Jackpot

Chapter 32

Not shooting Gerry Valentine had to be the stupidest thing Bronco had ever done. Gerry had seen the car in the storage facility, probably memorized the license plate. The fact that Bronco had spared him didn’t mean Gerry wasn’t going to tell the police what he’d seen once they rescued him. Bronco had killed plenty of men in his life, and had a feeling he was going to regret not killing this one.

He pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot and went through the side entrance into the Men’s Room. Standing before the mirror, he applied the nail polish Gerry had bought for him to his cheeks and forehead, then scrunched his face up while the nail polish dried. Within a few minutes he looked ten years older.

He bought himself a couple of burgers, and was surprised when the cashier handed him a Styrofoam cup. “Free coffee for older folks,” she said brightly.

He went outside with his coffee and his burgers. Opening the trunk of the Taurus, he inspected the items he’d put there years ago in case of an emergency. There was a high-powered hunting rifle with a long-range scope, a .25 Beretta, several boxes of ammo, two changes of clothes, and a cardboard box filled with disguises. From the box he removed a baseball cap that said ‘Reno, Biggest Little City in the World’ — and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Getting into the car, he put the cap and glasses on, then appraised himself in the mirror. He looked like a retiree, and fired up the car’s engine. If he drove real slow, he’d look like every other old geezer who tooled around Reno.

A police cruiser entered the parking lot. A pair of cops were checking out the cars, and Bronco unwrapped one of the burgers sitting on the seat, and shoved it into his mouth. He drove past the cruiser and rolled his window down.

“Good afternoon, officers,” he said through a mouthful of food.

The two cops nodded, their faces all business.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

The cops stared right through him. Bronco had been disguising himself as an old man for years, and it never failed to work. It was like being invisible, only he got discounts on food and better service in restaurants.

“Have a nice day,” he called as he drove away.

Bronco thought about his situation while driving into the city. He could last a day or two changing his appearance, but not much more. The police would eventually track him down, and he’d end up back in jail. Just two days behind bars had convinced him that he wouldn’t last very long being locked up. He’d heard about ex-cons who’d killed themselves rather than go back to the joint, and always thought the stories were crazy. Now, he didn’t think they were crazy at all.

He needed money, and lots of it. Money would buy him time, and time was freedom. It was as simple as that. He knew just how to get it.

The outskirts of Reno had more stores than the city itself, and he pulled into a strip shopping center, and parked by a neighborhood pub called Woody’s. Inside, he found a bunch of armchair quarterbacks sucking beer and watching the local news on a giant screen TV. A breathless newscaster was describing his escape from the police station that morning, and the resulting manhunt which was taking place across the state. He threw a ten dollar bill on the bar, and asked for a glass of tomato juice and quarters to use the pay phone.

“Phone’s in back,” the bartender said, sliding his drink and change across the bar.

The phone booth was next to the kitchen. Bronco slid onto the seat while staring at his enlarged mug shot on the TV. The newscaster said, “If there is a happy footnote to this story, it’s that the guard who was attacked at the jail, Karl Klinghoffer, was resuscitated by another guard, and is expected to make a full recovery.”

Bronco found himself nodding. He’d liked Karl. Like a lot of cops, Karl had larceny in his heart, and had been easy to manipulate. Placing the receiver into the crook of his neck, he dialed from memory the number of the cheating gaming agent at the Nevada Gaming Control Board. Moments later, an automated voice told him to put in three dollars and sixty-five cents. Bronco fed the coins in, and his call went through.

“Hello?” a man’s voice said.

“It’s me,” Bronco said. “Go outside, and call me back at this number.”

“You! How dare you—”

“Just do as I say,” Bronco told him. He recited the number printed on the pay phone, then hung up. Two minutes later, the phone rang.

“How’s it going,” Bronco said.

“You crummy bastard,” the cheating agent screamed. “I heard what you did. You offered to sell me down the river if the police let you out of jail. How dare you call me!”

“Calm down,” Bronco said.

“Fuck you!”

“I broke out of jail this morning,” Bronco said. “I’m on the lam.”

There was a long silence. Then, “You didn’t give me up?”

“Of course not,” Bronco said, sipping his tomato juice. “That was a bullgarbage story put out by the police. They were trying to smoke you out.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Believe what you want.”

Another silence. “Why did you call me?”

“I need money.”

“Like I’m going to wire it to you? Get real.”

Bronco’s hand tightened around the receiver. The cheating gaming agent was a real head case. He’d gotten pissed off at his employer a few years ago, and decided to pay him back by taking dead aim at the casinos. A revenge thing.

“Listen to me,” Bronco said. “As long as I’m free, you’re free. Understand?”

Another silence. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good. I want you to go back to your office, and find me a slot machine in Reno that’s ready to be ripped off.”

“I already gave you one of those,” the agent said.

“It’s been used.”

“By who?”

“I gave it to a guard in the jail.”

“A guard? How stupid is that?”

Had they been in the same room, Bronco would have strangled him. Fucking civil servant who discovered that the people he worked for were scum and had developed a self-righteous attitude because of it.

“He helped me get out of jail,” Bronco said.

The agent let out an exasperated breath. “Give me five minutes.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bronco said.

Bronco drank his tomato juice and watched TV while he waited. The pub had several slot machines, and he had to force himself not to play them. Slots in bars were “tight” and rarely paid out, and he’d always enjoyed ripping them off.

But he didn’t do it. He needed to show restraint if he was going to stay out of jail. That was what tripped most criminals up. They followed certain behavior patterns that were recognizable and allowed the police to track them down. For him, it was playing the slots. If he could just stay away, he’d be okay.

He got another glass of tomato juice from the bartender. Over the years, he’d devised dozens of ways to cheat the slots, and liked to think of himself as an innovator. He’d been the first cheater to tie a piece of monofilament to a coin, drop it into a machine, and jerk it back out. It let him play for free, always a fun proposition. He had invented that scam and many more, but they didn’t compare to what the cheating agent at the GCB was doing. Every day, sitting in his office in Las Vegas, the agent was rigging slot machines in all corners of the state. The agent had figured out how to rig the machines using his own field agents, all of whom were oblivious to what was going on. It was better than any scam Bronco had ever heard of, and he knew its secret.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. Bronco snatched it up. “Where you been?”

“Looking at your mug shot on the department’s web site,” the cheating agent said. “Every cop in the state is hunting you. The casinos are on the alert, too.”

“Fuck ’em,” Bronco said.

“Suit yourself. One of the Drew Carey’s Big Balls of Cash machines at the Peppermill is ready to pay off. Jackpot will be ninety-six hundred and change. That enough money for you?”

Bronco liked most of the slot machines which featured celebrities, but he hated the Drew Carey machines. Every time a person played, a recording came on of the comic berating the player. It was sick, even by his standards.

“That’s enough,” Bronco said.

“Good. You’re going to need a claimer for the jackpot,” the agent said.

“You think so?”

“I sure do. The governor has ordered every casino to ID anyone who wins a jackpot, regardless of the amount.”

Bronco clenched his teeth. He would have to find a claimer, and he’d have to find them fast. Another headache.

“Which machine?” Bronco asked.

“I want you to promise me something, first.”

“I don’t make promises,” Bronco said.

“Well, you’re going to have to make an exception with me. I want you to promise me that this is it. No more phone calls. The partnership is dissolved.”

Bronco felt the veins in his head popping the skin, his brain twirling the way it did when he grew enraged. No one strong-armed him. No one.

“Sure,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I want to hear you say it,” the agent said.

“I promise,” he grunted.

The agent was stupid. He believed there was honor among thieves. He told Bronco which Drew Carey machine at the Peppermill was rigged, and Bronco slammed down the phone without saying goodbye.

Bronco walked through the pub. On the TV, the local news had started over, the lead story his daring escape from jail. He remembered the old Don Henley song about dirty laundry, and felt a tingle knowing that he was giving people their jollies.

The picture on the TV showed the local hospital. Standing in the parking lot was a male newscaster, beside him a young woman. She was a country girl, with freckles and a flat, unhappy face, with a small boy clutching her dress. The swipe at the bottom of the screen identified her as Rebecca Klinghoffer. Karl’s bride, he thought.

The newscaster was trying to make Karl Klinghoffer’s survival into a story, but Rebecca Klinghoffer was having none of it. Her face was drained of emotion, and she answered the newscaster’s questions in monosyllabic bursts.

Bronco started to walk away, then caught sight of the glimmering stone hanging around Rebecca Klinghoffer’s neck. It was a tear-shaped diamond pendant. The rest of her clothes and jewelry were ordinary, but not the pendant. At least two carats, the insetting made of platinum. Bronco had told Karl to buy her wife something pretty, and Karl had bought her that wonderful diamond. That was why she was acting defensive on the television. She was afraid.

Bronco left the pub with a smile on his face. He had found his claimer.

Chapter 33

Mabel was stuck in traffic. Normally, the drive to the Micanopy casino in Tampa took forty minutes, and required crossing the bay over a long bridge, driving past downtown Tampa, and heading east on I-4 toward Orlando. That was on a normal day. Today, the roads were a parking lot, and she weighed calling Running Bear on her cell phone, and telling him she would be late.

Traffic started to move. People drove at two speeds in Florida — fast, or not at all. Hitting the gas, she remembered a conversation she’d had with Tony about Running Bear. According to her boss, the chief was a true opportunist.

Five years ago, the city of Tampa had decided to build an ice hockey arena, and floated a hundred and sixty million dollar bond for the project. As construction workers started to dig the foundation, they were shocked to find hundreds of human bones. The bones were tested, and discovered to be several hundred years old.

A few days later, Running Bear appeared before the Tampa city council, wearing his full tribal regalia. He had produced documentation which showed the Micanopy’s had settled Tampa well before any white man. The chief claimed the bones were his ancestors’, and said that if the city continued to dig, he would sue.

Tampa’s politicians caved in, and offered Running Bear a piece of land to bury his ancestors’ bones. The site was on the outskirts of town, in driving distance to every other major city outside Tampa. Running Bear accepted the deal, and a week later broke ground to build a casino.

Mabel had reached Malfunction Junction, the infamous spot in Tampa’s highway system where all the major traffic arteries met. It was like something out of a third-world country, the exits appearing too quickly for any sane motorist. Luckily, Tampa’s drivers were kind-hearted, and a car in the next lane flashed its brights, allowing her to merge and take the I-4 exit.

She pulled into the casino parking lot exactly on time. The lot was filled with cars and tour buses, and she spotted a tall, striking looking Indian male with long flowing hair standing by the entrance. He was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and cowboy boots, and as he stepped out from the shadows, the years showed on his face like cracks in an old wall. He pointed at a parking space that had been cordoned off with tape, and Mabel realized he’d had it saved just for her.

Running Bear introduced himself, and led Mabel into the casino while explaining that the tribe’s seven elders were waiting upstairs. The dealer in question had filed a formal complaint against Running Bear, and claimed he was being harassed.

“Don’t tell me your job is in jeopardy,” Mabel said.

“I am an elected official, so I can’t lose my job,” the chief said. “But I can lose my integrity, and that means as much to me.”

Besides being packed with people, the casino was filled with smoke. As they walked past the tables, Mabel saw several employees staring at her. Their looks made her uncomfortable, and she stayed close to the chief’s side.

They reached the elevators and Running Bear hit the button. He looked worried, and without thinking Mabel patted him on the arm.

“Don’t worry, chief. We’ll straighten this situation out, trust me.”

“Thanks,” he said.

A minute later, Mabel and the chief entered a conference room with carpeted walls. The Micanopy’s seven elders sat at a long table with three pitchers of ice water with lemon, and a tray of upturned glasses. That was it for the niceties.

The elders rose, and nodded to their visitor. Like Running Bear, they were dressed like they’d just come off a farm, and wore jeans and flannel shirts. They were in their seventies, and Mabel guessed they shared similar blood lines, their faces identical in many ways. Like bullets fired out of the same gun, she thought. Running Bear pulled two chairs in front of the table, and they seated themselves.

