Deadman’s Bluff

39

“You busy?” Gerry Valentine asked.

Nurse Susan Gladwell lifted her eyes from the hospital report she was filling out. It was a few minutes past midnight, and she’d just come on her shift at the cancer ward of Atlantic City Medical Center, which was as quiet as a church.

“Yes, I am,” she said.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, you’re Gerry Valentine, Jack Donovan’s friend,” she replied, putting her pencil down. “We spoke yesterday about the poker scam you were investigating. I was going to look into the hospital records to see if anything was stolen from our medicine department while Jack was here. Which I actually did, believe it or not.” Reaching across the cluttered desk, she plucked a blue folder from a stack. “Here’s the report.”

Gerry was standing at the nurse’s station where Gladwell worked. He’d brought a cup of steaming hot coffee for himself, and one for her. He made no attempt to take the file. “Let me guess,” he said, “there was nothing stolen.”

She held the file motionless in the air. “That’s right. How did you know?”

“Because most hospitals don’t report theft of medicines to the police. I learned that from my wife. She’s a doctor.”

Gladwell dropped the file on the desk, made an annoyed face. “If you knew that, then why did you have me go to the trouble of pulling up the records?”

“I didn’t know it when I asked you,” Gerry explained.

“But I know now, along with a bunch of other stuff. You and I need to talk.”

“Is that what the coffee is about?”

“Yes.”

“Not interested. Maybe some other time.”

Her eyes dropped to the form, giving him the ice maiden treatment. He cleared his throat. “See that black dude standing in the hallway behind me?”

“I said I’m not interested,” she said.

“He’s a cop.”

Her head came up very slowly. “I see him. Is he with you?”

“Yes,” Gerry said. “He’s an undercover detective named Eddie Davis. If you don’t talk to me, he’s going to haul you down to the police station and grill you about a conversation you had with George Scalzo the morning after Jack Donovan was murdered. He’s going to want to know why Scalzo brought you flowers and bought you a meal.”

She stiffened. “How did you know about that?”

“Does it matter?”

She stared at Eddie Davis standing in the hallway. She wore little makeup, her face pleasantly plain, with tiny freckles on her nose, and soft amber eyes. Something in her face melted, and suddenly she looked scared. Rising from her chair, she took the steaming cup from Gerry’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll talk, but not here.”

“How about the cafeteria?” Gerry suggested.

“Just so long as no one is around,” she said.

The cafeteria was fairly quiet, with a maintenance man mopping the floor. They took a table in the back of the room, and Gladwell waited for a couple of doctors at the next table to leave, then spoke while staring at the reflection in her drink. “I really liked Jack Donovan. He was fun to be around, even when he was getting chemo. Nurses and doctors aren’t supposed to get involved with patients, but it happens. Take off the white coats, and we’re no different than anyone else.”

Gerry glanced at the rings on her third finger, let out a deep breath.

“I saw Jack on the sly for three months,” she went on.

“He confided in me, told me about scams he pulled on the casinos. There was one I’ll never forget. He had a tiny mirror glued to the bottom of a beer can. He could hold the can on a blackjack table, and see the face of the cards as they were dealt out of the plastic shoe. He’d know what the dealer had before the dealer did. Jack said he only had to see the dealer’s hand once an hour to clean up. I never figured out what he meant.”

“Jack was a card counter,” Gerry said. “He played with an edge to begin with. By cheating once an hour, the edge increased, and guaranteed him a winning night.”

“Did you show him that scam? Jack said he learned a lot from you when you were growing up.”

Gerry thought back, smiled. “Come to mention it, I did show that to him.”

“I thought so.” She gulped her coffee, grimaced.

“Jack also told me about the poker scam. At first, he wouldn’t explain how it worked, just said that a player could know his opponents’ cards and never lose.

“Jack told me he was going to sell the scam to a mobster named George Scalzo, and that Scalzo was going to give Jack’s mother a hundred thousand dollars for it. I’d met Jack’s mom, knew she was living on federal assistance, so I didn’t say anything.”

“Would you have otherwise?”

Her head snapped, eyes flaming. “Just because I loved Jack doesn’t mean I approved of what he did. I normally don’t hang out with people like you and Jack.”

Gerry’s face reddened. “Sorry.”

“One afternoon at Jack’s apartment, he sat down at the kitchen table and showed me the poker scam,” she said. “First he gave me an earpiece, which he said was a modified children’s hearing aid, and made me put it in my ear. Then he gave me a deck of cards and had me shuffle them. He took the cards, dealt us a hand. Each time one of the cards came off the deck, I heard a series of clicks. The clicks were in Morse code. Jack had a Morse code chart, and he let me read it while listening to the clicks. The clicks were always right.

“It was pretty amazing. Jack let me examine the cards. I couldn’t find anything wrong with them. The clicks just seemed to come out of thin air.”

Ever since Jack had died, Gerry had wondered how the poker scam worked, and he put his elbows on the table and knocked his drink over. Gladwell grabbed the cup before too much of the liquid spilled out and righted it.

“Down, boy,” she said.

She wiped up the spill with a paper napkin. Gerry could see her and Jack hitting it off. Jack had liked strong women.

“Did he show you the secret?”

“I eventually pried it out of him,” she said, smiling at the memory. “There was a cigarette lighter sitting on the table. The lighter had a dosimeter hidden inside that Jack had stolen from the hospital.”

“What’s a dosimeter?”

“It’s a device used to detect X-rays or radiation. You see them in dentists’ offices. When Jack passed the cards over the lighter, the dosimeter picked up a signal from the card and sent it to a computer strapped around his waist. The computer read the signal then told me the card’s value in Morse code. Jack said he’d borrowed the technology from some Japanese company that used it in kids’ toys.”

A group of female nurses came up to the table and spoke to Gladwell while checking out Gerry. Gerry rose, and introduced himself as Gladwell’s old high school friend. The nurses chatted for another minute and left.

“You didn’t have to do that, but thanks anyway,” Gladwell said.

Gerry returned to his chair. “You’re leaving out the important part. How was the dosimeter reading the cards?”

Gladwell’s eyes fell to the dull tabletop. She seemed to be wrestling with her conscience, and a long moment passed before she spoke again. “That was the secret that Jack sold to George Scalzo. You could examine the cards, but nothing would show up. Jack made me promise not to tell. And so did Scalzo.”

Gerry thought back to what Yolanda had said over the phone earlier. The FBI had tailed Scalzo coming to the hospital. They’d seen him bring flowers to Gladwell, then go to the cafeteria with her and have breakfast together. As if reading his mind, Gladwell said, “I wasn’t on duty the night Jack died, and didn’t hear the news until the next day when I came in. Then Scalzo shows up with flowers, tells me how sorry he is that Jack’s dead. He knew I’d been having an affair with Jack, and over breakfast told me I needed to keep quiet, if I knew what was good for me.”

“So Scalzo threatened you.”

“He didn’t have to. If word got out about my affair with Jack, I’d lose my job, my nurse’s license, and probably my marriage. I had a sword hanging over my head, and Scalzo knew it.” She lifted her eyes. “There’s your friend again.”

Gerry glanced over his shoulder. Eddie Davis was siting on the other side of the room, peeling the plastic off a cafeteria sandwich. Gerry looked back at Gladwell.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“I think the word is petrified,” she said.

“I can make this nightmare go away.”

“Right.”

“I’m being serious.”

“How can you make it go away?”

Gerry leaned forward, this time making sure no drinks were in striking range. “Tell me Jack’s secret, and you’ll never hear from me, the police, or George Scalzo again. That’s a promise.”

“How do I know you’ll keep this promise?”

His eyes scanned the cafeteria, and when he was certain no one was watching, he reached across the table and put his hand on her wrist. She did not resist his touch. “You and I share one thing in common. We both loved Jack. So when I tell you that on my friend’s grave I can fix this situation, you’ve got to believe me.”

Gladwell shuddered from an unseen chill. She drank what was left in her cup, grimacing again.

“All right,” she said.

40

Four o’clock in the morning, and Skip DeMarco lay awake in his king-sized hotel bed, his sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling. On the other side of the room, his laptop made a gurgling sound. Its screen saver was an underwater scene, complete with coral, bright tropical fish, and sound effects. Hours ago, he’d gone onto the Internet and found the Web site of the law firm where Christopher Charles Russo, the man claiming to be his father, worked. The site had a section with photographs of the firm’s lawyers. His laptop’s screen was sharp, and he’d planned to enter the section, click on Russo’s picture, then raise the laptop to his face, and take a look at the guy.

It hadn’t happened.

He’d gotten cold feet and slipped back into bed. He was twenty-six years old and had lived with his Uncle George for twenty-one of those years. But he still remembered the first five. The memory of his mother was particularly strong.

But he had no memories of his father. Not one. Maybe Russo wasn’t his father, and the story the woman had told him was a lie. Maybe Russo was a scammer, or a crackpot, or someone he’d beaten at cards looking to pay him back in the cruelest possible way.

DeMarco had spent hours lying in bed, weighing the possibilities. Finally he’d come to a decision. The only way he was going to know for sure was to look at the guy’s picture, and try to find a resemblance. That wasn’t so hard.

Only he couldn’t do it.

He was comfortable living with his Uncle George. The house they shared was huge, the third floor practically his. He had his own bedroom, private gym, music room, study, and a maid and cook downstairs willing to do his bidding. And his uncle was easy. DeMarco had brought girls up to his room and smoked dope and his uncle had never said a word. It was a sheltered existence, his uncle having convinced him that the real world was not for him. In the real world, he was a victim. At home, he was a king.

He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. He imagined he was at home, listening to music with the headphones on. It didn’t work, and in frustration he kicked off the sheets and sent them to the floor.

