Wild Card

Chapter 33

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re causing me?” Banko asked.

Valentine had come to the station house to pick up his messages, and found a note from Banko scotch-taped to his phone. SEE ME IN MY OFFICE, it read.

“What did I do?” Valentine asked.

Banko loosened his neck tie and pulled the knot to one side. Their relationship had been going great recently, and Valentine guessed it was because he spent his days at the casino, and they rarely saw each other. Banko’s eyes did a slow burn on his face.

“You busted Louis Galloway in the casino. The same Louis Galloway that owns Galloway Insurance, and has bankrolled half the politicians’ elections in this state. Your arrest report says you caught Galloway cheating at blackjack. His lawyer claims that all his client did was spill a rum and coke on his cards. Please tell me this isn’t true.”

“Afraid so.”

“For spilling his drink?”

“That’s right. He spilled his drink on three different occasions.”

“And you arrested him.”

“On the third time, yeah.”

Banko shut his eyes like he was about to faint. He was usually not prone to such dramatics.

“He was cheating,” Valentine added.

Banko’s eyes snapped open. “You can prove it?”

“Absolutely. Did Galloway file a beef?”

“He did better. He called Nancy Pulaski, the chairperson of our illustrious Casino Control Commission. They’re old pals. Pulaski has asked me to appear in front of the commission tomorrow morning, and explain what the hell’s going on.”

Banko looked worried. The CCC was typical of the modern American representative committee. The board consisted of two high-powered attorneys, one heir to a pharmaceutical fortune, the owner of a car dealership, and Nancy Pulaski, the wife of a well-connected heart surgeon. The fact that none of them knew anything about casinos had made them a perfect rubber stamp for the governor.

“Want me to go with you?” Valentine asked.

“First tell me why you arrested Galloway,” Banko said.

“I’ve put in several new procedures in the surveillance control room. One of them is called JDLR. It stands for Just Doesn’t Look Right. If a player does something that looks suspicious, we rewind the video, and watch it until we determine what the JDLR is.

“Usually, it’s something innocent. Or, it can be cheating we’ve never seen before. In Galloway’s case, a camera caught him spilling a drink on his cards. It looked rehearsed. Then I noticed that Galloway had won a lot of money.”

“How much?”

“Five grand.”

“Couldn’t it have been luck?”

“That’s what I first thought. Galloway came back the next night, and we taped him. Sure enough, he spilled his drink on the cards again.”

“How much did he win this time?”

“Six grand.”

“You figure out what he’s doing?”

“Not right away. But I knew he wasn’t drunk. It was his first drink of the night.”

“So you let him go.”

“Couldn’t prove anything, so I had to. Then he came in yesterday, and spilled his drink again. And I nailed it.”

Banko hunched his shoulders and leaned over his desk. For all his shortcomings, he still took tremendous pleasure out of arresting people who broke the law. “Tell me.”

“Galloway always played two hands,” Valentine said. “When he got dealt baby cards in both hands, he spilled his drink, and took the cards out of play.”

“Baby cards?”

“The two through six. Those cards favor the house in blackjack. If a cheater depletes the deck of baby cards, he alters the odds in his favor.”

“How many baby cards did Galloway take out?”

“Eight. It gave him an unbeatable edge.”

“Why didn’t the casino replace the cards?”

“They should have. It’s standard procedure in most casinos.”

“But not Resorts.”

“No, sir.”

Banko leaned back in his chair, the tension melting from his face. He had not disguised his dislike for the CCC over the past eighteen months. They had invaded his turf, and not once consulted him. “Why doesn’t Resorts replace the cards?” he asked.

“Commission rules. I guess they think it slows the game down.”

“Think we should get that rule changed?”

“Yes, sir.”

The office door opened, and Banko’s secretary came in. She was a Polish woman named Sabina who’d worked for Banko for many years. It was no secret that she disliked practically everyone, and she glanced impatiently at the clock on the wall, then frowned at her boss and walked out. Valentine guessed Banko’s next appointment was waiting.

“We’re meeting the CCC in their offices,” Banko said. “I’ll pick you up at your house at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

“Do I need to bring anything? Valentine asked.