“Ms. Struck is employed by Tony Valentine, the consultant who helped us catch the cheaters at our south Florida casino last year,” Running Bear said. “Ms. Struck has watched the poker dealer who’s under suspicion, and like me, believes he should be terminated. I asked Ms. Struck to come here, and explain why this dealer’s actions are harmful to our casino. Ms. Struck, the floor is yours.”

Mabel stared at the elders. They were sour pusses, and she smiled at them pleasantly. The elder in the center seat cleared his throat. He looked close to eighty, and wore his silver hair in a pony tail.

“Ms. Struck,” he began.

“Call me Mabel,” she said brightly.

“Very well, Mabel. I’d like—”

“Excuse me, but I didn’t get your name,” Mabel said.

His eyes narrowed. Mabel saw an elder sitting at the table’s end whisper in the ear of the elder beside him. The man broke into a smile.

“William Bowlegs,” he said. “Call me Billy.”

“Very well, Billy. What can I do for you?”

Bowlegs poured himself a glass of water from one of the pitchers. Mabel guessed he wasn’t used to being spoken to like a normal person, which was too bad. It was what got so many important people in trouble. Bowlegs started again. “I have also watched the poker dealer who’s under suspicion, and cannot understand what all the commotion is about. Yes, the dealer is guilty of making a mistake in the way he handled the cards. But he was not working with any players at the table — we’ve proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Therefore, the dealer wasn’t cheating. And if he wasn’t cheating, I don’t see how we can terminate him.”

Mabel heard defensiveness in Bowlegs’ voice, and wondered what the dealer’s connection was to him. It was common among native American casinos to have dozens of family members working together, a practice that was unheard of anywhere else.

“Billy, have you ever heard of a man named John Scarne?” she asked.

Bowlegs shook his head. The elder sitting beside him said, “He wrote several books on gambling, didn’t he?”

“That’s correct. Scarne was considered the world’s authority on gambling. He was also an authority on cheating with cards.” Taking her purse off the floor, Mabel removed a deck of cards and opened it. “Scarne believed the most important aspect of every game was enforcing the rules. Back in his day, there were different rules in different parts of the country. This was true in private games, and inside casinos.

“It was also a common form of cheating. A sucker would be brought into a card game, and lose to a nothing hand. The locals would tell the sucker that the losing hand was a ‘Lolapalooza,’ and the strongest hand you could get.”

The elders broke into smiles. Suddenly, one of them laughed. Then, all of them laughed. When the noise died down, Bowlegs said, “Is that really true?”

“It most certainly is,” Mabel said.

“White men!” he said.

The elders started laughing again.

After a minute, the elders had their poker faces back on.

“When World War II broke out, Scarne heard stories about soldiers being swindled in crooked games,” Mabel went on. “He went to the Army, and offered to tour the camps, and teach soldiers how to protect themselves. Now, you may wonder what this has to do with your problem and it’s simply this: One of the things Scarne did was to get everyone to play by the same rules. This was especially true for poker. And because of Scarne’s hard work, everyone now plays by the same rules. Except for you folks.”

The words had come out of her mouth with just the right amount of punch, and the elders straightened in their chairs. Mabel leaned forward, and looked them dead in the eye. “You’ve got a dealer who’s dealing off the bottom, and that’s a cheating move. Watch.”

Holding the cards in dealing grip, Mabel did her best impersonation of a bottom deal. It wasn’t pretty, but the elders got the picture.

“Just because it hasn’t affected the game doesn’t mean a crime hasn’t been committed,” she said. “The rules are the rules. If you won’t follow them, you don’t deserve to be in the casino business.”

“Couldn’t it have been an accident?” Bowlegs pleaded.

“No,” Mabel said firmly.

“But the players at the table—”

“I know, none were involved,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean the dealer wasn’t cheating. Look, maybe one of the players was involved, only you somehow missed it. The fact is this: The dealer was setting you up. You caught him, and he needs to be terminated.”

“On what grounds?” Bowlegs said.

Mabel hesitated. Bowlegs was challenging her, despite everything she’d just told him. His hands were resting on the table, and she found herself staring at them. On the back of the right hand was a tattoo of a bird, just like the crooked dealer. The two men were somehow related, either by blood, or some tribal organization.

Mabel dropped the playing cards into her purse. She had stepped into a hornet’s nest, and saw no reason to let herself be stung. She rose from her chair.

“Excuse me, gentleman, but I think it’s time for me to go. Have a nice day.”

The elders mouths dropped open. So did Running Bear’s.

She left without another word.

Chapter 34

Bronco drove into Reno. There was not a cop in sight. The police had formed roadblocks on the highways, and were inspecting cars trying to leave town. He knew this because a dumb disc jockey was broadcasting it on his traffic report.

Pulling into a gas station, he got out and popped his trunk. Karl Klinghoffer’s uniform was balled up in the back, and he rifled the pants pockets and found Karl’s wallet and driver’s license. Memorizing the address on the license, he went inside, and found a helpful attendant. He repeated the address, and the attendant gave him instructions.

Karl lived on the fancy side of town. Ten minutes later Bronco parked across the street from the address. The street was lined with old three-story Victorian homes, many of which had been restored and looked like something on a Hollywood movie set. It seemed out of a prison guard’s price range. Then, Bronco spied the dwelling behind the house. An old converted garage with an outside staircase. That was more like it.

He shuffled across the street, doing his best old man impersonation. He’d always been good at acting. A woman he’d stolen jackpots with in Las Vegas years ago had coached him. She’d had professional lessons and could play any role; lonely spinster, drunk, innocent country girl. Her acting was so good she’d flown under every casino’s radar. The last Bronco had heard, she was in Hollywood, acting on a popular TV sitcom. He walked up a path to Karl’s house. Reaching the garage, he pressed his face to the glass cut-out on the door. The interior was dusty, and a white SUV plastered with bumper stickers was parked inside. One said, HE IS RISEN. Another said, THE LORD LOVES ME — HOW ABOUT YOU?

He took the stairs to the second floor. He hadn’t pegged Karl as the religious type, but it made sense. Religion scared people into being good, but it didn’t mean they were good. It just meant they were more afraid of the consequences of being bad.

He reached the landing, and stopped to watch a police cruiser pass on the street. When it was gone, he found himself staring at the houses to either side of Karl’s. Many had swimming pools and backyard barbecues and all the trappings of the great American dream. It had been his dream once, too — he’d accepted long ago that he couldn’t steal from the casinos his whole life — but then his dream had been taken away from him. He got angry thinking about it, and rapped on the door.

No answer, so he rapped loudly again. Earlier that day, when he’d escaped from jail, he’d had Karl’s keys in his hand, but had no idea where they were now. Lifting his leg, he kicked the door. It was flimsy and easily gave way. He stuck his head in.

“Anyone home?” he said in an old man’s voice. Still nothing. Going inside, he shut the door behind him.

He entered the kitchen, a cold, impersonal room with yellow linoleum and bare counter tops. He was hungry, and opened the refrigerator to find milk, eggs and a loaf of Wonder Bread. He tried the pantry, and found it filled with canned goods and bags of rice. Maybe that was Karl’s problem; his wife didn’t feed him.

There was a small table in the kitchen’s center covered with sheets of paper filled with a child’s handwriting. Bronco picked up a page, and stared at verses from the Bible that had been painstakingly written, then glanced at the header. It said HOMEWORK. He placed the page back on the table, then saw a coloring book. Opening it, he stared at a kid’s drawing of a bearded man in a robe that he guessed was Jesus Christ. Jesus was holding a sign which said: Abortion. Big People Killing Little People.

“Drop it, mister,” a woman’s voice said.

Bronco dropped the coloring book on the table, and glanced over his shoulder. Rebecca Klinghoffer stood in the open doorway, aiming a handgun at him with both hands. He stared at the diamond pendant dangling around her neck, then into her eyes. She looked scared out of her wits. He stepped toward her.

“Give me the gun,” he said.

“I’ll do no such thing. You think you can break into my house and start ordering me around? Well, you’ve got another think coming, mister. I’m going to call the police and have them lock you up. You’re going to rue the day you ever decided to rob me.”

She looked about thirty, sounded about fifteen. Bronco said, “The gun.”

“Keep it up, and you’re a goner.”

Bronco stuck his hand out. “Give it to me.”

Bronco saw a child’s pair of eyes peeking around the doorsill. Rebecca saw them too, and said, “Karl, Junior, get back to your bedroom this instant, and lock the door.”

The eyes vanished. Bronco looked at Rebecca, and saw the gun trembling in her hand. He said, “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” she said.

“I work for the casino that your husband robbed yesterday,” he said. “Your husband stole a jackpot from my casino. We have it on a surveillance tape. I heard about your husband getting injured on the TV, so my casino is willing to offer you a deal. Just give us the money back, and we won’t have you and your husband arrested.”

Rebecca brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no. He didn’t—”

“Tell you where the money came from?” Bronco said.

Rebecca shook her head. “No. Honest, sir.”

“It came from my casino.”

She lowered the gun and started to cry. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

“Do you know what happens to people that cheat casinos?” Bronco asked. “They’re sent to federal penitentiaries where they serve anywhere from four to six years, hard time. Their homes and cars and bank accounts are seized by the state, and their kids are taken away from them, and put in foster homes. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No,” she said fearfully.

“Then give me back the money. That’s all I’m asking.”

Rebecca held up the diamond pendant and stifled a tiny sob. “He bought me this.”

Bronco stepped forward and stared at the pendant like his eyesight wasn’t so good. Scrunching up his face, he said, “You don’t have the money?”

“No, sir.”

He scratched his chin. “Would you be willing to earn it back?”

“I’d be willing to do whatever you want, mister,” she said.

Two minutes ago she’d been ready to shoot him. He hadn’t lost his touch, and he flashed the thinnest of smiles.

“Good,” he said.

“Have you ever heard of an overpay?” Bronco asked.

Rebecca Klinghoffer was driving her SUV toward the Peppermill casino in downtown Reno while looking in her mirror. Karl Junior was strapped in the backseat, watching videos on a tiny TV. “What’s that you’re watching?” she asked suspiciously.

“Just cartoons,” her son replied.

“Not Japanese cartoons?”

“No ma’am.”

“Japanese cartoons are evil,” Rebecca said, glancing at Bronco in the passenger seat, and then, finally, at the road. “What’s an overpay?”

“It’s a flaw in a slot machine’s wiring which causes it to overpay, and give away jackpots. The people who service the slot machines occasionally discover them. They’re supposed to fix the machines, but sometimes they don’t. Instead, they sell the information to someone, and that person goes and plays the machine.”

Rebecca lowered her voice. “Is that what my husband did?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bronco said.

They had reached the Peppermill’s entrance, and she pulled behind a long line of cars waiting for a valet, and threw the SUV into park. “You haven’t told me how I’m supposed to earn this money back,” she said.

“Inside the Peppermill is a slot machine which also overpays. I’ll tell you how to play the machine. You will win a jackpot slightly under ten thousand dollars, which you’ll give to me. Once you do that, we’ll be even, and I’ll disappear from your life.”

Rebecca swallowed hard. “Wait a minute. That’s stealing.”

“That’s the deal. Take it, or leave it.”

She thought it over. He had scared the daylights out of her with the talk of prison, and he saw her nod. “All right. I’ll do it. Are you going in with me?”

“I’ll be nearby with your son.”

“He can be a handful,” she said.

Bronco glanced at the kid in back. Karl Junior wore the glassy-eyed expression of a child that watched too much television, but otherwise seemed a normal kid.

“Nothing that an ice cream cone won’t cure,” Bronco said.

My baby is with a strange man, Rebecca Klinghoffer thought, sitting at a Drew Carey Great Balls of Money slot machine on the main floor of the Peppermill. It didn’t matter that Karl Jr. and the man were standing only twenty feet away, or that her son was eating a chocolate ice cream cone. It still felt wrong. Rebecca waved to her son, while thinking about what she was going to do to her husband once he got out of the hospital. She would make Karl Sr. pay, that was for sure.

She unclasped her purse while remembering the man’s instructions. Put three coins into the machine, pull the handle; then drop two coins, pull the handle; then drop one coin, and pull the handle. Once she’d done that, Rebecca was supposed to drop five coins — the maximum — and pull the handle. That would make the Drew Carey machine overpay.

