Deadman's Bluff

36

Gerry Valentine was surprised. He’d expected Detectives Eddie Davis and Joey Marconi to drive to the address of the tailor who Angelo Fountain had fingered and grill him. But the detectives had instead driven to the municipal courthouse on Atlantic Avenue and gone upstairs to the second floor to see a judge in his chambers.

Marconi and Davis had an interesting theory that they’d presented to Gerry during the drive. The detectives had originally thought that the baseball caps were being manufactured on an assembly line. But while sitting outside Angelo Fountain’s house, they’d had a change of opinion.

If a tailor was making the caps, then the caps were custom jobs. If that was true, then George Scalzo’s blackjack cheating gang were coming to the tailor’s place of business, getting fitted, then returning when the cap was done. That meant the tailor probably had records containing the gang’s names and phone numbers. It would be enough evidence to show that the gang was conspiring to cheat the island’s casinos, and land them in jail.

“A slam dunk, ” Davis had said in the car.

Gerry hadn’t seen it that way. The tailor wasn’t going to rat out the mob.

“If the tailor has records,” Gerry had replied.

“Every good tailor keeps records,” Marconi said, handling the wheel. “It’s part of the business. The only thing we need is a warrant to search the tailor’s premises. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” Gerry said.

“Yes. We’ll need to have you explain the scams to the judge. You’re the expert.”

Gerry had shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Whatever you say.”

The judge they went to see was named Alva Dopking. Dopking was a lanky, cleft-chinned former prosecutor who’d been making criminals’ lives miserable in Atlantic City for thirty years. Gerry had come up before him in juvenile court and had not enjoyed the experience. Sitting in Dopking’s book-lined chambers, he kept his eyes glued to the floor while Davis and Marconi stood in front of Dopking’s desk, and argued their case.

Dopking listened while sucking on an unlit cigar. His wavy dark hair had turned snow white; otherwise, he looked the same as Gerry remembered. He was a tough nut, and he didn’t like it when his directions weren’t followed.

“I’m just not buying your argument,” Dopking said, tossing his cigar into an ashtray on the desk. “First of all, the tailor who gave you the information—Angelo Fountain—how do you know he doesn’t have a gripe with this other tailor, Bruno Traffatore, and isn’t out to make the man’s life miserable?

“Second, I’m not comfortable with your theory that these gaffed baseball caps are being custom-made by Traffatore. I’ve had cheating cases brought before me in the past, and the equipment came from magic shops or companies that mass-produce this stuff.”

Davis stepped forward. “Your Honor, we have an expert who’s been helping us with this case. The consulting firm he works for specializes in catching casino cheaters. He’ll confirm everything we’ve said to you this afternoon.”

Dopking looked Gerry’s way. “Him?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Dopking shot Gerry an unfriendly look, and Gerry felt himself squirm. Dopking had a reputation for unflinching honesty, and as a result, commanded more respect than all the island’s politicians rolled together.

“What is this expert’s name?” Dopking asked.

“Gerry Valentine,” Davis replied.

The hint of a smile played on Dopking’s lips. “I’d like to hear what Mr. Gerry Valentine has to say,” he said.

Davis turned around, and motioned for Gerry to come forward. Gerry wedged himself between the two detectives and identified himself.

“Tony Valentine’s son?” Dopking asked, as if wanting to be sure.

“That’s right. I mean, yes, Your Honor.”

Dopking’s smile vanished. “I thought you were a bookie.”

Gerry opened his mouth but nothing came out. The judge leaned forward.

“I do keep track of the people who step before me, you know,” Dopking said.

Gerry found his voice. “Yes, Your Honor. I gave up the rackets and now work in my father’s consulting business. I’m here to ask you to grant the detectives’ request, and give them a warrant to search Bruno Traffatore’s place of business. I will personally vouch for the integrity of Angelo Fountain, the informant who gave us the name. He offered up the name only after I pressured him.”

“So he has no gripe with this other tailor?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Dopking studied him. “I’m still doubtful of the detectives’ claim that Traffatore is custom-making cheating equipment. Aren’t these things mass-produced?”

“The items that are mass-produced are junk. The real work is made by pros.”

The gaffed baseball cap was sitting on the desk. “Give me an example besides this baseball cap,” Dopking said.

Gerry removed a five-dollar casino chip from his pocket and handed it to the judge. The chip was actually a shell with a hollowed-out interior. Dopking examined it, then said, “Explain how this works.”

“It’s a dealer/agent scam, Your Honor. Let’s say a blackjack dealer wants to rip off his own game. His agent plays at his table, and bets the shell. Every time the agent loses, the dealer picks up the shell and places it over another player’s losing bet. The shell is put in the dealer’s tray, and the agent buys the shell back. What he gets in return is the shell, and whatever denomination chip the dealer just stole off the table.”

Dopking tossed the shell back to him. “And these shells are custom-made?”

“Yes, Your Honor. They have to be.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of the extremes casinos take to ensure their chips aren’t counterfeited, Your Honor. A shell must be made from one of the casino’s own chips.”

“Do you know this from experience?” the judge asked.

Gerry flushed. He’d thought a lot about the file Marconi had shown him that linked his name to numerous scams on the island. He guessed there were a lot of law enforcement people who had a bad opinion of him as a result of that file. “No, Your Honor. I’ve never used that scam, nor have I ever scammed a casino. My father explained it to me.”

Dopking leaned forward. “That was inappropriate of me to ask. Please accept my apologies.”

“Of course, Your Honor.”

