Gift sense

5

Vegas's McCarran International Airport had grown up since Valentine's last visit. Movable sidewalks, celebrity voice-overs on the PA system, upscale boutiques and jewelry stores, splashy promo films for the casinos on digital screens at the baggage claim. It was a regular amusement park, complete with video poker and banks of gleaming one-armed bandits.

"They say the casinos cheat their customers," a fiftyish woman wearing an I LOVE LEONARDO DICAPRIO T-shirt and support hose remarked as they waited for their bags. "You think that's true?"

"Absolutely not," Valentine replied, noting the plastic bucket filled with silver dollars clutched to her bosom. No luggage, and she was already betting the rent. "The state of Nevada wouldn't permit it. The casinos are the single biggest source of revenue the state has. They make sure everything's on the square."

"On the what?"

"On the square. As in legit."

"Oh. You some big-time gambler or something?"

"I don't play," he admitted. "It's a poor man's tax."

A flashing red light on the baggage carousel went off. The woman's eyes brimmed with hatred and Valentine got the feeling he'd ruined her vacation before it had started. Their bags came off the carousel together, dead last.

Valentine lugged his suitcase outside and stepped into an oven. High noon, and the desert was burning up. Standing on line at the taxi stand, he heard a man call his name. Without his glasses, Valentine wasn't very good at recognizing people anymore, and he watched a tall, well-tanned individual approach, his cigar-store-Indian face gradually coming into focus. The off-the-rack suit had law enforcement written all over it.

"Bill Higgins. Fancy meeting you here."

The two men warmly shook hands. It had been years, but Higgins hadn't changed. As head of Nevada's Gaming Control Bureau, he had forged a brave new world by joining forces with the New Jersey Division of Gaming Enforcement in the prosecution of a team of suspected hustlers. The alliance had worked, and the two bodies had been talking ever since.

"How's life treating you?" Higgins asked.

"Can't complain," Valentine said. "Nobody listens."

"Let me give you a ride."

"You don't know where I'm going," Valentine said as Higgins dragged his suitcase over to the curb. Then added, "Or do you?"

"The Acropolis, right?"

"Yeah," Valentine said, unable to hide his annoyance. "Who told you?"

A white Volvo was parked in the fire zone, a bored-looking guy with a buzz cut at the wheel. Higgins tossed the suitcase into the trunk. Valentine slid into the backseat and Higgins got in beside him. The car edged into bumper-to-bumper traffic.

"To the Acropolis," Higgins told the driver.

"The back way?" the driver asked.

"That's probably a good idea." To Valentine, he said, "Traffic's gotten so bad you have to drive five miles out of your way just to get anywhere."

"Who told you I was coming to town?" Valentine said.

"One of my sources," Higgins replied. "It's funny, because I was going to give you a call."

"You were?"

"Yeah. I need your help."

The Volvo took the entrance ramp and edged into traffic on the Maryland Parkway. Bill wasn't the type to ask for help unless he was drowning; so much for the fun weekend away from home. Yet at the same time, it felt good to hear someone say he was needed.

"Help's my middle name," Valentine said.

"Retirement treating you well?" Higgins asked as the Strip's gaudy casinos came into view.

"Depends on your definition of well," Valentine replied. "Lois died nine months ago, my son and I don't talk, and I seem to be clocking more hours than when I was a cop. Otherwise, it's not so bad."

"I'm sorry about your wife," Higgins said after a pause. "At least you haven't lost your sense of humor."

"I'm told it's the last thing to go."

The driver circled the Strip. It had grown into a real city, the old stalwarts like Caesars Palace and the Trop dwarfed by silly-looking pyramids and medieval castles, each new property standing belly to butt with an established hotel, the new kids pushing out the old. Sin City was morphing into Disney World.

"How'd you get into the consulting racket?" Higgins asked.

"After Lois died, I had nothing to do. One day the phone rings. Head of security for Trump Casinos in Atlantic City asks if I'd be interested in viewing some surveillance tapes. I explain to said gentleman that I'm retired and no longer among the living. Said gentleman offers me a hundred bucks an hour, minimum thirty hours a month, and my business was born."

Higgins whistled through his teeth. "They're paying you three grand a month to watch surveillance videos?"

"They sure are."

"You working for other casinos?"

