James Swain

Jackpot

“Every day above ground is a good day.”

— Doyle Brunson

Part 1

The Claimers

Chapter 1

Their names were Bo and Karen Farmer. Bronco Marchese had chosen them to be his claimers because they were young and didn’t have criminal records. Best of all, they were about to be married. When it came to cheating a casino, there were no better claimers than a pair of newlyweds.

Dressed in their wedding clothes, Bo and Karen had left northern Sacramento early one Friday morning, and driven four hours to the Cal Neva Lodge in Nevada. The Cal Neva was a favorite spot for couples to get hitched, the lodge overlooking beautiful Lake Tahoe and the snow-tipped mountains that surrounded it.

Bronco was playing a slot machine when Bo and Karen entered the Cal Neva’s casino. The couple didn’t have much money, and had borrowed on their credit cards to rent Bo’s tuxedo and Karen’s wedding dress. It was a beautiful dress, with a long train and a fall skirt complete with stiff crinolines that made Karen look like an antebellum. As they’d walked through the casino to the wedding chapel in the rear of the building, every eye in the place had fallen upon them. Karen was blond and drop-dead pretty, Bo tall and ruggedly handsome, and they looked right for each other.

Bronco picked up his pail of coins, and followed them. There were weddings every half-hour in the chapel, and he slipped into a back pew without being noticed. The ceremony was short and sweet, and he watched them exchange vows and kiss. Two nights ago when they’d gone to dinner in the Old Town section of Sacramento and hatched their plan, Karen had confided in Bronco. She’d told him that she wanted to believe her late mother would have liked Bo, even though Bo had the devil in him.

“Does that bother you?” Bronco had asked her.

Karen had smiled coyly. “Most boys I’ve known did.”

Bronco had smiled back at her. Not everybody was cut out to cheat a casino. Bo and Karen were different. They were young and naive, and both had a touch of larceny, which made them perfect. Bronco had grabbed the check and paid up.

When the ceremony was over, Bronco returned to the casino and sat down at a slot machine. When Karen and Bo walked past moments later, Bronco found himself staring at the young bride. Although he was forty-five and physically out of shape, he still believed that young women found him attractive. Two nights ago, he’d been convinced that Karen had been coming on to him.

Bronco shifted his attention to Bo. To rob a casino, each member of the gang had to play a role. This was important because there were surveillance cameras in the ceiling, and they were always turned on. Bo’s role was the impatient groom. Bronco watched Bo walk up to the front desk and ask the female reservationist if their suite was ready. The reservationist checked her computer.

“Your room’s still being cleaned, Mr. Farmer,” she replied.

“Can’t you do something?” Bo asked, sounding angry.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Come on, it’s my wedding day.”

“How about I give you a coupon, and you can play the slot machines until it’s ready?” the reservationist suggested.

“A coupon? How’s that work?” Bo asked.

The reservationist opened a drawer, and removed a coupon with the Cal Neva’s logo stamped on it. Handing it to him, she said, “The coupon is worth fifty dollars. Go to the cage, and present it to the lady behind the window. She’ll redeem it for you in quarters, and you and your wife can play the slot machines.”

Karen came over to where her husband was standing. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“Room’s not ready,” Bo sulked. “You want to play the slots?”

“Sure.”

The reservationist removed a second coupon from the drawer. “Here, Mrs. Farmer, you can have one, too. Good luck.”

Bronco found himself smiling. He’d used a lot of claimers over the years, but few took to it as easily as these two. He followed them across the casino to the cage, and watched Bo exchange the coupons for two plastic pails filled with quarters.

“Here you go, honey,” Bo said. “You know what they say about virgin luck.”

Karen blushed up a storm. “Very funny,” she said under her breath.

“It’s an old gambling expression,” Bo said, grinning. “People who gamble for the first time always win big.”

“Always?” Karen asked.

“Just about.” Bo undid his tie, and stuffed it into his pocket. He pointed across the casino at the banks of glittering slot machines. “Follow me.”

“Why those machines?” Karen asked.

“Because they have the biggest payouts,” Bo said. Looking at the cashier inside the cage, he said, “Isn’t that right? You should always play the slot machines with the biggest payouts.”

“That’s right,” the cashier said brightly.

They were better than good, Bronco thought. As they walked away, Bronco saw the cashier look at him.

“What a nice couple,” the cashier said.

Bronco followed the newlyweds across the busy casino floor. Karen walked holding her dress in one hand, her pail of free coins in the other, and looked like she was walking a tightrope. Bo went to a slot machine in the corner called Big Bertha. It stood six feet high, and had a million dollar jackpot as its grand prize.

“This one,” he declared. “Make sure you bet the maximum amount of coins.”

“Why’s that?” Karen asked.

“Because it won’t pay a jackpot if you don’t,” Bronco said, coming up behind them.

Karen turned and stared, not recognizing him. Bronco could not enter a casino without drastically altering his appearance, and his face had taken on dozens of wrinkles since Karen had last seen him.

“It’s me,” he said under his breath. “You kids ready?”

“Bronco?” Karen whispered. “Is that really you?”

“Yeah. Don’t use my real name, okay?”

“Sorry. How did you get so old?”

“Practice, baby.”

Bo put his arm around his bride. “We’re ready.”

“Good,” Bronco said. “Let’s make some money.”

Karen dug five quarters out of her pail and fed them into Big Bertha. She wasn’t very tall, and as she got on her tip-toes to grab the machine’s giant handle, her wedding dress billowed out, allowing Bronco to duck between her and the machine.

“No funny stuff,” she whispered.

Bronco pressed his body against Big Bertha. He never mixed business with pleasure, but with Karen, he might make an exception. Taking a skeleton key from his pocket, he unlocked the machine. One of his great gifts was the photographic ability of his brain: If he saw a key hanging on someone’s belt, his mind would make a mental picture, and he’d later duplicate the key with special equipment he carried in the trunk of his car. He’d opened dozens of slot machines this way, and never been caught.

Taking a small but powerful earth magnet from his pocket, he stuck it against the side of the machine to pacify it’s internal anti-cheating device. Then, he pulled open the door, reached up into the guts of the machine, and carefully lined up the reels to show five cherries. The machine instantly registered that a jackpot had been won, and bells as loud as a five-alarm fire went off. His heart started to race.

Closing the machine, he slipped the magnet and skeleton key into his pocket, then stepped away from Karen’s billowing dress and glanced into her eyes.

“Now the fun starts,” he said.

Bronco walked away from Big Bertha, then turned around to watch the scene unfold. Big Bertha’s bells were still ringing, and several employees were hurrying over to where Bo and Karen stood. Winning a million-dollar jackpot was like something out of a dream, and Karen played her part to the hilt. Dropping her pail of quarters on the floor, she jumped up and down and screamed with delight.

“You see,” Bo said over the clamor. “Virgin luck.”

