Deadman's Bluff

2

Big Julie, a famous New York gambler, once said that the person who invented gambling was smart, but the person who invented chips was a genius.

Poker had a similar truism. The person who’d invented poker may have been smart, but the person who’d invented the hidden camera that allowed a television audience to see the players’ hands was a genius.

George “the Tuna” Scalzo sat on his hotel suite’s couch with his nephew beside him. It was ten o’clock in the evening, and the big-screen TV was on. They were watching the action from that day’s World Poker Show down, which was generating the highest ratings of any sporting event outside of the Super Bowl. His nephew, Skip DeMarco, was winning the tournament and had become an overnight sensation.

“Tell me what you’re seeing, Uncle George,” DeMarco said.

His nephew faced the TV, his handsome face bathed in the screen’s artificial light. Skipper suffered from a degenerative eye disease that he’d had since birth. He could not see two inches past his nose, and so his uncle described the action.

“They’re showing the different players you knocked out of the tournament today,” Scalzo said. “Treetop Strauss, Mike ‘Mad Dog’ McCoy, Johnny ‘the Wizard’ Wang, and a bunch of other guys. It’s beautiful, especially when you call their bluffs. They don’t know what hit them.”

Bluffing was what made poker exciting. A man could have worthless cards, yet if he bet aggressively, he’d win hand after hand. DeMarco had made a specialty of calling his opponents’ bluffs, and had become the most feared player in the tournament.

“Is the camera showing me a lot?” DeMarco asked.

“All the time. You’re the star.”

“Do I look arrogant?”

Scalzo didn’t know what arrogant meant. Proud? That word he understood. He glanced across the suite at Guido, who leaned against the wall. His bodyguard had a zipper scar down the side of his face and never smiled. Guido came from the streets of Newark, New Jersey, as did all the men who worked for Scalzo.

“Guido, how does Skipper look?”

“Calm, cool, and collected,” Guido said, puffing on a cigarette.

“Is he a star?”

“Big star,” Guido said.

“There you go.” Scalzo elbowed his nephew in the ribs.

The show ended, and was followed by the local news. The broadcasters covered the day’s headlines, then a story from the University of Nevada’s football field came on.

“What’s this?” his nephew asked.

Scalzo squinted at the screen. The story was about Rufus Steele challenging a racehorse to the hundred-yard dash. Rufus appeared on the screen dressed in track shorts. Beside him was Tony Valentine, the casino consultant who’d caused them so much trouble. Scalzo grabbed the remote and changed the channel.

“Put it back on, Uncle George,” his nephew said.

“Why? He can’t beat no fucking racehorse,” Scalzo protested.

“I want to see it anyway. This is the old guy who challenged me to play him. I said I’d play him after the tournament was over if he could raise a million bucks.”

The suite fell silent. “You’re not going to play that son-of-a-bitch,” Scalzo declared.

“If he raises the money, I’ll have to, Uncle George,” DeMarco said.

“Why?”

“Because this is poker. If I don’t accept Rufus’s challenge, he wins.”

Scalzo did not like the direction the conversation was taking. He clicked his fingers, and Guido rose from his chair.

“Yes, Mr. Scalzo,” the bodyguard said.

“A glass of cognac for me. What would you like, Skipper?”

“For you not to drink while we have this conversation,” his nephew said.

Scalzo balled his hands into fists and stared at his nephew’s profile. If someone who worked for him had said that, he would have had him killed. “You don’t like when I drink?”

“You get mean. Doesn’t he, Guido?”

Swallowing hard, the bodyguard said nothing. Scalzo made a twirling motion with his finger. Guido walked into the next room, shutting the door behind him.

Scalzo changed the channel with the remote, and watched Rufus beat Greased Lightning in the hundred-yard-dash while explaining it to his nephew. Then he killed the power and the room fell silent.

“This cowboy is the real thing,” his nephew said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Scalzo snapped.

“He’s an old-time hustler, Uncle George. I can’t scam him the way we’re scamming the tournament. It won’t work.”