At four thirty, he climbed out of bed and shuffled across the room. Sitting down at his laptop, he made the screen saver disappear. He needed to be a man about this. He’d take a look at Russo’s picture, then decide what his next step should be. Simple as that.

He went to the law firm’s Web site, found the photo section, and scrolled through the players. It was a big firm, and according to the home page, specialized in legal representation for white-collar fraud. Big bucks, he guessed.

He stopped scrolling on Russo’s picture. It was small, and had a short biography beneath it. He dragged the mouse over Russo’s picture and clicked on it. The picture enlarged, filling the screen. DeMarco picked up the laptop with both hands. Holding the screen a few inches from his face, he stared hard. Russo looked to be in his late forties, with a heavy face, blunt nose, connected eyebrows, and an engaging smile. There was no family resemblance at all. None.

DeMarco felt something drop in his stomach, and he placed the laptop back on the desk. Russo was a fake, and so was the woman claiming to be his aunt. They were scammers, out to make a score.

“Go to hell,” he said to the screen.

He shrunk Russo’s picture back to its original size, then felt the tension trapped in his body escape. He’d stayed up half the night for nothing.

His eyelids suddenly felt heavy. He needed to get some sleep. The tournament was down to twenty-six players, and by tomorrow night, he expected to be sipping champagne with Uncle George, the title of world’s best poker player firmly his.

As he stared to turn off the laptop, he noticed Russo’s biography on the screen and lowered his face to have a look. Maybe when he got back home, he’d take Guido along with him and pay Russo a visit.

DeMarco felt light-headed, and leaned back in his chair. It was all there, like a genetic fingerprint. Poker, music, working out. All the things Christopher Charles Russo loved were the things he loved. Even their nick names were the same. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

He dragged the cursor on his computer across the screen, and returned to Hamilton Pepper Russo’s home page. At the top was the firm’s address and main phone number. He memorized the number, then shut down his computer.

Crossing the room, he retrieved the sheets from the floor, and climbed into bed. He lay absolutely still and felt something swell up in his chest. It was three hours later back east, and he imagined Russo at his desk right now, the tireless defender. He took the phone off the night table, placed it on his chest, and punched in zero.

“How can I help you, Mr. DeMarco?” a hotel operator said brightly.

“I’d like to make a long distance call.”

“My pleasure, Mr. DeMarco.”

He recited Hamilton Pepper Russo’s telephone number to the operator, and she made the call for him. The room had turned chilly, and as the call went through, he felt the receiver’s icy plastic against his chin.

“Hamilton Pepper Russo LLC, can I help you?” a male receptionist answered.

“Is Christopher Russo in?”

“I believe he is,” the receptionist said.

“Put me through to him.”

The receptionist forwarded his call.

“Christopher Russo’s office,” a female secretary answered.

DeMarco hesitated. As far back as he could remember, he’d imagined that one day he’d track his father down, and have a talk with him. Now the moment had come, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say.

“Hello, is anyone there?” the secretary asked.

“I’d like to speak with Christopher Russo.”

“Mr. Russo is in court this week, and cannot be disturbed. If you’d like to give me a message, I’d be happy to relay it to him.”

“Disturb him, would you?”

“Excuse me? Who is this?”

That was dumb, DeMarco thought. “I’m sorry. This is an old friend. We knew each other back when he was in college. I wanted the call to be a surprise.”

“In college?” the secretary asked suspiciously.

“When he was at St. Joseph.”

“Please hold for a moment.”

The secretary put him on hold. DeMarco lay motionless, no longer sleepy. One of the things he’d wondered about was his father’s voice. Would it be strong or soft, deep or high-pitched? The secretary came back on.

“Still there?” she asked.

“I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Russo does not take calls from anonymous callers. If you’d care to leave a message, I’m sure—”

“Tell him it’s Skip,” DeMarco said.

“Skip?”

“That’s right. Skip.”

“Skip who?”

“He’ll know who it is.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but Mr. Russo won’t talk to you now. If you’ll leave a message, Mr. Russo will get back to you once his trial is finished.”

She sounded ready to hang up on him. DeMarco couldn’t let that happen. He had to hear Russo’s voice, and connect to the man that, until now, he’d only dreamed about.

“Tell him it’s his son,” he said.

41

Little Hands sat in his car in Celebrity’s parking lot, the rising sun searing his eyes. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and he’d driven to Celebrity prepared to kill Tony Valentine. He’d killed several dozen men in Las Vegas, and it usually went like this: He went to their hotel room early in the morning, kicked the door down, ran in, and strangled them with his bare hands. Usually the victim was sleeping and didn’t put up a fight, or he was in the john, which made it harder; one guy had sliced him with a razor before Little Hands broke his neck. But, whatever the situation, the result was always the same. He caught his victims with their guards down and ended their miserable lives. Tony Valentine would be no different.

As the sun crested over the distant mountains, Celebrity’s neon sign went off, and he smothered a yawn. After leaving the Peppermill, he’d gotten involved in a craps game at a joint called Lots of Slots across the street. The craps table was on the sidewalk in front of the casino, the action hot. He’d gotten on a roll, and had turned five hundred bucks into a thousand, then two, and finally built his winnings up to seven grand. The process had taken him well into the night, and by the time he’d gotten into his car, his heart had been pounding so hard he couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.

His money sat in a paper bag on the seat beside him. It contained seventeen hundred from the video poker game at the Peppermill, seven grand from the craps game at Lots of Slots, and the thousand down payment for whacking Valentine. It was enough to go to Mexico, and start his life over.

He stared up at Celebrity’s top floors, and envisioned Valentine fast asleep in one of the rooms. The last time they’d tangoed, Valentine had tricked him and broken Little Hands’s nose. A dirty movie had been playing in the motel room they were fighting in, and Little Hands had seen the movie and given up. He’d always had a thing about dirty movies. According to the prison psychiatrist at Ely, it was his mother’s fault. He’d seen her having rough sex when he was a kid, and never gotten over it.

The clock in the dashboard said 7:05. He picked up the paper bag from the passenger seat and looked at the money. It was more than enough to start his life over. So what the hell was he doing here, risking everything?

“Screw this,” he said aloud.

He pulled the car out of the lot and drove down a winding road that took him past Celebrity’s front entrance. Celebrity hadn’t existed the last time he’d been in Las Vegas, and he slowed down, craning his neck to look at the array of colorful parrots trapped in giant cages by the front door.

Satisfied, he started to speed up, then spotted Valentine walking out the front door with a nice-looking blonde on his arm. With them was a lanky cowboy carrying a golf bag filled with clubs. Little Hands had thought about Valentine every day since going to prison, and fantasized about paying him back. Pulling up along side the curb, he threw his vehicle into park.

Valentine and the woman were holding hands and sharing meaningful glances. Another car pulled up to the curb; a valet jumped out. Valentine tipped the valet while the cowboy put his clubs into the trunk. The cow boy got into the back, the blonde into the passenger seat, and Valentine slipped behind the wheel. The car pulled away from the curb.

Little Hands decided to follow them.

Soon he was on a narrow road heading toward Celebrity’s golf course. His window was open, and the wind rustled the paper bag on the passenger seat. The mouth of the bag was open, and he glanced at the money and imagined all it would buy down in Mexico. He didn’t need to kill Valentine. His life was set.

He continued to follow Valentine’s car anyway.

Valentine had always been a fan of the Marx Brothers, his favorite film being A Night at the Opera. In the film, Chico Marx plays an unusual piano solo. Beginning on the lower keys, he performs a lightning-fast run until his fingers run off the piano and continue to play furiously in midair.

Whenever Rufus Steele tried to persuade suckers to bet against him, Valentine was reminded of that magical piano solo. Like Chico Marx, Rufus always went well past the end, his language as outlandish as music produced in thin air.

“Come on, boys, what do you say? Money talks, nobody walks. It’s time to put up or shut up.” Rufus smiled at the group of suckers who’d come to Celebrity’s golf course to watch him play the Greek. “This is one you can’t lose, what my daddy called a mortal cinch. No tricks, no deception, just a friendly game of golf. My opponent was a runner-up in the National Amateur Championship and is a scratch golfer. Isn’t that so, Greek?”

The Greek and Marcy Baldwin sat stoically in a golf cart. Lying in Marcy’s lap was Medusa, who’d emitted a horrified shriek upon seeing Rufus.

“That’s right,” the Greek replied.

“What’s your handicap?” a sucker asked Rufus suspiciously. He was a squirrel-like guy with a sprout of hair on his chin that resembled a dirty paintbrush.

“Besides my shining personality?” Rufus said. “It’s a ten. If you don’t believe me, call the pro at Caesars’ golf shop. I’ve been playing his course for twenty years.”

“Did you check that out?” the sucker asked the Greek.

“Yes,” the Greek said. “His handicap is ten.”

“What is Rufus trying to pull?” Gloria whispered in Valentine’s ear. “He’s going to lose if he’s not careful.”

Valentine felt the same way. He and Gloria stood by the practice tees, a small but dedicated rooting section. Golf was a game where you beat yourself, not your opponent. He couldn’t see Rufus overcoming ten strokes no matter how well he played.

“Explain the rules again,” the sucker said.

“Be happy to,” Rufus said. “The Greek and I are going to play eighteen holes of golf. Because many of you expect me to pull a fast one, I’ve given the Greek an edge. He gets to hit three drives on every hole, then pick the best ball to play with.”

“How many drives do you get?” the sucker asked.

“Just one,” Rufus replied.

“What kind of odds are you offering?”

“Even money. The Greek is betting me half a million dollars. I’d be happy to take your action or anyone else’s, if you’re so inclined.”

The suckers went into a huddle. Gloria nudged Valentine with her elbow, and he reluctantly went over to where Rufus stood. “How you feeling?” Valentine asked.