Karen slapped her husband on the behind. A mob of patrons had assembled around her, and an elderly woman with blue hair stepped forward.

“Can I ask you a favor?” the woman asked.

“What’s that?” Karen said.

“Can I touch you?”

“You want to touch me?”

“For luck,” the woman explained.

Karen let the elderly woman touch her sleeve. Others in the crowd stepped forward and did the same thing. There was something about her wedding dress that made the event seem nothing short of magical.

Soon, a half-dozen casino employees were hovering around the newlyweds. One had a camera, and took Karen and Bo’s picture in front of Big Bertha. Another had a clipboard, and helped Karen fill out the necessary paperwork for the Internal Revenue Service so Karen could claim her jackpot. While this was happening, Big Bertha’s bells continued to ring, the casino happy to let its customers know that every once in a while, people did go home winners.

That afternoon, Bronco followed Bo and Karen around the casino. Everywhere they went, someone wanted to shake Karen’s hand, or get their picture taken with her. The attention seemed to bother her, and her beautiful face turned into a deep frown.

They went to the craps pit. Bo was playing on a line of credit that the casino had extended him, the casino people their new best friends.

“I want to go home,” she said loudly.

“We still have to collect the jackpot money,” Bo said.

“Can’t they send it to us?”

An apprehensive look crossed Bo’s face, and he pulled her aside and lowered his voice. “It will look suspicious. We need to stay and collect the million dollars.”

“But, I want to go home,” Karen said.

Bo glanced nervously at Bronco, who stood a few feet away. “Come on, honey. Just one more day. That’s all I’m asking.”

Karen glanced Bronco’s way as well. Her attitude had changed dramatically, the reality of what she’d done slowly settling in. She spoke in a hushed voice to her husband. Bronco couldn’t read lips, yet knew exactly what Karen was saying. She was living a lie, and wanted it to end. And Bo was trying to pacify her, knowing damn well there was nothing he could do about it.

Bronco stayed at a seedy motel down the road from the Cal Neva. The next morning he rose early, and spent thirty minutes putting fingernail polish on his face. When it dried, dozens of wrinkles appeared, making him look like an old man.

He drove to the Cal Neva, and had breakfast in the coffee shop. He chose a table that let him eat and watch the elevator banks at the same time. At nine, Bo and Karen came downstairs and went to the registration desk. The casino’s GM greeted them, then took them to his office and shut the door. Although Bronco had never been present when a jackpot was paid, he knew the procedure. The GM would make Karen sign some papers, and give her the money in a cheap briefcase. The GM would also ask them if they’d like an armed escort to take the money to their car. Then he’d shake hands, and invite them back to his casino the next time they were in town.

At nine-twenty, Bo and Karen left the GM’s office, and disappeared into an elevator. Bronco paid for his breakfast and walked out of the coffee shop. Normally, he would have met up with the Farmers at another location, and cut up the money. But last night’s conversation had bothered him. People who got scared did stupid things. He went to the house phone and called their suite.

“It’s me. Which suite you in?” Bronco asked

“Number four oh four,” Bo said.

“I’ll be right up.”

A minute later Karen showed him into the suite. As she shut the door, Bronco glanced into her eyes. Still scared, he thought. Bo had spilled the money onto the floor, and was lying face-down in it, doing the Australian crawl. Minus federal taxes, their winnings came to six-hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. Bronco got onto his knees and started stacking the money into two piles.

“You mind my asking you a question?” Karen asked.

“Shoot.”

“How did you get all those wrinkles?”

Bronco looked up at her. “I spread fingernail polish mask on my face, let it dry, then scrunched my face around until it looks like wrinkles.”

“You know all the angles, don’t you,” Karen said.

Bronco finished stacking the money and stood up. There were six stacks of one hundred thousand each, with ten grand on the side. With his foot he pushed two of the one hundred thousand stacks toward Bo, then began stuffing the rest into the briefcase. When Bo did not object, Karen let out a shriek.

“You lied to me,” she said to her husband.

Bo swallowed hard. “It’s still a lot of money.”

“You lied to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“On our wedding day.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“God damn you, Bo!”

Bronco found himself feeling sorry for Karen. “How much did he tell you?”

Her eyes had welled with tears. “Half.”

“Three hundred grand?”

“Yes.”

Bronco thought he understood. For three hundred grand, Karen had been willing to stand in front of a slot machine in her wedding dress, and let a man she hardly knew steal a jackpot. But not for a penny less. He edged closer to her. In a quiet voice he said, “You want the rest of your money?”

Karen swiped at her eyes and nodded stiffly.

“I’ll give you my half if you dump this loser, and hit the road with me.”

“What?”

“The wedding dress is perfect cover. We can hit a couple of casinos a week, make out like bandits.”

Karen backed away from him with a horrified look on her face. “Get away from me. Bo, make him get away from me.”

Bronco felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and spin him around. Bo was standing directly behind him, his fist cocked. Bronco tried to duck as the punch connected with the right side of his face. He dropped the briefcase as he fell.

“You crummy son-of-a-bitch,” Bo said, towering over him. “You think you’re a big shot with your skeleton keys and magnets and your money. Well, you can keep that shit. Just get out of our lives. Understand?”

Bronco took a deep breath and rose on unsteady legs while staring at Karen. She had that sultry look he’d always liked. As if reading his thoughts, Bo stepped forward and shoved him into the wall. “Stop looking at her like that! She’s mine, understand? I should kill you for looking at her like that.”

But Bronco couldn’t stop looking. Seeing Karen in her wedding dress yesterday had stirred emotions in him that he’d thought had died long ago. She was too good for this loser, and he said, “She won’t be yours for long.”

Bo’s mouth dropped open.

“You lied to her,” Bronco said. “On her wedding day. Think about it.”

Bo pulled his arm back to strike him. Bronco wasn’t going to eat another punch, and drew a silver-handled gun from his pants pocket, aimed at Bo’s chest, and squeezed the trigger. The shot made a loud Pop!, the bullet passing through Bo’s heart like a tiny meteor. Bo crumpled to the floor and did not move.

Bronco tossed his money into the cheap briefcase. Opening the door, he glanced back at Karen. She knelt beside her dying husband and was sobbing. She looked at him, as if to say, Why?

“You deserve better,” Bronco said.

Chapter 2

Tampa Bay Downs was the oldest thoroughbred race track on Florida’s laid-back west coat. Located in the sleepy town of Oldsmar, it was far enough away from Tony Valentine’s home in Palm Harbor to be a nuisance to reach, with the last mile a true test of nerve. Called Race Track Road, it had enough crazed drivers to raise any sane person’s blood pressure.

Valentine didn’t need his blood pressure raised this afternoon; he already had his son, Gerry, to do that for him. They had come to the track to investigate card-cheating in the track’s Silks poker room, only Gerry had disappeared within a few minutes of walking into the joint. His son had never seen a wager he didn’t like, and Valentine guessed he was hanging off the track rail, betting his rent on a nag.