She took a roll of half dollars out of her purse which she’d gotten at the cage a minute ago. She fed three coins into the machine, and heard an electronic plunk! Then she grabbed the machine’s handle. Her daddy the preacher called slot machines the Devil’s playthings, and said they were evil. She pulled the handle anyway.

The reels spun, then stopped. Two cherries and two lemons. A loser. From out of the machine came Drew Carey’s unmistakable voice.

“Step right up — we need another sucker!”

The woman playing the machine beside Rebecca started laughing. Rebecca didn’t think it was funny at all. It was more like a slap in the face. She put two coins into the machine and repeated the process. This time, three strawberries and an orange came up. Another loser.

“Don’t give up,” Drew Carey’s voice proclaimed. “We want to build another wing on the casino!”

Rebecca glanced at her son, and saw him pigging out on his cone, wearing it on his chin and shirt. She hated when he did that, but right now it seemed the most wonderful thing in the world. She deposited a single coin, and pulled the handle. Another loser. “Ohhh, I’m so sorry, I guess that means another walk to the A.T.M.!”

Rebecca wanted to kick the machine. Drew Carey’s sarcastic comments had gotten her so mad that she no longer felt bad about ripping the Peppermill off. The machine had injured her, and she was about to injure it right back. What did it say in the Bible? An eye for an eye. And then some, she thought, putting five coins in and pulling the handle.

Within thirty seconds of winning a jackpot, a team of security people were swarming around her. Rebecca remained seated, and said nothing. The woman who’d been laughing at her a minute ago had become her new best friend, and whacked Rebecca enthusiastically on the back while calling to others in the casino to come over, and see what Rebecca had done.

What Rebecca had done was to win a ninety-six hundred dollar jackpot and shut Drew Carey up, the comedian not offering a single word of praise. Slot machines were evil things that preyed upon human weakness, and Rebecca promised herself that she’d never play another one for as long as she lived.

She glanced over at her son. Karl Jr. had finished his cone, and was clapping his hands enthusiastically, the man from the casino standing behind him, his hand on Karl Jr.’s shoulder. In church, Rebecca had heard stories about parents who lifted cars off their children in order to save their lives. The minister had attributed these incredible feats to God, but Rebecca knew better. They were acts of desperation, fueled by fear.

She had not wanted Karl, Jr. to go to a foster home. Anything but that.

She blew a kiss to her son, and saw him smile.

Chapter 35

Valentine was on the balcony of his suite on the eleventh floor of the Peppermill, watching the neon gradually replace the fading sun, when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, and stared at its face. It was Bill.

“Hey.”

“How you feeling?” Bill asked.

Valentine frowned into the phone. He’d been assaulted, shot at, and believed he’d lost his son, all in the space of a few short hours. How did Bill think he was feeling?

“Never been better. What’s up?”

“Something just came up I think you should be aware of,” Bill said. “Are you in your room at the Peppermill?”

“Sure am.”

“Good. One of my field agents just called me from the Peppermill. A woman just won a jackpot on a slot machine. My agent was in the surveillance control room, and watched the woman play the machine. The agent said the woman didn’t get excited or show any real emotion.”

“Maybe she was looped,” Valentine said.

“That’s what I thought. My agent did some digging, and discovered two things that make me think he’s on to something. The woman is the wife of the guard who Bronco attacked at the police station this morning.”

“I thought the guard nearly died. What’s she doing playing the slots?”

“That’s why my agent was wondering. The second thing is, the slot machine she played is the same one that my agent inspected this morning. He gave it a full diagnostic test with his laptop computer.”

“Was the machine clean?”

“Yes,” Bill said. “My agent said that the woman went to the machine, sat down, and won the jackpot in less than a minute.”

Valentine walked onto the balcony with the cordless phone. Down below, the Peppermill’s entrance was lined with cars, the real day for the casino about to begin. Gambling was like sex; people seemed to enjoy it most at night.

He went back inside. Something was staring him right in the face and he wasn’t seeing it. Lying on the bed were the files of the seven agents from the Electronic Systems Division that Gerry suspected of being their slot cheater.

“You still there?” Bill asked.

“I’m here,” Valentine said. “Let me ask you a question. The laptop computer that was used for the diagnostic test. Is your agent responsible for programming it?”

“No, that’s done in Las Vegas.”

“By who?”

“The Electronic Systems Division. They’re responsible for programming all the laptop computers we use.”

Bingo, he thought. “You just figured out the scam.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Your cheating agent is programming the laptops to scam slot machines all over the state. He’s letting your field agents do the dirty work for him.”

“For the love of Christ.”

“Where’s your field agent right now?”

“He’s still in the Peppermill’s surveillance control room,” Bill said. “It’s on the third floor of the casino.”

“Call him, and tell him I’ll be right down.”

Valentine ended the call and went to the door that joined his room to Gerry’s. He rapped loudly, and his son appeared a moment later wearing nothing but his briefs.

“Put your clothes on,” Valentine said. “I need you to help me catch a cheater.”

The Peppermill’s surveillance control room was a chilly, windowless space filled with some of the most sophisticated electronic surveillance equipment money could buy. The five technicians on duty were required to watch four rotating video monitors, while fielding phone calls from the floor below. Valentine had once heard the job likened to air traffic control. Long hours of boredom punctuated by random moments of stark terror.

The Nevada Gaming Control Board field agent who’d called Bill Higgins was waiting for them. His name was Jim Impoco. Tan, early forties and with an athletic build, he wore a blue blazer and a blazing red tie. GCB agents could go anywhere they wanted inside a casino, and Impoco had commandeered a corner of the surveillance control room for himself.

“That was fast,” Impoco said, shaking their hands.

“We’re known for our service,” Valentine said. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Impoco sat down at a computer, and typed a command into the keyboard. A tape of a young woman playing a Drew Carey slot machine appeared on the screen.

“That’s Rebecca Klinghoffer, the lady who won the jackpot,” Impoco said.

Valentine brought his face up to the screen. As Rebecca Klinghoffer played, she kept glancing nervously off to her right. Valentine had watched thousands of people play slots, maybe more. She wasn’t acting right.

“Where is she now?”

“Still downstairs on the main floor,” Impoco said. “The casino is stalling her, having her sign some meaningless papers.”

“That your idea?”

Impoco nodded.

“I want to see the tape of what she was looking at,” Valentine said.

Impoco called a technician over, and told him what he needed. The technician looked like a kid that had grown up wearing a cap with a little propellor on top. The technician noted the date and time on the tape of Rebecca Klinghoffer, then said, “This is going to take a few minutes, gentlemen.” and walked away before either of them could respond. Gerry, who hadn’t spoken a word since getting off the elevator, pointed at Impoco’s briefcase lying on the floor.

“Is your laptop in there?” his son asked.

Impoco nodded.

“Would you mind showing us how you use it to run the diagnostic test?”

There was a strained look on Impoco’s face, as if he knew that his running the inspection test and Rebecca Klinghoffer winning the jackpot were somehow linked. He put his briefcase on the desk, removed a Mac and powered it up. Within seconds they were hovering around the small but powerful computer.

“My laptop has a computer chip called a DEPROM, which can talk to the slot machine’s computer chip, called an EPROM,” Impoco explained. “With the DEPROM, I’m able to run tests on the slot machine’s computer, specifically its Random Number Generator chip.”

“Can someone inspect a slot machine without a DEPROM chip?” Valentine asked.

“No,” Impoco said. He played with the mouse on his laptop, and opened up the software used to run the inspection. “Each test lasts about fifteen minutes, with the slot machine running billions of numbers, which the laptop periodically analyzes to see if they’re truly random. The results are stored in the laptop, and sent back wirelessly to our headquarters.”

“So headquarters knows which machines are being inspected,” Valentine said.

“Yes. Our bosses read printouts every day. One bad machine can cost a casino a lot of money. We also collect information on the machine’s hold, which is sent to headquarters as well.”

The hold was the amount of profit the slot machine was making. Impoco played with the mouse some more, and brought up a sheet of information. “This is what I took off the machine after I did the inspection. Everything looks normal. But my gut tells me that I did something to alter that machine.”

Valentine understood exactly what Impoco was saying. Human beings had been listening to their guts since the beginning of time, and it was still the best barometer when dealing with crime.

“So what you’re saying is, if someone could gaff the DEPROM chip in your computer, they could corrupt any slot machine in the state,” Valentine said.

“Right,” Impoco said. “Only, there’s one problem. The software program would be huge, and take up a large portion of my hard drive.”

“Which you’d notice,” Gerry said.

“I sure would,” Impoco said. “I scanned the hard drive earlier. There are no hidden programs.”

Valentine felt like they were talking Greek. He knew how to start his computer, how to send and receive e-mail, and that was about it.

“Why would the program have to be large?” he asked.

“Because each slot machine has its own source code,” Impoco explained, “which is essentially the machine’s internal blueprint. The source code is protected by an electronic fingerprint, which is a string of thirty-two numbers and letters. Since there are over one hundred thousand slot machines in the state, and my testing is purely random, my laptop would have to have all electronic fingerprints in order to crack the machines.”

“And that would take up a lot of space,” Valentine said.

“Enough for me to notice,” Impoco replied.

“Here’s the surveillance tape you requested,” the tech called out from the other side of the room. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

A tape appeared on the monitor. Impoco, Valentine and his son leaned forward to stare. It showed the area of the casino which Rebecca Klinghoffer had been staring at. An elderly man with stooped shoulders stood in the picture. Beside him, a boy eating an ice cream cone. Valentine stared at the boy’s face. The apple hadn’t fallen very far from the tree. It was Rebecca’s son.

Valentine shifted his attention to the elderly man. He looked like he was developing a humpback, which happened to older people with arthritis. His face was a road map of the hard life, with more wrinkles than you could count. The elderly man didn’t look familiar, yet there was something about him which was familiar. Not his face or his appearance but something about the image he was projecting.

Valentine stepped back from the monitor. Sometimes the best way to look at a puzzle was from afar, and he kept stepping back until it hit him what was familiar.

It was the elderly man’s pants. They were his pants.

“Did Bronco steal my clothes out of the trunk of the car?” Valentine asked his son.

Gerry had seen it as well, and was practically jumping up and down.

“It’s him, Pop. The son-of-a-bitch is in the casino.”

Chapter 36

They took the elevator down to the casino. The doors parted, and Valentine and his son followed Impoco across the casino floor. The Peppermill was filled with elderly gamblers, maybe the most fervent gamblers known to man. Running through them was out of the question, and they elbowed their way toward the slot machines.

Valentine did a visual sweep of the floor. Rebecca Klinghoffer, her son and Bronco were nowhere to be seen, and he saw Impoco making a bee line toward the cage, where Rebecca would have collected her money. Impoco got the attention of the main cashier and asked where Rebecca had gone.

“She took her money and left,” the cashier said.

Impoco’s face went red, and he grabbed the bars of the cage. “I called down from upstairs, and specifically told you not to pay that woman off until I cleared it.”

“That’s right,” the cashier said.

“Then why did you?” Impoco asked.

“Because you called me back, and told me the woman was okay.”

“No, I didn’t.”

The phone in the cashier’s cage rang. Valentine heard Gerry calling him. He spun around, and saw his son standing twenty feet away, holding a house phone. Gerry hung up, and the phone in the cashier’s cage stopped ringing.

“It was Bronco,” Valentine told James. “He called and cleared it.” To the cashier, he said, “How long ago did they leave?”

“Couple of minutes,” the cashier said. “You might still catch them at the valet.”

The Peppermill’s valet stand resembled a car lot, with junkers and expensive sports cars parked side-by-side. Valentine went to the front of the line, his son and Impoco to the rear, determined to check every car before it left.

The valets had put up orange traffic cones to keep everyone driving at a safe speed. Valentine grabbed several, and used them to block off the exit. Hearing the screech of burning rubber, he lifted his head.

A white SUV had jumped onto a concrete median. It side-swiped a mini-van filled with people, then returned to the macadam. A valet ran toward it, waving frantically at the driver. The SUV sped up, and the valet dove out of its path.

Valentine froze in his tracks. The SUV was coming straight for him. Bronco was manning the wheel, Rebecca Klinghoffer riding shot, the kid strapped in back. He dropped the cones in his hands, and looked for someplace to hide.

