than the rest of us. They’d also been blessed with quick reflexes. Put simply, their bodies were more physically gifted, a fact that became apparent simply by looking at them.

Takarama was the perfect example of a freak. He had muscular calves, tree-trunk thighs, a girlish waist, and shoulders befitting a running back. There did not appear to be an ounce of wasted tissue on his body, and probably never had been. Walking over to the Ping-Pong table with the skillet in hand, he took several practice serves.

“Are you sure you can beat him?” the Greek asked, standing beside him.

“Yes,” Takarama said confidently.

The Greek was sweating, the bright light of Zack’s camera centered squarely on his face. Embarrassed by his decision to renege, the suckers had moved away from him. The Greek looked lost. In the poker world, your reputation was all you had.

The Greek turned to Rufus. “You’re on,” he said.

Gloria Curtis produced a shiny coin from her purse, tossed it into the air.

“Call it,” she said to Rufus.

“Heads,” Rufus said.

The coin landed on the floor. It was heads.

“Yee-haw,” the old cowboy said.

Rufus and Takarama took their positions at opposite ends of the Ping-Pong table. As Rufus bent his knees and prepared to serve, Takarama went into a crouch and held the skillet in front of his body defensively. His eyes narrowed, seeing only the table.

Rufus held his skillet a foot from his head, the ball resting on the palm of his other hand. “Good luck, son,” he said.

“I do not need luck,” Takarama replied.

Rufus tossed the ball into the air and banged it with the skillet. It wasn’t the kind of stroke that Valentine had