“Mr. Valentine?” a female voice asked.

An athletic woman with frosted blond hair, bronzed skin, and a hundred watt smile had materialized beside him. She extended her hand. “Suzie Brinkman, director of security. I called you this morning about the problem in our poker room. Thanks for coming out so fast.”

She was a dish. Valentine smiled and shook her hand. “My pleasure.”

“My father says you’re the best in the world at catching cheaters,” she said.

Suzie’s father owned the track, and had interests in several Nevada casinos. He was also a client, and Valentine felt obligated to make sure his daughter didn’t get ripped off. “How can I help you?” he asked.

“There’s a rumor floating around that one of our poker dealers is in cahoots with a player. I want to find out if it’s true.”

“Sounds right up my alley,” Valentine said.

“Good. I just spoke with my father, and he said it was okay if you went to the surveillance room, and looked at the tapes of the different dealers.”

They were standing in the bar next to the noisy poker room. Every table was filled, with lines of young men, and an occasional woman, waiting to fill the next available chair. Poker was all the rage, and brought huge business to the track.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk through the room first,” he said.

“May I accompany you?”

“Of course.”

Valentine took a walk through the poker room with Suzie Brinkman glued to his side, stopping at each table to watch the dealer shuffle and deal. The track employed professional dealers who’d been trained in dealer schools. Their actions were uniform in every respect, and Valentine looked for any hesitation on the dealer’s part when they handled the cards. Before any sleight-of-hand move, there was always a tiny, pregnant pause. Hustler’s called these tells. Done, he walked back to the bar with Suzie still beside him.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

“Got him,” he said.

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, come on.”

“Where are we going?”

A blush rose beneath her tan. “I mean, be serious. We weren’t in there five minutes.”

“Yeah, but I know what I’m looking for.”

She flashed him another smile. He found himself liking her, and pointed into the room at the dealer working Table #6. The man was built like a mailbox, with a thin body and large, square head, and had a way of handling himself that told Valentine he’d been in prison. Most gambling venues didn’t hire ex-cons, but Florida was an exception: The state had six hundred thousand ex-felons, and they needed to work.

“That guy’s your cheater.”

“Milo Kelly,” she said, shaking her head. “My dad caught him stealing chips, and gave him another chance. This is how he repays us. What’s he doing?”

“He’s giving his partner at the table the best cards. It’s called a pick-up stack.”

“I’ll have him pulled off the game immediately. Can you show me what he’s doing, in case I have to explain it to the police?”

There was a real hunger in Suzie’s eyes. She knew she was green, and she wanted to learn the ropes. Valentine wished his son had half her enthusiasm.

“My pleasure,” he said.

They grabbed a table in the cocktail lounge, and Suzie pulled a deck of cards from her purse. She sat directly across from him, her knees knocking against his. As Valentine dealt seven hands of cards onto the table, he adroitly pulled back his chair.

“Kelly deals Seven Card Stud, and has seven players at his table. Each player gets seven cards, with five coming faceup.” He pointed at the third, sixth and seven hands. In each hand, the third card showing was an ace. “Let’s say he wants to give these aces to his partner. He scoops the hands up when the game is over, and makes sure they go on the desk last. Then he false shuffles, and deals out seven cards. Voila — his agent, who’s sitting in the third seat, gets three aces.”

“What’s a false shuffle?”

“It’s a card-cheating move.”

“Please show me.”

The request was delivered with a twinkle in her eye, and he had a feeling that Suzie was enjoying herself. He separated the cards into reds and blacks, and gave the deck a false-shuffle. He’d learned to false-shuffle from a New Jersey wizard named Herb Zarrow, who’d revolutionized card handling with a shuffle which bore his name. Finished, he showed her that the cards were still separated by color. Suzie shook her head helplessly.

“Is Kelly as good as you?”

“No, but he doesn’t have to be.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he’s the house dealer. Everyone trusts him.”

Suzie put her elbows on the table and looked into his eyes. She was a hell of a nice woman, only he wasn’t going there right now. Dating at his age was never an easy proposition. “I was thinking of firing Kelly, but now I think he should be arrested,” Suzie said. “Do you agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“Whose his agent?”

“The fourth player at the table.”

“The older woman with the wig? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Valentine said.

Gerry the prodigal son had entered the lounge, and was waving to him. There was a panicked look on his face, and Valentine wondered how much money his son had lost.

“I’ll be happy to be an expert witness, if it comes to trial,” Valentine said.

“Thank you,” she said.

They simultaneously rose from the table and practically banged heads. Without warning, Suzie took his head with her hands and planted a kiss on his cheek. It was his turn to blush, and he caught her winking at him as she walked away.

“Lose the rent yet?” Valentine asked as Gerry sat down. His son had just turned thirty-six, and with his salt-and-pepper hair, long Italian nose and dark coloring, bore more than a passing resemblance to his father.

“You know I can’t come to the track and not place a bet,” Gerry said. “Besides, I saw someone I knew at the betting windows.”

“Was it that stripper you once dated?”

“Cut it out, Pop, will you? The guy I saw was a crook.”

“Did you have a nice conversation?”

Gerry leaned forward. There was a look on his face that Valentine hadn’t seen very many times: His serious look. Lowering his voice, Gerry said, “I think the next race might be fixed.”

“Why do you think that?”

With his head, Gerry indicated a couple seated on the opposite side of the lounge. They were straight out of a 1930’s gangster movie; the mustachioed man wore a shiny, sharkskin suit, his moll a baby-doll red dress with her face painted like a Kewpie doll. “That guy came into my bar two years ago, tried to place a huge bet on a horse race at Hialeah. I refused. Later, I heard the race was fixed, and he took another bookie for a huge score. Well, I just saw that guy make a huge bet on a loser named Corky’s Boy. Sound suspicious to you?”

“Fixed the race how?”

“Silking,” his son said.

Valentine leaned back in his chair, surprised that his son was willing to rat out another crook. Gerry had been on the wrong side of the law since he was a teenager, and dishonesty was a hard thing to change.

“What’s silking?” Valentine asked.

“You’ve never heard of it?”

Valentine had policed Atlantic City’s casinos for twenty-five years, and knew every casino scam and greasy hustle ever invented. The ponies were a different story, his knowledge limited to things he’d heard about, and not experienced firsthand.

“No.”

“The bookie I apprenticed with was named Fred Flammer. The first scam Flam taught me was silking. Said it was invented in England, where it was considered an art among cheaters. Look pop, we need to hurry. Corky’s Boy is in the next race.”

Valentine rose from his chair. “Did you see the woman I was just talking to?”

“How could I miss her? She was hot.”

“She’s the owner’s daughter. You need to tell her what’s going on.”

“Sure.”

As Gerry rose, he took a cocktail napkin from a dispenser on the table, and handed it to his father.

“You’ve got lipstick all over your face,” his son said.

