Deadman's Bluff

“That’s your problem. All I’m doing is giving you an out,” Perrier said. “If I turn over the tape to the police, you and Scalzo will go to jail, and the World Poker Showdown will go up in flames. Your career and everything you’ve worked for will be ruined. You don’t want that, do you?”

Jasper took a gulp of his drink. His stomach was empty and the booze went down hard. It made him nauseous, and he felt cold beads of sweat march down his neck. He’d always wondered what his day of reckoning would feel like, and now he knew.

“No,” Jasper heard himself say.

“The tournament is a huge success. Get rid of the mobster.”

Jasper nodded stiffly. The tournament was making money, so he was being given another chance. It was better than the alternative, he supposed.

“Okay,” Jasper said.

27

Leaving police headquarters, Bill Higgins drove Valentine back to Celebrity. The freeway was jammed with traffic, and Valentine sat in the passenger seat with his window cracked, staring at a cloudless sky and leaden sun.

“There’s one part of this case that I can’t figure out,” Valentine said.

“What’s that?” Bill asked.

“Why haven’t you run George Scalzo out of Las Vegas? Nevada has spent twenty-five years cleaning up its image of being controlled by the mob, yet this guy runs around town like he’s Teflon-coated. I don’t get it.”

Eyes glued to the car in front of him, Bill emitted an exasperated breath. “I’ve tried to run him out.”

“Did someone stop you?”

Bill nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

“Mind telling me who?”

“Call them the powers that be,” Bill said.

Valentine knew that the rules were different in Vegas. There were only a handful of ways to make money in the desert, and right and wrong sometimes got a little fuzzy.

“But the guy’s a crook,” Valentine argued.

“Scalzo is a reputed crook,” Bill said. Traffic was moving, and he inched the car ahead. “The fact is, he’s never spent a day in jail, never been convicted of a crime, has paid his income taxes every year, and enjoys all the freedoms and protections of every other law-abiding citizen. He’s just as entitled to come here as you are.”

“But he’s helping his nephew scam the tournament,” Valentine said.

“Trust me, Tony, I’ve told everyone who’ll listen that I think Scalzo and Skip DeMarco are up to no good.”

“And?”

“Everyone asks me what the scam is. I say I don’t know, and they change the subject.”

“But you and I both know that they’re cheating. Together, we’ve got over fifty years’ experience catching cheaters. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Traffic again halted and Bill slammed on his brakes. Moments later, a motorcyclist driving on the white line in the highway sped past, mocking them. Bill watched the motorcyclist with a disgusted look on his face, then faced his friend.

“When it comes to Scalzo and DeMarco, it doesn’t mean shit,” Bill said.

“How’s your blood pressure?” Bill asked as they climbed the stairs to Celebrity’s surveillance control room on the third floor.

“A little high,” Valentine admitted.

“So’s mine. My doctor wants me to monitor my blood pressure regularly. I bought one of those machines from CVS. You should think about doing the same thing.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. It’s a silent killer.”

They had reached the third floor and Valentine was puffing. He walked two miles a day, and kept in good shape. Maybe he was stressed out. Perhaps it had some thing to do with George Scalzo and his nephew robbing the joint blind. Or perhaps it was that this was his fifth day in Vegas, and the town had become transparent. They marched down the hallway to the steel door at the end where the surveillance control room was housed. A security camera was perched above the door, and Bill knocked loudly, then peered up into its lenses.

“So what are we doing here, anyway?” his friend asked.

“I had an epiphany during the drive over,” Valentine said. “Somebody I spoke with the other day lied to me, and I want to talk to him with you present.”

Bill’s face hardened. “Someone working in Celebrity’s surveillance department?”

“Yes.”

“Am I going to have to arrest him?”

“You might.”

The door opened and a lanky shift supervisor greeted them.

“We need to talk to one of your people,” Bill said.

The shift supervisor blinked. “Is there something wrong?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Who do you want to talk to?” the shift supervisor asked.

Bill looked at Valentine.

“Sammy Mann,” Valentine said.

The shift supervisor led them through the surveillance control room to the offices that lined the back wall. He knocked on a door, then cracked it open. “You’ve got visitors,” he announced.

The shift supervisor left, and Bill and Valentine entered. The office was hardly big enough for them to squeeze in, and Valentine sucked in his breath as he shut the door. Sammy Mann sat behind the desk, staring at computer screen containing a live feed from a surveillance camera on the casino floor. Seeing them, he smiled. Sammy was a man of sartorial splendor, and wore a silk sports jackets with mother-of-pearl buttons, a baby blue shirt with French cuffs, and a gold tie with a perfect Windsor knot. He was the classiest cheater Valentine had ever known. Now retired, he hired himself out to Las Vegas casinos as a consultant.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Sammy said pleasantly. “Welcome to my humble abode. Make yourselves at home.”

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Valentine said.

The smile left Sammy’s face. “You’re here on business?”

“That’s right,” Bill said.

“What’s wrong?” Sammy asked.

Valentine dug out of his pocket the Silly Putty and paper clip that Rufus had found in Celebrity’s poker room, and placed them on the desk. He deliberately shoved the paper clip into the putty, and saw Sammy wince.

“We’ve got a mucker cheating the World Poker Showdown, and I think you might know who it is,” Valentine said.

Smart crooks never lied; they just kept their mouths shut. Sammy’s lips closed and he continued to stare at the bug. Sammy’s speciality had been switching decks of cards at casino blackjack tables. Because of him and his well-trained gangs, every casino in the world now chained their dealing shoes to their tables.

“Start talking,” Bill said.

Sammy wore a perpetual tan, and it was unsettling to see the color drain from his cheeks. “Are you going to arrest me?” he asked.

“I might if you don’t give us some straight answers,” Bill said.

“On what grounds?”

“Collusion,” Bill said.

“With who?”