“Never better,” the old cowboy replied.

“You don’t think this is a mistake?”

“Only suckers make mistakes,” Rufus said.

The suckers ponied up another thirty grand, which Valentine agreed to hold for safekeeping. Rufus went to where their caddies stood by the bags. The Greek joined him and said, “I’ve got one stipulation before we start.”

“What’s that?” Rufus asked.

“I want our caddies to take off their shoes,” the Greek said.

“You got a shoe fetish or something?”

“No, I just want to look at them.”

Rufus turned to the caddies. “Boys, what do you say?”

The caddies removed their spiked golf shoes and handed them over. The Greek examined each shoe, pulling forcefully at the sole.

“What are you doing?” Marcy Baldwin called from the golf cart.

“I’m making sure the soles don’t come off,” the Greek said. “I had a guy trick me one time. His caddy’s shoes had removable soles. Every time his ball went into the rough, his caddy picked up the ball with his toes, and dropped it in a favorable lie.”

“Ha!” Marcy Baldwin said.

“‘Ha’ is right,” the Greek said. Finished, he handed the shoes back to the caddies. “Don’t let me catch you pulling any fast stuff, hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

The Greek went to his bag and pulled out his driver, then removed three brand-new golf balls from the bag’s side pocket. He walked over to the first hole, teed up a ball, and drove it 250 yards down the fairway, then teed up two more balls, and drove them equally as far. His swing was clean and pure, and Valentine and Gloria craned their necks, watching the balls fly gracefully through the air.

“I’ll use the third ball,” the Greek said.

“Third ball, it is,” Rufus said.

Rufus teed up, and drove his ball 150 yards down the fairway. His swing was awkward and ugly, its only saving grace that it made the ball go straight.

The Greek burst out laughing. His ball was a hundred yards closer to the pin than Rufus’s. He hopped into the golf cart and Marcy gave him a kiss.

“Good going, honey,” she said.

By the ninth hole, the Greek was ahead by eleven shots, and insulting Rufus at every opportunity. The Greek had finally found a game he could win, and was doing victory dances on the greens each time he sank a putt.

“This is insulting,” Gloria said, sitting in a golf cart with Valentine. “Go sock him in the nose, will you?”

Valentine was at the wheel. She knew him too well, and he said, “I would, but there are witnesses.”

“I’ll lift my blouse and distract them,” she said.

He tried not to laugh too loudly and glanced at Rufus standing on the edge of the green, trading one-liners with his caddy. He’d helped Rufus win a lot of money in the past few days, and Rufus had given him his share that morning. Valentine had already decided that he wasn’t going to keep it, and now had an idea where it should go.

“Do you know anything about wiring money?” he asked Gloria.

“I’ve done it a few times. Why?”

“There’s a woman in Atlantic City I want to send the money Rufus gave me.”

“Is this woman someone I should know about?”

He nearly said yes. The case had started with Jack Donovan trying to sell his poker scam so he could give his poor mother in Atlantic City money to live on. That had been Jack’s dying wish, and now he was going to fulfill it.

“Just trying to help someone out,” he said.

Gloria’s arm encircled his waist. She pulled close to him and kissed him on the lips. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she said.

By the time they reached the thirteenth hole, the Greek appeared to be a sure winner. His victory dances had gotten longer, with him snapping his fingers and puffing out his chest like Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof. Then a strange thing happened.

The Greek teed up his first ball and hit his drive. Instead of flying straight and true, the ball shanked left and flew over a stand of trees, landing on the fairway of the third hole, which ran parallel to the thirteenth. Cursing, he teed up his second ball, and again shanked it left. In disgust he teed up his third ball and smacked it. The result was exactly the same.

“Those balls are out of bounds. That’s a two-stroke penalty,” Rufus said.

“I know the rules,” the Greek said testily.

The Greek pulled three more balls from his bag, teed up the first, and drove it. The ball again shanked left. Moments later, they heard a golfer on the third hole let out an angry yell.

“Sounds like you hit someone,” Rufus said.

The Greek shanked his second ball left, and his third. The yelling from the third hole became a bellowing rage.

“That’s another two-stroke penalty,” Rufus said.

“Shut up!” the Greek roared.

“He’s playing like he couldn’t hit the side of a barn,” Gloria said under her breath.

Valentine leaned back in his seat, seeing the trick that Rufus had played on the Greek. Driving a golf ball required a lot of arm strength, and the Greek had exhausted his muscles by driving the ball three times each hole. The Greek could have beaten Rufus without the extra strokes, but had let his desire to win cloud his judgment.

The Greek continued to shank balls, ignoring calls from Marcy Baldwin and the suckers to take a break and rest his weary arms. Then a man wearing loud golf clothes appeared with a sheriff in tow. The man had a sizeable welt on his forehead, and angrily pointed at the Greek. “That’s him! He’s the one who hit me.”

The sheriff told the Greek to stop what he was doing. The Greek ignored him, and continued to shank his drives like a man possessed. The sheriff waited until he’d run out of balls, then arrested him. As the sheriff escorted him away from the hole, Rufus came up from behind, and tapped the Greek’s shoulder.

“I win,” Rufus said.

42

Valentine drove Gloria back to the clubhouse in a golf cart. Rufus was ahead of them in a separate cart, having collected his winnings from a sobbing Marcy Baldwin. Seeing Rufus win had ignited a spark in him, and Valentine was eager for the tournament to end so that Rufus could play DeMarco in a winner-take-all showdown.

“Can I ask you a question?” Gloria asked.

He glanced sideways at her. “What’s that?”

“Will you let me film you when you expose DeMarco?”

Valentine thought about it. It would be an ugly black eye for the tournament, and the governor of Nevada.

“Sure,” he said.

She smiled at him. He’d come to the realization that Gloria was about to become a part of his life. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect ending to his trip.

Up ahead, Rufus’s cart had disappeared around a curve, and they were alone on the course. It was a flawless morning, the air crisp and clean, and he slowed down so they could stare at the mountains. The sound of an electric horn ripped through the stillness.

He glanced in his mirror. “What’s this jackass doing?”

“Who?” Gloria asked.

“The guy behind me. He’s driving like a suicide bomber.”

She turned around. A cart had come up behind them, and was hugging their tail. She waved for the cart to come around, which it started to do. The trail narrowed, and the cart’s driver needed to punch it to pass them.

Only the driver didn’t punch it. Instead, he turned his cart into theirs, and pushed them off the trail and down into a steep sand trap. Moments later, their cart hit bottom and slammed onto its side, the wheels still turning.

“Ohhh,” Gloria moaned.

She’d eaten the dashboard, and Valentine jumped out of the cart, came around to her side, and pulled her out. He heard footsteps and looked up at the top of the trap. The guy who’d forced them off the road was coming down.

“Can you run?” he asked her.

“I think so.”

He gently pushed her forward. “Go get help.”

The other side of the trap was not as steep. Gloria ran up it, her hand pressed to her face. She stopped at the top of the trap.

“Tony!”

“Run,” Valentine told her.

“But...”

“Do as I tell you. Please.”

Valentine spun around to face their attacker.

Little Hands saw Valentine kick off his shoes and square off to face him. For an older guy, he had guts, and Little Hands remembered Billy Jack doing that in a movie instead of running away from a fight with about a dozen guys. On the other side of the sand trap, the blond woman had taken off. The golf course was quiet, and it would be a few minutes before she’d find any help. He came to the bottom of the trap and stopped.

“Remember me?”

Valentine squinted at him in the bright sunlight. “Al Scarpi.”

“That’s right.”

“Thanks for the postcards. You made my Christmas.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

Valentine threw a handful of sand in his face. Little Hands ducked it, but not the kick that followed. It caught him squarely in the groin. Little Hands went down on one knee, and as Valentine tried to deliver an other kick, grabbed his foot out of the air, gave it a twist, and shoved him away. Valentine flew back but managed to stay on his feet. The blonde reappeared at the top of the sand trap.

“I called the police on my cell phone,” she called down. “They’re coming.”

“Run!” Valentine yelled back at her.

“I can’t leave you here,” she said.

“Do as I say.”

Little Hands got to his feet. Valentine went into a crouch, putting himself between the woman and Little Hands.

“They ever figure out what’s wrong with you?” Valentine asked him.

Little Hands flexed his arms. “I’m going to mutilate you.”

“It was something to do with your mother, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up!” Little Hands said.

“Now, I remember. When you were a little kid, you saw her screwing a guy wearing a fireman’s hat, and never got over it.”

Little Hands charged him. Valentine adroitly stepped to one side and kicked him in the knee. Little Hands went down again. Valentine kept his distance, still crouching.

“I always have sex wearing a fireman’s hat,” Valentine said.

Little Hands tried to shake the image from his head. His mother on all fours on the bed, the fireman doing her from behind with the red hat perched on his head. Like his mother wasn’t worth hanging around for. In the distance, he heard a siren.

He slowly stood up. It occurred to him that he might kill Valentine, but wouldn’t get away with it. The police were already too close. He thought of the ninety-seven hundred in the bag, and the new life that awaited him south of the border. Pointing his finger at Valentine, he said, “I swear to God I’ll get you one day. And your girl friend. I’ll get both of you. That’s a promise you can take to the bank.”

Little Hands turned around, and scampered out of the sand trap.

Gloria ran to Valentine’s side, and threw her arms around him. “Oh my God, Tony, that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Valentine held her while watching Little Hands run. The siren that had driven him away was starting to fade, and wasn’t coming their way. He thought about Little Hands’s threat and looked at Gloria. “If I ask you to do something, will you do it?”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Stay here until I call you.”

“Of course.”

He went to the toppled golf cart. There was a driver lying across the backseat, which Rufus had loaned him. He clutched the driver between his hands.