Suzie Brinkman’s office was located on the top floor of the track’s club house. Valentine rapped on the door and moments later it opened, and a track steward stuck his head out. He wore a blue blazer and a yellow tie, and was as chummy as a marine drill sergeant. Valentine looked over his shoulder, and saw Suzie Brinkman standing by a picture window that overlooked the track, a pair of binoculars in hand.

“What do you want?” the steward growled.

“Tony and Gerry Valentine to see Ms. Brinkman.”

“Never heard of you.”

Valentine handed him a business card.

“Grift Sense? What the hell is that?”

“My company,” Valentine said.

Hearing his voice, Suzie spun around and smiled. He had become eligible for Social Security a few months ago, and something about that smile told him getting old wasn’t as bad as people thought. Suzie ushered them past the pit bull, and Valentine introduced his son, then asked if there was someplace they could speak in private. Suzie glanced at the steward, who had not taken his eyes off Valentine. “Bern is my father’s right hand. You can say anything you wish around him.”

“My son spotted a known horse-cheater placing a large bet at one of your cages,” Valentine said. “We think the next race is fixed.”

Suzie looked startled. “Do you know which horse?”

“Corky’s Boy in the sixth.”

“Corky’s Boy?”

“That’s right. He’s running at 30 to 1 odds—”

“I know which horse he is,” Suzie said, dropping herself in a chair. “That’s Randall’s horse, isn’t it?” she said to her steward.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bern replied. “Came in this morning from Miami.”

“You know the owner?” Valentine asked.

Suzie nodded. “Randall is a business associate of my father’s, and owes him a great deal of money. Randall called yesterday, and asked that I let his horse run. He said it would be his final race before he put it out to pasture. And I fell for it.”

“Where is your father?” Valentine asked.

“He’s out of the country on business.”

Some of the greatest scams had occurred when the person in charge was gone, and someone inexperienced was handed the reins. Cheaters called these opportunities magic moments, and there was no doubt in Valentine’s mind that Randall had seen a magic moment in Suzie’s father’s absence, and seized the chance to fleece his partner. Gerry cleared his throat. “May I make a suggestion?”

“By all means,” Suzie said.

“I know how to catch these guys red-handed,” Gerry said. “But, it’s going to mean letting the race run, then withholding the purses. You’re also going to have to keep Corky’s Boy in the winning circle so we can expose him.”

“That sounds risky,” Suzie said.

“Trust me, it’s the best way to handle it,” Gerry said.

Suzie put her hand on Gerry’s arm. “You sound like you know what you’re doing. We’ll let the race run.”

Valentine was so impressed he didn’t know what to say. His son was taking charge, and sounding like a responsible grown-up. Pigs can fly, he thought.

“Expose him how?” Bern asked. In his hand was a lab report which the track ran on all horses. “We tested Corky’s Boy two hours ago; his blood came up negative for steroids and amphetamines. That horse is one-hundred percent clean.”

“I’m sure he is,” Gerry said.

“Then how you going to expose him?”

“With a garden hose,” Gerry said.

Chapter 3

Mabel Struck was in her boss’s study sorting the mail when the phone rang. Tony got a lot of mail, mostly from panicked casino bosses, and as she reached for the phone, a handwritten envelope in the stack caught her eye. It was from an inmate in the Jean Correctional Facility for Women in Las Vegas named Lucy Price.

“Grift Sense,” she answered cheerfully.

“Do you sell wrapping paper?”

“Hi, there. Having fun at the track?”

“More fun than a barrel of monkeys,” Tony said. “I want you to turn on the TV to the horse-racing channel on cable, and tape the sixth race at Tampa Bay Downs.”

“Is something special going to happen?”

“The race is fixed, and Gerry figured it out. My son is going to be a star.”

Mabel smiled into the receiver. Tony and Gerry fought more than they played, but the relationship was slowly coming around. This was definitely a promising sign.

“Should I alert Yolanda?”

“Please. I’ve got to run. The horses are being led around the track.”

As Mabel dialed Yolanda’s number, she glanced at Lucy Price’s letter. She had never met Lucy Price, and hoped she never would. Lucy was a degenerate gambler, and was in prison going through treatment for her addiction while serving time for vehicular homicide. Tony was a magnet for women like this, and they always ended up hurting him. She stuck the letter with the junk mail.

“Hello?” Yolanda answered.

“You need to come over,” Mabel said. “Gerry and Tony are going to be on TV.”

Gerry’s wife appeared at the door a minute later, her baby in her arms. Yolanda wore ragged cut-offs and a tee-shirt smeared with baby spit, yet somehow remained a ravishing young woman. Mabel ushered her inside.

“What did Gerry do?” Yolanda asked, sounding worried.

“No, no,” Mabel said. “Tony said he’s going to be a star.”

“Wouldn’t that be a change.”

The living room of Tony’s house had newspapers on the floor, and lots of comfortable furniture. Turning on the TV, Mabel found the horse-race channel with the remote, hit record on the TIVO, then joined Yolanda on the couch.

“Gerry’s been on his best behavior lately,” Mabel said.

“But it’s just not his normal behavior,” Yolanda said. She looked into Mabel’s face and grinned. “That’s a joke.”

“Is everything between you two okay?”

“Just the usual pressures.”

“Which are?”

“Bills, bills and more bills. I’m a doctor, but somehow I never comprehended how expensive having a baby is.”

Mabel put a reassuring hand on Yolanda’s knee. “How’s Gerry taking this?”

“He lies in bed at night, dreaming up get rich quick schemes, some of which probably aren’t legal, and I tell him, ‘Banish those thoughts from your head.’”

“Does he listen?”

“Most of the time. But it’s tough.”

“Oh, look. The race is starting.”

They directed their attention to the screen. There were eleven horses in the gate, and when the starting bell sounded, they exploded forward in a mad rush of muscle and controlled fury. The resolution of the TV’s picture was breathtakingly real, and the dirt on the track flew up before their eyes.

“So what’s going on?” Yolanda asked.

“The race is fixed.”

“How?”

“We’re about to find out.” Mabel increased the volume with the remote. She supposed that if something unusual was going on, the TV announcer would pick it up. Sure enough, as the horses came around the final bend, the announcer began to yell.

“Here comes Buster and Little Sheba around the turn, with Corky’s Boy glued to their tails. What a race this is, folks! They’re in the final stretch, and Corky’s Boy is even with the two favorites. Now, Corky’s Boy is pulling away. We’re coming up to the finish line, and it’s Corky’s Boy by three lengths for the win.”

The picture showed the jockey for Corky’s Boy’s waving to the crowd, and directing his mount to the winner’s circle. As he climbed down, an announcement came over the track’s public address system that the race was under review. The jockey made a face and glanced nervously in both directions. Moments later, the winner’s circle was swarming with people. One of them was Gerry, and he was holding a green garden hose. As he walked over to Corky’s Boy, an older man appeared by his side. His father.