“Just wear a suit,” the sergeant said.

Valentine found Doyle waiting for him in the lobby. The Pinto was in the shop, and Doyle had driven him to work. His son had suggested burning the Pinto to collect the insurance. Valentine wanted to burn the car just to put it out of its misery.

Standing with Doyle was a woman dressed in a leather mini-skirt, red leggings and a fake fur draped seductively around her neck. As he got close, he realized it was Mona. She had painted enough make-up on her face to almost look attractive. He didn’t know too many hookers with the guts to walk into a police station house, and he smiled at her.

“What brings you here?”

“Something’s come up,” Mona said.

“You got a hot tip for me?”

“Yeah.” She pointed at the front doors. “Can we talk in the parking lot?”

“You got a car?”

“No, I just like standing outside in the fricking cold.”

Mona marched out the front doors like she owned the place. Valentine looked at Doyle, and saw his partner shrug. “She wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“You don’t have a car, remember?”

“I’ll bum a ride off Mona.”

“Don’t let her talk you into anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Valentine walked out of the station house. Mona was waiting for him in her car, a black, four-door Volvo 164 with a leather interior. He had gone kicking tires with Lois a few months ago, and priced this exact same model. It had cost more than his Pinto and Lois’s car combined.

“You act surprised,” Mona said as he slid into the passenger seat.

“I am.” Then he added, “In a good way.”

“You like it?”

“It’s boss.”

She had the heater on, and the local jazz station, and turned both down. She started to say something, then hesitated. He waited her out. No one liked to talk to cops, not even good people. It was especially hard for Mona.

“A girl I know had a strange thing happen last night,” Mona said. “She picked up a john at the casino. They got into his car, and he was driving her to a motel. The next thing my friend knows, she’s lying on the sidewalk, staring at the stars.”

“She black out?”

“She thinks he knocked her out. She thinks it was the Dresser.”

Valentine turned sideways in his seat. “Did she get a good look at him?”

“Yeah. He was maybe forty, about five-eight, a hundred and sixty, round face.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“She said the john acted like he was sick, asked her to remove his medicine from the glove compartment. Everything after that is a blank.”

“I want to talk to her.”

Mona shook her head.

“Why not?” he said.

“My friend violated her parole. She’s afraid you’ll run her in.”

“Mona, please. Even if its just over the phone. I need to interview her. Who knows what I’ll draw out of her. Maybe she saw the guy’s license plate, and doesn’t remember it.”

“No fucking way, so stop begging.”

“But—”

“She told me everything she remembered, so just listen. The guy combed his hair down, and it made him look different from the guy in the flyer. He wore nice clothes and was a smooth talker. My friend said he smelled like he’d just taken a shower.”

“What about the car?”

“Four-door, white, made in Detroit, maybe six or seven years old. She’s not big on makes. There was one really weird thing. When she opened the glove compartment to get his medicine, she saw this fake finger. It was hollow and made of flesh-colored plastic.”

“Was there something wrong with his hand?”

“She was going to look. The next thing she knew, she was lying in the gutter.”

Valentine digested what Mona had told him. Her hooker friend had seen a lot; his intuition told him there was more. He needed to talk to her friend right now, before the memory faded. He gave Mona a hard look. He liked her, but was ready to sacrifice that friendship if it meant finding a clue that would help catch their killer. Reaching behind his belt, he removed his handcuffs. Then he grabbed Mona by the wrist, and slapped the cuff on. Her painted face turned to horror.

“What are you doing?” she said angrily.

“Take me to your friend, Mona.”

“You can’t just cuff me,” she howled belligerently. “I have rights!”

“I can’t?”

“No, you fucking weasel.”

Valentine grabbed her purse off the seat, and turned it upside down. The usual women’s stuff fell into a heap on his lap. He sifted through it, found a tiny vial of white powder which he assumed was cocaine, and held it inches beneath her nose.

“Do you want me to arrest you?”

Mona drew back in her seat, her ringed eyes filled with tears. “I came here to help you,” she said indignantly.

“Just do as I say,” Valentine said. Then added, “Right now.”