There was none. He was a goner. He looked right at Bronco, and their eyes locked. He’d been chasing Bronco for as long as he could remember, making the guy’s life miserable every step of the way. Not the kind of thing to build a friendship over. When the SUV was on top of him, he dove instinctively to the ground.

The wheels passed inches from his head. Hugging the ground felt good, and he heard the SUV hit its brakes. It started to back up, and Valentine tried to roll away. Only, there wasn’t anyplace to roll away too.

From the car, he heard Rebecca Klinghoffer’s son screaming. The kid had Pavoratti’s lungs. It reminded Valentine of his granddaughter, who could scream so loud it set your hair on end. He braced himself to be run over, then heard Gerry’s voice.

“Don’t move, Pop!”

He lifted his head. A Cadillac Escalade leapt out of the line. It drove directly over Valentine, its wheels missing his body on both sides, then braked. It prevented the SUV from backing up onto him. Bronco hit the gas, and roared out of the valet stand.

Valentine crawled out from beneath the sports car. His son helped him to his feet, and brushed his father off.

“You okay, Pop?”

His son had been hell to raise, but was starting to make up for it.

“Never been better,” he said.

Chapter 37

Mabel’s cell phone rang as she was passing through downtown Tampa. It was Running Bear, and he was pouting. She hated when men did that.

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel safe in that room,” she said.

“I would trust the elders with my life,” he said. “They are honest men.”

“What about the bird tattoos on the lead elder’s hand?” she asked.

“What about it?”

“Your crooked dealer has the same tattoo. I think they’re related.”

“Not all. The bird is an old symbol among the Micanopys. It means may your crops prosper. Many tribal members wear those tattoos on their hands.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry I overreacted.”

“There is no need to apologize. May I make a suggestion? Lets take the elders to the surveillance control room, and show them a tape of our crooked dealer in action. If they see him deal off the bottom, perhaps they’ll be convinced.”

“You want me to come back?”

“Please, Mr. Struck.”

“Only if you protect me,” Mabel said.

The chief laughed softly into the phone. “Of course.”

Patience, Mabel knew, was more than just a virtue.

The first day she’d worked for Tony, he’d sat her down at his kitchen table, then gone into the other part of the house to get something. Mabel had watched the birds through the back window. Five minutes had passed, then ten. Annoyed, she’d started to get up. Tony returned, and sat down across from her.

“The first thing you have to learn in this business is patience,” he’d said.

So Mabel had taught herself how to be patient. It wasn’t easy. She was the type of person who wanted everything done yesterday. But over time she’d learned.

The situation at the Micanopy casino was a perfect example of being patient. She, Running Bear and the elders were crammed into a corner of the surveillance control room, watching a video of the crooked poker dealer taken several night ago. Ten minutes passed without anyone saying a word.

“There,” Mabel said, pointing at the screen. “Did you see that?”

The seven elders of the Micanopy nation leaned forward. So did Running Bear, who’d been leaning against the wall.

“See what?” asked Bill Bowlegs, the lead elder.

“Your dealer is staring at the discards on the table. He’s looking for certain cards. The way he paused is a dead giveaway. Can you freeze the frame?”

Bowlegs called to a technician. “Freeze it.”

The tape stopped. Mabel pointed at the discards. “There’s the Ace of Hearts and the Ace of Spades. As he picks up the discards, he’ll control those cards.”

“Play it,” Bowlegs called out.

The tape resumed playing. They watched the crooked dealer place the two aces on the bottom of the deck, then shuffle around them.

“Damn,” Bowlegs said. “I see what you mean.”

The other elders nodded. So did Running Bear.

“Let’s call him off the floor, and have a talk with him,” Bowlegs suggested.

Mabel put her hand on Bowleg’s sleeve. Every man in the room looked at her.

“May I make a suggestion?” she asked.

Bowlegs said yes with his eyes.

“We still don’t know what the scam is. I suggest you let him continue to deal, and watch him. Sooner or later, he’ll try it again, and then you’ll know.”

“You’re a smart lady, Ms. Struck.”

Mabel flashed her best southern smile. It was the first nice thing he or any of the other elders had said to her. “We’ll see about that,” she said.

An hour later, the crooked dealer made his move.

Cheating at poker was different than cheating casino games. Every casino game had a set limit on how much you could wager. As a result, a casino cheater had to beat a game many times in order to make any money. Poker was different: All a cheater had to do was win one big pot.

The game was seven card stud, with the first two cards dealt facedown. They had watched the crooked dealer pause as he was picking up the discards, and place four kings on the bottom. He shuffled around the kings, then dealt two rounds, dealing kings off the bottom to the player on his immediate right. The elders emitted a collective gasp.

“I’ll be damned,” Bowlegs said.

The game progressed, with the dealer dealing rounds of faceup cards to the players, with betting going on between rounds. When the fifth and sixth rounds were dealt, the dealer again dealt a pair kings off the bottom to the player on his right.

Bowlegs whistled through his teeth. “That pays a bonus.”

“What pays a bonus?” Mabel asked.

“Four kings. The casino pays a ten thousand dollar bonus to any player that gets four of a kind.”

Mabel drew back in her chair. Tony had always told her the bigger the crime, the bigger the crook. “So that’s the scam,” she said aloud.

Bowlegs rose from his chair. Mabel took the opportunity to take a hard look at him. He did indeed have bowed legs.

“I want him pulled off the floor and arrested,” Bowlegs said. “Agreed?”

Mabel interrupted him. “But we still don’t know what’s going on.”

“We don’t?”

“No. Remember the last time you caught him? When you interviewed the player he was helping, he proved to be innocent. My guess is, the man who just got the four kings is also innocent. That appears to be your crooked dealer’s MO.”

“His what?”

“Modus operandi. He deals winning hands to strangers.”

Bowlegs look flustered. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t have any early idea. Lets watch him, and find out,” Mabel said.

Bowlegs parked himself in his chair and resumed looking at the monitor. Out of the corner of her eye, Mabel caught Running Bear smiling at her. The chief seemed to be enjoying himself, and she gave him a wink.

Chapter 38

Valentine’s heart was racing. He wasn’t sure what was causing it; nearly being run over, or the spectacle his son was creating. Gerry had hopped back in the Escalade he’d used to save his father’s life, and was trying to chase Bronco. There was only one problem. The car’s owner, a muscular black guy, wanted his vehicle back. Valentine made Gerry get out of the car.

“But Bronco’s getting away,” his son protested.

“He already got away. Let the police run him down.”

“But...”

“This isn’t a rodeo, Gerry.”

“Meaning what?”

“We’re not cowboys. Let it go.” To the owner of the Escalade, he said, “Thanks a lot, buddy. Your car saved my life.”

The car’s owner nodded. “No problem, man.”

Valentine and his son entered the Peppermill. Impoco was in the lobby, talking to the police on his cell phone. Holding the valet slip of the getaway car, he read the license to the police operator. Finished, he hung up, and spoke to Valentine.

“You okay?”

“Never better.”

They followed Impoco into the casino. They went straight to the slot machine which Rebecca Klinghoffer had beaten, and watched a team of casino employees open the machine up, and test every conceivable bell and whistle that the machine had. Impoco went upstairs to the surveillance control room, got his laptop, and returned as the employees were finishing up. He plugged the laptop into the machine, and ran another diagnostic test. Thousands of numbers flashed by in the blink of an eye. When the test was done, Impoco stared at the laptop’s screen, then let out an exasperated breath.

“Damn it.”

“Let me guess,” Valentine said. “The machine is showing nothing wrong.”

“That’s right.”

Taking out his wallet, Impoco went to the cage on the other side of the casino. He exchanged ten bucks for a roll of quarters. Coming back, he sat down in the chair that Rebecca Klinghoffer had occupied. To Valentine he said, “If I remember correctly, she played the machine three times before winning the jackpot. The first time it was with three coins, the second time, two coins, and the third time, one coin. That sound right to you?”

Valentine thought about it. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Impoco repeated what Rebecca Klinghoffer had done. After losing his money three times, he put in five quarters — the maximum bet — and pulled the handle. The reels spun and the machine made lots of ridiculous noise. When the reels stopped, two cherries and two lemons were staring him in the face. A loser.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re terrible at this?” Drew Carey’s voice asked.

“How can you eat at a time like this?” Gerry asked.

Valentine had gone into the Peppermill’s coffee shop with his son. Once seated, they were brought a bowl of fresh fruit. The Peppermill had started out as a coffee shop that served enormous servings of fruit with every meal. Somehow, that had been parlayed into the largest hotel and casino in Reno. Valentine bit into a peach.

“I’m serious,” Gerry cajoled him.

“I eat because I’m working, and working makes me hungry,” Valentine said, taking another bite. “Remember, no matter how big a job is, it’s never more important than eating, or thinking about your family, or anything like that. A job is just a job. It’s the rest of the stuff in your life that’s important. Understand?”

His son dipped his chin. “I guess.”

“Speaking of which, have you talked to your wife lately?”

Gerry shook his head. “No. I left her a couple of voice messages.”

“Not the same thing. Call her.”

Gerry called Yolanda on his cell phone, and his wife proceeded to talk his ear off. Gerry pulled the cell phone away from his ear, and handed it to his father.

“Pop, you need to hear this.”

Valentine put his peach down and the phone to his ear. He listened to Yolanda describe a message she’d gotten from Mabel. His neighbor was at the Micanopy casino in Tampa, trying to help Chief Running Bear catch a crooked poker dealer. Valentine felt the blood drain from his head. Sensing his father’s discomfort, Gerry took the phone and put it to his mouth.

“I’ll call you back,” he said.

“I thought you said Running Bear was a square guy,” Gerry said after hanging up.

“He is,” his father said.

“So, why the long face? You afraid he’ll put the moves on Mabel?”

His father give him a look that made Gerry feel like he was twelve years old. A long, excruciating moment passed. Realizing his father wasn’t going to give him an answer anytime soon, Gerry racked his brain.

“You’re afraid of something happening to Mabel,” his son said.

His father ate his peach mechanically. Gerry thought some more.

“The Micanopys are all related, and you think that someone might tip this crooked dealer off, and one of his buddies will come after Mabel, just like they came after you that time down in south Florida, and stuck the alligator in your car.”

His father stared at him with simmering eyes. “Might tip him off?”

“Come on, Pop. You can’t predict the future.”

“Sure I can.”

“How?”

His father tapped his skull with his finger. “Remember what I told you about the Micanopys? They employ lots of dealers who have criminal records; so do many of the Indian casinos. Hell, some even have ex-cons sitting on their boards. They can’t avoid it, because so many of them get in trouble when they’re young. It sounds like a noble thing for the tribes to be doing, but the fact is, many of these are bad guys.”

“You think this dealer who Mabel’s caught is bad?”

Gerry thought his father was going to hit him. He’d never done that, even as a kid when he’d raised hell, and Gerry had figured it was because his grandfather had whacked his father around pretty good when he was a kid. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t crossed his father’s mind.

“He’s a god damn thief,” his father said. “If he catches wind that he’s facing arrest, he’ll do everything he can to keep Mabel from testifying against him.”

“You mean, like hurting her?” Gerry said.

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Gerry watched his father take out his cell phone and get the number for the Micanopy casino from information. A minute later, his father was leaving a message on Running Bear’s voice mail. His father could be a world-class jerk when he wanted to, and Gerry listened to him tell Running Bear that if anything happened to Mabel while she was working for the Micanopys, his father was going to hold the chief personally responsible. Gerry tried to imagine Mabel not being in their lives. It was an unsettling thought, and he waved the waitress away when she asked if he was hungry.

Chapter 39

Running Bear heard his cell phone ring, but decided to leave it in his pocket. He was standing in the Micanopy casino’s surveillance control room, staring at a pair of monitors. The tribe’s elders were also in the room, as was Mabel Struck.

On one monitor was the crooked poker dealer Mabel had caught dealing a $10,000 hand to a player; on the other monitor, the player himself. They had been watching the two men for an hour, waiting for them to “hook up” and prove they were working in collusion. While watching the monitors, Running Bear had been smelling his visitor’s perfume, which reminded him of lilacs. He had not grown up around woman, and all his life he’d found their habits a mystery. How did they choose which perfumes to wear, or their hairstyles and clothes? Strange questions for an Indian chief to be asking, yet they’d always fascinated him. Mabel turned to stare at him, and he felt himself blush.