“Why’s Gerry giving that horse a bath?” Yolanda asked.

“Beats me,” Mabel confessed.

Gerry sprayed Corky’s Boy with the hose. Before their eyes, the horse’s color changed from burnt orange to dark black, the dye running off its body to the ground. In the corner of the screen, they saw the jockey being forcibly held by a steward.

“It’s a different horse,” Yolanda said. “How did Gerry know that?”

Mabel shook her head. She’d come to the conclusion that there was a lot about Gerry that they probably didn’t know about it.

“I guess we’ll have to ask him,” she said.

Chapter 4

“Are you serious?” Gerry said an hour later when they were on the road. “It’s really all mine?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” his father replied.

“That’s awfully generous, Pop.”

Valentine heard skepticism in his son’s voice. Taking Suzie Brinkman’s check for three thousand bucks out of his shirt pocket, he endorsed it to Gerry while driving one-handed. Normally, the split was sixty-forty, with Valentine getting the lion’s share because his name was on the shingle. But this job was different. Gerry had handled himself like a pro, and deserved a reward.

“Thanks, Pop,” his son said.

Valentine heard a crack of late-afternoon thunder as he drove into Palm Harbor. It was late September, and hot as blazes. In a few weeks, the temperatures would drop, and millions of northerners would descend upon the state like migratory birds. Up north, the leaves changed in the autumn; in Florida, it was the color of the license plates. Soon the skies opened up, and rain began to fall in solid, vertical lines. By the time he reached his house, the street resembled a canal.

“What are you going to do with the money?” he asked, pulling into the driveway.

“Bet it on the ponies,” Gerry replied.

He killed the engine and stared at his son.

“Buy early college tuition for the baby,” Gerry said.

Florida had a great program for purchasing college tuition for kids while they were young. Even though Lois was only a few months old, the price was too cheap to pass by. “You’re starting to sound like a father,” he said.

“Scary, isn’t it?” Gerry popped the glove compartment and pulled out Kleenex which he handed it to his father. “Left cheek.”

Valentine looked in the mirror and saw red lipstick smeared on his face. Suzie Brinkman had planted another kiss on him right after Corky’s Boy’s jockey was hauled away by the police, that same wonderful smile lighting up her face. “How old do you think she is?” he asked, wiping away the evidence.

“You thinking of asking her out?”

He shook his head. After he’d lost his wife, he’d become curious about the age of women who still found him attractive. He’d figured that his son, who’d had more than his share of girlfriends, would know the answer.

“Mid-forties,” Gerry replied.

“Think that’s a good age for me?”

“Perfect.”

The storm soon passed. Going inside, they found Mabel glued to the computer in Valentine’s study.

“Where’s my wife?” Gerry asked.

“She went home to feed the baby.”

“Did you see me on TV?”

“Yes. You were dashing. Both of you. Now, take a look at this.” On the computer was a live-feed from a casino surveillance camera. The game was roulette, the table filled with dashing men in tuxedos and beautiful women in long evening dresses.

“Let me guess,” Valentine said. “This is from Biloxi.”

“Time to get your eyes checked,” Mabel replied.

“One of those parking lot Indian reservation casinos?”

“You’re a stitch. It’s from The Casino in Monte Carlo.”

“We don’t do business with Monte Carlo,” Valentine said.

“We do now,” Mabel said. “The director of surveillance called, and I signed them up. We got their check this afternoon.”

Valentine thought Mabel was joking. The Casino in Monte Carlo was the most elegant casino in the world, with the best surveillance money could buy. The idea that he, a retired Atlantic City detective, might be working for them, didn’t seem real. On his desk he spied a Federal Express package with a certified check lying on top. It was from the Casino in Monte Carlo for five grand.

“I thought my fee was three grand,” he said.

“I raised it. You ever see the chandeliers in that place? They’ve got money.”

If he’d learned anything from Mabel, it was that his services were more valuable than he’d realized. “How much have they lost?” he asked.

“A half-million buckeroos,” Mabel replied. “They conducted their own investigation, but came up with air. The director of surveillance said the money’s being lost on this particular table.”

That was all Valentine needed to know. Going to the kitchen, he grabbed a six-pack of Diet Coke from the refrigerator, then returned to his study and pulled up a chair beside his office manager.

“Ready when you are,” he said.

As a cop, Valentine had done his best work with a cigarette in one hand, a caffeinated beverage in the other. The cigarettes were a thing of the past, but not the caffeine. Sucking on a soda, he had Mabel rattle off her checklist of what wasn’t happening at the Monte Carlo casino’s losing roulette table.

“The wheel is clean, and so is the table and the ball,” she said. “All of the apparatus has been given forensic checks. The casino also polygraphed each of the dealers, and they came out clean. With all of those things ruled out, I figured the cheaters were working from the outside.”

Working from the outside meant the cheaters didn’t have any employees helping them. “Working how from the outside?” Valentine asked.

Mabel enjoyed an occasional challenge and said, “My guess is, they’re using an electronic device to predict where the ball might fall.”

“Visual prediction,” he said.

“Yes. You told me about a Serbian roulette cheater who used a cell phone with a laser scanner to track the speed of the ball, and the speed of the wheel, and determine which half of the wheel the ball would fall in. So, I started looking for anyone with a cell phone.”

“Any luck?”

“No cell phones are permitted inside the Casino in Monte Carlo. Which means someone has one hidden.”

Valentine tossed his empty soda can into the trash. Using a hidden cell phone might work once or twice, but wouldn’t win you half a million bucks. “I think something else is going on,” he said.

“Like what?”

Gerry, who was scribbling on a legal pad, said, “Think it’s a payoff scam, Pop?”

Valentine nearly fell out of his chair. His son’s education had yet to include payoff scams, and he wondered how he knew about them. Then he remembered that Gerry had run a bar which had fronted his bookie operation, and was probably familiar with hiding money.

“That would be my guess,” he said.

Mabel looked annoyed. “What’s a payoff scam?”

“It’s a method of stealing chips,” Valentine explained. “Albert Einstein said stealing chips was the only way you could beat roulette, and he was right.”

“So it has nothing to do with the equipment?”

“No.” He removed another soda from the pack and popped it open. “You said the dealers were given polygraphs. What about the box man?”

“Is he the person who pays out winners?” Mabel asked.

“Yes.”

“He wasn’t given one. The casino’s director of surveillance personally vouched for him. They’re related.”

“Oh-oh,” his son said under his breath.

Mabel’s head snapped like a spectator at a tennis match. “You think they’re the ones doing the stealing?”

Gerry turned the legal pad around, and showed her what he’d written. Of the many sentences on the page, he’d crossed out all but two. The first sentence, three spaces down, said, ‘Too much money flying out the door.’ The second, just below it, said, ‘Inside job.’ Mabel nodded; it was the same technique Tony used. Eliminate the obvious, and the answer will often stare you in the face.