“Tell me something. You did well as a bookie, didn’t you?”

Gerry didn’t know what to say. Part of the success of being a bookie was his ability to hide the success of his operation. From the law, the Internal Revenue Service, and his father. Telling a judge how well he’d done didn’t seem like a good idea.

“My uncle was a bookie, used to work out of the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel,” Dopking went on. “He did well, so I’m assuming you also did well.”

“It wasn’t a bad way to make a living,” Gerry conceded.

“I’d like to know why you left that and joined your father’s business.”

The hardest part of going straight was having to tell the truth. Gerry didn’t like it—the truth made you vulnerable—but in this case, he saw no other choice.

Taking out his wallet, he showed Dopking a recent snapshot of his wife and daughter.

“I’d say you made a smart choice,” the judge said. “Is there anything else you wish to add?”

Gerry couldn’t tell which way Dopking was leaning, and didn’t want to leave his chambers empty-handed. “Yes, Your Honor. Bruno Traffatore has made other items used to scam Atlantic City’s casinos. If Detectives Davis and Marconi search the tailor’s business, I believe they’ll find the records of these other scammers.”

“So we’re talking about more than one crime, here?”

“Many crimes, Your Honor.”

“Would you be willing to sign a sworn affidavit supporting the need for a search warrant? You can do it anonymously, with the detectives attesting to your honesty.”

Gerry hesitated. He was about to take a bunch of crooks down, and had a feeling that some people he knew were going to get burned as a result. He felt bad about it, but wasn’t going to let that stop him. “Yes, Your Honor, I would.”

Without further discussion Dopking issued the warrant to the detectives. As they started to leave, the judge said, “I heard about your mother’s passing. How’s your father holding up?”

“He’s back to his old tricks,” Gerry replied.

Dopking picked up his cigar and sucked on it. “Good. Tell him I miss him.”

Bruno Traffatore lived on the east side of the island in a depressing neighborhood of 1950s shotgun-style houses. Gerry remained in Marconi’s car while the detectives went inside the house and searched the premises.

After ten minutes, a black Cadillac Eldorado pulled up in front of the house and parked in front of Marconi’s vehicle. The big Italian guy who climbed out was the epitome of a goombah, and carried a crumpled paper bag. Seeing Gerry, he sauntered over.

“Yo,” the goombah said.

Gerry rolled his window down. “Hey.”

The goombah scratched his stomach. “You waiting to see Mr. Traffatore?”

Another customer, Gerry thought. “Yeah,” he said.

“Let me go ahead of you,” the goombah said, removing a Yankees cap from the paper bag. “I’m in a rush, you know?”

Gerry hid the smile forming on his lips. They’d hooked a live one. “Sure,” he said.

The goombah stuck his meaty paw through Gerry’s open window and they shook hands. Gerry guessed his age to be about thirty, his rank in Scalzo’s organization no higher than a soldier. He watched the goombah walk up the brick path to Traffatore’s house and punch the bell. Moments later, Davis opened the front door. From the car, Gerry pointed at the goombah while mouthing the words Arrest him. Davis flashed him the okay sign, then ushered the goombah inside.

Fifteen minutes later Davis emerged from the house, the look of exhaustion on his face having been replaced by one of glee. He knelt down next to Gerry’s open window. “Looks like we hit the mother lode. Traffatore keeps records of all his clients in a shoe box. We’ve got the names, phone numbers, and addresses of every member of Scalzo’s gang.”

“What about the goombah?” Gerry asked. “Did you arrest him?”

“Yeah. Name’s Albert Roselli. He’s screaming for a lawyer.”

“Screaming?”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen anything like it. Marconi told him to shut his yap or we’d tape it shut. Guy’s sweating, too.”

Gerry stared at the Eldorado parked in front of him. I’m in a rush. Was Albert going to work, and needed to get his baseball cap fixed? He relayed his suspicion to Davis, and saw the detective’s face light up.

“Wait here,” Davis said.

Roselli’s vehicle was unlocked and Davis gave it a thorough search. When he finished, he came back to Marconi’s car and tossed Gerry a black address book.

“The hits just keep coming,” Davis said.

Gerry thumbed through the address book, his eyes scanning the pages. It was Scalzo’s play book, and it contained the names of the island’s casinos and the dates and times they were to be ripped off by his gang.

“Beautiful,” Gerry said.

It took Davis two hours to marshal the necessary manpower to start making the busts. Over half of Scalzo’s gang were working that afternoon, and over a hundred police and casino security forces were needed to arrest them.

Gerry stayed with Davis and Marconi as they went from casino to casino and systematically apprehended Scalzo’s gang. The baseball caps made the gang members easy to locate and allowed the detectives to march up to the tables, speak to the gang members by name, and arrest them. As Gerry watched the gang members being led away to vans waiting outside, he was surprised the gang hadn’t retired the scam after the incident at Bally’s the night before. His father said that what usually brought cheaters down was the greed factor. Once a cheater started stealing, it was often hard for him to stop.

The final arrests were made at Resorts International, the island’s oldest casino. By now it was dark, and Gerry stood outside on the Boardwalk, sipping a double espresso to stay awake. He’d scored a big victory, but it felt hollow. He still didn’t know how Scalzo was ripping off the World Poker Showdown, and suspected that none of the people who’d been arrested knew, either. Davis came out through the double doors and gave him a whack on the arm. “I owe you dinner, man.”

Gerry forced a smile. The busts were going to make Davis and Marconi into heroes. That was worth celebrating, even if he wasn’t in the mood.

“You’re on,” he said.