Skipper had won several dozen poker tournaments on the Internet. Live games were a different matter, with other players ganging up on him because of his handicap. Scalzo had wanted to level the playing field, and found a scammer in Atlantic City named Jack Donovan who’d invented a scam that would let Skipper win. Scalzo had Donovan murdered for the scam, then taught it to his nephew. Although Skipper had never cheated before, he’d gone along, wanting the recognition that winning brought, which he believed he deserved.

“But no one has figured out the scam so far,” Scalzo said.

“Steele will. He’ll feel a breeze.”

“So let him put a sweater on.”

“It’s a gambler’s expression, Uncle George. Steele will know something is wrong. Even if he doesn’t know what it is, he’ll figure it out eventually. I have to play him on the square. If I’m as good as I keep telling myself I am, then I should beat him.”

“You want to play the cowboy legitimately?”

“Yes.”

Scalzo scowled. Skipper was letting his mouth overload his ass. He wasn’t going to play Steele head-to-head. The old cowboy knew too many damn tricks. Scalzo dropped the remote in his nephew’s lap. “I’m going to bed,” Scalzo said. “Let’s talk again in the morning.”

His nephew stared absently into space as if disappointed with his uncle.

“Good night, Uncle George,” he said.

Scalzo entered the next room and was greeted by an unexpected guest. Karl Jasper, founder and president of the World Poker Showdown, stood at the bar, talking with Guido while drinking a beer. The face of the WPS, Jasper had black-dyed hair, whitened teeth, and shoulder pads in his jackets that made him look trimmer than he really was.

“Nice place,” Jasper said.

Scalzo and his nephew were staying in a high-roller suite, compliments of the hotel. It had a fully stocked bar, pool table, Jacuzzi, and private theater with reclining leather chairs. It was the best digs in town, and wasn’t costing them a dime. A snifter of cognac awaited Scalzo on the bar. They clinked glasses, and Scalzo raised the drink to his lips and sniffed.

“Did you see Rufus Steele on TV?” Jasper asked.

“The man is becoming a menace.”

Scalzo let the cognac swirl around in his mouth. It felt good and strong and made him wake up. He liked how Jasper addressed things. He was a product of Madison Avenue, and had gone from account executive to founder and president of the World Poker Showdown in the blink of an eye. He was a smart guy who suffered from the same problem that a lot of smart guys suffered from: He didn’t know how to run a business. Within six months of starting the WPS, he’d run out of cash. In desperation he’d gone to the mob, and Scalzo became his partner.

Scalzo could not have envisioned a more perfect setup. The biggest mistake the mob had ever made was letting themselves get pushed out of Las Vegas. No other town in the world had the same kind of action. By partnering with Jasper, Scalzo could run a card game inside a Las Vegas casino without the law breathing down his neck. It didn’t get any better than that.

“Rufus Steele is a clown,” Scalzo said. “The real problem is Tony Valentine. He wants to expose Skipper. He has a grudge with me.”

The beer in Jasper’s glass had disappeared. Guido popped the cap off a bottle and poured him another.

“You’ve dealt with Valentine before?” Jasper asked. Scalzo nodded stiffly.

“Can he be bought off?”

“No,” Scalzo said. “He was a casino cop for twenty years. They called him the squarest guy in Atlantic City.”

“So what should we do?”

Scalzo stared across the suite at the picture window on the other side of the room. The curtains were pulled back, allowing him to see the pulsing neon spectacle that was the strip at night. For years he’d run a successful scam in Atlantic City that had made him a small fortune, but this was different. This was Las Vegas, and for as long as he could remember, he’d wanted a piece of it all for himself.

“We need to get rid of him,” Scalzo said. “Once Valentine’s gone, Steele will fade into the sunset, and we can go back to business.”

“When you say get rid of him,” Jasper said, “do you mean, run him out of town?”

Scalzo put his snifter down, and coldly stared at his guest. Jasper’s face and hands were evenly tanned from playing golf three times a week. They’d been partners for over a year, and so far, Jasper had shown no regrets for having jumped in bed with the devil.

“I mean we need to kill the bastard,” Scalzo said.

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah. If you wanna get somethin’ done, you need to do it yourself.”

Jasper blinked, and then he blinked again. Making a Madison Avenue decision, Scalzo thought. He placed his hand on Jasper’s arm, and squeezed the younger man’s biceps. “We need to do it right now,” Scalzo added.