Deadman’s Poker

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” Rufus said with a toothy smile.

“How long will the race be?”

“We’ll be competing in the one-hundred-yard dash.”

“Rufus, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but don’t you think you’ve bitten off more than you can chew?” Gloria asked, her tone one of genuine concern. “There isn’t an athlete in the world who can outrun a racehorse.”

“I can,” he said with a positive air, “and I will.”

Before Gloria could pose another question, Rufus undid the knot in his bathrobe, then pulled off the garment and let it drop to the floor. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of black boxing trunks and had the physique of a telephone pole. He began to do jumping jacks for the camera, and the crowd, which had swelled to over a hundred people, cheered him on. If people in Las Vegas loved anything, it was an underdog, and a chant quickly went up.

“Rufus! Rufus! Rufus!”

“I want you folks to all come out and see me tonight,” Rufus said, his face red from exertion. “You too, Miss Curtis.”

Gloria was holding the mike by her side, and doing all she could not to burst into laughter. “Trust me, I’ll be there,” she said.

“Rufus! Rufus! Rufus!”

“Remember, folks,” Rufus said, still doing his jumping jacks. “Roses are red, violets are blue. Horses that lose to cowboys are turned into glue.”

“Rufus! Rufus! Rufus!”

Valentine stared across the lobby at Jasper by the birdcage. The president of the WPS had company. George Scalzo was standing beside him, and looked ready to kill Rufus with his bare hands. Valentine wondered how it felt to rig a poker tournament so his nephew could win, only to have all the glory stolen by a sly old fox.

Valentine suddenly had an idea, and elbowed his way through the crowd. It was illegal for anyone who worked in a casino to be in the company of gangsters, and he assumed the same was true for presidents of poker tournaments. He got up behind Zack, and whispered in the cameraman’s ear. Zack nodded, and pointed his camera at Jasper and Scalzo on the other side of the lobby.

“Got them,” Zack said.

47

At two thirty Valentine was on the road and driving to his rendezvous with Bill Higgins. He’d called Bill before leaving Celebrity, and told him how he’d caught Jasper and Scalzo together on tape.

“That’s a home run,” Bill said.

Valentine certainly thought so. He had everything he needed to put the screws to Jasper. Las Vegas did not let casino people fraternize with mob guys, and Jasper would be run out of town on a rail, and the tournament shut down. The World Poker Showdown was as crooked as a carnival, and needed to be exposed.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s on the north side of town and found Bill parked beside the kid’s play area. He got out of his rental, and hopped into Bill’s unmarked car.

“I hear you really shook them up at the WPS,” Bill said.

Valentine fastened his seat belt. “Good news travels fast, huh?”

“Jasper is screaming his head off, calling everyone under the sun.”

“Let him scream all he wants,” Valentine said. “He broke the law.”

Bill flipped open his cell phone, and called one of his agents. While Valentine had been setting the WPS’s house on fire, Bill had marshaled three dozen of his best field agents and put them inside Jinky Harris’s strip joint. When Bill gave them the word, the agents would raid the club under the pretense of looking for gambling activity. That would give Valentine time to find Jinky, and persuade him to reveal where Gerry and his friends were being held hostage.

“I need a gun,” Valentine said.

Bill pointed at the glove compartment. Valentine popped it open, and took out a Sig Sauer. “You remembered,” he said, slipping it into his jacket pocket.

“It’s the gun of choice of old farts,” Bill said.

“Speaking of old farts, I need to find a walking cane.”

“What for?”

“It goes good with my gray hair,” Valentine said.

Bill drove to Naked City. Naked City sold sex in the private VIP rooms of strip clubs, in massage parlors, and behind closed doors of dirty bookstores. The only place you couldn’t find sex in Naked City was on the streets. Bill pulled up in front of a medical supply store called ABC Medical and Valentine hopped out.

Five minutes later, Valentine emerged from the store walking with a burnished wood walking stick. He’d also purchased a pair of dark sunglasses, and a white captain’s fishing hat. As he slid into the passenger seat, Bill stared at him.

“You bought the hat and glasses in there?”

“I bought them from the guy behind the counter,” Valentine said.

“How much?”

“Thirty bucks.”

“You got hosed.”

As Bill pulled out of the lot, Valentine adjusted his hat and glasses. The guy behind the counter had worn the hat with the sides pulled down, like Gilligan on the old TV show. It had a comical effect, and he tried it, then appraised himself in the reflection of his window. He looked like the captain of a shuffleboard team. Perfect.

Bill drove several blocks, then turned down the street to Jinky’s club. The Sugar Shack was at the very end of the street. The club was doing brisk business, with several black stretch limousines parked by the curb.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Bill asked.

“Sure, I’m sure,” Valentine said.

Bill looked at his watch. “The raid will take place in exactly five minutes.”

Valentine didn’t need to look at his watch. He knew how long five minutes was, and whacked the burnished walking stick against the palm of his hand.

The Sugar Shack’s admission fee was fifteen bucks. Valentine asked for a senior discount and thought the cashier was going to physically throw him out the door. He paid up, got his hand stamped, and ventured inside.

The club was a sprawling, multilevel room filled with pulsating strobe lights, blaring disco music, and exposed female flesh. There were three stages, just like at Barnum & Bailey’s circus, and they were filled with naked women doing exotic dances and swinging on brass poles. He guessed the crowd of guys watching them to number eighty, which meant almost half of them were Bill’s agents. He found an empty spot at the bar and ordered a club soda.

“Seven bucks,” the bartender said, serving him the drink.

Valentine slid a twenty his way. “Tell Jinky his appointment is here.”

The bartender gave him the hairy eyeball. “Who are you?”

“George Scalzo’s brother, Louie.”

The bartender walked down to the end of the bar and disappeared through a beaded curtain. Valentine followed him, practicing his limp. The short time he’d been living in Florida had convinced him that older people were invisible, and were therefore entitled to go wherever they pleased. He passed through the beaded curtain without anyone saying anything, and entered a narrow hallway illuminated by a red bulb hanging from the ceiling. He spied the bartender at the hallway’s end. The bartender rapped three times on a blue door, then spotted Valentine.

“Hey mister, you’re not supposed to be back here.”

“I thought you told me to follow you,” Valentine said, shuffling toward him.

“I didn’t say no such thing.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. You need to go back inside.”

Valentine caught up to him, and pretended to be breathing heavily. He put his free hand on the bartender’s shoulder and took several deep breaths.

“Sorry, son. My hearing’s going. Old age ain’t for sissies.”

The blue door opened, and a seven-foot-tall black guy emerged. Valentine guessed this was Finesse, the guy with designs on being a professional fighter. Finesse looked like he’d been lifting weights, his pectoral muscles bulging through his turtleneck sweater. He glared down at the tops of their heads.