Valentine nodded. His uncanny ability to sniff out hustlers had saved Atlantic City's casinos millions over the years, and his opinion was eagerly sought. Along with Social Security and his pension, he now made the kind of living he'd always dreamed about. If only Lois were here to show him how to spend it.

"How's things by you?" Valentine asked.

"Crazy," Higgins replied. "I always envied you guys in Atlantic City. Protecting twelve casinos is nothing compared to the sixty-two I've got out here."

"Running a skeleton crew sure doesn't help," Valentine said.

The driver let out a laugh. Higgins didn't see the humor; a scowl twisted his face. When it came to gambling, Las Vegas bested Atlantic City in every department but one-gaming control. Higgins's bureau employed a measly three hundred agents to do everything from collect taxes to prosecute cheats, while Atlantic City employed twelve hundred strong. Compared to the Garden State bureau, Higgins's operation was Third World at best.

"What's gotten into you?" Higgins wanted to know.

"I want to know who told you I was coming to town."

"A snitch on my payroll told me," he said icily.

"Someone I know?"

"I don't think so."

The Acropolis's legendary fountains came into view. Nick Nicocropolis's voluptuous harem of ex-wives looked as unappetizing as Valentine last remembered. Making one mistake in your lifetime was acceptable, but six was a crime.

"I want to warn you," Higgins said. "Nick Nicocropolis is running a shaky operation. He's not filing CTRs with the IRS on high rollers, which can only mean he's skimming money to stay afloat. If we decide to nail him, I'll give you a heads-up so you can get out of town."

"I really appreciate that, Bill."

"No problem. Now, let me ask you a question. I'm sure you've seen the tapes of this guy who beat them. Any idea what he's doing?"

"Either he's reading the dealer's body language," Valentine said, "or she's signaling him."

"You don't think he might be doing something else?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's come up with a new way of beating the house. Like card counting."

It had not occurred to Valentine that Slick might be doing something new. No wonder Bill was biting his nails. A third of the people who gambled in Las Vegas did so at the blackjack tables. If Slick had developed a method to beat the house, the game of blackjack would have to be drastically changed, or worse, discontinued altogether.

"I don't think so," Valentine said. "If this guy had a new system, he wouldn't have come back three times. My instincts tell me the girl's involved."

"You think they're a team?" Higgins asked.

"It crossed my mind."

His friend breathed a sigh of relief and looked straight ahead. He was part Navajo and rarely made eye contact while speaking. "Well, that certainly puts a whole new light on the situation."

"Why? You weren't thinking of dropping charges, were you?"

"I was until now."

"Did you grill her?"

"A detective over at Metro is interrogating her right now," Higgins said. "That's where I'm heading after I drop you off. You can join me if you want."

"Sounds great," Valentine said.

They had reached the Acropolis's front entrance. Years ago, it had been something special, but now it was a borderline dump. Higgins leaned forward and spoke to the driver. He retraced their route and soon they were back on the Maryland Parkway.

"You miss the work, don't you?" Higgins asked.

"Every goddamn day," Valentine replied.

For someone who'd never been arrested, spending twenty-four hours in a holding cell in the bowels of Metro LVPD headquarters was a nightmare with no point of reference. It did not compare to a rotten day at work or getting fired or a head-splitting hangover. It was more like all of those experiences rolled together and then doused with gasoline and lit on fire. And because Nola Briggs didn't know better, she'd allowed a slinky black transvestite named Jewel to befriend her.

"This your first time, ain't it, honey?" Jewel had asked, her homespun Southern drawl dripping sincerity.

They sat on a bench in a steel cage with eleven other desperate-looking women. Nola nodded her head.

"Well," Jewel went on, "these bitches might look mean, but we're all the same deep down inside. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I guess," Nola mumbled.

"You keep your chin up," Jewel said, patting Nola's knee. "To survive in here, you got to be strong."

Nola nodded, fingering the tiny St. Christopher's medallion the police had missed during her strip-down. It had been her mother's and her mother's before her.

"Who's the little guy?" Jewel asked.

"My bodyguard," Nola said, pulling the pendant from her shirt so Jewel could have a look. "He goes wherever I go."

"He sure is pretty," the transvestite said, nearly drooling.

Hooking her manicured forefinger around the pendant, Jewel popped the chain, tossed St. Christopher into her mouth, and swallowed him. The cell erupted in jeers and catcalls.

