“Just some coffee,” Gerry lied.
“How did you get that jelly stain on your chin?” Marconi wanted to know.
Gerry appraised his reflection in the window. The stain was on the point of his chin.
“It’s a birthmark,” Gerry said.
“You’re something else,” Marconi told him.
They drove to Margate City on the southernmost tip of the island. At Huntington Avenue, Vinny hung a left. Marconi followed him, and when Vinny parked on the street, Marconi pulled his vehicle directly behind him. It was a residential neighborhood of two-story shingled houses and small, well-kept yards. Across the street, a dog strained against its chain, barking at them.
“Any idea where we are?” Davis asked.
“This is where Vinny’s father lives,” Gerry said, checking the numbers on the doors. He’d known Vinny since junior high school and had come over here many times. The house looked smaller than he remembered, but so did most things on the island.
“Would you gentlemen mind staying here?” Gerry asked.
Davis and Marconi turned around and shot him wicked stares.
“Better not keep us waiting,” Marconi said, his lips hardly moving.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gerry said.
Vinny’s father, Angelo Fountain, was a professional tailor and ran his business out of the living room of his house, his customers getting fitted in front of a display case filled with black-and-white wedding pictures of Angelo and his late wife, Marie. In the case was also a sign: CHEAP CLOTHES ARE MADE, GARMENTS ARE BUILT.
The TV set was on when they came in, Jerry Springer reading off a card. Angelo was a small, delicate man, and balanced himself on the edge of the couch, a yellow tape measure hanging around his neck. He looked up in surprise.
“Get the hell out of my house,” he said.
Vinny stood in the foyer, unbuttoning his jacket. Gerry hung behind him.
“Didn’t you hear what I just told you?” his father asked.
“I’ve got a visitor with me,” his son said.
“Like that makes a difference? Who did you bring this time, John Gotti?”
“He’s dead, Pop.”
“Then I’m sure it’s someone just like him,” his father retorted. “Every time I turn around, the police are wanting to talk to me about you, or something you’ve done. My son, the professional crook.”
Gerry glanced at Vinny’s profile, wondering what effect this old man’s words were having on him. If the verbal assault bothered Vinny, he didn’t show it. Tugging his jacket off, Vinny tossed it on a chair and entered the living room.
“I brought an old friend with me,” Vinny said. “You remember Gerry Valentine, don’t you, Pop?”
Angelo Fountain had come to the United States on a boat from Italy, and had brought with him manners and class. He killed the TV with a remote, stood up, and graciously stuck out his hand. “Of course I remember. Tony Valentine’s boy.”
Gerry shook his hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“And you as well. Are you still running an illegal bookmaking operation?” Angelo Fountain asked.
There was an edge to his voice that made Gerry hesitate. He took out a business card, and handed it to the older man. “I gave up the rackets, Mr. Fountain. I’m working with my father now.”
Angelo Fountain removed his bifocals to study the card. In his late seventies, he wore a navy blue suit overlaid with a faint windowpane check. His spread-collar shirt was light blue, his necktie a soft red, as was his matching pocket foulard. He’d always dressed like a head of state, even though he rarely left the neighborhood.
“I thought your father retired,” Angelo said.
“He did,” Gerry said. “My mom passed away, and he went back to work as a consultant.”
“How long you work for him?”
“It’s going on six months.”
The older man’s face softened. “You like it?”
That was a loaded question if Gerry had ever heard one. His father could be a bear, and sometimes drove Gerry nuts. But it was an honest business, and he could tuck his daughter in at night knowing he wasn’t doing things she might someday be ashamed of.
“Love it,” Gerry said.
Angelo Fountain brewed a fresh pot of coffee and served his guests. Gerry had the foresight to ask him to make two extra cups, and took them outside to the two detectives parked by the curb.
“Service’s improving,” Marconi said.
Gerry grabbed the Yankees cap off the backseat. He hadn’t wanted to bring the cap into the house and just stick it under Mr. Fountain’s nose. Going back inside, he found Vinny and his father practically at blows.
“You’re a bum,” his father said.
“Says who?” Vinny replied.
“Every single person on this island.”
“I’ve never been convicted of a single crime,” his son protested.
“You and O.J. Simpson,” his father said.
Gerry made Vinny squinch over and sat down between father and son on the couch. They stopped arguing, with Angelo glaring at his son.
“Mr. Fountain, I need your help,” Gerry said, handing him the cap. “This baseball cap turned up during a case. Vinny thinks you might be able to tell me who stitched it.”
Angelo Fountain examined the receiver and LEDs sewn into the cap’s rim. His hands were small and fine- boned, the skin almost translucent. A minute passed. He was taking too long, and Gerry guessed it was someone he knew and didn’t want to snitch on. The locals were famous for closing ranks when it came to protecting one another.
“I wouldn’t have come here, and put this imposition on you, if there wasn’t a good reason,” Gerry said.
Angelo Fountain looked into his visitor’s face. “And what might that be?”
“The man who had this cap made has a contract on my father’s life.”
“Ahh,” Angelo Fountain said.
Another minute went by. The older man put his hand on Gerry’s knee, gave it a friendly squeeze. “I like your father. He’s a good man. I’ll help you out.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fountain.”
“A tailor on the island made this baseball cap. I recognize the stitching,” Angelo Fountain said. “This tailor was in prison, made friends with some bad people. When he got out of prison, he started taking jobs from these people.”
“What kind of jobs?” Gerry asked.
“Tailoring jobs. To help them steal from the casinos.”
“Steal how?”
“I’ll show you.” Angelo Fountain went to the other side of the living room, pulled open a drawer on a cabinet, and returned holding a paper bag that he dropped on Gerry’s lap. “This tailor gets a lot of work from these people. Sometimes, he asks me to help out. I always say no, but he still comes by.”
Gerry removed the bag’s contents. There were several cloth bags made of dark material, and a metal contraption tied up with wire that looked like a kid’s toy. Gerry untied the wire, and realized he was holding a Kepplinger holdout, a device used by card cheaters to invisibly switch cards during a game. The Kepplinger was worn beneath a sports jacket, and secretly delivered cards into a cheater’s hand through his sleeve, the mechanism powered by a wire stretched between the cheater’s knees. In order for the Kepplinger to work properly, it had to be fitted to the jacket, and Gerry remembered his father saying that only a handful of people in the country knew how to do this.
Gerry examined the cloth bags. They were subs, a device used by crooked employees to steal chips. The mouth of each sub had a flexible steel blade sewn into it, with an elastic strap attached to both ends. The sub was
