Sucker Bet

41

“What the hell is this?” Slash said angrily.

Mabel stared at the letter in her abductor’s outstretched hand. Normally, she needed her glasses to read, only the type was so large, it wasn’t necessary. Slash was holding Tony’s latest piece of hate mail.

“It’s from U. R. Dead,” she replied.

“I know. I can read some. Who sent it?”

“A person my boss put in jail.”

The phone on the desk rang. It was within reach, and she imagined picking up the receiver and yelling “Help” at the top of her lungs. Slash had the same thought, and put his hand around her throat.

“Pick it up, say hello. If it’s your boss, get off the line.”

“I thought you wanted me to tell him to come home.”

“I changed my mind.”

He loosened his grip, and Mabel picked up the receiver. It was Tony.

“I’m on the other line,” she said. “Call you right back.”

She hung up, and Slash shook the threatening letter in her face.

“Your boss is a cop.”

“He’s retired.”

“Cops don’t fucking retire,” he said contemptuously. “Someone threatens him, he’s going to be prepared. It’s called survival.”

She watched Slash tear through Tony’s study, pulling out drawers and turning them upside down, as well as boxes of gaffed gambling equipment. Soon, half of Tony’s things were lying on the floor, the room a total shambles.

Slash had dropped the U. R. Dead letter in her lap, and Mabel stared at it long and hard before she made the connection. Slash had figured out that there was a gun in the house, probably in this very room. And he didn’t know where it was.

Taking 595 west into the Everglades, Gerry felt the skin on his arms start to tingle. He’d grown up in Atlantic City, later moved to Brooklyn, and was not accustomed to seeing alligators sunning themselves by the roadside. The locals called them gators. Up north, gators was slang for pimp shoes, and cost a thousand bucks a pair.

He pulled into the casino’s parking lot. It was full, the poor getting poorer. Driving around back, he parked his rental near the trailers. After the trial, he’d seen Running Bear walk into one of these trailers, ready to go back to work, not holding a grudge against the elders or anything like that. Gerry had been impressed as hell.

He knocked on Running Bear’s door, then stepped back. The chief emerged a moment later, his long shadow touching the hood of Gerry’s car.

“It’s Gerry, isn’t it?” the chief said.

“That’s right.”

“What can I do for you, Gerry?”

“Something has come up.”

“What’s that?”

“My father wants to bust the guy who killed Jack Lightfoot. He’d like you and me there backing him up.”

Running Bear considered the request, then went into the trailer. When he came out, he was wearing his hat. “Let’s go,” he said.

Valentine had grown up loving college basketball. Then one day, five star players at Seton Hall University in New Jersey had gotten caught shaving points. Overnight, the college had become known as Cheating Hall, and his love affair with the game had ended.

Miami College played their games at American Airlines Arena, the same auditorium used by the city’s pro team. Tonight’s game against Duke was sold out, and he begrudgingly approached a scalper standing outside the front doors.

“Need a ticket?” the man squawked.

Fifty bucks got him first row, second section. At the door, a security guard made him open the paper bag he was carrying. Valentine showed him the binoculars he’d just bought and was let inside.

The arena was packed, the crowd drinking beer and having a good time. Duke was on an eleven-game winning streak, and many fans were wearing their blue and white colors. Valentine settled into his seat and removed the binoculars. The two teams came out onto the court and began shooting warm-ups.

He scoured the faces at courtside. Candy’s red hair stuck out like a flag. She was sitting directly beneath the basket. To her left sat Nigel. To his left, Rico. The arena was warm, yet Rico was wearing a sports coat. Packing heat, he guessed.

The national anthem was played, and then the game got under way.

Years ago, he’d gotten his hands on a New Jersey Casino Control Commission report on sports betting. At the time, New Jersey’s governor wanted to legalize sports books and compete with Nevada in this lucrative market.

The commission had painted an ugly picture of the business. Through a variety of unsavory sources, they’d learned of an NFL playoff game being fixed, a semifinal match at Wimbledon that was thrown, point-shaving in both college basketball and the pros, scores of rigged boxing matches, and a dozen racetracks where it was common for jockeys to allow a rider having a bad streak to win a race.

What all of these events had in common was that money was being wagered on them—several billion dollars a year—and the commission had concluded that New Jersey’s casinos would be putting themselves at risk by entering the business.

By halftime, Duke was up by four.

It was an ugly game, with Duke having a difficult time getting off their shots. The players looked frustrated, and so did their coach. He was a black guy with a trigger temper, and he screamed at his team as they ran off the court.

Valentine went to a concession stand. Five bucks bought a program and a soda. Walking back to his seat, he read the team players’ biographies while slurping his drink. All of Duke’s players came from the Midwest. Miami College’s players hailed from Florida, except for two—Jorge Esteban from Brazil, and Lupe Pinto from the Dominican Republic. Both were freshmen, and both were starters.

The teams were back on the court, taking warm-ups. Reclaiming his seat, Valentine removed his binoculars and searched the court until he found the two foreign players. Both had shaved heads, making it hard to tell how old they were. As they hit basket after basket from different spots on the court, a thin smile creased his face.