guests. There were simply too many rooms.
“They’ll show up eventually,” he said. “Since neither of us were killed, they’re not hurrying. It’s how things work. Everything gets prioritized. Especially guests.”
“And since you and I aren’t whales, we get the pooch treatment.”
“Exactly.”
Rufus removed his Stetson and patted down his hair like he was expecting company. He fitted his hat back on, and looked Valentine in the eye.
“I’d hate this crummy town if I didn’t like to gamble so much,” Rufus said.
In the bathroom, Valentine changed shirts, downed four ibuprofens, then appraised his profile in the mirror. He’d gotten his nose broken twice as a cop, plus a couple times in judo competition, yet it had never flattened. Good genes, he guessed. He returned to the suite, sat on the couch with Rufus.
“Come straight with me about something,” Rufus said.
“Sure.”
“When that guy was threatening me with the pipe, you thought I was selling you out, didn’t you?”
Valentine considered denying it, then decided not to lie. “Afraid I did.”
“Sorry. It was the only ruse I could think of.”
There was a commotion in the hallway. Four uniformed cops entered the suite, followed by Pete Longo, chief detective with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department’s Homicide Division. As Valentine rose from the couch, the cops drew their weapons.
“Stay seated,” a cop ordered him.
Valentine dropped back into his seat.
“Where are your guns?” the cop asked.
“We don’t have any,” Valentine said.
The cops searched the suite anyway. Valentine glanced at Longo, whom he’d known for many years. Longo had recently lost a lot of weight, but hadn’t changed his wardrobe. His rumpled suit swam on his body.
“Can’t you help us, Pete?” Valentine asked.
Longo shot him a skeptical look. “You don’t have any firearms in the suite?”
“There’s a bullwhip lying beneath the couch, but that’s it.”
The cops finished their search. The one who’d been doing the talking approached the couch and said, “You better be telling the truth.”
“Ain’t no reason to lie,” Rufus replied.
“Come with me,” Longo said. “I want to show you something.”
Valentine and Rufus followed Longo out the door, happy to be away from the uniforms. They took an elevator to the lobby, which was swarming with more cops, some in uniform, some plainclothes. Yellow police tape cordoned off an area around a door with an emergency exit sign above it. Longo lifted up the police tape and they walked beneath it. The detective pointed to a door propped open with a metal chair.
“Take a look,” Longo said.
Rufus went first, and came away shaking his head. Then Valentine stuck his head in. The light inside the stairwell was muted, and he let his eyes adjust. When they did, he saw their two attackers lying at the bottom. Their faces looked eerily peaceful, save for the bullet holes in their foreheads.
“Recognize them?” Longo asked, now behind him.
“Those are the guys who just attacked us in our room,” Valentine said.
“Did Rufus Steele shoot them?”
“No.”
“Did
“No.”
“I’d like to do a paraffin test for gunshot residue.”
“Be my guest.”
“I also want to talk to your son. Last time I checked, he had a grudge against some mobsters in town. Maybe this was his way of paying them back.”
“Gerry isn’t in Las Vegas, ” Valentine said. “I put him on a plane to Philadelphia four hours ago.”
“Why did you do that?” the detective asked.
He almost told Longo it was none of his business, then reminded himself he was a suspect in a double homicide and
“And you sent your son there to figure it out.”
“That’s right.”
Longo’s face was stoic.
“If you don’t believe me, call him,” Valentine said.
Longo dug his cell phone from his pocket.
“Give me your son’s number,” the detective said.
5
Stepping off the Delta 767 at Philadelphia Airport, Gerry Valentine spotted an undercover detective standing in the terminal. The detective was a handsome guy, black, six one, athletic, and pushing forty. What blew his cover were his cheap threads. That was where most detectives disguising themselves screwed up. They dressed like schleps.
Up until last year, Gerry’d been a bookie, and had done his fair share of business with underworld types. But then his life had changed. He’d gotten married and had a beautiful little daughter. His priorities had shifted, and he’d decided he didn’t want his kid to have a criminal father. So he’d shut down his bookmaking operation and gone to work in his father’s consulting business. It hadn’t been easy. Sometimes, Gerry’s past came back to haunt him, and he now considered walking back onto the plane.
He decided against it. Better to walk past the detective and see if anything happened. He’d always been good with his mouth, and could talk his way out of most situations. As he got close, the detective stuck his hand out.
“You must be Gerry. I’m Detective Eddie Davis.”
Gerry had heard Davis’s name before. Davis had helped his father track down his partner’s killers a few years back. Gerry shook his hand.
“Let me guess. My father sent you.”
Davis scowled. “He asked me to look out for you. Something wrong with that?”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
Davis followed Gerry to baggage claim, where they watched some misbehaving kids ride around on the carousel. “Your father said you had a bad experience in Las Vegas, and that George Scalzo was involved,” Davis said. “Hearing that, I figured I’d better meet you at the airport.”
Gerry checked the tags of the garment bags on the carousel. He needed to get rid of this guy. He was going to Atlantic City to learn how Jack Donovan’s poker scam worked, and expected to run into his friends from the old days. What was he going to say, “Hey Vinny, this here is Eddie Davis. Keep your mouth shut, he’s a cop”? No, that wasn’t going to work.
“Your father said Scalzo murdered a guy named Jack Donovan, and you and some buddies went to Vegas gunning for him, and nearly got yourselves killed,” Davis said.
“Dad likes to exaggerate,” Gerry said.
“Your father said one of your buddies got the hair on his face burned off by a flamethrower. That an exaggeration?”
His garment bag appeared. Gerry pulled a strap out of a side pocket, attached it to the bag, then threw it over his shoulder. He knew the Philly airport like the back of his hand, and would give Davis the slip once he got downstairs. He couldn’t have a cop playing Me and My Shadow with him on this trip. Not even a well-intentioned one.