“Don’t you think you’d better answer that?” she asked.

Running Bear removed his cell phone and picked up his lone message. He erased it and hung up. “Your boss is not happy with me,” he said.

Mabel raised her eyebrows. The lights inside the surveillance control room were kept dim to make it easier to watch the monitors, and Running Bear tried to read the expression on her face. A little unhappy, he decided.

“Your boss thinks I have placed you in harm’s way.”

“Is that so?” she said.

“Yes. He’s afraid one of our crooked dealer’s friends might try to hurt you. To be honest, the thought never crossed my mind, but he’s probably right. This is not a safe environment for you. I think I should take you home.”

Mabel crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“But my job isn’t finished.”

“Your safety is more important than this job.”

Her face softened, and she touched his sleeve. “My boss told me that you were in the Special Forces in Vietnam.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, then I’ll just stick by you, and I’m sure my safety will be fine.”

Running Bear was thankful for the muted light, and looked deeply into Mabel’s face. Growing up in the swamps of the Everglades had made his duty in Vietnam easier than for most soldiers, he supposed. Only that had been a long time ago, and he was not sure how well he’d fare in hand-to-hand combat if such a situation were to present itself. He’d grown old, not that he particularly wanted to tell his visitor that.

“I still would like to take you home when we’re done,” he said.

“Only when we’re done,” Mabel said.

Money talks.

Mabel had never understood what those two words meant until she’d gone to work for Tony. In the gambling business, it was always about money — who had it, and who was trying to get it.

This was particularly true for cheaters. You did a job, you got paid. There was never any waiting. Which was why Mabel was certain that the crooked poker dealer was going to get his share of the $10,000 from his partner sometime tonight.

Staring at the monitors, she saw the crooked dealer go on break. He bought a pack of smokes at the cigarette machine, then strolled past the casino’s bar. A giant electric guitar hung above the bar area, and patrons were swaying to the hard rock that played at blaring levels.

“Where’s our $10,000 winner?” Mabel asked.

“He’s in the bar,” Running Bear said, pointing at a table. “They just made eye contact. Look, he’s getting up from his seat.”

Mabel smiled to herself. Of course the crooked dealer had made eye contact with the $10,000 winner. That was what crooks and their partners always did. Running Bear picked up a walkie-talkie, and called the casino’s head of security. Within a few moments, four beefy security guards were following the two men across the casino.

“They’re going outside. I suggest you let them make the hand-off first,” Mabel said.

Still holding the phone, Running Bear said, “The hand-off?”

“Yes. The man who won the $10,000 will give the dealer his share. Get it on camera so you can show it in court as evidence.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Why else would they be going outside? To exchange recipes?”

The elders, who’d been silent until now, laughed under their breath.

Running Bear relayed her instructions, then hung up. Mabel shifted her attention to the monitor showing the casino’s parking lot. She watched the crooked dealer and his partner enter the lot, and stand between a pair of parked cars.

“Can you get a close-up?” Mabel asked.

Running Bear played with a toggle switch on the monitor’s keyboard, and a close-up of the two men filled the small screen. They were chatting away, and Mabel brought her face up next to the picture and watched their lips.

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” Running Bear said.

“They just introduced themselves to each other,” Mabel said.

“How can you know that? The film has no sound.”

“I read lips. Tony taught me. It’s an old cop trick.”

“But how can these two men be in collusion if they don’t know each other?” Bowlegs asked, clearly confused.

“Easy. The dealer recruited the player during the game,” Mabel explained. “Maybe he winked at him, or kicked him under the table. We’ll never really know. The important thing is, they’re working together, and have cheated you.”

“I get it,” Bowlegs said.

“What are they talking about now?” Running Bear asked.

The crooked dealer and his partner were having a heated discussion. Mabel resumed watching. “They’re talking about the split. The dealer wants seventy percent of the money. The player is telling him he only deserves half.” She paused. “Looks like they’ve decided to settle on sixty/forty. Are you filming this?”

“Yes,” Running Bear said.

They watched the partner remove the $10,000 from his pocket, and give the crooked dealer his share. He took his time counting it, and all Mabel could think of was how terrific this would look in court.

“I think that’s enough evidence. Wouldn’t you agree?” Mabel said.

Running Bear called security on the walkie-talkie. On the monitor, they watched the guards run up to the two men, arrest them, and haul them back inside. Mabel felt immensely pleased with herself, and she gave Running Bear a tug on the sleeve.

“Now you can take me home.”

Chapter 40

Valentine and Gerry were leaving the Peppermill’s restaurant when Bill Higgins appeared. The director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board was not happy.

“Bronco’s flown the coop,” Bill said.

“He’s gone? I thought the Reno cops had the roads blocked off.”

“Bronco drove to Klinghoffer’s place, and stole a dirt bike from the garage. Klinghoffer’s kid knows all the paths in the hills, and told Bronco which ones to take. I’m heading out there right now. I figured you and Gerry would want to join me.”

It had been a long day, and it was about to get a lot longer. Valentine was exhausted, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from running down Bronco. He would go to his grave before he let that happen.

“We’re in,” he said.

Bill drove them to the Klinghoffer place on the north side of town. Reno lived for the night, and its sidewalks pulsed with throngs of people, the casinos’ neon lights painting their faces in custom-car colors.

“How can this son-of-a-bitch be so hard to catch?” Bill asked.

“Bronco figured out something a long time ago, and it’s what’s kept him out of jail,” Valentine replied.

“Which is what?”

“Every cheater gets caught. It’s part of the business. So he prepared himself. I’m sure he’s got storage units all over the state. He’s probably used some of them before. Hustlers call it health insurance.”

“They all do this?” Bill asked.

“The smart ones do. I once busted a hustler named Izzie Hirsch. Izzie worked private card games with his brothers. One time, Izzie was playing in a game at a guy’s house. Izzie began to switch a deck for a stacked deck in his lap. Suddenly this little voice says, ‘Daddy, why does that man have cards in his lap?’ It was the owner’s seven-year-old kid, who’d snuck into the room. The game stopped, and everyone stared at Izzie.”

Gerry leaned through the seats. “What did he do?”

“Izzie pointed a finger at another player in the game, and said, ‘I was counting them. I think this guy’s holding out cards.’ The other player jumped to his feet, and said, ‘Are you calling me a cheater?’ Izzie says, ‘I sure am.’ And they went outside and started rolling around on the lawn. Then, they jumped into a car, and left.”

“They jumped into a car?” Bill said.

“The other player was Izzie’s brother, Josh. They worked together. They’d planned this in case they every got caught.”

“Health insurance,” Bill said.

“Yeah. And Bronco has more of it than any cheater in this state.”

Sergeant O’Sullivan met them in the driveway of Klinghoffer’s place. A group of TV reporters stood nearby, waiting to get a statement from the sheriff, and O’Sullivan pulled them out of the reporters earshot. In a hushed voice he said, “Rebecca Klinghoffer just came clean with us. Yesterday, her husband stole a jackpot from a casino in Reno using information Bronco gave him. Bronco used that to extort Rebecca. That’s why she stole the jackpot from the Peppermill.”

O’Sullivan was breathing heavily, and Valentine saw a line of sweat dotting his upper lip. He had good reason to be nervous: Not only had Bronco escaped from his jail, he’d also corrupted one of his jailers. The sergeant’s head was on the chopping block, and Valentine put his hand on O’Sullivan’s shoulder.

“Want us to keep this under our hats?”

“There’s nothing I’d like more,” O’Sullivan said.

“Your secret is safe with us. I need to talk to Rebecca and her son. Is there some place I can do that in private?”

The sergeant’s eyes indicated the second floor of the garage in the back of the property. “She’s upstairs, in the kitchen. I think she took a Valium for her nerves. The boy is lying down. You won’t get anything out of him.”

Valentine lifted his eyebrows in a question mark.

“I tried,” O’Sullivan explained. “He’s home-schooled, doesn’t communicate well with strangers. I think it’s the mother’s doing.”

Valentine thought back to the boy in the Peppermill eating an ice cream while holding Bronco’s hand. If Bronco could figure out how to soften the kid up, so could he.

“What’s the boy’s name?”

“Karl, Junior.”

“I’ll let you know if he says anything.”

Valentine took his time going up the stairs to the second floor apartment above the garage. In his younger days, he would have taken the steps three-at-a-time, the image of Bronco riding a dirt bike to freedom gnawing a hole in him. If growing older had taught him anything, it was that nothing got accomplished from rushing. Bronco had won this round, and working himself into a lather over it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

He rapped on the door and went in. A uniformed cop sat at the kitchen table with Rebecca Klinghoffer, who was blowing her nose into a Kleenex. In the table’s center was a topographical map of Reno, and Rebecca was using a pencil to draw the path she believed Bronco had taken to escape.

Valentine introduced himself while looking around the kitchen. The appliances were old, the furniture mis-matched and unattractive. It was the kitchen of a couple just starting out, living from paycheck to paycheck.

His eyes fell upon the glittering diamond hanging around Rebecca’s neck. For the first ten years of his marriage, Valentine had tried to buy a diamond like that for his wife, and never been able to scrape the money together. He saw Rebecca avert her eyes in shame. Had her husband bought the diamond for her with his jackpot winnings?

“How’s it going?” Valentine asked.

Rebecca stared at the table like he wasn’t there. The uniform looked at Valentine, and shook his head. Valentine got the picture. Rebecca had talked herself out.

“May I speak with your son?” he asked.

Rebecca lifted her gaze. “You’re not going to upset him, are you?”

“No, ma’am. I’ll be as gentle as a lamb.”

“Go ahead.”

The uniform said, “Down the hall, first door on the left.”

Valentine nosed around the counter for candy or something he could take the boy. He settled on an apple, and walked to the bedroom holding it in his hand. Knocking softly, he cracked the door, and saw a small room illuminated by a nightlight, Karl Junior fast asleep in a bed carved to look like a race car. He entered and sat down on the edge of the bed. The boy did not stir, the covers pulled up protectively beneath his chin.

“Hey,” Valentine said softly.

The boy’s lips moved, and Valentine realized he was talking in his dreams. He placed the apple beside a Mickey Mouse clock and rose from the bed. As he started to leave, he picked up Karl Junior’s clothes from the floor and draped them over a chair. In the pocket of Karl Junior’s shirt he spied several crumpled bills, and out of curiosity pulled them out. Three hundred dollar bills.

He stared at the money. Had Bronco given it to the boy in a moment of weakness? It was the only logical explanation, and he stuffed the bills into Karl Junior’s shirt, and again sat on the edge of the bed. Karl Junior stirred, and his eyelids snapped open.

“Hi. My name’s Tony. I need to talk to you. Your mom said it was okay.”

The boy nodded but said nothing. He looked scared.

Valentine leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Some night, huh?”

Karl Junior lowered the sheet a few inches. “It was scary.”

“But you’re okay now.”

“I guess.” The boy hesitated. “Is my mommy in trouble?”

Valentine blew out his cheeks. “Yes, she is. But you can help her.”

“How.”

“Tell me about the man who bought you the ice cream cone.”

“Okay.”

“You gave him your dirt bike. You must have liked him.”

“He was okay. I didn’t like the way he drove mommy’s car.”

Me neither, Valentine nearly said. “Did he say anything to you? Like where he was going? Try to remember. It’s really important.”

The sheet came down further. Karl Junior scrunched up his face in thought.

“He said he had a bore to settle,” the boy said.

“A what?”

“A bore.”

“Do you mean a score? Did he say he had a score to settle?”

Karl Junior stared at the apple on the night table. Valentine gave it to him, and the boy took a big bite, causing juice to run down his cheek. “Yeah,” he said.

“He said he had a score to settle.”

“Uh-huh.”

Valentine thought back to the ugly exchange between Kyle Garrow and Bronco in the police interrogation room. Bronco had known his lawyer had sold him down the river, and he’d decided he was going to pay him back. Valentine rose from the bed.

“I’ve got to go. Thanks for your help.”