“And the director of surveillance was so polite over the phone,” she said.

Valentine stared at the live-feed of the Casino at Monte Carlo on his computer. The player sitting to the box man’s right was sweating, the collar of his starched shirt cutting his neck like a garrotte.

“You taping this?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mabel said. “Want to see something again?”

“The last minute.”

Mabel rewound the tape, then hit play. Valentine and Gerry leaned forward and stared. After the tape was done, they both pulled back. “Got it,” Valentine said.

“Me, too,” Gerry said.

“Oh, I hate you both,” Mabel said. “What’s going on?”

“The player to the box man’s right is stealing the money. He bets red, or black. Forty-five percent of the time, he wins. When the box man slides him his winnings, he overpays him. The player immediately adds his winnings to his stack. The evidence is only on the table for a few seconds. Then, it melts away.”

“Doesn’t the eye-in-the-sky catch on?” Mabel asked.

“The director of surveillance makes sure it doesn’t. He tells the techs manning the cameras to watch the wheel. They never see the overpay.”

Mabel leaned back in her chair, clearly perplexed. “But the director of surveillance hired us. Surely he had to think you might catch on.”

If there was one part of the business Mabel didn’t understand, it was that casino cheaters didn’t just steal for the money. They stole because they enjoyed the high that came from beating the house. Sometimes they enjoyed it so much, they couldn’t stop. Valentine dialed The Casino in Monte Carlo, and within a minute, had the casino’s GM on the line. He explained the scam, and the GM cursed loudly when he learned who was involved. He thanked the GM for his business, then hung up.

“What will happen now?” Mabel asked.

“Watch.”

Sixty seconds later, four security guards appeared, and escorted the box man and his partner from the table.

“That’s what I call service,” Mabel said.

Chapter 5

It was quitting time. Gerry and Mabel both left, while Valentine went back to work. Since losing his wife, he’d found it the perfect antidote for loneliness. As he sat down in the chair in his study, his private line rang. Only a handful of people had the number, and he snatched up the phone.

“Valentine here.”

“Higgins, here,” Bill Higgins said. Bill was the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, and a close friend. “I’m standing in the governor’s office in the Capitol Building in Carson City. Governor Smoltz is here, along with his staff. The governor personally asked me to call you. He needs your help.”

Valentine leaned back in his chair. He’d vowed never to work for Nevada’s casinos after the casino owners had tried to blackball his son. His business hadn’t suffered, and he’d been a better man for the decision.

“Is this about one of your casinos?”

“It’s about all our casinos,” Bill said.

“Tell Smoltz I’m not interested.”

The line went silent, and Valentine stared out his study window. It was growing dark, and he was looking forward to his evening stroll. He’d left his kitchen door open a week ago, and been amazed at the number of critters that had decided to pay him a visit. Five varieties of frogs, a chameleon, a colorful banana spider, and a squirrel had poked their heads in. Palm Harbor was filled with wildlife, and he could either be like his neighbors and set traps, or get a book from the library and learn what the animals were. The latter choice had appealed to him, and he’d started taking nightly walks.

“The governor has asked me to ask you to reconsider,” Bill said, coming back on the line. “This problem could cripple every casino in Nevada.”

“Is your job on the line?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not interested. How’s the weather out there?”

Bill relayed his answer to Smoltz. Valentine heard the phone being ripped out of Bill’s hands, and the governor come on the line. Valentine had met Smoltz when he was the head prosecuting attorney in Las Vegas, and hadn’t know his ass from a shovel. Valentine had told him so, and they’d never bonded.

“Goddamn it, Valentine!” Smoltz thundered. “We’re talking about a problem that could turn the state’s economy upside-down. A catastrophe with a capital C.”

“Still not interested. Put Bill back on, will you?”

Smoltz swore and passed the phone back to Bill.

“So, how’s the weather?” Valentine asked.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Bill asked.

From his desk drawer Valentine removed his binoculars and the notebook he used to jot down his wildlife sightings. “Just sticking to my principles, that’s all.”

“This involves Bronco Marchese,” Bill said.

The smile faded from Valentine’s face. A day hadn’t gone by in the last twenty years that he hadn’t thought about Bronco Marchese.

“How does he figure into this?”

“Bronco got arrested in Reno yesterday. He’s charged with second-degree murder, and for stealing a jackpot from the Cal Neva Lodge. Bronco’s asked the prosecutor to cut him a deal, and it looks like he might.”

Valentine put his binoculars and notebook back into the drawer. Bronco’s gang had murdered his brother-in-law Sal on the Atlantic City Boardwalk twenty years ago. Every other member of the gang was now in prison, and it was the last piece of unfinished business from his days in law enforcement.

“How can they let him skate?”

“Bronco’s claiming there’s a Nevada Gaming Control Board agent stealing jackpots from Nevada’s casinos,” Bill said. “If we don’t let Bronco go, he’s going to release the agent’s name to the media, and ruin our business.”

Valentine whistled into the phone. Bill had just described the casino business’s worst nightmare. If the public thought the people policing the casinos were crooks, they’d stop playing. Overnight, business would dry up, and the casinos would go under. No wonder Smoltz was sweating through his underwear.

“Is Bronco telling the truth?” Valentine asked.

“Not sure,” Bill said. “We want you to have a look, and tell us what you think.”

“Which would put Bronco’s fate in my hands.”

“That’s right.”

Dusk had settled, and Valentine saw his backyard pool into darkness. Perhaps this was God’s way of rewarding him for living a clean life, or maybe it was just dumb luck. Either way, he wasn’t going to pass it up.

“Tell Smoltz I’ll take the job,” he said.

The Internet was a beautiful thing. Five minutes later, Valentine was reading three reports that Bill Higgins had e-mailed him concerning Bronco Marchese.

He started with the official police report. According to a statement made by a newlywed named Karen Farmer, Bronco had rigged a million dollar jackpot on a slot machine at the Cal Neva Lodge, allowing Karen and her husband to claim the prize. The next day, while cutting up the winnings, Bronco and Bo had gotten into a fight, and Bronco had shot and killed Bo, then left.

Karen Farmer had called the police and confessed. While being questioned, she had recounted eating dinner with Bronco in Sacramento two nights before, and Bronco paying with a credit card. The waitress had mistakenly presented the card to her husband, and Karen had noticed a different name on the card. Frank Revel.

Using that single piece of information, the police had tracked Bronco to a motel in Reno, and arrested him. While searching Bronco’s car, they had discovered a box of disguises, weapons, a welding kit used to make keys, and a diary with detailed notes about ten slot machine jackpots stolen from Nevada casinos in the past three years.

The second report had been written by Fred Friendly, the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s Electronic Systems Division. The GCB was required to keep records of every jackpot paid out in the state, and Friendly had examined the ten jackpot thefts recorded in Bronco’s diary, and discovered four similarities.

1) All ten rip-offs had occurred in small, out-of-the-way casinos, where surveillance was less stringent than the state’s larger casinos.