"Give it back," Nola cried, bouncing her tiny fists against Jewel's chest. "Goddamn it, give it back!"

"Next time I shit," Jewel said, hopping off the bench.

A short time later, a bald detective led Nola upstairs to a windowless interrogation room and handcuffed her to a steel chair bolted to the floor. She laid her head on the pocked table and cried herself to sleep.

When the detective returned, Nola's boyfriend Raul was with him, his arms and legs manacled together. Raul's cocoa-brown eyes briefly met hers, then stared gloomily at the floor. A second chair was brought in. The detective handcuffed Raul to it, then departed without a word, slamming the door loudly.

Nola leaned on the table, trying to get as close to Raul as possible. He was the prettiest man she'd ever known, with high, sensual cheekbones and skin the color of toffee, as good outside of bed as he was in it, with a smile for any occasion and a laugh as uplifting as a hit song on the radio. So what if he wasn't educated and made his living washing dishes for five-fifty an hour? Let her friends make all the fun of Raul they wanted: He was the real thing, an honest-to-goodness man who treated her with respect and kindness and constant affection, and she was going to hold onto him as long as she could.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "What happened?"

She saw his feminine eyes well up with tears.

"I'm screwed," he said.

"Why? What on earth did they say?"

"They're going to deport me," he moaned.

Nola nearly bit her tongue.

"I went to your place after work," he explained. "The cops were there. They sat me down, started asking questions. One of them wanted to see my papers. I showed him, and he saw my green card had expired."

"You let it expire?" Nola said, starting to cry. "No! No! No!"

"He said you cheated the casino," Raul went on, "and if you didn't come clean, they were going to screw me."

"It's a lie," Nola spit angrily, her tears bouncing off the table like drops of rain. "I didn't cheat anybody. How can they say such a thing? I've worked there for ten goddamn years."

"I know," Raul said, his voice a whisper. "I told them: My baby, she's never cheated anybody; her heart's as pure as gold. But they don't want to listen. They say they know you're guilty. They say you're guilty as sin."

"I didn't do anything," Nola screamed defiantly, the tears bursting from her eyes and splashing her lover. "I swear on my mother's grave I wasn't in on it. The guy somehow knew the cards I was holding." She began to bawl, her chin touching her chest. "I couldn't do anything. Why didn't Wily take me off the table if he thought I was cheating?"

"I don't know, baby; I don't know," Raul said, his voice as soothing as a morning dove's coo.

"He's trying to pin it on me so he can save his ass," she sobbed, lifting her head and looking at him, her eyes red and distorted. "He's so fucking stupid."

"What you going to do?" Raul said.

"I'm sticking to my story," Nola replied, her fear turning to rage. "I didn't do anything. I don't hang around with hustlers; my record is clean. I've won Dealer of the Month ten times. They have no evidence, no proof. They let the guy who was doing the cheating go and arrested me. Well, that won't stand up in court."

"I already told them all those things," Raul said.

"And what did they say?"

"They said if you don't help them, they're going to screw me." Raul paused, hoping she'd change her story. Back in Tijuana, he had a mother and two baby sisters who stood by a mailbox each week, awaiting his check. "You sure you don't know this guy?"

"I swear to God, Raul-I've never seen him before."

Her boyfriend found the strength to laugh.

"Well," he said, "then I guess it's adios, baby."

"You know why a Mexican is like a cue ball?" the Metro LVPD lieutenant handling the investigation asked, his open mouth fogging the interrogation room's two-way mirror. A few feet away, Higgins and Valentine sat on folding metal chairs. Higgins made a face. "Watch it," the GCB chief said.

"Because the harder you hit them, the more English you get out of them."

The chubby lieutenant's name was Pete Longo, and he was a scumbag. Instead of interrogating Nola properly, he'd chosen to haul in her boyfriend and use him to blackmail her. It was the dirtiest trick in the book and the type of thing that had given the Metro Las Vegas Police Department its sordid reputation.

"That's not funny," Higgins said testily. "Maybe I should sign you up for the cultural diversity class my department's conducting."

"Fuck cultural diversity," Longo said. He lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in their direction. He didn't appreciate Higgins's bringing another detective to the interrogation, even though Valentine was retired, and he was intent on showing his displeasure.

"Your humor is offensive," Higgins said.

Longo inhaled pleasurably on his cigarette. "I'm thinking of dropping charges."

