Wild Card

Chapter 3

“How’s the hand?” Banko asked.

Valentine held up his bandaged hand. “Almost healed.”

“You lead a charmed life.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, sergeant.”

“What would you call it?”

“I don’t know. You ever been shot?”

Banko shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Four weeks had passed since the shooting at the Rainbow Arms, and it was Valentine’s first day back at work. They were trying to have a civil conversation in Banko’s office, which was never easy. Banko was a round-faced, overweight, fifty-two-year-old cop who ran the precinct with an iron fist. The motto emblazoned on his coffee cup summed up his style to a T. It said FEEL FREE TO SHUT UP.

“Shot at,” Banko said defensively. “Never hit.”

“Then I’d say you lead a charmed life, sergeant.”

Banko snarled at him. It was how most of their conversations ended. Sensing he’d worn out his welcome, Valentine rose from his chair.

“Sit down,” his superior said.

Valentine’s ass hit the seat. He watched Banko pull open his desk drawer and remove an envelope marked EVIDENCE. From it Banko removed a stack of poker chips, and held them in his outstretched hand. “Ever see one of these before?”

He stared at the chips. Five reds, or what gamblers called nickels. He guessed they weren’t normal, and said, “I don’t know. What are they?”

Banko flipped the chips over on his palm. They weren’t chips at all, but a hollow brass cup painted to look like chips. Reaching into his desk, Banko removed four black hundred dollar chips, and handed all of it to Valentine. “It’s called a chip cup. A pit boss at Resorts found it on a blackjack table two days ago. We’re holding the dealer. The four hundred dollar chips were hidden inside the cup.”

Valentine loaded the four hundreds into the cup. They fit perfectly. He didn’t know much about casino games, and tried to guess how the stealing was taking place.

“I give up,” he finally said. “What’s the scam?”

Banko smiled triumphantly. The rift between them had started when another cop had asked Valentine if he thought Banko dyed his hair. Valentine said no, he just thought Banko was going prematurely orange. The remark had gotten back to Banko, and they had been at war ever since. The truth was, Valentine didn’t care that Banko didn’t like him. Banko had risen in the ranks by kissing ass. Valentine had never kissed an ass a day in his life.

“It’s simple,” Banko said. “I’m a crooked blackjack dealer, and you’re my partner. You sit at my table, and make a bet with the chip cup. You purposely make a bad bet, and lose. When I pick up your bet, I use it to cover another bet—”

“The four hundreds,” Valentine said.

“Correct. They disappear inside the cup. I put the cup in my tray, only it goes with the other red chips. The hundreds disappear.”

“Doesn’t the casino notice?”

“There’s no way for them to notice,” Banko said. “That’s the bad part about the casino business. They can’t track how much inventory there is on the floor. It leaves them wide open to employee theft.”

Valentine turned the chip cup over on his palm. Instead of stealing the house’s money, the crooked dealer was stealing a player’s money, which the player had just lost. “What’s going to happen to the dealer?”

“He’s screwed,” Banko said. “He got caught in Reno pulling the same scam. Went to the federal pen to iron out a nickel. Did two and a half to parole.”

“What’s he facing here?”

“Seven-to-ten.”

“Who explained the scam to you?”

“Special Agent Bill Higgins of the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s investigation unit. We talked over the phone. The GCB is loaning him as an expert witness to help us prosecute the dealer.”

Valentine was surprised. After New Jersey voters legalized casino gambling, the state had decided not to talk to anyone who’d ever worked in the Nevada gaming industry. While never publicly stated, the message was clear: New Jersey didn’t want Nevada’s organized crime families invading their little town by the shore. A great idea, except the mob had been in Atlantic City for as long as Valentine could remember.

“I thought Nevada was having nothing to do with us,” Valentine said.

“They’re making an exception with this case.” The phone on Banko’s desk lit up. Ignoring it, he went on. “Higgins is flying into town. I want you to meet him, see if you can learn some pointers.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s full of himself. I’m sure you’ll get along fine.”

Valentine had always enjoyed a challenge, and decided that he’d like to meet Higgins. Then it dawned on him what his boss had just said.

“Am I working inside Resorts now?”