As Valentine came out of the sand trap, he saw Little Hands climbing into his golf cart. The guy had more muscle than anyone he’d ever seen. So much so, that he probably thought nothing could harm him. He imagined Little Hands showing up on his doorstep someday, or worse, on Gloria’s doorstep. Showing up and ruining their lives. That wasn’t going to happen if he could have a say in the matter.

He ran up to Little Hands’s cart just as it started to pull away. Swung the driver like it was a baseball bat and he was trying to knock one clean out of the park. Little Hands glanced sideways at him with a look of disbelief on his face. Like he hadn’t expected an old guy to move so fast.

The driver hit Little Hands a few inches above his nose. It snapped his head straight back, and Little Hands jerked the wheel to his right, going off the trail and directly into a palm tree. Little Hands flew out of the cart and hit the tree as well.

Valentine approached him, the driver still clutched in his hands. Little Hands lay on his back, blood pouring out of his ears and nose and mouth. Beside him was a paper bag filled with money. The wind had picked it up, and hundred-dollar bills blew across the golf course. Little Hands’s eyelids fluttered; he looked up at Valentine and weakly shook his head.

“I should have quit when I was ahead,” he whispered.

Then he shut his eyes and died.

43

Karl Jasper was standing on the balcony of George Scalzo’s suite, sweating through his five-thousand-dollar Armani suit.

He’d woken up that morning and flipped on the TV to CNN like he always did, then found himself staring at stark images of a gigantic bust taking place in Atlantic City. A perky newscaster had identified those being arrested as “known associates of George Scalzo, reputed head of the New Jersey Mafia” and described the bust as the largest in Atlantic City’s history. The newscaster also said that an arrest warrant had been issued for Scalzo. Jasper had run upstairs to Scalzo’s suite and found the old mobster flying around in a rage. Scalzo had also seen the news, and they’d gone onto the balcony, and Jasper had tried to talk Scalzo into turning himself over to the authorities.

“Never!” Scalzo screamed at him.

“Come on,” Jasper begged.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Do it for the tournament. For me.”

Scalzo grabbed Jasper by the throat and thrust his weight against him, and for a moment it had felt like they were both going over the railing. “For you? You think I care about you or your fucking tournament?”

Jasper pushed him away. Other hotel guests were watching from their balconies, and he straightened his jacket and tie. “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for your nephew. If they arrest you, the police will want to talk to Skip as well. He’ll have to withdraw from the tournament.”

“So what?” Scalzo bellowed at him.

“You don’t care if your nephew goes down?”

“He’s not going down,” Scalzo said. “He’s leaving with me and Guido. We’re getting out of Las Vegas, is what we’re doing.”

“Have you talked with him about this?”

“Why should I?”

“What if he doesn’t want to go? He’s the tournament leader.”

Scalzo pounded his chest with both fists like a cave man. “Skipper does what I tell him. He’s leaving with me. Understand?”

Jasper nodded stiffly. There was no use arguing with a maniac.

“In two hours, I want you to drive me, Skipper, and Guido to a little airport on the outskirts of town,” Scalzo said. “We’re going to take a charter plane to Los Angeles, and from there, a private yacht to Central America. Just give me two hours to make the necessary arrangements. You drive us to the airport, and we’ll disappear.”

“At least let your nephew play before you leave,” Jasper said.

“Why should I?”

“Because he’s a goddamn celebrity, that’s why,” Jasper said. “The more air time he has, the better the tournament does.”

Scalzo stuck his chin out defiantly. “Okay.”

Jasper looked at his watch. “I need to run. I’ll see you downstairs.”

Jasper turned to open the slider. Scalzo’s hand came down hard on his shoulder, and he felt the old mobster’s breath on his ear.

“You’d better not mess this up,” Scalzo said.

Jasper felt himself stiffen. A shift had occurred, and he hadn’t even realized it. He was in charge now, with Scalzo’s fate in his hands.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Jasper said.

At twenty minutes to nine, Skip DeMarco came out of his bedroom. Normally his uncle came to his room before he went downstairs to play, and they went through their little routine. But today his uncle hadn’t shown, leaving DeMarco to dress without his uncle appraising his selection of clothes.

“Hey Skipper,” he heard a voice say.

“That you, Guido?”

His uncle’s bodyguard grunted in the affirmative.

“It doesn’t sound like you,” DeMarco said. “What happened to your voice?”

Guido’s big feet scuffed the carpet as he crossed the suite. “I hurt my nose,” he explained.

Guido had been his uncle’s bodyguard for twenty years; a more loyal employee you’d never find. But that loyalty came with a price. When his uncle lost his temper and flew into a rage, Guido’s role changed, and he became a whipping boy.

“He smack you in the face again?” DeMarco asked.

“Couple of times,” Guido grunted.

“What did you do this time?”

“I woke him up with bad news.”

“It must have been real bad.”

“The Atlantic City operation got busted last night. Everyone went down.”

DeMarco had never heard the full details of the Atlantic City operation from his uncle; all he knew was that it was his uncle’s primary source of income, and paid for his house and vacation house and full-time staff and brand-new cars every year.

“Where’s my uncle now?” DeMarco asked.

“He’s on the phone in his bedroom, talking to somebody,” Guido said.

DeMarco asked, “Do you think he can hear us right now?”

“No, the door’s shut.”

“I want to ask you a question, Guido, and I want you to be honest with me.”

“Sure, Skipper.”

DeMarco reached out and touched Guido’s arm. The muscle beneath the silk shirt was rock-hard. “There’s an attorney in Philadelphia named Christopher Russo. He’s tried to contact me a bunch of times over the years. My uncle made you keep him away, didn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Guido said proudly. “That guy claimed to be your father. He was nothing but trouble.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your uncle. He said Russo was trying to blackmail you. I took care of him.”

“What did you do to him?”

“You know, the usual stuff.”

“Did you threaten him?”

“Oh yeah,” Guido said, getting his bluster back. “I drove to Philly one weekend in the limo and cornered him in the covered parking lot of the building where he worked. I slapped him around a bunch, told him I’d introduce him to pain if he kept trying to see you. I made that bastard promise to leave you alone.”

DeMarco felt himself well up and swiped at his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Guido said. “Did he try to contact you again?”

“Yeah,” DeMarco said. “He’s my father.”

44

Valentine was explaining to Bill Higgins and a homicide detective with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department how he’d sent Little Hands to the big craps game in the sky when the cell phone in his pocket vibrated. Pulling it out, he saw it was his son.

“Would you gentlemen excuse me for a minute?” he asked.

Bill and the detective both nodded solemnly. Before being sent away to prison, Little Hands had earned himself a reputation as the most vicious killer in Nevada, and Bill and the detective seemed to be having a hard time accepting that Valentine had managed to beat him in a fight, even though Little Hands was lying beneath a sheet only a dozen feet away. Stepping into the shade of a palm tree, Valentine answered the call.

“Hey, Pop, it’s me,” his son said.

“You still in Atlantic City?” Valentine asked.

“No, I took a plane out last night and just landed in Las Vegas. I made DeMarco’s scam, and figured I’d better fly out and help you put this to bed.”

Valentine didn’t know what to say. Gerry had beaten him to the finish line. He’d never felt more proud of his son in his entire life.

“You’re a star,” he told his son.

“Yolanda helped, and so did Mabel. And you put me on the scent, so you get credit, too,” Gerry said. “That’s the good news. Now here’s the bad. I think DeMarco is being played for a sucker by his uncle. He’s being used, Pop, and in a real bad way.”

“Used how?”

“This scam is dangerous. Scalzo is putting his nephew’s health in jeopardy, and I don’t think DeMarco knows it. Matter of fact, I’m sure he doesn’t.”

Gerry was jumping to conclusions, a bad thing to do in detective work. The facts were the facts and everything else was air. “How can you be sure, Gerry?”

“Because DeMarco could get sterile,” his son said.

Valentine had investigated plenty of scams where a member of the gang hadn’t been given a complete script of the play. In the end, that person usually got the raw end of the deal, and became a victim.

“Explain this to me,” Valentine said.

Gerry explained what he’d learned from the nurse who’d been having an affair with Jack Donovan. As scams went, it was one of the most ingenious Valentine had ever come across, but did contain a significant health risk. It wasn’t meant to be used in a tournament, where long-term exposure could be dangerous. Gerry was right. DeMarco probably didn’t know the risks he faced.

“That’s one heck of a piece of detective work,” Valentine said when his son was finished. “Maybe I should go to work for you.”

“That would be the day,” Gerry said. “So what do you think we should do?”

That was a good question. Valentine had been thinking about his conversation with Sammy Mann the day before, when Sammy told him that everyone in Vegas knew DeMarco was cheating, but weren’t going to do anything until after the tournament was over. He didn’t agree with that rationale, and now realized that he and his son were in a position to fix things.

“Meet me in Celebrity’s poker room in forty-five minutes,” Valentine said. “We’re going to put the screws to Scalzo.”

“I’ll be there,” his son said.

Valentine killed the connection, and walked back to where Bill was standing. The homicide detective had gone off to find the EMS crew he’d called for, and Valentine cornered his friend. “How much trouble are you going to get into if I go back to Celebrity’s poker room?”

“Plenty,” Bill said. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to go back to Celebrity’s poker room, that’s why.”

“Then wear a disguise. If you get caught, I can say I was in the dark.”

Valentine whacked his friend on the shoulder. “Thanks, Bill.”

He went to the clubhouse and found Gloria waiting for him, then got the rental and drove back to Celebrity. On the way they stopped at Target, where he purchased a floppy hat several sizes too large, cheap wraparound shades, and a neon green T-shirt that said SCREW THE KIDS — I’M DYING BROKE, which he put on in the store and left hanging out of his pants. To round out the picture, he added a little shuffle to his walk. He showed Gloria the transformation in the parking lot, and she burst out laughing.

