Deadman's Bluff

18

Suckers made the gambling world go round.

They came from all walks of life. Some were smart, while others had not graduated high school. Some were wealthy, some poor. What they shared in common was a complete misunderstanding of the law of averages, and an unflappable belief in the laws of chance. Chance, suckers believed, was the god of gambling, and if they were in the right place at the right time, Chance would smile down on them, and they’d win.

Suckers made up 99 percent of the people who gambled. Each year, they invested billions of dollars in the lottery and at casinos, and had nothing to show for it. They also kept dog and horse tracks alive, and paid for thousands of bookies to run their businesses. They were the bottom line of every gambling operation’s financial success.

And suckers were dependable. Even though they rarely won, they never stopped gambling, spurned on by the manufactured thrill that came from placing a wager. When they did win, they poured their winnings back into the game, convinced they’d finally hit a lucky streak, only to see their money and their dreams vanish like a puff of smoke.

Valentine followed Rufus into Celebrity’s poker room to find the suckers crowded around the Ping-Pong table, eagerly awaiting the match. Nearly a hundred strong, they wore the disheveled look of men who weren’t sleeping regularly. Rufus doffed his Stetson and gave them a big Texas wave.

“Good morning! How’s everyone doing this fine morning?”

“Is it morning?” someone yelled back.

“Last time I checked,” Rufus said. “Ready to see me play Ping-Pong?”

Several in the crowd guffawed. Rufus pulled off his running jacket to reveal his trademark Skivvies T-shirt. He began doing windmills while hacking violently.

“You okay?” Valentine asked.

“Never better.” Rufus pounded his chest. “My lungs could use some help, though.”

“Want me to get you something?”

“Shot of whiskey would hit the spot.”

“That’s going to help your lungs?”

“Who said it was going to help my lungs? I just like whiskey.”

They were talking loud enough for the suckers to overhear. A handful had their wallets out, and were debating whether to get in on the action.

“Make that a double,” Rufus said.

Valentine lowered his voice. “You want me to make that apple juice instead?”

“Apple juice is for old folks,” Rufus said.

“A double it is.”

Valentine crossed the poker room in search of alcohol. There was a cash bar beside the registration table, and he caught the eye of the female bartender. She was young enough to be his granddaughter, and shot him a disapproving look when he ordered Rufus’s drink.

“It’s a little early in the morning, don’t you think?” she asked.

“And a Coke for me,” he added.

She handed him the drinks with a grin on her face.

“You’re not in the tournament, are you?” she asked.

“No. How could you tell?”

“You look normal,” she said.

He crossed the room with the drinks. A mob was gathered around Rufus, who continued to flail his arms like Indian clubs while giving his snake oil salesman spiel.

“Come on, boys, I’m about to play some Japanese world champion at Ping-Pong for a half million bucks, winner take all. If that ain’t a safe bet, I don’t know what is. Place your wagers now, or forever hold your peace.”

“What kind of odds you offering?” one of the suckers asked.

“Ten to one,” Rufus said.

“I’ll bet you even money,” the sucker said.

Rufus shot the sucker a murderous look. “You want even money, son? I’ve got one foot in the grave, and my opponent’s a former champ. Ten to one, take it or leave it.”

“Which foot?” the sucker asked.

“The one I’m not standing on,” Rufus said.

The sucker took his money out. “You’re on.”

The doors to the poker room banged open, and the Greek and Takarama came in. A shade over six feet, Takarama wore black gym shorts and a matching polo shirt. He did not have an ounce of fat on his perfectly proportioned body. His shoulder-length hair was tied in a ponytail, giving his face a hawkish quality. His eyes scanned the room in search of his prey.

“Sure you want to go through with this?” Valentine asked.

“That pipsqueak can’t lick me,” Rufus said loudly.

The Greek sauntered over. He hadn’t changed his clothes since the night before and looked like a bum’s unmade bed. He fancied himself a professional gambler, but with every loss to Rufus, his true colors were increasingly clear. He was a sucker. What still made him special was his huge bankroll.