Banko leaned back in his chair and nodded. “That’s right. I’m putting you in charge of our new Casino Investigation Division. You’ll work inside the casino with the surveillance department to stop the casino from being swindled. You’ll get to pick another detective to work with you.”

Valentine felt the blood drain from his head. Fifteen years of busting his hump catching thieves and pimps and murderers and now he was being taken off the street. It wasn’t a demotion, it was a kick in the teeth, and he realized that Banko had finally found a way to pay him back for the orange hair crack. “What if I don’t want the job?” he said.

“This is a promotion, Tony. More pay, better hours—”

“I don’t want a desk job. I want to be where the action is.”

“You’ll see plenty of action inside the casino.”

A copy of that day’s Camden Union Register lay face-up on the desk. Valentine stabbed his finger at the headline. ATLANTIC CITY KILLER STILL AT LARGE. POLICE BAFFLED. “You’ve got three women raped and murdered in three weeks, no leads, and every woman on the island walking around scared for her life. Come on sarge, let me have this one. You know this is right up my alley.”

“No,” Banko said.

“The killer’s got to be local. I’ll use my contacts to track him down, make the department look good. What do you say?”

“I already put in the paperwork. I have reasons for wanting you inside the casino, Tony. You start tomorrow.”

“What if I say no?”

Banko eyed him cooly. “That would be a bad career move.”

Instead of driving home from work that night, Valentine drove to the Atlantic City Hospital to see Doyle. He drove a Pinto, which necessitated driving with one eye in the mirror. Right after he’d purchased the car, he’d learned that it had a minor defect. If a Pinto got rear-ended by another car, it would explode in a fiery nova. As a joke, Doyle had a special bumper sticker made for him which said KABOOM!

Valentine found Doyle in the basement doing physical therapy for his leg. Doyle’s therapist was a nurse who his partner had nick-named Hilda-Who-Never-Smiled. Hilda wore her hair pulled back in a steel bun, and was reminiscent of a villainess from a James Bond movie. She was monitoring Doyle’s pulse while he pedaled a stationary bike.

“Guess what? I nearly got her to laugh,” Doyle said.

“No, you didn’t,” Hilda said without humor.

“Well, you were thinking of laughing.”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking. Keep pedaling.”

Doyle winked at him. Taking the bait, Valentine said, “I know this is none of my business, but are you Polish?”

Hilda shot him an icy stare. “You’re right. That’s none of your business.”

“I know this funny Polish joke.”

“Spare me.”

“Don’t I get a shot?”

“You want a shot? Bend over, I’ll give you a shot.”

“Come on. I want to see if I can make you laugh.”

Her face was mirthless, and reminded Valentine of an old European painting. She tossed her clipboard onto a table. “I will do no such thing,” she said, and walked out. Doyle climbed down off the bike and grabbed his crutches.

“Let’s get something to drink,” he said.

The hospital’s cafeteria served coffee so strong it could have woken up a dead man. Sitting at a corner table in the back of the room, Valentine removed the chip cup Banko had lent him, and explained the ingenious scam while his partner played with the device. “They caught the dealer, huh?” Doyle said.

“By accident,” Valentine said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know how you would catch a dealer using one. But I’m about to learn. I’m running the new Casino Investigation Division.”

“Banko’s taking you off the street?” Valentine nodded, and Doyle said, “But you’re the best detective on the force. You should fight it.”

Valentine shook his head. His partner had slid the cup back, and he put it into his pocket. “I talked it over with Lois, and she convinced me to take the job.”

“Not to second guess your wife, but why?”

He held up his bandaged hand. “She reminded me that I could have gotten killed last month. She also pointed out that I’ll be running my own show at Resorts.”

Doyle stared into the depths of his coffee. “Where does that leave us?”

“Well, like the Army poster says, I’m looking for a few good men. Actually, one good man. Banko said I could recruit a detective to work with me.”

Doyle lifted his gaze. “Afraid not.”

“You don’t want to work with me?”

“I got some bad news today. My leg is permanently messed up. Doctor said no more sparring in the gym, or playing handball. He doesn’t think I’ll be able to run again.”

“So, this will be perfect.”

