Deadman's Bluff

5

Stepping off the Delta 767 at Philadelphia Airport, Gerry Valentine spotted an undercover detective standing in the terminal. The detective was a handsome guy, black, six one, athletic, and pushing forty. What blew his cover were his cheap threads. That was where most detectives disguising themselves screwed up. They dressed like schleps.

Up until last year, Gerry’d been a bookie, and had done his fair share of business with underworld types. But then his life had changed. He’d gotten married and had a beautiful little daughter. His priorities had shifted, and he’d decided he didn’t want his kid to have a criminal father. So he’d shut down his bookmaking operation and gone to work in his father’s consulting business. It hadn’t been easy. Sometimes, Gerry’s past came back to haunt him, and he now considered walking back onto the plane.

He decided against it. Better to walk past the detective and see if anything happened. He’d always been good with his mouth, and could talk his way out of most situations. As he got close, the detective stuck his hand out.

“You must be Gerry. I’m Detective Eddie Davis.”

Gerry had heard Davis’s name before. Davis had helped his father track down his partner’s killers a few years back. Gerry shook his hand.

“Let me guess. My father sent you.”

Davis scowled. “He asked me to look out for you. Something wrong with that?”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

Davis followed Gerry to baggage claim, where they watched some misbehaving kids ride around on the carousel. “Your father said you had a bad experience in Las Vegas, and that George Scalzo was involved,” Davis said. “Hearing that, I figured I’d better meet you at the airport.”

Gerry checked the tags of the garment bags on the carousel. He needed to get rid of this guy. He was going to Atlantic City to learn how Jack Donovan’s poker scam worked, and expected to run into his friends from the old days. What was he going to say, “Hey Vinny, this here is Eddie Davis. Keep your mouth shut, he’s a cop”? No, that wasn’t going to work.

“Your father said Scalzo murdered a guy named Jack Donovan, and you and some buddies went to Vegas gunning for him, and nearly got yourselves killed,” Davis said.

“Dad likes to exaggerate,” Gerry said.

“Your father said one of your buddies got the hair on his face burned off by a flamethrower. That an exaggeration?”

His garment bag appeared. Gerry pulled a strap out of a side pocket, attached it to the bag, then threw it over his shoulder. He knew the Philly airport like the back of his hand, and would give Davis the slip once he got downstairs. He couldn’t have a cop playing Me and My Shadow with him on this trip. Not even a well-intentioned one.

“Ready to roll,” he said.

Going downstairs, Gerry excused himself and headed for the men’s room. Davis tagged him on the shoulder like they were playing touch football.

“I once had a suspect duck out through the side entrance,” Davis said. “You weren’t thinking of doing that, were you?”

“I’ll tell you after I take a leak,” Gerry said.

Davis shot him a disapproving look. “For Christ’s sake man, I’m here to help you. I know about your background with the rackets. I won’t hassle any of your friends if we run into them.”

Davis sounded sincere, which made Gerry suspicious.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I need your help with a cheating case I’m working on,” Davis said.

Gerry considered Davis’s offer. Having a cop watching his back wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d made an enemy out of George Scalzo in Vegas, and suspected Scalzo would pay him back someday soon.

“Okay,” Gerry said.

They sped along the scenic New Jersey Expressway in Davis’s souped-up ’78 Mustang, the four-lane, pencil-straight highway bordered by lush berms and mature oaks. Atlantic City had been created as a summer playground for rich people from Philadelphia, the expressway being the shortest distance from that city to the sea.

“This case has been driving me crazy,” Davis said. “There’s a retirement condo on the south end of the is land where a resident is cheating other residents at cards. This guy is stealing retirement money. I want to nail him, but none of the residents will cooperate. He’s local, they’re local, and none of the cops working the case are.”

“How much is the guy stealing?”

“A couple grand a week. He’s done this to hundreds of elderly people.”

Gerry got the picture. The cheater was what his father called a public menace—someone who enjoyed hurting people as much as stealing. “What’s the guy doing?”

“He plays cards in the same restaurant every day, and that’s where he fleeces his victims,” Davis said. “He doesn’t play for cash, but keeps a running tally of points on a sheet of paper. That way, we can’t bust him for an illegal card game. I got my hands on the cards and they’re normal. No marks, bends, or gaffs. I also filmed him through a window, and watched the video. He isn’t doing any sleight-of-hand.”

“Describe the restaurant where he plays cards.”

“It’s a mom-and-pop beachfront joint with some booths lining the walls and a half dozen round tables. Most of the customers live on social security or pensions. Nothing on the menu is too pricey.”

“How long has he played there?”

“Years,” Davis said.

“So he’s got an arrangement.”

The Mustang slowed down almost imperceptibly, then sped back up.

“I’m not following you,” Davis said.

“The guy’s got an arrangement with the owner of the restaurant,” Gerry said.

“The owner’s hardly there.”

“Then he’s got an arrangement with the manager, or head waitress or whoever’s running the place.”

“It’s a waitress,” Davis said.