“Thanks for dressing up,” Rufus said.

The Greek scowled. Curly black hair popped out of every part of his head. “You ready to play Takarama?” he asked.

“Of course,” Rufus said. “The question is, is he ready to play me?”

“He sure is. A half million dollars to the first player to reach twenty-one?”

“Correct,” Rufus said. “The only stipulation is, I supply the paddles. Your man gets to choose his weapon, and if he wants to switch at any time in the match, he can.”

“Agreed,” the Greek said.

Rufus and the Greek shook hands. Then Rufus turned to Valentine.

“Tony, I need to you to do me a little favor,” Rufus said. “Go to the casino’s main restaurant, ask for Chef Robert, and get the bag he’s holding for me.”

Valentine was nobody’s caddy, but was willing to make an exception for Rufus.

“Sure,” he said.

To reach the restaurant, Valentine had to walk through the casino. It was packed, the noise deafening. One of the great urban myths was that casinos pumped oxygen onto the floor to make people gamble. The truth was, they kept the air-conditioning down and made their cocktail waitresses wear tiny outfits, which accomplished the same thing.

The restaurant was called Auditions, and he walked past the empty hostess stand and looked around. It was decorated like a Hollywood sound stage, with fake movie sets and glossies of stars hanging on the walls. The kitchen was in back, and he cautiously pushed open a swinging door. A man wearing a chef’s hat stood at an island.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Chef Robert,” Valentine said.

“I’m Chef Robert. Are you with the health department?”

Once a cop, always a cop. “Rufus Steele sent me.”

“Oh yes.”

From beneath the island Chef Robert produced a canvas bag with Celebrity’s logo splashed across the front. Valentine took the bag from his hands, and nearly dropped it on the floor.

“What’s in it, bricks?”

“Cooking utensils, per Mr. Steele’s request,” Chef Robert said.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Mr. Steele has already compensated me.”

Valentine tipped him anyway, then walked out of the kitchen, the bag pulling at his arm like a little kid. His curiosity was killing him, and he opened the bag and looked inside. It contained two cast-iron skillets. He thought Chef Robert had made a mistake. Then it dawned on him what Rufus was up to.

Pulling out his cell phone, he called Gloria Curtis.

“This is bullshit,” the Greek said. “You can’t play Ping-Pong with those!”

“Who says I can’t?” Rufus replied, holding a cast-iron skillet in both hands. “I said I’d supply the paddles. Well, these are the paddles.”

“I won’t stand for this,” the Greek replied.

“Are you welching on our bet?”

“You’re damn right I am,” the Greek said.

In a huff, the Greek started to walk out. Valentine was standing next to the Ping-Pong table, and as the Greek neared the doors, saw Gloria and Zack come in. She cornered the Greek, sticking a mike in his face. Zack started to film them.

“I hear you and Rufus Steele have an interesting wager going,” she said.

The Greek raised his arms as if to strangle an imaginary victim. He quickly lowered them. “The bet’s off,” he said.

“Oh no,” she said. “It sounded like it would make a wonderful piece.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” The Greek raised his voice. “The bet’s off.”

Gloria stepped back, unsure of what was happening. Takarama, who’d been leaning against the wall with a stoic look on his face, tapped the Greek on the shoulder.

“What?” the Greek said.

“You are dishonoring me,” Takarama said.

“But he’s trying to trick us,” the Greek said.

“A man’s word is his bond.”

“But—”

“No exceptions,” Takarama declared. He crossed the room to where Rufus was standing. “May I see one?”

Rufus handed him a skillet. Takarama pulled a Ping-Pong ball out of the pocket of his shorts, and bounced it on the flat side. The ball went up and down with the precision of a metronome. Takarama’s eyes glanced into the Greek’s unshaven face.

“I can beat him,” he said.

The Greek’s expression changed.

“Are you sure?”

Takarama nodded solemnly, the ball still going up and down.

“But you’ve never played with a skillet,” the Greek said.

“It does not matter,” Takarama said.

“Rufus has,” the Greek said.

“He is not Takarama,” the former world champion said.