“Don’t paint a silver lining on this, okay?”

“Come on, it will be fun. Hell, we’ll make it fun.”

“You want a gimp working with you?”

Valentine leaned across the cafeteria table and squeezed his partner’s arm. They’d known each other since they were kids, and had been through thick and thin. “This isn’t about chasing pimps in the middle of the night. People who cheat casinos are clever. It’s like a chess match. We have to use our brains, and outwit them.”

“I was never good at chess, and neither were you.”

“Then we’ll learn.”

Doyle got his crutches from the floor and stood up. He took a few uncertain steps toward the door before glancing over his shoulder. “Let me think about it,” he said.

They took the elevator to Doyle’s room. On the bedside table in his room was a photo of him as a child in a baby carriage. Doyle’s father had run a bingo parlor on the Boardwalk, and at closing time stuffed the day’s receipts into Doyle’s carriage, and wheeled him to the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel, where the money was put in a vault.

“Who’d think to rip off a baby?” his father was fond of saying.

Doyle changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. Valentine pulled up a chair and leaned on the metal arm. “I ran the names in the Prince’s address book through the system. They’re all soldiers in the New York mafia.”

Doyle played with the motor on his bed until he was comfortable. “You said the dates in the address book went back eighteen months. It occurred to me that Resorts opened eighteen months ago. These mobsters are working the casino, aren’t they?”

“That would be my guess.”

“And Crowe and Brown were on their payroll.”

Valentine glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway. The doctors and nurses wore rubber sole shoes, and he didn’t want anyone walking in, and hearing what he was about to say. “This is what I think happened. One the Prince’s girls slept with a mobster, got her hands on the address book, and gave it to the Prince. When the Prince wouldn’t give it back, Crowe and Brown were sent to get it.”

“How were Mink and Freed involved?”

“I think they’re also dirty. We responded to the call in two minutes, and they were already there with their vests on.”

Drops of rain appeared on the window beside Doyle’s bed. His partner stared at them for a long moment, then replied. “How is the mob stealing a million bucks a day?”

Valentine had turned that one inside out. To steal that much money, the mafia would have to be putting their hands in the till. Out in Nevada, that stuff still went on, but this wasn’t Nevada. The New Jersey Casino Control Act required the presence of state agents in the casino’s “count” room at all times, making skimming out of the question.

“I wish I knew,” Valentine said.

Doyle said, “I think we should ask Banko to start an investigation.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Those guys were dirty.”

Outside it had started to storm, and they listened to the wind howl off the Atlantic Ocean. By tomorrow morning, several hundred tons of sand would have moved from one end of the island to the other.

“We don’t have any proof,” Valentine said.

“Investigations have been started with less.”

“We’re talking about three dead cops.”

“So what?”

Doyle hadn’t attended the memorial service for Crowe, Brown and Freed at St. Michael’s. Valentine had been there, packed into the church along with four hundred cops from around the state. Governor Brendan Byrne had given the eulogy, and made it clear how he viewed the three detectives’ passing. “Let it be known, that I know of no braver crime-fighters than these three men,’ Byrne had told the packed cathedral.

“They’re heroes,” Valentine said. “We can’t smear their names without proof.”

Doyle fell silent and resumed staring out the window. Valentine could tell his partner was wrestling with his conscience. Doyle went to Mass every Sunday, had a brother who was a priest. He believed that God watched over him, every day.

“So you want to sit on the address book,” his partner said.

“For now. We need to dig up more evidence to make our case, and tie everything together. Then we’ll go to Banko.”

His partner thought about it some more.

“Okay,” he finally said.

Valentine put his chair against the wall. Lois was at home, holding dinner until he arrived. They tried to eat together whenever they could. He tapped Doyle on the arm.

“I’ll come around tomorrow. Maybe we can get Hilda to smile.”

“You really think working in Resorts won’t suck?”

He didn’t know if policing a casino would suck or not. But it would be better than sitting at a desk sharpening pencils, which was where they were headed if they refused the assignment. His late mother liked to say that life sometimes dealt you bad cards. How you played them was up to you.

“Like I told you. We’ll make it fun,” Valentine said.