“Ready to roll,” he said.
Going downstairs, Gerry excused himself and headed for the men’s room. Davis tagged him on the shoulder like they were playing touch football.
“I once had a suspect duck out through the side entrance,” Davis said. “You weren’t thinking of doing that, were you?”
“I’ll tell you after I take a leak,” Gerry said.
Davis shot him a disapproving look. “For Christ’s sake man, I’m here to help
Davis sounded sincere, which made Gerry suspicious.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I need your help with a cheating case I’m working on,” Davis said.
Gerry considered Davis’s offer. Having a cop watching his back wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d made an enemy out of George Scalzo in Vegas, and suspected Scalzo would pay him back someday soon.
“Okay,” Gerry said.
They sped along the scenic New Jersey Expressway in Davis’s souped-up ’78 Mustang, the four-lane, pencil- straight highway bordered by lush berms and mature oaks. Atlantic City had been created as a summer playground for rich people from Philadelphia, the expressway being the shortest distance from that city to the sea.
“This case has been driving me crazy,” Davis said. “There’s a retirement condo on the south end of the is land where a resident is cheating other residents at cards. This guy is stealing retirement money. I want to nail him, but none of the residents will cooperate. He’s local, they’re local, and none of the cops working the case are.”
“How much is the guy stealing?”
“A couple grand a week. He’s done this to hundreds of elderly people.”
Gerry got the picture. The cheater was what his father called a public menace—someone who enjoyed hurting people as much as stealing. “What’s the guy doing?”
“He plays cards in the same restaurant every day, and that’s where he fleeces his victims,” Davis said. “He doesn’t play for cash, but keeps a running tally of points on a sheet of paper. That way, we can’t bust him for an illegal card game. I got my hands on the cards and they’re normal. No marks, bends, or gaffs. I also filmed him through a window, and watched the video. He isn’t doing any sleight-of-hand.”
“Describe the restaurant where he plays cards.”
“It’s a mom-and-pop beachfront joint with some booths lining the walls and a half dozen round tables. Most of the customers live on social security or pensions. Nothing on the menu is too pricey.”
“How long has he played there?”
“Years,” Davis said.
“So he’s got an arrangement.”
The Mustang slowed down almost imperceptibly, then sped back up.
“I’m not following you,” Davis said.
“The guy’s got an arrangement with the owner of the restaurant,” Gerry said.
“The owner’s hardly there.”
“Then he’s got an arrangement with the manager, or head waitress or whoever’s running the place.”
“It’s a waitress,” Davis said.
Gerry wasn’t his father’s son for nothing, and said, “The guy cheats his opponent and gives the waitress a cut, probably twenty percent. More if she’s involved in his scam.”
Davis briefly took his eyes off the road. “Would you mind telling me how you came to that conclusion?”
“Sure. You said the cards weren’t marked and the guy wasn’t using sleight-of-hand. Well, that leaves only one more thing. They’re a team.”
“They are?”
“Have to be. The waitress is peeking at the opponent’s cards when she waits on the table, writes it on a paper napkin or a check, and slaps it on the table. The guy picks the napkin up, and reads what his opponent is holding.”
A pained look crossed Davis’s face, and he resumed staring at the expressway. Gerry guessed Davis had spent some time in the restaurant and gotten to know the waitress. He’d formed an opinion of her, and was experiencing the unsettling feeling that came when you found out someone you liked was really a piece of garbage.
“How do I prosecute this guy, and get a jury to believe my story?” Davis asked.
Gerry had seen his father handle cases similar to this. Prosecuting cheating wasn’t easy, the crime difficult to prove. “Haul the waitress in, tell her you know what she’s been doing, and you’re going to report her to the Internal Revenue Service for income tax evasion if she doesn’t cooperate.”
“I should turn her against her partner?”
“Yes.”
Davis considered it. Like most cops, he rarely saw justice, and when he did, it usually had a pair of horns attached to it.
“That’s one of your father’s tricks, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Sure is,” Gerry said.
Atlantic City was a thirteen-mile-long island, and their arrival on its north end was greeted by the brilliant neon of half a dozen names synonymous with gambling. Casinos had sucked the lifeblood out of Atlantic City, and Gerry stared down the Monopoly-named streets he’d once played on, seeing poverty and despair.
At a traffic light Davis hit the brakes. “You hungry?” he asked.
Gerry was thirty-six, and could still eat an extra meal and not have trouble getting into his pants. His father had warned him that someday he would pay, but so far, he wasn’t sweating it.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Sacco’s Sack O’ Subs.”
Sacco’s made the best submarine sandwiches in the world, and was located on the southern end of the island, in the town of Ventnor where Gerry had grown up.
“You’re on,” Gerry said.
The restaurant was hopping when they arrived. Taking a booth in the back, they ordered the signature sandwich, an Italian hot sausage sub, then waited for their food. A couple in the next booth were talking with Jersey accents so thick that an outsider would have needed an interpreter to understand them. Gerry felt right at home.
Their sandwiches arrived. A TV set above the counter was turned on, showing Skip DeMarco playing at the World Poker Showdown.
“DeMarco used to come into the card rooms here.” Davis sprinkled grated cheese over his sandwich. He wasn’t sweating the calories either and took a big bite.
“How did he do?” Gerry asked.
“Lost his shirt. He filed a beef with the police, claimed the other players were taking advantage of his blindness and cheating him. It never went anywhere.”
Gerry lowered his voice. “DeMarco is George Scalzo’s nephew. He’s scamming the World Poker Showdown.”
Davis’s eyes grew wide. “Well, I’ll be. How’s he doing it?”
“That’s what I came to Atlantic City to find out,” Gerry said. “My father thinks the scam’s secret is at the Atlantic City Medical Center where my buddy Jack Donovan just died. He wants me to snoop around the hospital, see what I can find.”
Davis chewed reflectively, perhaps familiar with Gerry’s friend’s shady past. “Most of the staff at the hospital know me pretty well. Maybe I can help you.”
“You’d do that?” Gerry asked.
“Sure. I’d like nothing better than to see George Scalzo and his cheating nephew in jail.”
Gerry lowered his sub to his plate. The distrust he’d felt for Eddie when he’d stepped off the plane had vanished. He started to say okay, then stopped himself. His father did not like having outsiders help with jobs, even when they were friends. Gerry needed to run this by the old man, make sure he was okay with it.