"Like hell you are," Higgins snapped.

"You told me this morning she was innocent," Longo said.

"That was this morning," Higgins replied.

"Let me get this straight," the lieutenant said. "This morning you said the GCB wasn't interested in prosecuting Nola Briggs. Now you're telling me to hold her. I don't get it."

"I changed my mind," Higgins said. "You got a problem with that?"

Longo chuckled. "You're like that song. Should I stay or should I go? Make up your mind."

"I just did."

"But I don't want to press charges," Longo said stubbornly. "Your case sucks."

Higgins stood up and stuck his face within inches of the chubby lieutenant's. "Stop jerking me around, Pete. I'm telling you to treat this like any other case of cheating. I'll go directly to the judge if I have to."

Longo's face turned into one big sneer. In a measured tone, he said, "It's your call, Bill, but let me tell you something. I'm sick and tired of having the likes of Nick Nicocropolis telling us who we should and shouldn't arrest. It's bad enough my people spend their time dealing with crimes the casinos are causing, and not on the street fighting the drug dealers and street gangs that have migrated from L.A. during the past decade. The fact that this case is bullshit doesn't seem to bother you. Well, it bothers me. But, like I said, it's your call, my friend."

What a nice speech, Valentine thought. Longo had probably been waiting a long time to get on his soapbox and use it. The problem was, he had no right giving lectures. Judging by the size of his enormous gut, the lieutenant wasn't spending any more time chasing drug dealers than he had to.

"I'm glad we agree on something," Higgins said.

"Your case sucks." Longo jabbed his thumb at the sobbing lovebirds next door. "It doesn't add up. She rips off the Acropolis, but does she run? No, she goes home, fixes a sub, and watches the Cartoon Network. Am I the only one seeing an incongruity here?"

The blood had risen behind Higgins's tan, giving his face a dark, menacing quality. This was about to turn into a first-class pissing contest, and Valentine found himself wishing he'd checked into his hotel and turned on a ball game or, better yet, taken a nap. Smothering a yawn, he stared at Nola Briggs, who was still crying her heart out. She was really pretty, the kind of girl that got the little mouse on the treadmill going. He glanced at the clock hanging over them; her boyfriend had come into the room more than ten minutes earlier.

Fishing two shiny pennies from his pocket, Valentine tossed them to the floor. Longo looked at him like he wanted to bite his head off. "What?" the detective snarled.

"I want to say something."

"So say it."

"I just had an epiphany," Valentine announced.

"A what?" Longo said.

"A vision; a moment of truth."

"And you just had one," the lieutenant snarled.

"That's correct."

"Well, please share your epiphany with us."

"Nola is guilty as sin," he said.

Longo threw his arms in the air. "How can you know that, sitting there?"

Valentine got up and went to the mirror, eyeing Nola through the tinted glass. She was still bawling like a kid who'd lost her lunch money. He pointed at her.

"This isn't how innocent people act," he explained. "Look at the predicament she's in. Anyone else would be screaming for a lawyer. Not her. She just sits there, knowing we're watching, proclaiming her innocence. Who cares what we think? Telling the police she's innocent won't change her situation one bit. She's trying to convert us. Innocent people never do that."

Truth was the great elixir. The anger disappeared from Higgins's and Longo's faces.

"For argument's sake, let's say you're right," Longo said, the rancor gone from his voice. "You think the tapes are enough to convict her?"

"Probably not," Valentine said.

"Then I have to drop charges."

"Not right away. If I were you, I'd ask a judge to post a reasonable bail. Let her walk and put a tail on her. Fontaine will eventually show his face."

"You seem pretty certain about this," Longo said.

"I'd bet my reputation on it," Valentine replied.

Longo scratched the top of his balding crown. Officers of the law could be led to water but never made to drink. The lieutenant glanced at Higgins and said, "You agree?"

"If Tony says she's guilty, she's guilty," Higgins said. "I think it's a darn good idea."

Longo snorted contemptuously. "Two minutes ago, you were telling me to hold her. I hope you know what you're doing."

Higgins slapped Longo on the arm. The blow did not make a friendly sound. "I do. I want her watched twenty-four hours a day. Anything suspicious, call me. Think you can handle that between drug busts?"

Longo's face reddened; he knew Higgins was going to make him regret his little speech for a long time.

"Sure thing," the chubby lieutenant said.