Deadman's Bluff

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.”