2) Each jackpot was for one million dollars.

3) Each machine was a refurbished electro-magnetic model. By law, refurbs were not allowed in casinos, but some casinos used them instead of buying new machines in an effort to cut costs.

4) Each rip-off had occurred during a shift change in the casino’s surveillance control room, when the techs were less likely to notice theft.

The third report was a transcript of a meeting that had taken place between Bill Higgins and Bronco’s attorney, a mob-connected reptile named Kyle Garrow.

Garrow: “Bronco wants to cut a deal.”

Higgins: “No deals.”

Garrow: “Bronco has information that could destroy the gambling business in Nevada.”

Higgins: “Give me a break.”

Garrow: “I’m dead serious.”

Higgins: “You’ve got two minutes. Talk.”

Garrow: “Three years ago, Bronco was casing a casino when he spotted someone stealing a jackpot. He introduced himself, and the two became friends.”

Higgins: “How touching.”

Garrow: “The other cheater was an agent with the Nevada Gaming Control Board.”

Higgins: “An agent in my department?”

Garrow: “That’s right. Want to extend that two minutes?”

Higgins: “Keep talking.”

Garrow: “Bronco and this agent entered into an arrangement. Bronco taught this agent how to play the game. You know, pick dead times to beat the eye-in-the-sky, that sort of thing.”

Higgins: “What did Bronco receive in return?”

Garrow: “The agent told Bronco where all the refurbs were in the state. The agent knew the exact location of every one.”

Higgins: “Does Bronco know how many jackpots this agent has stolen?”

Garrow: “Hundreds. Maybe more.”

Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”

Garrow: “No, it’s not. The agent is stealing jackpots under ten grand so he doesn’t have to report them to the IRS. He’s flying under the radar.”

Higgins: “Keep talking.”

Garrow: “Bronco says your agent has developed a unique method of corrupting slot machines. I’m not talking old machines, either.”

Higgins: “Is this agent stealing jackpots himself?”

Garrow: “No. He’s using claimers.”

Higgins: “Different claimers for each jackpot?”

Garrow: “Yes. He recruits them.”

Higgins: “Let me get this straight. He’s corrupted hundreds of people to claim the money?”

Garrow: “That’s right.”

Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”

Garrow: “No, it’s not. Bronco taught him how to do it. Look at Bo and Karen Farmer. Neither has a criminal record, yet Bronco got them to help him rip off the Cal Neva.”

Higgins: “How does Bronco do that?”

Garrow: “I honestly don’t know.”

Higgins: “And Bronco is willing to give this agent up, provided we let him go.”

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

Valentine shut down his computer, and watched the screen become an iridescent blue dot. What Garrow was claiming was pure bull. Modern slot machines couldn’t be corrupted into paying off jackpots. They were sophisticated computers that had more anti-theft safeguards than most banks. At the heart of these computers were random number generator chips, called RNGs, which cycled hundreds of numbers per second, and selected jackpots. They were impossible to corrupt.

His stomach growled. The day he’d lost his wife, he’d stopped eating right. Yolanda was good about feeding him, but he tried not to make himself a regular at Gerry’s table. His son and his wife needed their space.

He decided on hot dogs, and was boiling water on the stove when he spied a note stuck to the refrigerator. It was from Mabel, informing him she’d left pot roast and mashed potatoes in the fridge. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten homemade pot roast. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

He heated the food in the microwave, then ate with the sports section spread before him. Something was bothering him, and his eyes would not focus on the page.

Picking up his plate, he returned to his study.

Sitting at his computer, he retrieved the transcript of Bill and Garrow’s meeting. His brain had always been good at finding things that didn’t make sense, and turning those things inside-out. He stared at the screen.

Higgins: “Let me get this straight. He’s corrupted hundreds of people to claim the money.”

Garrow: “That’s right.”

Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”

It sounded familiar. Opening his desk drawer, he removed a stack of letters, and sorted through them. Lucy Price had written him weekly since going to prison nine months ago. Although he’d accepted that a relationship between them wouldn’t work, he still cared deeply about her. He found the letter he was looking for, and stared at Lucy’s flowing script.

I’m seeing a counselor several times a week to address my gambling problem. We talk about a lot of things that I would rather not dredge up, like how I left my children locked in the car so I could play the slots inside a casino, or lied to my ex about having my purse stolen when in fact I’d lost the money on slots.

The thing I am most ashamed of is that I once knowingly helped a man who was probably a cheater. This man approached me in a casino bar, and asked me to play a particular machine for him. He was a smooth-talker, and claimed he’d discovered a way to tell when a slot was going to pay a jackpot. I played the machine he directed me to, and it paid off $9,800. He let me keep 20 %. I told my counselor about this, because it has bothered me for a long time. My counselor thinks this man was a nut, and probably just coming on to me. He also thinks it was luck that I hit the jackpot. I hope he’s right. I’d hate to think I ripped off a casino, along with all the other things I’ve done.

Valentine shook his head. It would be easy to dismiss the man who’d approached Lucy as a masher, only the slot machine he’d asked Lucy to play had paid off, and Lucy had sensed that something was wrong. The man had somehow rigged the machine, and talked Lucy into being his claimer. Which meant that everything Bronco’s lawyer had told Bill Higgins was true.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

Chapter 6

Gerry Valentine had been gambling since he was ten. Ever since he could remember, placing a bet had gotten his adrenaline pumping, and made him feel good all over.

Until today.

He was sitting at his kitchen table with Yolanda, eating take-out Chinese food from paper cartons. Back when he was a kid, his family had eaten Chinese food this way. Yolanda found it funny but went along with the ritual. Maybe that was why he loved her so much. She put up with his nonsense.

“Why the long face?” she asked, twirling her chicken lo mein with a fork.

He took a deep breath. Along with the three thousand his father had given him, he’d won another six grand by picking the Daily Double at Tampa Bay Downs. Only, the win at the track hadn’t made him feel very good. Through the intercom on the table he listened to Lois talking in her sleep from the bedroom.

“She sounds like you,” Gerry said.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. She whispers in her sleep. You do that.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What’s wrong?”

Gerry couldn’t hide it anymore. He pointed at the money he’d won at the track lying on the table. “This.”

Yolanda continued to eat her food. When it came to gambling, she was as pure as freshly fallen snow, and didn’t understand the odds against picking two horses to come in first in two different races.

“You won,” she said. “What’s wrong with that?”

“I cheated.”

The lo mein noodles on her fork escaped back into the carton, and she put the utensil on her plate. “You did what?”

Normally, Gerry would have lowered his head in shame. This was the classic response to someone getting chewed out; lower your head and beg forgiveness. But, he wasn’t going to do that with Yolanda. She deserved better.

“I cheated the track.”

“Explain yourself.”

“When we got to the track, I grabbed a racing form. On it were the names of two horses that I recognized from my bookmaking days. These horses were excellent runners, only their owner had his jockeys hold them back in races.”

