Deadman’s Poker

“We need to call Jinky, tell him what happened,” one of the men said.

“I have better idea,” Mario said.

“What’s that?”

“We kill them, then call Jinky.”

They all seemed to think this was a good idea. Mario drew an automatic handgun from behind his belt.

“I do them,” Mario said.

“You want to kill all four of them?” one of the men said.

Mario nodded his head forcefully. “All four,” he replied.

Frank had continued to pull at the ropes holding him to the chair. He was nearly free, his fingers nimbly pulling the knots apart. Nunzie was cheering him on while trying not to look at the men who were about to kill them.

“Come on, Frankie Boy,” Nunzie said.

“Almost there,” Frank said, breathing hard.

Gerry looked sideways at Vi

“You praying?”

“What else is there to do?” Vi

Gerry looked at the door. Shadows were dancing in the puddle of light streaming through the bottom of the door, indicating there were people standing outside.

“Start yelling,” Gerry said.

“What?”

“You heard me. There’re people outside. Start yelling.”

Vi

“It’s a raid,” one of Jinky’s men shouted.

The man drew a gun holstered beneath his sports jacket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the door and ricocheted dangerously around the warehouse. His partners also drew their weapons and fired at the door, determined to shoot it out with whoever was on the other side. Within seconds bullets were flying, and Gerry was reflexively jerking his head while begging God to spare him from being shot.

“Look at Frank,”Vi

“Why?”

“He’s almost free.”

Gerry stopped jerking his head and stared across the warehouse. Frank had almost wriggled free of his ropes. He was taking his time, just like he had in the casino parking lot. Standing, he walked over to where the flamethrower lay on the floor, picked it up, and clutched it against his chest the way Mario had instructed. Then he got up behind the four killers. The flamethrower’s flame was on low, and he jacked the flame up, then squeezed the trigger, causing a huge flame to leap through the air. It engulfed the men, catching their clothes and hair on fire. Within seconds they were screaming and ru

One by one, the men dropped to the floor, and stopped moving. The battering ram was still hitting the door, the sound like a clock ringing its final toll. Frank solemnly lowered the flamethrower while shaking his head.

“Enough of that shit,” he declared.

50

One winter when Valentine was a detective on the Atlantic City police force, his wife had talked him into taking a few night courses at a local community college. She had thought the classes would help round him out and broaden his horizons.

The two courses that had made an impact were an English course, which had turned him on to reading Raymond Chandler and other crime writers, and a philosophy course, which had gotten him thinking about things he’d never thought about before.

In the philosophy course he’d read a problem by the French philosopher Descartes that he’d never forgotten. The problem was this: You take your son and his friend to the beach. The two boys go swimming, while you stay on shore. Suddenly, you realize the boys have been pulled out by an undertow and are drowning. The boys are far apart, and as you swim out to rescue them, it becomes apparent only one can be saved. You are responsible for your son’s friend, since you’re the adult in charge, but you’re also responsible for your son, since you’re his father. Who do you save?

According to Descartes, you saved your son.

Descartes’ reasoning was perfectly logical. You might someday forgive yourself for letting the other boy drown, but you would never forgive yourself if your son drowned. It was a lesson that Valentine had never forgotten.

As the Metro Las Vegas Police Department SWAT team entered the warehouse where Gerry and his friends were being held, Valentine ignored the orders of the SWAT team’s commander, and came in behind them. The warehouse smelled of smoke, and he stared at the four burning bodies lying on the floor, the three men tied to chairs, and a man with a horribly damaged face holding a flamethrower. Then his eyes found his son.

Of all the men in the room, Gerry looked to be in the best shape. Gerry hadn’t been badly beaten up, and the look on his son’s face said that his spirits were still intact. The others needed help in one form or another, but Valentine ignored them and ran to his son. He untied the ropes holding Gerry prisoner. His son rose and they hugged each other.

“Go outside and stay with the cops,” Valentine said.

“I need to help my friends,” his son said.

“Just do as I say. I’ll take care of your friends.”

Gerry tried to say something. It was unusual for him to be at a loss for words, and he started to walk to the open door with light streaming through, then turned and walked across the warehouse to one of the burning bodies lying on the floor. Gerry stared down at the corpse and balled his hands into fists.

Valentine came up next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“This is the guy who killed Jack Donovan.”

Valentine looked down at the blackened body and then up into his son’s face. Many times he had heard wronged people say that there was nothing sweeter than revenge, but had never believed it himself. He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Feel any better?”

“You mean because this bastard’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Gerry said. “I don’t feel any better at all.”

Gerry walked out of the warehouse, and Valentine untied Vi

When they were gone, Valentine went over to check on the man with the damaged face. The man had put the flamethrower on the ground, and was standing with his hands against the wall, and his feet spread apart. While one SWAT team member frisked him, a second SWAT team member pointed a rifle at him. The man’s face looked like something out of a horror movie, and he gri

“Hey, Mr. Valentine, how you doing?”

“Frank? What happened to you?”

“They tried to get me to talk,” Frank said, still gri

“You tell them anything?”

“Naw. They would have killed us.”

Valentine immediately understood. Frank had been willing to take the punishment on the slim hope that they’d be rescued. He was as dumb as an ox, but sometimes that was what you needed to survive in this world.

“Let him go,” Valentine said to the SWAT team members.

The man holding the rifle shifted his attention to him.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. He’s one of us.”

The man looked at his partner, who’d finished frisking Frank. Then he lowered his rifle and they both walked away. Valentine went up to Frank and saw him smile. He whacked Frank on the shoulder and the big man winced.

“Not so hard,” Frank said. “That’s my bad arm.”

Valentine led Frank outside and turned him over to a pair of medics who’d come in an ambulance, and were attending to Gerry, Frank, and Nunzie. The medics had already inspected the corpses inside the warehouse, and were happy to have live people to be treating. Valentine walked over to the police van they’d arrived in. Bill Higgins stood beside the van, making a call on his cell phone. Bill had stayed outside with Jinky Harris, who sat in the back of a van in his electric wheelchair. Jinky had started singing like the fat lady in the opera once he’d heard that Detective Hector Frangos had been arrested, and was cooperating with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department.