“What’s going to happen?” Karl Junior asked.

Valentine hesitated. The boy was asking about his parents. He knew something bad had happened, and also knew there would be consequences. Even at his age, he knew the difference between right and wrong.

“It will all work out,” Valentine told him.

Karl Junior did not look so sure. He took another bite of apple and watched him leave.

Chapter 41

Running Bear escorted Mabel to her car in the parking lot. As Mabel fished her keys from her purse, she noticed that her car had shrunk by several inches.

“Oh no,” she said.

Her tires had been slashed. Running Bear inspected the damage with an unhappy look on his face. He said the casino would pay to have them replaced, then pointed at a truck parked nearby. It was a Chevy pick-up with bumpers so dented they looked deformed. “Let me give you a lift,” he said.

Within minutes they were speeding south on 275 toward Mabel’s home in Palm Harbor. Mabel didn’t know what to make of Running Bear. The chief was responsible for native Americans getting casinos on their reservations — he’d taken it to the Supreme Court, and won — and had raised the standard of living for hundreds of tribes, including his own. Yet, none of that showed in the things he owned, or the clothes he wore.

“Who do you think slashed my tires?” she asked.

“Our crooked dealer has several relatives employed by the casino,” Running Bear replied. “It was probably one of them.”

“Am I safe?”

Running Bear grimaced. “I will protect you, if that’s what you mean.”

He drove with one eye in his mirror. Mabel tried a couple of stabs at polite conversation and got nowhere. It was like they’d run out of things to discuss.

She found herself staring at the chief’s hands resting on the wheel. They were covered with hair and quite gnarly. The right one was missing its third finger.

“Did you lose your finger in Vietnam?”

“Gator,” he said, getting off I-275 and heading west on Highway 60.

“An alligator bit it off?”

“Yes. I was wrestling an alligator for some tourists about thirty years ago, and a woman in the crowd yells out, ‘Smile for the camera, will you?’ I lifted my head like a jackass, and the next thing you know, my finger gets bitten off.”

“That must have hurt.”

“Only for a couple of days. I wore it around my neck for a while.”

Mabel turned sideways in her seat. “Wore what around your neck?”

He glanced her way, smiled.

“Not the gator?” she asked.

Running Bear grinned like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said to him. “Gator was twelve feet long and weighed three hundred pounds.”

“So, what did you wear?”

“My finger.”

She started to bring her hand to her mouth, then caught herself in the act.

“Why, pray tell, did you do that?”

“That’s a good question,” he said. “I was a dang fool back then. I think I was also trying to impress a girl I liked.”

“Did she fall for it?”

“No, she ran like hell.”

Mabel’s street in Palm Harbor was lined with New England-style clapboard houses that looked the same as they had a half-century ago. Running Bear eased the truck up the gravel driveway and killed the engine. They listened to the engine sputter and whirr. Then the chief climbed out.

“I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared around the side of the house. Mabel rolled her window down, and listened to his footsteps. He was about six-four and easily weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, yet his feet were as light as a squirrel’s. If she ever got to know him better, she was going to ask him how he did that.

Running Bear returned a minute later and got behind the wheel. The only light was coming off a corner streetlight, and Mabel looked at his profile and tried to read his thoughts. “All safe?” she asked.

“All safe. Do you have any protection inside your house?”

“I have a gun, which Tony has taught me how to use,” Mabel said. “He takes me to a gun range twice a week, and makes me practice.”

“Tony is a wise man.”

“Yes, he is.”

Running Bear watched a car pass on the street. Only when it was gone did he get out of the car, and escort Mabel to her front door. Going inside, Mabel turned several house lights on, then returned to the stoop.

“Thank you for driving me home.”

“My pleasure. I will call you, and let you know how this works out, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much, chief.”

Running Bear hesitated. Standing beneath the moth-encrusted porch light with his hat in his hand, the chief wore a pained expression on his face, like there was something that he wished to say, but didn’t know how to say it. Embarrassed, he walked to his truck, and got in.

Mabel watched the truck drive away, its headlights swallowed up in the darkness. What was that all about? Closing the door, she started to throw the deadbolt when a hand clasped her throat from behind.

Judo meant the gentle way in Japanese. But it wasn’t gentle at all, the moves it taught designed to break bones and destroy joints. Mabel had learned that in the first judo class she’d ever taken, and never forgotten it.

She drove her elbow into her attacker’s solar plexis, and heard a sharp gasp. Then she stomped on her attacker’s instep, and heard another gasp. Throwing herself at the door, she grabbed the handle and attempted to jerk it open. Her attacker grabbed her by the shoulders, and she let out a scream.

“Shut up, old woman,” her attacker said.

That really made Mabel mad. Just because she was a member of AARP didn’t make her easy prey. Spinning around, she poked her attacker in the eye.

“Take that!”

“Ohhh!”

Momentarily blinded, her attacker staggered backward. He was native American, about six-two and heavy, with greasy, shoulder-length black hair and a face scarred by acne. Mabel guessed this was one of the crooked dealer’s relatives that Running Bear had warned her about. She ran to the door, and saw it open on its own.

Running Bear stepped into the house. He was barefoot, and wore a blank expression. He put himself between Mabel, and her attacker, then planted his feet.

“Hello Silver Fox,” he said.

Silver Fox grabbed a vase of flowers off a shelf and came at Running Bear. The chief’s right foot flew into the air, and kicked Silver Fox in the temple. Silver Fox’s head snapped sideways, and he crumbled to the floor in a heap, and did not move.

“Holy cow,” Mabel said.

Running Bear knelt down, and lifted up one of Silver Fox’s eyelids. He was out cold. The chief glanced up at her.

“I saw his car parked at the street’s end,” he explained.

“I’m glad you’re so observant,” Mabel said.

“So am I.”

The chief stood up and let out an exasperated breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your boss is going to kill me when he hears about this,” Running Bear said.

Mabel swallowed the lump rising in her throat. The chief had risked his life to save hers. She could wait her whole life, and not find a man like this. She grabbed the chief by the sleeve, and pulled him close to her. He did not resist as she put his arms around his waist, and brought her face up within a few inches of his.

“Let’s not tell him,” she said.

Chapter 42

Garrow was nearly dead by the time the Reno police broke down his front door.

Garrow lived in a fancy gated community with a guard at the front. His house had the best security system money could buy. Neither of those things had stopped Bronco from getting on the grounds and breaking into the house. He’d tied his attorney to a chair, and beaten him to a pulp.

Garrow was cut free, and laid on the floor with a pillow placed beneath his head. Bill called for EMS on his cell phone.

“I want to talk to him,” Valentine said.

“I don’t think he can talk,” Bill replied.

“He’s a lawyer. He’ll be talking five minutes after he’s dead.”

“Go ahead.”

Valentine got a cold beer from the refrigerator. It was a St. Paul’s Girl. He popped the top and poured some into Garrow’s mouth. The lawyer smiled weakly.

“That tastes good,” Garrow whispered.

“I want you to help me catch Bronco,” Valentine said.

“Give me some more beer.”

Valentine drained half the bottle into his mouth. “You want more, start talking.”

“Prick.”

Valentine took that as a compliment. “Tell me about the Asian. He was supposed to exchange scams with Bronco. A Pai Gow scam for Bronco’s slot machine scam.”

“Right. The Asian robbed me, stole my wallet. The slot machine scam was in it, although I don’t think he knows how it works.”

“What is the scam?”

“It’s an EPROM chip. The chip contains a special code. If you plug it into certain slot machines, they become rigged.”

“How does that work?”

“Beats me. Give me some beer.”

Valentine pulled Garrow’s head up and fed him more beer. Giving him liquor was a dirty trick, not that he cared. Garrow was scum, and scum deserved whatever they got.

“What’s the Pai Gow scam?”

“The Asian showed me a pair of dominos. They looked normal. Then he said ‘Red not black.’ and laughed.”

“You examine them?”

“They were clean. More beer.”

Valentine gave him the rest of the beer. It was easing the pain and loosening his tongue at the same time. “So the Asian doesn’t know how the slot scam works.”

“Right. He needs Bronco to explain it. That’s why Bronco came to see me. He wants to hook up with the Asian, and do the exchange.”

“How they going to do that?”

“Easy. The Asian stole my cell phone. I told Bronco that all he had to do was call my number, and he’d get the Asian.”

“Is that why Bronco didn’t kill you?”

Garrow nodded weakly. Then his eyes rolled up into his head, and he passed out.

An EMS team came into the house and attended to Garrow, and Valentine got out of their way. A code. The slot secret was a code, whatever the hell that meant. Gerry stood in the doorway with a funny look on his face. He pulled his father into the next room.

“What’s the matter?” Valentine asked.

“I just figured out how the gaming agent is stealing jackpots,” his son said.

“Be still my beating heart.”

“Come on, Pop. I do have a brain, you know.”

“I never doubted that. Just your ability to use it.”

“Thanks. Bet you a steak dinner I’m right.”

“You’re on.”

“I’m in my bar in Brooklyn, eating lunch. White-haired guy comes into the bar who services the juke box. He serviced half the juke boxes in Brooklyn, and was always busy. I watched him open up the machine, and I realized that he used a key on his regular key chain, which was pretty small. For some reason, it didn’t feel right, so I stop him and said, ‘Look, I know you service all these different machines, how come your key chain is so small?’ And the guy gives me this sheepish look and says, ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but they all can be opened with the same key.’ And I say, ‘All the locks are the same?’ And he says, ‘Yeah. The manufacturer did it to save money.’”

“What does this have to do with the slot scam?”

Gerry smiled. He seemed to be clearly enjoying the fact that he had his old man over a barrel. “Remember when we were in Bronco’s house, and I asked you about those key rings hanging off the wall in Bronco’s work area? You told me that Bronco had discovered that casinos used skeleton keys to open up slot machines, which is similar to what the juke box company uses.”

“So?”

“Think about it, Pop. Both these things share one thing in common: the manufacturer skimped on cost, and created an exploitable flaw. Well, I think that’s what we have here with the slot machines. Remember what Impoco told us at the Peppermill? He said that each slot machine had a 32-word and number fingerprint, and that a cheater would have to know the fingerprint in order to hack the machine, and gaff the Random Number Generator chip.”

Valentine felt goose bumps rising on his arms. “And you think that a manufacturer didn’t do this, and instead has the same fingerprint on all its machines?”

“Right. The manufacturer didn’t think anyone would notice. Well, the only people who could notice would be the people who check slot machines for the ESD. They look at this stuff everyday. Somebody over there discovered the flaw, but instead of exposing it, he decided to use it to steal jackpots.”

“It’s a good theory.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s a fact. I can prove it.”

This was scary. His son was starting to sound like him.

“How?”

“It stands to reason that if I’m right, all the machines which have been ripped off where manufactured by the same company. Well, we know of two machines which were ripped off. The first was by Karl Klinghoffer at the Gold Rush. The second by his wife at the Peppermill. So I called the casinos, and asked them to tell me the make of the machines the Klinghoffers played on. Guess what? Both were made by a company called Universal. I Googled them on my cell phone. Universal makes twenty percent of the slots sold around the world. I’ll bet my house they all have the same fingerprint.”

“That’s brilliant Gerry.”

His son grinned. “I want a potato with my steak, and a Caesar Salad.”

“Coming right up.”

A uniformed cop entered the room. He pulled a spiral notebook out of his pocket along with a pen. “Which one of you was the last to speak to the deceased?”

Valentine glanced into the adjacent room. Garrow was lying motionless beneath a white sheet. He’d been so busy talking to his son, he hadn’t heard Garrow croak.

“I was.”

“What did he tell you?” the cop asked.

Valentine hesitated. Did he really want to tell the cop what Garrow had said, or Gerry’s theory? It was the kind of information that could destroy the casino business over night, which was exactly what he’d been hired to prevent.

“Nothing.”

The expression on the cop’s face said he didn’t believe Valentine.

“You sure about that?” the cop asked.

“Positive,” Valentine said. “He didn’t say a thing.”

The cop flipped his notebook shut. “Whatever you say.”

