Deadman’s Poker

The story ended, and Valentine crossed the restaurant, and stood in a quiet corner before flipping open his cell phone and calling Bill.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked his friend.

“As of this afternoon, the World Poker Showdown is being classified as a private event,” Bill replied. “Unless I can prove that cheating is taking place, I’ve been told to lay off.”

“Told by who?”

“The governor of the state of Nevada.”

The burden of proof that was required of the police and other law enforcement agencies in the U.S. was not required of the Nevada Gaming Control Board. The GCB could shut down any gambling operation based on suspicionof cheating. And since the WPS was already on thin ice—from DeMarco rigging the first day’s seating, to dealers with criminal records and a president who hung with mobsters—Bill didn’t need an excuse to pull the curtains. If anything, it was long overdue.

“Can he do that?” Valentine asked.

“Yes,” Bill said. “It’s in his job description.”

“But whywould he do that?”

“Because the tournament is a huge success. You don’t screw with success in this town, Tony.”

Valentine put his hand on his forehead and left it there. No matter what it was about in Las Vegas, it was always about the money.

“I got some other bad news this afternoon,” Bill said. “Ray Callahan, our crooked poker dealer, died.”

“Somebody whack him?”

“No. Callahan died from cancer complications. Now we’ll never know how he was involved with DeMarco’s scam.”

Valentine removed his hand from his forehead and pulled out his wallet. The playing card that Jack Donovan had given Gerry was stuck in his billfold, and he peeled back the bills with his fingers and stared at it. Ray Callahan had wanted to know what Jack had died from, and had not seemed surprised when Valentine had told him cancer. It was the clue he’d been looking for and it had been staring him right in the face.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “If I can prove DeMarco’s cheating, will the governor let you do your job, and shut down the World Poker Showdown?”

“He won’t have a choice,” Bill asked.

“Even if the WPS is the biggest show in the history of television, and drawing more tourists than Las Vegas has beds?”

Bill laughed into the phone.

“Even then,” his friend said.

Valentine stared at the playing card in his wallet. He’d been baffled by scams before but always managed to solve them. If he couldn’t solve one, then he needed to get out of the gambling business and into gardening or shuffleboard or whatever the hell it was retired people in Florida did.

“I’ll call you later,” Valentine said.

He heard Bill start to speak, then hesitate. “Are you still on the case?” his friend asked.

“You bet,” Valentine replied.

Valentine said good-bye and folded his cell phone. His son was standing beside him. Valentine removed the playing card from his wallet, and handed it to him. “The secret of how DeMarco is cheating is in the hospital where Jack Donovan died. Jack found something there that can be used to mark cards. It doesn’t leave a trace, and is dangerous if not handled properly. I know it’s been a rough couple of days, but I want you to go to Atlantic City, look through the hospital records, and find out what it is. I’ll ask one of my police buddies to accompany you, so no one tries to whack you.”

Gerry blinked, and then he blinked again.

“I thought you wanted me to go home.”

“I changed my mind.”

“So I’m still working with you on the case?”

“You were never off the case.”

“I wasn’t?”

“Of course not. You’re my partner, aren’t you?”

The happy look in Gerry’s eyes was one Valentine hadn’t seen in a long time. There was a time in every man’s life when he had to emerge from his father’s shadow, and this was Gerry’s time. His son slipped Jack’s playing card into his shirt pocket, and hugged his father again. Valentine was surprised at how good it made him feel.

52

“My producer thinks this story would make a terrific made-for-TV movie,” Gloria Curtis said, microphone in hand.

Valentine nodded, staring at the magnificently conditioned racehorse standing a dozen yards away. The horse’s front legs were going up and down like pistons while a trainer held it in check with a lead rope. Valentine had put Gerry on a plane for Atlantic City, then driven to the University of Nevada football field where Gloria and several hundred gamblers were preparing to watch Rufus Steele challenge the horse in the hundred-yard dash.

“It isn’t over yet,” he reminded her.

“You sound awfully pessimistic,” Gloria said, shivering from a breeze.

He continued to watch the horse, which had deposited a steaming pile of manure on the field. His late father had liked to bet on the ponies, and had always run to the betting windows after seeing a horse take a crap.

“Just being realistic,” he said.

“Meaning this may not having a happy ending.”

Valentine didn’t say anything, not wanting to jinx Rufus, who stood on the fifty-yard line, doing jumping jacks in his Skivvies T-shirt and black boxing shorts while exhorting his fellow gamblers with nonstop banter.

“Come on, boys, what do you say? I’ll give you even money I can beat that nag in the hundred-yard dash. That’s even money!”

A group of gamblers stood around the horse, and appeared to be making sure the animal hadn’t been doped. The group included the Greek, who asked the trainer to lift the horse’s saddle, then peered beneath it to make sure there were no hidden electronic devices that might slow the animal down. Satisfied, he turned to his fellow gamblers.

“Looks good to me.”

“Check its hooves,” one of the gamblers said. “Maybe Rufus took off its shoes.”

The Greek decided this was a good idea, and went to the noneating end of the horse and attempted to lift one of its hind legs. Before he could say Jack Robinson, the Greek was sitting on his rump in the grass, having been kicked solidly in the thigh. The other gamblers rushed to his aid.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” the Greek said, rising and dusting himself off. “That’s one hell of an animal. I think we just might have a bet here.”

The horse was led to the center of the field where it began to prance around on its hind legs. Valentine wondered if Rufus had bitten off more than he could chew, and glanced at Gloria. She looked equally worried.

“Maybe I’d better go talk to him,” he said.

Rufus was still doing his exercises. He was all skin and bones, with some sinew thrown in for good measure. He winked as Valentine approached.

“Hey, Tony, you ready to help me fleece these suckers?”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Rufus said, stopping to suck down the cool night air. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re losing faith in me?”

Valentine looked across the field at the competition. The Greek had hired a professional jockey to ride the horse, unwilling to let Rufus provide the rider. The Greek’s jockey was a diminutive man with a pinched face and expressionless eyes, his uniform the color of money. With the trainer holding the horse, the jockey climbed into the saddle, then took the horse down the field at a canter.

“A little,” Valentine admitted.

“You don’t think I can beat Greased Lightning?”

“Is that the horse’s name?”

“Yeah. Raced in the Kentucky Derby a few years back, came in fourth,” Rufus said. “The owners use it for stud now. A real nag, if you ask me.”

Valentine knew enough about horses to know that nags weren’t used for stud. The jockey had stopped in the end zone and turned Greased Lightning around. With a tip of the hat to the Greek and his friends, he took off at a dead gallop. A football field is exactly one hundred yards long, and Valentine clocked the horse with his watch. Greased Lightning went from end zone to end zone in seven seconds flat.