Valentine took a drag off his son’s cigarette. It was a Marlboro, the same brand he’d smoked and his father had smoked. He handed it back, and Gerry flicked the butt into the pool’s sickly green water. It floated lazily across the surface, trailing a thin line of smoke.
“Give me your impressions of what you saw in there,” Valentine said.
“My impressions?”
“Yeah. What do you think is going on?”
Gerry fired up another cigarette. The dogs had scared the daylights out of him, but his father asking his opinion scared him even more. When he answered, his voice was subdued. “Based on the condition of the house, I’d say Bronco is on a downward slide. He sits at home at night, chain-smokes and gets blistered. Except for cheating slot machines, he doesn’t have a life.”
“Anything else?”
“One thing did surprise me. Based upon what you told me about him, I expected his place to be filled with high-tech computers and stuff. He doesn’t even own a computer.”
“So?”
Gerry faced him. “Think about it, Pop. Bronco is claiming that a Nevada Gaming Control Board agent is stealing jackpots from new machines, right? Well, there’s no way to corrupt those machines unless you use computers. You agree?”
“Okay,” he said.
“Bronco doesn’t have a computer in his house. Which tells me that either Bronco doesn’t know what this agent is doing, or the information is worthless to him.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because he’d be trying to duplicate it, Pop,” his son said. “There’s no honor among thieves. Whatever the secret is, Bronco isn’t using it.”
“Otherwise, we’d have found it.”
“You got it.”
Valentine took the cigarette from his son’s hand. Gerry had nailed the incongruity on the head. He took a drag, this one deeper than the first, and knew he was hooked again. He handed the cigarette back to his son.
“Sure you don’t want one of your own?” Gerry asked him.
“I’d rather smoke yours,” Valentine said.
Chapter 11
Mabel was eating a tuna fish sandwich while trying to catch a cheater.
Sitting at Tony’s computer, she was watching a live feed from the poker room at the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. The Micanopys ran a casino in Tampa where the highway interchanges met. State law let them offer poker, 21, and slot machines. There wasn’t much cheating, and Tony had turned the account over to her. Mabel regularly watched live feeds from the casino’s surveillance cameras.
She bit into her sandwich while staring at the screen. To help her learn about poker cheating, Tony had video-taped himself doing the moves, like dealing seconds and bottoms, doing the hop, and ringing in a cooler. On the tape, Tony had explained the various “tells” Mabel needed to look for. By watching the tape every day, her eyes had become trained.
On the screen, the dealer was starting to deal. He was a native American and heavyset. As he sailed cards around the table, Mabel began to record him. On the third round, he snapped a card off the bottom, and dealt it to the player on his right.
“Gotcha,” she said.
He dealt a bottom on the fourth round as well. Then, Mabel noticed something strange. On the back of his hand was a tattoo. She brought her nose up close to the screen. It looked like a small bird.
“Huh,” she said.
Mabel leaned back in her chair. Normally, she would copy the tape, and e-mail it to the Micanopys. What they did to the dealer was their business. Only she had no way of knowing who at the casino might open the e-mail. What if it was a friend of the dealer, or a relative? That could be trouble. She supposed she could ask Tony, only that seemed like a cop-out. It was her account, and she needed to come up with a solution. She was still thinking about it when the phone rang. She minimalized the computer screen, then picked up the receiver.
“Grift Sense. Can I help you?”
“Is Tony there?” a man with a deep voice asked.
The caller sounded familiar, and Mabel glanced at caller ID. It was Darren Crawford, a likeable FBI agent out of the bureau’s Reno office.
“I’m afraid not. Can I help you?”
“Will you be speaking to him, soon?”
“Perhaps.”
“This is urgent. Please tell him to check his e-mail. I’ve just sent him something that’s for his eyes only.”
“Tony’s out of town, and won’t be checking his e-mail right way,” she said. “Would you please tell me what this is about, so I may relay a message?”
“Do you work for him?”
“Yes. This is Mabel. We’ve spoken before.”
“Hello, Mabel. Can you tell me where Tony is?”
“He’s in Nevada on a case.”
She heard the sharp intake of Crawford’s breath. “What’s wrong?”
“You need to get a hold of him, and tell him to open my email. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“
“Yes. Please tell him. Goodbye.”
The line went dead, and Mabel dropped the receiver in its cradle, then typed a command into Tony’s computer and went into his email account. Within moments, she was staring at several dozen email messages. She scrolled through them and found Crawford’s, which was marked with a red flag. She opened it.
Tony,
You are in danger. The FBI is tapping the phones of Bronco Marchese’s lawyer, Kyle Garrow. Garrow is calling around Reno, trying to get someone to take a contract on your life. So far, no takers, but you know how things work out here. Someone will take the job, and come gunning for you. Please keep this to yourself. The tap is illegal, and could land us all in hot water. I will let you know when I learn more. Be careful, my friend.
Darren
Mabel felt an icy finger run down her spine. A contract on Tony’s life? She thought she was going to get sick, and snatched the phone off the desk. Her boss never kept his cell phone on, but Gerry did, and she punched in his number.
Valentine and his son were standing by the pool behind Bronco’s house when Gerry’s cell phone rang. Gerry answered it, then handed the phone to his father.
“Mabel needs to talk to you.”
“Hey good looking, what’s up?” Valentine said into the phone.
“You’re not going to believe the e-mail you just received.” She read the email Crawford had sent. “You need