“Do you really think that’s going to work?” she asked when they were on the road.

“Of course it will work,” he said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“There’s an old geezer robbing banks in Florida near where I live. He dresses just like this. I think he’s up to nineteen banks. They’ve caught him on videotape every time, but he keeps sticking them up.”

“Don’t the banks in Florida have security guards?”

“They do,” he said. “The old geezer walks right past them, gives the teller a note, takes his money, and leaves. The guards don’t pay any attention to him. It would be funny if the guy wasn’t breaking the law.”

He drove to Celebrity and left his car with the valet. As he and Gloria went through the front door of the hotel, he started to do his shuffle.

“You’re moving awfully slow,” she said.

“Need to conserve my energy for the buffet line.”

“Stop that.”

Once they were inside, she pulled him over to a secluded spot and gave him a kiss.

“I’m glad you’re not leaving Las Vegas,” she said.

Valentine got to test his disguise as he neared Celebrity’s poker room. One of the guards who’d escorted him out the day before walked past. Their eyes met, and Valentine touched the brim of his hat. The guard looked through him like he was invisible.

He and Gloria entered the poker room to find a mob of spectators crowded around a table containing the first prize, a whopping ten million bucks stacked like firewood. Shotgun-toting guards stood by the money, their steely eyes roaming the room. It was the biggest prize in professional sports, and according to the electronic leader board hanging over the feature table, DeMarco was the favorite to claim it.

He shuffled up to the feature table. It was bathed in bright lights, with DeMarco’s stacks of chips dwarfing his opponents’. DeMarco looked different than he had in previous days, his face drawn and serious, and Valentine wondered if his conscience was eating at him.

“Is that your son over there?” Gloria whispered. “He looks just like you.”

He spotted Gerry on the other side of the poker room and decided to give his disguise another test. He walked over to him and, getting no reaction, cleared his throat.

“Didn’t I see you on America’s Most Wanted the other night?” Valentine asked.

His son’s eyes went wide. “Pop? Is that you?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Why the disguise?”

“I got banned from the tournament. You ready for a little payback?”

Gerry nodded enthusiastically. He hadn’t shaved and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, but there was a spark in his face that said he was more than ready.

“Good,” Valentine said. “Here’s the plan. The players are going on break soon, and I’m going to confront DeMarco, and tell him the little game he’s playing is over. See that pretty blonde lady on the other side of the room? She’s a newscaster I met. She’s going to distract Scalzo and the bodyguard. I need you to cover her back in case something goes wrong.”

His son look frustrated. “Why don’t you just pull DeMarco off the table, and expose the scam? Then the police can arrest Scalzo.”

Valentine drew close to his son. “If I do that, it’s going to hurt every casino in Las Vegas, and in the long run, our business as well. Let me handle this my way, okay?”

His son’s face softened. “Sure, Pop. Whatever you want.”

45

Being the chip leader in a poker tournament was like being king of the world. While the other players were trying to survive, DeMarco could pick and choose his spots, pouncing on players with weak cards when he knew they were bluffing. Letting the other players win a few hands would have made things more equal, but he’d decided it was time to claim his prize and get out of Las Vegas.

The conversation with his father had been eating at him all morning. They hadn’t been talking five minutes when his father had told him what a bad person his uncle George was and how DeMarco needed to get away from him. What were his exact words? You need to escape your uncle’s dark shadow.

DeMarco hadn’t liked that. His uncle could be mean and do horrible things, but that didn’t negate the treatment DeMarco had gotten from him. His uncle had raised him, and DeMarco wasn’t going to run away just because his father didn’t like the man.

But his father hadn’t let up, and when he and DeMarco had finally said good-bye, DeMarco had been ready to curse him out.

“There will be a fifteen-minute break after this hand is concluded,” the tournament director announced over the public address.

Because DeMarco was not in the hand, he decided to leave the table early. He was not five steps away from the table when his uncle was by his side.

“You okay, Skipper?”

“I’m fine, Uncle George. I just need to hit the bathroom.”

DeMarco heard his uncle snap his fingers.

“Guido,” his uncle said. “Skipper needs to take a leak. Make sure no one gets near him.”

“Yes, Mr. Scalzo.”

Guido led him across the poker room to the men’s lavatories. As they walked, DeMarco listened to Guido’s breathing. Guido’s nose sounded broken from the punches he’d received that morning. His uncle had been abusing Guido unmercifully the past few days, and DeMarco was surprised his uncle’s bodyguard hadn’t walked out on him. They came to the lavatories and Guido stopped.

“Shit,” Guido said.

“What’s wrong?” DeMarco asked.

“That lady newscaster just cornered your uncle and shoved a microphone in his face. Her cameraman is filming them, too.”

“You want to go rescue him?”

“Your uncle told me to keep you company.”

“I can take a leak without peeing on my leg. Go help him.”

Guido hesitated. DeMarco sensed that he was probably enjoying seeing his uncle in a tight spot. His uncle had dished out more than he’d taken over the years, and there was a strange joy in seeing him get paid back.

“Why do you put up with him, Guido?” DeMarco asked.

“What do you mean?” the bodyguard said.

“My uncle’s bullshit. Why do you put up with it?”

“I don’t have a choice,” Guido said. “A long time ago, I did something really stupid, and your uncle saved me from going to prison for the rest of my life. In return, I agreed to be his bodyguard and do whatever he told me. That’s the deal we struck.”

“Oh,” DeMarco said.

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

“What’s that?”

Guido jabbed DeMarco in the chest with his finger. “Why do you put up with him?”

DeMarco slipped into the men’s lavatory. Guido had sounded just like his father. Why did he put up with his uncle’s nonsense? He guessed it was because he loved him.

He’d been in the men’s room enough times to have the layout memorized. Stalls on the right, urinals on the left. He soldiered up to an empty urinal and unzipped his fly. He’d heard of guys who’d lost monster hands because they’d had to pee. Thinking about it made him smile, and at first he did not hear the man occupy the urinal beside him.

“How’s that earpiece working?” the man asked.

DeMarco froze. The voice was older, with a heavy Jersey accent. “Excuse me?” he said.

“The inner-canal earpiece you’re using to scam the tournament,” the voice said. “How’s it holding up?”

“I don’t know what—”

“It’s a modified children’s hearing aid,” the voice said. “I’ve got a couple in my collection. They’re smaller than regular hearing aids, which lets you stick them way down in your ear so no one will see them, but they also break down easier. Yours working all right?”

“Who are you?”

“Tony Valentine. I was hired by the Nevada Gaming Control Board to investigate you.”

DeMarco finished his business, then stepped away from the stall and faced his accuser. “You going to bust me?”

“Not today,” Valentine said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re not going down until I decide to take you down. And that won’t happen today.”

“Why not?”

“Because the tournament deserves to have a fair outcome.”

DeMarco did not know what to say.

“You understand what I’m telling you?” Valentine asked.

“I think so. You’re going to let me play.”

“That’s right. But you have to give me the earpiece.”

DeMarco suddenly understood. Valentine was going to let him play, but not cheat. He pulled the earpiece out of his ear and handed it to him.

“There’s one other thing I want you to do,” Valentine said.

“What’s that?”

“Get checked out by a doctor once the tournament is over.”

DeMarco heard a toilet flush on the far end of the line of stalls. A man came out, walked past them, washed his hands, and left. “Why should I see a doctor?” DeMarco asked.

“Your uncle hasn’t told you how this scam works, has he?”

DeMarco hesitated. For all he knew, Valentine had a tape recorder on him, and was recording every word they said. If he said yes, it was as good as admitting he’d scammed the tournament. Only he sensed that Valentine wasn’t trying to trap him. He shook his head.

“That’s too bad, kid,” Valentine said.

DeMarco reached out and grabbed Valentine’s arm. “Tell me,” he said.

“Ask your uncle.”

“I already did.”

“He wouldn’t tell you?”

“My uncle said he’d tell me when the tournament was over. Is the scam dangerous?”

“Yeah. You could be sterile. Or worse.”

“What?”

“The cards at your table have been treated with radioactive iodine, which was stolen from a vault in a hospital,” Valentine explained. “Each card has tiny drops of the substance put on the back. The number of drops is based on the card’s value and suit, ranging from one drop to fifty-two drops. With me so far?”

DeMarco slowly nodded.

“Once the iodine dries, the cards are covered with a plastic matte similar to what commercial artists use. That seals the iodine into the card, and ensures the iodine won’t rub off. The dealer has a dosimeter at the table, hidden inside a cigarette lighter. When the dealer deals, he holds each card briefly over the lighter. The dosimeter reads the dots on the back of the card, then transmits the information to a computer strapped around the dealer’s waist. Still with me?”

“Yes,” DeMarco said.

“The computer has a program that reads the dots, translates them into Morse code, then tells you through your ear piece what the card just dealt is. The iodine has a half life of eight hours. From the time the iodine is applied to the cards, it starts to break down. Within eight hours it’s disappeared, and the cards return to being normal. A perfect scam, except for one thing. It exposes the people handling the cards to radiation.”

“Am I going to get sick?”

“You might. Two dealers who were involved with the scam have ended up in the hospital. One of them, who was fighting cancer, died.”

“What about the other players at the table?”

“They run less of a risk.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. The tournament director rotates them, and you knock them out so quickly. But you’ve been at the feature table for most of the tournament, which means you’ve been exposed to the cards the most. Chances are, you’re likely to have problems down the road.” Valentine jabbed him in the chest like Guido had done, only with less force. “Now, I’m going to tell you something, kid, and I want you to listen real good.”

DeMarco swallowed hard. “I’m listening.”