Chapter 43

Bronco drove around the Reno hills on Karl Junior’s dirt bike, the full moon illuminating the paths and keeping him from breaking his neck. Right around midnight, he drove back to the storage facility on the north end of town where he’d left Gerry Valentine that morning, and unlocked the second storage unit he kept there. Keeping two units in Reno had cost him a lot of money over the years, but he’d figured that one day, he’d be glad he had. Like every cheater he’d ever known, he understood the odds of the games, including the one he played with the police.

The car in the second unit was a Lexus coupe. Because the car’s anti-theft device was always on, the car’s battery died when not in use. He’d left a trickle charge attached to the battery which he now unhooked, then closed the hood and got behind the wheel. The engine started up on the first turn of the key.

From the trunk he removed a box of disguises and an envelope containing fake ID. The Lexus was registered to Thomas Pico, one of the many aliases he’d adopted over the years. Thomas Pico was fifty-five, the CEO of a film studio in L.A., and a known “player,” with a fifty-thousand line of credit at every casino in Las Vegas. Pico was the casinos’ best customer — a sucker — and welcome wherever he went. Of all his aliases, Pico was the safest.

Bronco slipped into black designer slacks and a black silk shirt — Pico’s trademark colors — then took a pair of electric hair trimmers from the box, and shaved his head. Pico’s bald head was known to every pit boss in Las Vegas, and when he was finished with the trimmers, he covered his head with shaving cream, and ran a razor over his skull. Then, he applied skin toner to his face, and made the wrinkles disappear.

He appraised himself in the Lexus’s mirror. The transformation was complete, and he wondered if maybe this time, he’d leave Bronco for good. He’d make a last big score, and head down to sunny Mexico and buy a place on the beach. He’d meet a decent woman, and start his life over. As dreams went, it was a good one, and he backed the Lexus out of the storage unit feeling good about things. It had been a long time since he’d felt that way.

Glenn, his old teacher, had a theory about ripping off casinos. Glenn believed that a cheater should only target casinos in places with lots of people, like Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Reno. These were tourist towns, and the rules were different in tourist towns. Take the police roadblock just ahead. The cops were glancing into cars, and pulling an occasional driver over, but their hearts weren’t into it. Perhaps they’d heard that he’d gotten a dirt bike, and believed he was long gone. More than likely, they’d been told by their superiors to keep the traffic moving. Catching him was important, but it wasn’t important enough to stop the flow of tourists. Nothing was more important in a tourist town.

He crawled through the roadblock while listening to a news station on the radio. His jail break was no longer the lead story. In a few days, it wouldn’t be a story at all. The perfect swan song if he’d ever heard one. ‘And he escaped from the Reno jail, never to be seen again...’

A highway patrolman shone a flashlight in his face and waved him through. Soon he was on open highway. He called Garrow’s cell phone, which was now in the possession of the Asian. If the Asian was smart, he would have left Garrow’s phone on, in anticipation of his call.

His call was answered by a man with a heavy Asian accent.

“Who is this?” the man asked.

“This is Bronco.”

“Hello, Bronco.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name is Xing. Are you still in jail?”

Xing was no longer in Reno. If he had been, he’d have heard about Bronco’s escape over the news wires.

“I broke out,” Bronco said. “The police are looking for me. Do we still have a deal?”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean?”

“I have the chip. It was in your lawyer’s wallet.”

“You don’t know how the chip works. No one does but me. Stop fucking around. Do we have a deal?”

There was a pause on the line. Xing was playing it cute, just to see where it got him. Bronco would make him pay for that.

“All right,” Xing said. “But you’ll have to come to me.”

“Are you in Vegas?”

“Who told you that?” Xing asked suspiciously.

Bronco smiled into the phone. Reno and Las Vegas were the only real cities in Nevada. There was no place else for Xing to have gone.

“I guessed. I’ll call you when I reach the outskirts of town, and we can meet up.”

“I’ll be waiting. Don’t bring the lawyer.”

“Don’t worry. I got rid of him.”

“It was about time.”

The line went dead. Xing had gotten in the last word. He was in control of things, which was how most criminals liked to do business.

The highway opened up, and Bronco floored the Lexus’s accelerator. The ragged neon skyline grew smaller in his mirror, and disappeared from view.

Chapter 44

Every casino in Nevada had a steakhouse. The Peppermill’s was called The Bimini Steakhouse, and featured hardwood grilled steaks and prices that would make you swoon. Gerry cut into a sixteen ounce porterhouse as Bill approached the table.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bill said, taking a seat. “What’s the occasion?”

“Gerry solved your crooked agent’s slot scam.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Gerry stopped eating long enough to explain the Universal slot scam to Bill. In conclusion, he said, “Someone in your Electronic Systems Division has programmed your field agents’ notebooks to identify the Universal fingerprint, and add a code that will pay a jackpot. It’s not very difficult. Hackers do it to computers all the time.”

Valentine had brought the files of the seven ESD agents that Gerry had identified as their primary suspects, and spread them across the coffee table. “We’ve narrowed it down to these agents. Do any of them program laptops for ESD?”

Bill glanced at each file. “They all do.”

“So it could be any one of them,” Valentine said.

Bill nodded. He was frowning. It was rare for him to show any emotion. While waiting for their food, Valentine had read the files again, and seen something disturbing. Each of the seven agents had taken an extended leave three years ago, which Bill had approved. Something tied these agents together, only Bill wasn’t telling him what it was. Valentine said, “How many Universal slot machines are in Nevada?”

“About twenty thousand,” Bill mumbled.

“You need to take them out of commission.”

“Tony, you’re talking about a fifth of the slots in the state. That’s a lot of money.”

“I don’t care. Those slot machines can be corrupted, and shouldn’t be played.”

“I’ll have to get Governor Smoltz’s approval. He’s not going to like it.”

“You want me to call Smoltz?”

Bill shook his head. He took out his cell phone, and pulled up Smoltz’s number. His chair made a harsh scraping sound as he left the restaurant.

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” Gerry said.

Valentine ate his New York strip steak in silence. Bill was holding out on him. Friends didn’t hold out on each other. Before this was over, he was going to find out why, even if it meant putting their twenty-five years on the line.

While eating a piece of warm apple pie, Valentine had another epiphany. This one was so obvious, he was surprised he hadn’t seen it sooner. Scooping up the files of the ESD agents, he threw down money for the meal, and rose from the table. Gerry was pigging out on an ice cream sundae, and in no hurry to leave.

“Where you going?”

“I need to run a little errand. See you in the morning.”

Valentine took the elevator to the main level. It was late, and the casino was filled with the drunk and desperate. The front desk was empty, and he rang the bell. A manager appeared who looked like he’d just snapped out of a coma. There was a reason they called it the graveyard shift; only the dead seemed to work it.

“I need to use your fax machine.”

“Business office is closed,” the manager said, smothering a yawn.

He shoved a twenty into the manager’s hand.

“That isn’t necessary,” the manager said, pocketing the money.

Soon Valentine was feeding the files of the seven ESD agents through the hotel fax machine. He knew why Bill had clammed up on him. These agents were Bill’s friends, and Bill didn’t want to see anything bad happen to them. It was a natural reaction, and he couldn’t hold it against Bill for feeling that way.

When the faxes had gone through, he checked the time. It was three A.M., which made it six A.M. back home. He hated calling Mabel so early, but saw no other choice. He punched her number into his cell phone, and heard the call go through.

Mabel awoke to the sound of her ringing phone. It was still dark outside, the birds singing softly. Only Tony called this early in the morning. If he hadn’t paid her so well and had such nice manners, she would have stopped working for him a long time ago.

“Yes, boss,” she answered.

“Sorry to wake you up. I’ve got a job for you.”

“Is that why you called? I thought it was to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.”

“Later, beautiful.”

Tony explained what he needed done. Barely awake, Mabel didn’t tell him about all the excitement from the previous night, or how Running Bear had come to her rescue, or how she’d gone to the police station and filed charges against the man who’d attacked her. That was yesterday, and seemed like old news.

Ten minutes later, she shuffled down the sidewalk to Tony’s house with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. The humidity was starting to drop, the mornings feeling downright pleasant. She’d discovered that people from Florida didn’t like winter, and considered anything below seventy degrees cold. Back in her day, men went shirtless in thirty degree weather, and shoveled snow in their tee-shirts.

She entered Tony’s house and disarmed the security system, then went to the study. Lying in the fax machine tray were the files of seven gaming agents Tony had just sent. She removed the files, sat down in front of Tony’s computer, and got onto the Internet.

She typed in the homepage for the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s intranet. The GCB used an intranet to communicate with its employees, which could only be accessed through a special password. Because Tony did so much work for the GCB, he’d been given the password, which she now used to gain access.

A warning appeared on the page. Non-employees of the GCB were not allowed on the site. Anyone caught hacking the site would be punished.

“I’m just going to pretend I didn’t see that,” Mabel said.

She went to the Personnel Section, which contained a files for all nine hundred agents in the GCB. Each file contained the agent’s bio, and a recent head shot.

Mabel pulled up the head shots of the seven suspected agents, and printed their photos on a color laser printer. Putting the photos into an envelope, she walked out of the study with her coffee cup, reset the security system, and locked the front door.

She headed home. As she neared her house, she stiffened. A beat-up pick-up was parked in her driveway, a large man at her front door. She felt her heartbeat quicken. It was Running Bear. She had kissed him last night, and that was all. But it had been enough to tell her that there was something real between them.

“Good morning,” the chief said, coming off the stoop.

Mabel had left the house without makeup, and couldn’t remember if she’d brushed her hair. The bride of Frankenstein returns.

“Hello.”

“How are you this morning?”

“I’m well. What brings you out so early?”

“I spoke with the police a short while ago,” Running Bear said, holding his cowboy hat in his hand. “The man who attacked you last night and our crooked poker player are brothers. There is a third brother, whom the police cannot account for. They think it would be wise if you stayed someplace else until this man is found.”

“Do you really think he’ll try to hurt me?”

“I would hate to find out,” Running Bear said.

His answer made Mabel smile. She liked the fact that instead of calling, Running Bear had come over to tell her in person. “I’m doing a job for my boss,” she said. “Once I’m done, I’ll take your advice, and lay low.”

“Will you be going out?”

“Yes. I need to see an unusual lady in the next county.”

Running Bear did not seem comfortable with her decision, and Mabel guessed he didn’t like the idea of her being on the road by herself.

“You can drive me, if you’d like. I’d be happy for the company.”

“Of course,” Running Bear said. “May I ask who this person is?”

“She’s a face reader,” Mabel said.

“What is that?”

Mabel’s eyes twinkled. For someone who ran a casino, there was an awful lot the chief didn’t know. That was good, because it gave them plenty to talk about.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and went inside to get ready.

Chapter 45

Bronco took his time driving to Vegas.

Normally, he liked to race. It was not unusual for him to drive over a hundred miles per hour on the highway. But then outside of Reno he’d remembered something. Throughout the Nevada desert there were hidden surveillance cameras whose sole purpose was to photograph speeding motorists, and compare their faces to data bases of known criminals. The cameras were everywhere — in signs, trees, even road art. Avoiding them was next to impossible. It was better to drive slow, which was exactly what he’d done.

At four A.M. he pulled into the deserted valet stand of the Mandalay Bay Resort & Casino on the south end of the Strip. The place was a tomb, and he stood next to his car, and waited for a uniformed attendant before turning over his keys.

He checked in at the front desk. The Mandalay Bay’s theme was straight out of an old Tarzan movie, with screeching macaws and parrots in the lobby, and the staff decked out in camel-colored safari clothes. He didn’t have to give a credit card to the smiling receptionist, just a fake driver’s license that said he was Thomas Pico. And because Thomas Pico was a preferred customer — i.e. a whale — his entire stay would be comped. He took the elevator to his penthouse suite. It was high-roller heaven, and contained three spacious rooms with marble floors, leather furniture, a well-stocked bar, and a spectacular view of the famous Shark Reef swimming pool. Somebody once said that the best things in Las Vegas were free, only nobody could afford them.

He called room service and ordered a bottle of Moet and lobster thermidor, then took off his clothes and put on the terrycloth robe he found hanging in the closet.

The food came a half hour later. He ate in front of the picture window in the living room. To think he’d been locked up that morning, and now look where he was. He felt like a king.