Gerry wasn’t his father’s son for nothing, and said, “The guy cheats his opponent and gives the waitress a cut, probably twenty percent. More if she’s involved in his scam.”

Davis briefly took his eyes off the road. “Would you mind telling me how you came to that conclusion?”

“Sure. You said the cards weren’t marked and the guy wasn’t using sleight-of-hand. Well, that leaves only one more thing. They’re a team.”

“They are?”

“Have to be. The waitress is peeking at the opponent’s cards when she waits on the table, writes it on a paper napkin or a check, and slaps it on the table. The guy picks the napkin up, and reads what his opponent is holding.”

A pained look crossed Davis’s face, and he resumed staring at the expressway. Gerry guessed Davis had spent some time in the restaurant and gotten to know the waitress. He’d formed an opinion of her, and was experiencing the unsettling feeling that came when you found out someone you liked was really a piece of garbage.

“How do I prosecute this guy, and get a jury to believe my story?” Davis asked.

Gerry had seen his father handle cases similar to this. Prosecuting cheating wasn’t easy, the crime difficult to prove. “Haul the waitress in, tell her you know what she’s been doing, and you’re going to report her to the Internal Revenue Service for income tax evasion if she doesn’t cooperate.”

“I should turn her against her partner?”

“Yes.”

Davis considered it. Like most cops, he rarely saw justice, and when he did, it usually had a pair of horns attached to it.

“That’s one of your father’s tricks, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Sure is,” Gerry said.

Atlantic City was a thirteen-mile-long island, and their arrival on its north end was greeted by the brilliant neon of half a dozen names synonymous with gambling. Casinos had sucked the lifeblood out of Atlantic City, and Gerry stared down the Monopoly-named streets he’d once played on, seeing poverty and despair.

At a traffic light Davis hit the brakes. “You hungry?” he asked.

Gerry was thirty-six, and could still eat an extra meal and not have trouble getting into his pants. His father had warned him that someday he would pay, but so far, he wasn’t sweating it.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Sacco’s Sack O’ Subs.”

Sacco’s made the best submarine sandwiches in the world, and was located on the southern end of the island, in the town of Ventnor where Gerry had grown up.

“You’re on,” Gerry said.

The restaurant was hopping when they arrived. Taking a booth in the back, they ordered the signature sandwich, an Italian hot sausage sub, then waited for their food. A couple in the next booth were talking with Jersey accents so thick that an outsider would have needed an interpreter to understand them. Gerry felt right at home.

Their sandwiches arrived. A TV set above the counter was turned on, showing Skip DeMarco playing at the World Poker Showdown.

“DeMarco used to come into the card rooms here.” Davis sprinkled grated cheese over his sandwich. He wasn’t sweating the calories either and took a big bite.

“How did he do?” Gerry asked.

“Lost his shirt. He filed a beef with the police, claimed the other players were taking advantage of his blindness and cheating him. It never went anywhere.”

Gerry lowered his voice. “DeMarco is George Scalzo’s nephew. He’s scamming the World Poker Showdown.”

Davis’s eyes grew wide. “Well, I’ll be. How’s he doing it?”

“That’s what I came to Atlantic City to find out,” Gerry said. “My father thinks the scam’s secret is at the Atlantic City Medical Center where my buddy Jack Donovan just died. He wants me to snoop around the hospital, see what I can find.”

Davis chewed reflectively, perhaps familiar with Gerry’s friend’s shady past. “Most of the staff at the hospital know me pretty well. Maybe I can help you.”

“You’d do that?” Gerry asked.

“Sure. I’d like nothing better than to see George Scalzo and his cheating nephew in jail.”

Gerry lowered his sub to his plate. The distrust he’d felt for Eddie when he’d stepped off the plane had vanished. He started to say okay, then stopped himself. His father did not like having outsiders help with jobs, even when they were friends. Gerry needed to run this by the old man, make sure he was okay with it.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, sliding out of the booth.

He powered up his cell phone in the parking lot. He could taste the salt air coming off the ocean, could remember all the summers he’d spent playing on the beach. Growing up, he’d assumed that he’d raise a family here, but the arrival of casinos had changed that. Now, he could no more imagine living in Atlantic City than in Baghdad.

His phone’s message icon was blinking, and he went into voice mail. Detective Pete Longo, head of homicide for the Metro Las Vegas Police Department, had called two hours ago. Saying he needed to talk to Gerry urgently, he left his number. Gerry had met Longo in Vegas and considered him a stand-up guy. He punched in Longo’s number.

Longo picked up after two rings. His voice was all business.

“Your father tells me you’re in Atlantic City,” Longo said.

“That’s right. I arrived a couple of hours ago,” Gerry said.

“Can you prove that?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re a suspect in a double homicide, that’s why,” Longo snapped.

Gerry felt the hair on his neck stand up. He’d been crosswise with the law many times, and knew that cooperation was the key to staying out of trouble. He asked Longo to hold, then went back into Sacco’s, and found Davis working on his gums with a toothpick.

“I need a favor,” he said, sliding into the booth.

“Name it,” Davis said.

Gerry handed Davis his cell phone.

“Talk to this guy,” he said.