“Your uncle stole the scam from a guy named Jack Donovan, then had Jack murdered. It’s never completely made sense to me why he had Jack killed. Your uncle could afford to buy the scam from Jack, and murdering people is usually only a last resort. Well, I figured out the reason.”

“What’s that?”

“Jack Donovan told your uncle that the scam was dangerous, and should be used sparingly. Like in a private game, where you only need to win one pot to come out ahead. The scam was never intended to be used in a tournament. Even though Jack was a scammer, he wasn’t a bad guy. My guess is, Jack would have found out what your uncle was using the scam for, and contacted you.”

“So Uncle George had him killed.”

“That’s right.”

Outside the lavatory DeMarco could hear the sounds of the other players approaching. He thought back to what his father had said that morning. You need to escape your uncle’s dark shadow. He’d never known how dark that shadow was, until now.

46

The men’s lavatory quickly filled up. DeMarco felt Valentine’s hand on his sleeve.

“I want one more thing out of you,” Valentine said.

DeMarco could hear other players swirling around them, the slamming of the stall doors, the loud banter of the players still remaining in the tournament. “What’s that?”

“Level the playing field between you and your opponents.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

Valentine drew close to him, put his mouth a few inches from DeMarco’s ear. “Lose a few hands so that everyone at your table has about the same amount of chips.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because then the tournament will be even,” Valentine replied.

It was DeMarco’s turn to whisper. “Why should I do that, if you’re going to have me and my uncle arrested?”

“Because I’m not going to have you arrested,” Valentine whispered back.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

DeMarco gazed at the floor. “I really appreciate this.”

Valentine squeezed DeMarco’s arm so hard that he winced in pain. “I’m not letting you go because I like you,” the older man said.

“Then why?” DeMarco asked.

“Just because you and your uncle cheated this tournament doesn’t mean you have the right to ruin it. I want the World Poker Showdown to end fairly, with a clean winner. Understand?”

DeMarco took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His arm was singing with pain where Valentine had squeezed it. “Yeah, I understand,” he said.

“Good,” Valentine said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

DeMarco walked out of the men’s lavatory to find Guido waiting for him. When his uncle’s bodyguard got excited, his breathing accelerated, each breath sounding like a short pant. He was doing that now and said, “Skip, your uncle needs to talk to you.”

“That’s nice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t want to talk to him. Walk me back to the table.”

DeMarco stuck his arm out, and Guido took it and escorted him back.

“How many players are left in the tournament?” DeMarco asked.

“Only ten,” Guido said. “A bunch of guys got knocked out in the last hand. They’re down to the final table. Look, Skip, I don’t know how to tell you this—”

“Then don’t.”

“—but your uncle has decided to leave Las Vegas right away. The situation in Atlantic City is bad. Karl Jasper has a private plane waiting for us at an airport just outside of town.”

“Us?”

“Yeah, you, me, and him.”

DeMarco stopped. They had reached the feature table, and he could hear the TV people adjusting their equipment and talking about the lighting. He could also hear gamblers in the crowd setting the odds on the remaining ten players in the tournament. They were calling him the favorite. “I’m not going,” he said.

“Say what? Your uncle—”

“Tell my uncle to call me, and I’ll meet up with him later.”

“Skip, that’s not such a good idea. Your uncle—”

“—isn’t running the show anymore,” DeMarco interrupted. “I am. I’m the tournament chip leader, and everyone expects me to play. So I’m going to play.”

“Don’t make me do this, Skip.”

DeMarco turned so he faced his uncle’s bodyguard.

“Do what? Drag me across the room by my collar? I’ll have you tossed out of here so fast it will make your nose bleed. I’m in charge of my own life, not you, and not Uncle George. Now say good-bye.”

“Say good-bye?”

“Yes. Say good-bye, and then go take care of my uncle. He’s going to need it.”

“Who’s going to take care of you?”

“I am.”

“You sure you’re ready for that?”

DeMarco didn’t know if he was ready to run his own life, or not. But the only way he was going to find out was by trying. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Guido’s fast-paced breathing returned. So fast, in fact, that DeMarco thought he might have a stroke. Guido had always been there for him, and he reached out and touched the bodyguard’s stomach the way he’d done as a little kid. “You’re a good guy, Guido. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Just doing my job,” the bodyguard said.

DeMarco took his seat at the feature table. He could hear the dealer riffle-shuffling the cards, the fifty-two pasteboards purring like a cat. He’d been exposed to radiation for five days, and realized the dealers who were bringing radioactive cards to the table had known the health risk as well. To themselves, and to him.

“Drink, sir?” a female voice asked.

“Get me a Coke and a pack of cigarettes,” he said.

The cocktail waitress came back a minute later with his order, putting the drink and pack in front of him. He removed his wallet, pulled out a bill. He hadn’t paid for a thing since coming to Las Vegas. He supposed now was as good a time as any to start.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Eight dollars.”

“How much is this bill worth?” he asked.

“A hundred dollars,” she said.

“Keep it.”

She thanked him and departed. He tore open the pack of smokes, stuck one in his mouth. To the dealer he said, “Give me your lighter, will you?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“The lighter sitting next to you. Give it to me. I want to light up my smoke.”

The dealer didn’t know what to say. DeMarco rose from his chair, grabbed his drink, and leaned forward a little too quickly. He sent the drink in the dealer’s direction and heard the dealer squawk. “Did I soak your cards?” DeMarco asked.

“Yes,” the dealer said angrily.

“Good. Now get out of here,” DeMarco said under his breath.

“What?”

“You heard me. Take your trick lighter and leave.”

The dealer said, “Shit,” under his breath, then pushed back his chair and left the table. DeMarco sat down. Moments later the tournament director came up behind him.

“Where did the dealer go?” the tournament director asked.

“He felt sick and left,” DeMarco said.

The tournament director spoke into a walkie-talkie, and asked for someone to clean up the table, and for a new dealer. When he disconnected, DeMarco asked, “Would you mind telling me the chip count for each of my opponents?”

“Sure,” the tournament director said.

Each player’s chip total was on the electronic leader board hanging over the table, and the tournament director read the totals to him. He was first, followed by seven players with roughly the same amount of chips, followed by the last two players, who were two million shy of the others. He would have to lose a couple of hands to the last two. That would make everyone at the table equal.

“Thanks,” he told the tournament director.

A new dealer came, and the other players returned. DeMarco felt the bright lights of the TV cameras come on. It was showtime.

47

“How dare Skipper disobey me,” Scalzo said, standing with Karl Jasper and his bodyguard on the curb in front of Celebrity. “You should have made him come with you.”

“How was I going to do that?” Guido asked.

“You should have put the heavy on him.”

“There were too many people standing around.”

“Keep making excuses and I’ll smack you in the fucking mouth,” Scalzo snapped.

Guido wanted to tell his boss to calm down, there were bigger problems to worry about. He’d spoken to one of their people in Atlantic City, and the news was getting worse by the hour. Forty-two members of the blackjack gang had been arrested last night, and now one had turned state’s evidence and told the cops that Scalzo had masterminded the scam. Other members were certain to do the same, and point the finger at the boss. Cheating a casino was a serious crime, but conspiring to cheat a group of casinos was much worse. If his boss didn’t get out of the country, he was screwed.

A white Mercedes pulled up to the curb and a valet jumped out. Jasper gave the valet his stub. “Put the suitcases in the trunk,” Scalzo barked.

“Yes, sir,” Guido said.

Guido dragged his boss’s suitcases to the back of the car. The trunk was locked, and Jasper came around, holding the keys he’d gotten from the valet. Jasper popped the locking mechanism and the trunk opened by itself. Guido hoisted the first suitcase off the ground, then froze. Inside the trunk was a leather satchel. The mouth of the satchel was wide open, exposing a half dozen bundles of hundred-dollar bills, all of them new. The suitcase slipped out of his fingers and hit the ground.

“What the hell are you doing back there?” Scalzo yelled, having climbed into the passenger seat. “Hurry up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Guido lifted the suitcase off the ground while continuing to stare at the money. A slip of paper lay on the bundles with handwriting on it. He glanced at Jasper, who’d gone to the driver’s side but hadn’t gotten in, then pulled the slip out and read it.

Guido dropped the note into the satchel. He didn’t know what was going on, then noticed a dark blanket lying inside the trunk. Something was lying beneath it, and he pulled the blanket back to have a look. A shovel.

“Need some help?”

Guido looked up. Jasper stood by the driver’s door, watching him. Their eyes briefly locked, and the look in Jasper’s eyes was unmistakable. It slowly dawned on Guido what was going on. Then he made a decision.

“I’m fine,” Guido said, and resumed putting the suit cases into the trunk.

“Scalzo’s getting away,” Gloria said, standing with Valentine and Gerry by the front door. Valentine had come out of the men’s lavatory after confronting DeMarco and walked right up to Scalzo, Jasper, and his bodyguard, in the hopes of eavesdropping on their conversation. When the three men had beaten a path out of the casino, he’d decided to follow them, and grabbed Gloria and his son.

As Jasper’s Mercedes drove away, Valentine took out his cell phone and called Bill Higgins. He got a busy signal and felt Gloria tug his arm.

“Come on,” she said.

“Where are we going?”

“To my car. We’re going to follow them.”

Gloria’s rental was parked with several expensive foreign cars near the entrance. She’d bribed the valet attendant to park it there, and had told Valentine it was a common trick with reporters, in case they needed to run down a story. She got her keys from the guy manning the key stand, and Valentine turned to his son.

“I want you to stay here. Someone needs to watch DeMarco, and make sure he doesn’t continue to cheat the tournament.”

His son started to protest, then bit his lip. “Okay, Pop. But you’ve got to promise me you’ll stay out of trouble. You scare me sometimes.”

There was real concern in his son’s voice. Valentine gave him a hug then jumped into Gloria’s car.