When he was finished, he decided to call Xing. He’d tried calling the Asian from the road, but got no answer. He hoped Xing wasn’t trying to screw with him.

He went into the master bathroom and shut the door. It was befitting a Roman emperor, and had a marble tub and its own steam room. He turned on the water so there was plenty of noise, and called Xing on his cell phone. High-roller suites were often bugged so the casino could keep tabs on their most important customers, and he didn’t want anyone working for the casino to overhear his conversation.

The call went through. This time, Xing picked up.

“Who’s this?” the Asian asked.

“It’s Bronco. I just got into town. You ready to make the exchange?”

“Yeah. I was watching you on TV. You made the national news.”

“How did I look?”

Xing laughed. “The people on the TV said you were the devil.”

Bronco glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Steam from the shower was swirling around him. He was the Devil. “Say when, and I’ll be there.”

“I’m staying at the El Cordova on Fremont. Room 28. Meet me in two hours.”

“See you then.”

Bronco walked out of the bathroom with a smile on his face. In two hours, he would have the Pai Gow scam, and the ability to rip off any casino in the country whenever he wanted. More importantly, he’d be able to start his life over.

The phone next to the bed started to ring. It was nearly six A.M., and he wondered who’d be calling at this hour. He decided not to answer it, and after a while the ringing stopped. Then, it started again. In anger, he snatched up the phone.

“Hello,” Bronco snarled.

“Is this Tom Pico?” a man’s voice said.

Bronco froze. No one knew he was in Vegas except the girl at the front desk.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Joey Carmichael. We met a couple of months ago playing blackjack in the casino. I just saw you check into the hotel. Guess you don’t remember me.”

“Afraid not.”

“Well, I remember you.”

Bronco didn’t like the direction the conversation was headed. He took the phone into the bathroom and turned the shower back on in case anyone was listening.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bronco asked.

“We had a couple of pops at the bar,” Carmichael said. “You told me you were in the film business, had a studio in Santa Monica called Jackpot Productions, even invited me to drop by when I was in town. I was in Santa Monica a few weeks ago, and I looked you up. Guess what I found out? There’s no such person as Thomas Pico, or Jackpot Productions. You’re a phony.”

Bronco sat down on the toilet seat. He had no idea who this clown was, not that it really mattered. He’d been made, and his cover was blown.

“What do you want?”

“Let me ask you a question, Tom, or whatever the hell your name is. How do you think the Mandalay Bay will react when they find out you’re not a high-roller, and that you lied to them to get special treatment? Think they’ll call the cops?”

“I said, what do you want?”

“I do. I think they’ll call the cops and haul your ass to jail.”

“One more time. What do you want?”

“I just got wiped out at the blackjack tables,” Carmichael said. “Give me five grand to keep my mouth shut, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Call it what you want. I just need some money to tide me over.”

“If I agree, will you promise to leave me alone?”

“You bet.”

He’d been in Vegas for less than an hour, and somebody was already shaking him down. He had no other choice but to deal with the guy, and he said, “There’s a restaurant on the south end of Las Vegas Boulevard called the Instant Replay. Meet me there at nine o’clock, and I’ll give you the money.”

“Make it noon. I’m taking my kid to the pool in the morning.”

“You’re here with your family?”

“My son. I’ve got visitation rights this week.”

“Noon it is.”

“See you then, Tommy,” Carmichael said, laughing softly.

Bronco killed the call and punched the wall hard enough to crack a tile. Joey Carmichael was a problem, and he had more than enough of those right now. He needed to take Carmichael out of the picture, or risk seeing his life go up in flames. His meeting with Xing would have to wait. He called the Asian back.

“Change in plans,” Bronco said.

Chapter 46

Gerry couldn’t sleep. It was nearly dawn, and he’d been doing ceiling patrol for hours. Finally he pulled away the sheets and hopped out of bed.

He went to the window and parted the blinds. The harsh neon of Reno looked sad in the early morning light. Every sign promised a winner, yet somehow everyone went home broke. He’d been gambling since he was a kid, and never had a problem with it. Now, he did. Gambling now seemed like a huge waste of money. Maybe it had something to do with having a baby, and all the responsibilities that came with raising a family. Or maybe he was finally growing up.

A sign on the casino across the street advertised nickel slots. How desperate was that? He put on his clothes with his back to the window.

Gerry realized something was bothering him. He decided it was this case. Something about it wasn’t adding up. He thought back to his father’s comment about him being able to think like a crook, and how that was a plus in their line of work. Leave it to his old man to see the silver lining in his wasted youth.

He thought back to the bar in Brooklyn he used to own. He’d run the bookmaking business out of the backroom. Running a criminal enterprise had taken a lot of work. He’d had to keep his customers happy, make sure the books were in order, and stay on top of the odds for the different games that he took wagers on. He often got to work at eight in the morning, and didn’t quit until midnight. During football season, his hours were sometimes longer.

Then there had been the money. He’d made a decent buck as a bookie, and dealing with the cash had been a real chore. He couldn’t just go to the bank, deposit his ill-gotten gains, and not expect someone from the IRS to give him a call. He’d had to launder his profits and keep them hidden from Uncle Sam. That had taken time and a certain amount of ingenuity, made all the more difficult by the fact that he’d had to keep everything a secret. Whoever had said that being a crook was easy had never been in the business. It was hard work, no different than any other job.

That was when Gerry realized what was bothering him.

The crooked gaming agent was running a sophisticated scam. Hundreds of jackpots had been stolen across the state of Nevada. That had taken a lot of time, and plenty of leg work. Then there was the cash to deal with. Millions of dollars had been stolen, and laundered in some fashion. That had taken time as well. It was inconceivable that an agent could do his job, and pull off a scam like this.

“Holy crap,” he said aloud.

The smoke had cleared, and he saw the picture clearly. The agent had help. Lots of it. There was no other way he could pull this off for as long as he had.

His father needed to hear this. Gerry went to the door that connected their rooms and rapped loudly. It swung open, and his father filled the doorway. He was dressed and his packed suitcase lay on the bed. Bill Higgins stood in the bedroom as well. He was the last person Gerry wanted to see right now.

“Get packed. We’re heading back to Vegas,” his father said.

“We are?”

“The police have been tracking Kyle Garrow’s cell phone. They picked up the signal from Fremont Street in old downtown. They think Bronco went to Vegas to do the exchange. Time’s a wasting. Let’s go.”

Gerry hesitated. He needed to tell his father what he knew. Only he couldn’t do it with Bill around. Under his breath he said, “We need to talk, Pop.”

Their eyes met, and his father realized something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?” his father asked.

Gerry glanced at Bill. Bill was hanging on every word.

“I’ll tell you later,” Gerry said under his breath.

“So tell me, what is a face reader?” Running Bear asked.

They were driving north on Highway 19 in the chief’s pick-up truck, Mabel holding onto the handle above her door for dear life. To say they were driving fast down the busy eight-lane highway was an understatement. They were flying.

“Do you always drive so fast?” she asked.

“Only when I’m excited. Am I scaring you?”

“A little. Why are you excited?”

“Because I learn something new every time I’m with you.”

The chief had a wonderful way with words. Not too glib, not too smooth, just the right amount of flattery. Best of all, he was sincere about it.

“I’ll explain. To make money playing poker, you have to have an advantage over your opponents. Gamblers call this having an edge. All the top pros have an edge.”

“Makes sense.”

“Some have photographic memories which let them remember every hand their opponent has played. That’s an edge. Others are math wizards, and can do rapid calculations to determine the odds of the cards they’re holding, and also something called pot odds. That’s also an edge. The third group are face readers. They have the god-given ability to read people’s faces. They know when they’re opponents are bluffing, or when they’re strong. It’s why so many players wear sunglasses when they play.”

“I remember my grandfather telling me that words could trick you, but never a man’s face,” Running Bear said.

“Your grandfather was one hundred percent correct,” Mabel said. “The woman we’re about to meet is named Mira, and she’s a face reader. Tony spotted her playing poker in a casino one night. He uses her when he’s working on a tough case.”

“Uses her how?”

“Mira can look at a photo, and tell you if someone is hiding something.”

“This I’ve got to see,” Running Bear said.

He sounded like a bubbling kid. Mabel patted him on the arm, and saw him smile.

They drove into the next county to an area called Keystone. It wasn’t on most maps, and there wasn’t really a town, just dozens of fresh-water lakes surrounded by Florida-style cracker houses built to withstand just about anything nature had to offer.

Mabel pointed them down an unmarked dirt road where a clapboard house sat at the very end. She’d been here before, and explained the drill to Running Bear: Stay in the car, honk the horn three times, then wait for someone to come out the front door. No matter what, do not get out, she warned him.

Running Bear parked beneath a stand of cypress trees, then beeped three times. A heavyset Mexican shuffled out of the dwelling wearing his shirt out of his pants. It was obvious by the bulge in his waist that he had a handgun. He eyed them suspiciously, then broke into a gap-toothed smile when he spotted Mabel. She rolled down her window and greeted him. “Hello, Jorge. Is Mira here?”

Jorge nodded. “I go get her. You stay here.”

When Jorge was gone, Running Bear said, “What are they running here?”

“A high-stakes poker game, ten thousand dollar buy in,” Mabel explained. “I’m told that Mira has been fleecing the regulars for quite a while. She lets them win every once in a while to keep things civil.”

“Smart lady.”

The front door of the house opened. Mira emerged wearing a navy tee-shirt and a sarong. She was a small, delicately-boned Asian-American in her early thirties who Mabel would have considered beautiful if not for the look of distrust stamped on her face. Mabel did not know Mira’s story, and was not sure she wanted to.

Mira came up to Mabel’s side of the pickup, but her eyes were fixed on Running Bear. She crossed her arms, and stared at him like he was a lab specimen. Mabel had seen her do this before. Mira was unpacking the chief’s face, studying the bulges and wrinkles that mirrored his character. She said, “You were a soldier, weren’t you?”

The chief nodded. “Long time ago.”

“But it seems like yesterday,” Mira said.

Again he nodded. “Yes.”

“You like to protect things, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Yet, you also like to hunt. How do you explain the contradiction?”

“It was how I fed myself when I was a boy,” Running Bear said.

“What you got for me?” she said to Mabel.

Mabel handed her the envelope containing the photographs of the seven gaming agents she’d printed off Tony’s computer. “One of these people is stealing slot machine jackpots in Nevada. I was hoping you could figure out which one.”

“You want me to find the thief?”

“Please.”

“Where’s Tony?”

“He’s out in Nevada, trying to catch this guy.”

“Tell him to call me when he comes home.”

“I will, Mira.”

Mira opened the envelope and removed the seven photographs. Paper-clipped to them was a smaller envelope with her fee. She removed the stack of hundred dollar bills and counted the money. Satisfied, she stuffed the bills into the pocket of her sarong, then said, “You got these photographs off the Internet. That makes my job harder. I need to look at them in seclusion. I’ll be back in a little while.”

Mira walked away. Not to the house, but down to the edge of the lake where tiny schools of fish were doing a flawless ballet just above the water’s surface. Stopping, she fitted on a pair of reading glasses, and carefully studied the photographs.

“What was that about?” Running Bear asked.

“She’s got a crush on Tony.”

“I sensed that. She’s half his age.”

“I know. Tony is a magnet for — how should I say it? — problem women. I think it has something to do with him being an ex-policeman.”

“It must make his life difficult. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

“That was some segue, chief.”

Running Bear gestured awkwardly with his hands. “Sorry. It’s been a long time since I asked a woman on a date.”

“Of course I’ll have dinner with you.”

“You will? I mean, that’s wonderful. How about tonight?”

“That would be splendid. Pick me up at seven.”

The chief smiled like he’d just won the lottery. Mabel had no idea where this was going, but she was looking forward to the ride. She glanced down at the lake, and saw Mira slip the photographs back into the envelope, and start walking toward the pickup.

The expression on her face was best described as hostile.

“What’s wrong?” Mabel asked when Mira reached the car.

“These are all cops, aren’t they?” Mira said.

“They’re in law enforcement, yes.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Why do you say that?”

Mira tossed the envelope through the window into Mabel’s lap.

“They’re all thieves,” she said.