In a hurry to get out of her spot, Gloria ran over the curb and burned rubber pulling away. At the bottom of the exit she hit the brakes and looked both ways.

“Which way did they go?” she asked.

Valentine hopped out of the car, climbed on the hood of the rental, then got back in and pointed to his right. “That way.”

She gunned the accelerator and the rental flew down the road. Celebrity was on the southwest side of Las Vegas in an area that had not yet felt the wrath of bulldozers and earthmovers. It was still desert and sage brush; the land stretched out like an artist’s canvas. Gloria got a quarter mile behind the Mercedes and slowed the rental to sixty-five. Valentine tried Bill again, and got another busy signal.

Several miles passed. Then a sign for a regional airport popped up.

“He must have a plane waiting for him,” Gloria said.

She sped up. The Mercedes pulled into the airport entrance, but instead of driving toward the main cluster of buildings, took a dusty gravel side road. Gloria followed, the rental lurching like a carnival ride. The Mercedes went a mile up the gravel road, then disappeared behind a mold-colored hangar.

“Park next to the hangar,” Valentine said.

“Shouldn’t I follow them?”

“No. They might have guns.”

She parked and they hopped out, went to the corner of the hangar, and stuck their heads around. Several hundred yards away, the Mercedes was parked beside a deserted runway, with Jasper, Scalzo, and the bodyguard standing in the tall grass, a sharp wind blowing in their faces and making their hair stand on end.

“Where’s the plane?” Gloria asked.

“They must be waiting for it to land. I wish I could see their faces.”

Gloria went to the rental, and returned holding a camera with a zoom lens. “It’s Zack’s,” she explained.

He took the camera and extended the lens, then looked across the field. Scalzo was shouting at Jasper and looked like he wanted to kill someone. Valentine remembered running Scalzo out of Atlantic City years ago, and the ugly scene Scalzo had made while being escorted out of town. Scalzo was a monster when things didn’t go his way.

“There it is,” Gloria said, pointing at the sky.

A small plane circled the airport, throwing an elusive shadow over the men. Grabbing a suitcase, Scalzo walked to the end of the runway and stared up at the sky, shielding his eyes with his hand. The plane did another pass, then flew away and disappeared in the clouds.

Scalzo turned and shook his fist at Jasper, like it was his fault the plane hadn’t landed. Jasper drew a silver-plated gun from his sports jacket and pointed it at the mobster. Scalzo looked to his bodyguard, as if expecting him to deal with Jasper. Only the bodyguard had turned his back and was looking in the opposite direction.

Jasper fired three times, the explosive sound swallowed up by the wind. The bullets hit Scalzo squarely in the chest and blew holes in his shirt. Scalzo staggered backward and brought his hand up to his heart. He touched himself, came away with a bloody hand, then looked up at the sky and punched the air. Crumpling to the ground, he lay motionless on his back.

“Oh my God,” Gloria said. “Is he dead?”

Valentine watched as the bodyguard removed a blanket from the Mercedes’ trunk and covered his boss. Then the bodyguard took a shovel from the trunk and started to dig a hole. “It sure looks that way. You’d better get back in the car.”

The bodyguard was covered in sweat by the time he’d finished digging. He dragged Scalzo across the ground by his ankles, then laid him in the hole and covered him with dirt. Finished, he smoothed the ground with the shovel’s edge. Jasper did not help, but leaned against the Mercedes and smoked a cigarette while staring at the ground.

The bodyguard stood over the grave and crossed himself. Valentine put the camera down and started to walk away. As he did, a shiny glint caught his eye. It came from the other side of the field, next to a storage shed with pieces of plywood nailed across its windows. He lifted the camera and had a look.

Two men stood in the building’s long shadow. Both were tall and in their late thirties, with short-cropped hair and dark, off-the-rack suits. They had law enforcement written all over them. A car was parked beside them, and sunlight had crept over the building’s roof and caught the car’s windshield. Valentine adjusted the camera lens and read the car’s license plate. He memorized it, then hustled over to Gloria’s rental and hopped into the passenger seat.

“Time to get out of Dodge?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

Gloria made the tires spin on the gravel. Soon they were traveling down the highway and heading back toward Celebrity. She chewed her lower lip as she drove, the memory of Scalzo’s murder not easy to digest. Valentine took out his cell phone and again tried Bill’s number. This time the call went through.

“Higgins here.”

“I need a favor,” Valentine said.

“Name it,” Bill replied.

“I need you to check out a license plate number for me. ZH1 4L7. I think the plate might be government issued.”

“How soon do you need this?”

“As fast as you can,” Valentine said.

Bill hung up and Valentine did the same. Gloria was looking in her mirror, and he spun around in his seat. There was no one behind them.

“I’m just a little paranoid,” she said.

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said.

Two minutes later his cell phone vibrated and he stared at its face. It was Bill.

“Find anything?” he said by way of a greeting.

“You were right,” Bill said. “The car belongs to the FBI’s office in Las Vegas.”

“Thanks, Bill. Thanks a lot.”

He hung up. Gloria drove for another few miles in silence, then said, “Are you going to call the police, and tell them that you saw George Scalzo get rubbed out?”

That was a good question. Two FBI agents had watched Scalzo die, and he suspected that the small plane they’d seen circling overhead was also law enforcement. Sammy Mann had said the cheating at the World Poker Showdown would get cleaned up after the tournament ended, and he suspected the people in town who ran things had decided that the process should be sped up.

“They already know,” he said.

48

Gloria did not feel well as she pulled into a roadside bar and grill. They went in and Valentine took a seat at the bar, while she searched for a restroom. Two sunburned guys sat at the other end of the bar, their rugged faces bathed in the artificial light of video poker games. He ordered coffee and stared at the TV perched above the bar. It was tuned to the cable channel showing the World Poker Showdown. A commercial for an online gambling site was on.

The coffee was good and strong. He drank it black and felt it warm his insides. He’d come to the conclusion that everyone on the planet had an addiction. His was caffeine. It got his heart going and made him think more clearly. He hadn’t wanted to see Scalzo get whacked, but wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. He believed in the rule of law, and considered cops and law enforcement people who broke the law in order to put criminals away to be rogues. But he also understood that sometimes the rule of law didn’t work, and people took matters into their own hands. The world was a better place with George Scalzo gone.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. Gerry. There had been times in his life when he hadn’t looked forward to calls from his son. He was happy that had changed. “What’s up?”

“Where are you?” his son asked.

“In the middle of nowhere,” Valentine said. “Scalzo is out of the picture. Case closed.”

“No, it’s not,” Gerry said.

Valentine put his coffee cup down. He sensed his son knew something that he didn’t. “What do you mean? Why isn’t the case over?”

“Because DeMarco just won the World Poker Showdown,” Gerry said.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Afraid not. He started out losing a few hands, and everyone at the table was equal in chips. DeMarco looked beatable. Then he came back strong and wiped his opponents out.”

“Was he cheating?”

“No, Pop. There was a new dealer at the table and a new deck of cards. DeMarco played the final table on the square. It was really something to watch.”

Gloria came out of the ladies’ room looking pale. She sat next to him at the bar and ordered a sparkling water. Valentine asked, “What do you mean, Gerry?”

“DeMarco took a lot of chances, even bluffed a couple of times. I hate to say it, Pop, but he’s a helluva poker player.”

“You think so? He didn’t just get lucky?”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Gerry said. “Pop, I need to beat it. They’re about to give DeMarco his prize, and I want to hear what he has to say.”

Valentine said good-bye and folded the phone. On the TV, the commercial was over, the tournament back on. DeMarco sat at a table surrounded by his ten-million-dollar prize. Dangling off his wrist was the sparkling diamond and platinum bracelet that came with winning the event. Beside him sat the CEO of Celebrity, a ham-faced guy with a loose smile and a loud tie. Clutched in the CEO’s hand was a microphone.

“So, champ,” the CEO said, “how does it feel to beat the best poker players in the world?”

“It feels pretty good,” DeMarco admitted.

“You predicted you’d win the tournament, and you did. Did you come here believing you were the favorite?”

“If I did, I was mistaken,” DeMarco said.

The CEO lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Really?”

“There were plenty of players in the event who could have won.”

“Sounds like winning has humbled you.”

DeMarco tilted his head almost imperceptibly.

“One of the players you knocked out called you a cheater and challenged you to play heads up,” the CEO said. “His name is Rufus Steele, and you agreed to play Steele if he could raise a million dollars. I’m told that Steele has raised the money and is itching to take you on. Are you still up for playing him?”

DeMarco straightened in his chair and his face turned expressionless. He’d just beaten the best players in the world, and adrenaline was pumping through his veins. But Steele was a different animal. Steele didn’t want his money. He wanted revenge.

“Bring him on,” DeMarco said, the swagger returning to his voice.

“When?”

“How about right now?”

“You sound ready for a fight,” the CEO said.

“No disrespect, but Rufus Steele is past his prime, and I’m entering mine,” DeMarco said. “I’ll play him anytime, anywhere.”

“Eieee!” Gloria said, jumping up from her chair at the bar. The color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes were blazing. “This is my story! Come on!”

They were speeding down the highway toward Celebrity when Valentine’s cell phone started vibrating. He’d been the last person he knew to buy a cell phone, and now he couldn’t live without one. He stared at the phone’s face. CALLER UNKNOWN.

“Valentine here,” he answered.

“Hey pardner,” Rufus Steele’s voice rang out. “You anywhere near the hotel?”

“I’m about five minutes away.”

“Good,” Steele said. “I just agreed to play that punk DeMarco. I threw in a little stipulation, just to keep things honest.”

“What kind of stipulation?”

“You’re the dealer,” Steele said.

49

Gloria Curtis hadn’t lasted twenty-five years as a newscaster by being a wallflower. Upon reaching the hotel, she cornered the tournament director and convinced him to let her announce DeMarco and Steele’s showdown, then persuaded the hotel’s general manager to let the event be played in the poker room. Once that was arranged, she hit every bar and restaurant in the hotel, rustled up a few dozen well-known players still hanging around, and talked them into sitting ringside.

“You really know how to set a stage,” Valentine said, shuffling the cards at the table where the match was to be held.

Gloria stood beside him with a pencil stuck between her teeth, studying the room. Removing the pencil, she said, “There’s something still missing.”

“What’s that?”

“Steele will be dressed up, and so will DeMarco. I think you need to be dressed up as well.”

With the tournament now over, he’d switched out of his geezer disguise and was wearing his last clean shirt and sports jacket. “What do you want me to change into?”

“A dealer’s uniform,” she said.

A dealer’s uniform consisted of a white ruffled tuxedo shirt, a black bow tie, and a black vest. It was a monkey suit, sans the jacket.

“You’re going to be on television and need to look the part,” she added.

“You’re the boss,” he said.

He left the table and found the tournament director, and got directions to the employee dressing rooms, which were at the far end of the lobby behind an unmarked door. He knocked loudly, and a male dealer opened the door. The dealer was about his size but heavier, and Valentine asked him if he’d be interested in renting his uniform. The dealer seemed amused by his request.

“You doing this on a bet?” the dealer asked.

“To impress a woman,” Valentine said.

“I figured it was one or the other. Sure, I’ll rent you my uniform.”

Valentine paid the dealer a hundred bucks, and the dealer took him to his locker, where a fresh set of clothes hung. Valentine stripped and put the dealer’s clothes on, then looked at himself in a mirror. The vest was too large, the shirt too tight, and the bow tie made him look silly. Otherwise, it was perfect.

“Thanks a lot,” he told the dealer.

He returned to the poker room tugging at his collar. Gerry was standing by the doorway waiting for him, and appraised his new wardrobe.

“Table for two, please,” his son said.

“Very funny,” Valentine said.

“You’d better hurry. They’re ready to start.”

Valentine went to the table and stood behind his chair. Close to fifty spectators had ringed the table with chairs, and he spied the Greek, Marcy Baldwin, and several suckers whom Rufus had fleeced sitting front row. The rest of the crowd consisted primarily of old-timers with chiseled faces who’d come to cheer Rufus on.

Steele stood at one end of the table, puffing away on a cigarette. He wore a scarlet United States Cavalry shirt buttoned diagonally from waist to shoulder, and his Stetson sported an ostrich feather in its band.

“Hey pardner,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Valentine replied.

DeMarco stood at the other end of the table dressed in a bilious gold shirt, opened to the middle of his hairless chest, and black designer slacks. He’d rolled back his right sleeve, exposing his champion bracelet.

Gloria stood directly between the two participants, mike in hand. She did a sound check with Zack, then began. “Good afternoon, everyone. This is Gloria Curtis, coming to you from the poker room in Celebrity Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. To my right stands Skip DeMarco, newly crowned champion of the World Poker Showdown. To my left, Rufus Steele, one of the greatest players in the history of the sport. These two gentlemen are about to play for two million dollars. Before we start, I’d like to ask each participant to give us a few words.”

Gloria moved toward DeMarco, shoving the mike beneath his chin. “Skip? Would you care to say something?”

“Age before beauty,” DeMarco said.

Everyone in the room laughed, including Steele, the smoke billowing out of his nostrils like dragon’s breath. Gloria moved down to his end of the table and stuck the mike in the old cowboy’s face. “Rufus? How about a few words?”

“I’ve been playing poker for my entire life,” Rufus said. “I believe the game exemplifies the worst aspects of capitalism which have made our country so great. I am looking forward to beating my opponent like an ugly stepchild.”

More laughter from the crowd. DeMarco appeared to bristle. When Gloria returned to his end of the table, he said, “Rufus, how much money do you have?”

“ ’Bout a million and a half,” Rufus replied.

“Let’s play for that,” DeMarco suggested.

“Winner-take-all?”

“Winner-take-all,” DeMarco said.

“You’re on, son.”

Gloria faced the camera and flashed a brilliant smile. “There you have it, folks. Skip DeMarco has upped the ante against Rufus Steele. Three million dollars, winner-take-all, the new kid versus the old warrior. This is one you’re not going to want to miss.” Then she stepped away from the table, and the contest began.

The two participants took their chairs, and Valentine explained the rules. The game was No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em, and would be played until one man had the other’s money. The blinds would be $20,000 and $40,000, which guaranteed that each starting pot had a minimum of $60,000. After a player bet or called or raised, his opponent had thirty seconds to respond, or would automatically fold his hand. Valentine would be the timekeeper.

“Agreed?” he asked.

“Sounds good to me,” Rufus said.

“Me, too,” DeMarco said.

Valentine then riffle-shuffled the cards seven times. A famous mathematician had proven that a true random order could only be obtained after seven shuffles. It was work, but he wanted the contest to be as fair as possible. Finished, he cut the cards, burned one, then dealt two cards to each man.

“Good luck,” Valentine said.

After ten hands, Rufus was up $540,000.

Valentine had never seen anyone play Texas Hold ‘Em the way Rufus played it. In a normal game of Hold ‘Em, each player received two cards, then there was a round of betting, followed by three community cards, called the flop, being dealt face up on the table, followed by another round of betting. Then two more cards, called Fourth Street, or the turn, and Fifth Street, or the river, were dealt face up, with a round of betting after each. The five community cards were common to both players, who used them in combination with their own cards to form the strongest possible hand.

That was how Hold ‘Em was usually played. But it wasn’t how Rufus played it. He beat aggressively before any community cards were dealt, putting DeMarco into a corner. It was an unusual ploy, and it forced DeMarco to make an immediate decision. Eight times DeMarco had folded. The other two times he’d called Rufus’s bet only to have Rufus go over the top and go “all in,” pushing every chip he had into the pot. Both times, DeMarco had wilted and dropped out of the hand.

“Having fun?” Rufus asked as the eleventh hand was dealt.

“It isn’t over yet,” DeMarco shot back.

Rufus looked at the crowd. “I love these kids.”

DeMarco brought his two cards up to his face and studied them. Placing the cards down, he paused for a few moments then pushed two hundred thousand in chips into the pot. His body language had changed, and Valentine sensed that he’d gotten good cards. Rufus glanced at his own two cards, his face as tight as a bank vault.

“I’m going to raise,” Rufus said.

DeMarco leaned back in his chair. Valentine sensed that DeMarco had set a trap he was about to spring.

“How much are you raising?” DeMarco asked.

Rufus played with his stacks of chips. “Half a million.”

“I’m all in,” DeMarco fired back.

Rufus peeked at his cards stonily. “How much you got left, son?”

DeMarco counted his chips. “Nine hundred and eighty thousand.”

Rufus pushed back his Stetson and rubbed his face, then stood up from the table. He shifted from foot to foot like a horse sensing bad weather. “What the heck. I’ll call you.”

DeMarco jumped out of his chair. Picking up his two cards, he slapped them face up decisively on the felt. He had a pair of aces, the strongest starting hand.

“What have you got?” DeMarco asked.

Rufus flipped over his two cards. There was a mass sigh from the crowd.

“What does he have?” DeMarco asked again.

“The ten of diamonds and six of diamonds,” Valentine told him.

“You called my bet with that?” DeMarco asked incredulously.

“Sure,” Rufus said.

“But those are lousy cards.”

“Son, I came here to gamble.”

Valentine burned the top card, then dealt the flop, calling the values aloud for DeMarco’s benefit. The three community cards were the four of diamonds, ace of clubs, jack of diamonds. DeMarco had flopped three of a kind, Rufus four cards to a flush. DeMarco was the odds-on favorite to win and let out a war whoop.

“No diamonds,” he begged.

Valentine burned the top card and dealt Fourth Street. The card was the queen of spades, which helped neither player. DeMarco was jumping up and down. He was one card away from winning. It didn’t seem right, but gambling rarely was. Out of the corner of his eye, Valentine glanced at Rufus. The old cowboy looked like he was enjoying himself.

Valentine burned the top card, then paused dramatically before turning over Fifth Street, and calling out its value.

“Two of diamonds,” he said.

DeMarco stopped jumping. Valentine slid the two of diamonds down to his end of the table, and DeMarco picked the card up, and held it in front of his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

Rufus had made his diamond flush and beaten DeMarco’s three of a kind. A hush had fallen over the room. Facing the crowd, Rufus took off his Stetson and bowed deeply from the waist. Then everyone in the room, including the Greek, Marcy Baldwin, and the suckers, gave him his due, and broke into long and hearty applause.

DeMarco stood frozen in place, his face pained and astonished. Gloria appeared by his side, and with Zack’s camera whirring, asked, “Skip, what happened?”

DeMarco spent a moment regaining his composure, and the crowd grew quiet. Even Rufus seemed interested in what he had to say.

“Mr. Steele was the better man today,” he said quietly.

“Were you surprised by how aggressively he played?” Gloria asked.

“Yes. I’ve never played anyone like him. He’s really good.”

“So the old man taught you a few things,” Gloria said.

DeMarco winced. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued. “I’m sorry for the disparaging remarks I made about him earlier in the tournament. I was out of line.”

“Apology accepted,” Rufus called out.

DeMarco nodded solemnly, then placed his hand on the table edge, and used it to guide him to Rufus’s end. Stopping, he stuck his hand out, which Rufus warmly shook. It was the way contests were supposed to end, and Valentine rose from his chair, and joined in the applause. As it subsided, Gloria edged up beside him and squeezed his hand.

“You see,” she said. “Sometimes the good guys do win.”