“He made his own horses lose?”

“Yeah. Over time, they became long shots. When I saw them in the first and second races today, I had a hunch he was going to let them really run.”

“Why?”

“Because the Daily Double only happens in the first and second races. If a bettor picks both winning horses, he wins a bundle. Since these two horses were long shots, the odds they paid out were astronomical.” He pointed at the money lying on the table. “I won that on a hundred dollar bet.”

Yolanda stared at the stack of bills. “But there was no guarantee those horses would win, was there?”

“No, but they were sure things.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I used insider-information. Normally, it wouldn’t bother me. But then a funny thing happened. I saw that hustler who nearly scammed me with the silking, and told my father. And we caught him. And you know what?”

“What,” his wife said softly.

“It made me feel better than winning the Daily Double.”

“It did?”

“Yeah. And it made me realize something else. I can’t be a cheater, and also catch cheaters. It had to be one, or the other. So, I’m giving it up.”

“The cheating.”

“Yeah.”

Yolanda reached across the table and placed her hand atop his. In her beautiful brown eyes was a look that was both strange and wonderful. At any other time in their relationship, her look would have disturbed him. It was like she’d been waiting for him, and he’d finally arrived.

“You didn’t tell your father about winning the Daily Double, did you?”

He shook his head. Confessing to his old man would only reinforce every bad image his father had of him.

“But you learned your lesson,” she said.

“I sure did.”

She stared at the money, and Gerry found himself staring as well. Money had never seemed so important as it did once the baby had been born. His wife lifted her eyes to meet his. “Will you give the money back to the track?” she asked.

“Give it back? Are you, nuts?”

“Gerry!”

There was a knock on the back door. He rose, and flicked on the back porch light. Through the glass cut-out he saw his father standing on the stoop. Did he overhear us? He unlocked the back door and opened it.

“Hey, Pop, what’s up?”

“We need to talk,” his father said.

Gerry and his father took a walk into downtown Palm Harbor. As towns went, it wasn’t much, the main street consisting of two family-owned restaurants, a metaphysical bookstore, a real estate office, and a coffee shop. It was Small Pond, U.S.A., but in Gerry’s book that was okay. Palm Harbor’s strict zoning restrictions prohibited fast-food restaurants and strip shopping centers, and he liked knowing the town was going to stay the way it was. They stopped beneath a moth-encrusted street light.

“We have a problem,” his father said.

Gerry sucked in his breath. “We do?”

“Yeah. It has the potential to ruin us.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You want an ice cream cone?”

Gerry hid the smile forming on his lips. His father had never let anything get in the way of eating.

“Sure. Chocolate swirl if they have it.”

His father walked into a restaurant, and emerged a minute later with a pair of double-scoop ice cream cones. He handed Gerry one, along with a paper napkin. It didn’t look like chocolate swirl, but Gerry didn’t complain. The suspense was killing him, and they walked down the street side by side.

“A Nevada Gaming Control Board agent is stealing jackpots from slot machines,” his father began. “I’ve been asked to take the case, figure out who the agent is, and how he’s doing it.”

“What makes that such a big catastrophe?” Gerry asked, licking his cone. “I mean, you’ve caught slot cheaters before.”

“This is different. Once the story hits the news wires, it could destroy the gambling industry in Nevada.”

“You’ve lost me, Pop.”

His father licked his cone, then made a face. “This tastes funny.”

“So does mine,” Gerry said. “I think you got frozen yogurt by mistake.”

“Crap.”

They tossed their cones into a trash bin. His father said, “Do you have any idea how much revenue slot machines account for in Nevada?”

Gerry shook his head. Slot machines had never interested him, simply because there was no way for players to get an edge. The earliest slot machines had given out candy and chewing gum, then some genius had started offering cash prizes, and an industry had been born.

“Take a guess,” his father said.

“Twenty percent?”

“Seventy,” his father said. “Slot machines generate seven billion dollars a year profit in Nevada, thirty billion dollars a year nationwide. They’re the heart and soul of every casino. They’re also responsible for most taxes which are collected.”

“So, this agent stole some jackpots. How’s that going to ruin the industry?”

“He’s a state employee, Gerry. He’s one of them. Don’t you get it?”

“No.”

“Understand the mind set of people who play slots. I’m not talking about your recreational player, either. I mean your hard core slot player.”

“Like your friend Lucy Price,” Gerry said.

“Exactly. Lucy sat down at a slot machine one day, and started feeding money in. She won a little, lost a little. First she’s up, then she’s down. Before she knew it, she was hooked.”

“Hooked how? It’s just a game.”

“Slots are different. The game uses intermittent reinforcement to make people want to play. B.F. Skinner showed how intermittent reinforcement works with a mouse in a box. You heard of him?”

Gerry nodded solemnly. His old man had a highschool education and was quoting B.F. Skinner. He was impressed.

“One day, Skinner put a mouse in a box. The mouse tapped a lever, and a food pellet appeared. The mouse ate the pellet, then tapped the lever again, and another pellet appeared. The mouse ate until it was stuffed.

“The next day, Skinner put the mouse back in the same box. The mouse tapped the lever, but no pellet appeared. After a while the mouse lost interest, and stopped tapping the lever.

“The third day, Skinner put the mouse in the box again. This time when the mouse tapped the lever, the pellets came out at infrequent intervals. Guess what happened?”

Gerry shook his head. He didn’t have a clue.

“The mouse tapped on that lever all day long. It didn’t matter that the mouse didn’t know when the food would come out. The mouse just knew that it eventually would. Skinner called this intermittent reinforcement.”

“And that’s how slot machines hook suckers into playing,” Gerry said.

“Yeah, but there’s a catch.”

“What’s that?”

“Slot players believe the more money they put in, the more likely the machine is to pay a jackpot. They think they’re priming the pump.”

“And they’re not?”

“No. Modern slot machines use silicon chips to control the game. The chip doesn’t have a memory, and can never be primed. Problem is, nobody who plays the slots believes that.”

“Why not?”

“They just don’t. Winning a jackpot is a dream to these people. If they read in the paper that jackpots are being stolen, they’ll think That guy stole my jackpot! and they’ll stop playing. Overnight, seven billion dollars in profits will go up in smoke.”

“Oh, wow,” Gerry said.

Another storm had rolled in from the gulf, and they walked back to Gerry’s house in rumbling darkness, stopping beneath a large cypress tree on the corner.

“How will this affect our business?” Gerry asked.

“This could hurt every casino in the country,” his father said. “If it does, the casinos will pare back, and stop using us.”

“What then?”

“Shuffle board for me, a real job for you.”

Gerry grimaced. “There’s got to be a solution.”

His father pulled a piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. Gerry knew it was nicotine because his father didn’t offer him any. His father said, “The governor of Las Vegas asked me to take the job. You know my feelings about Las Vegas, but I’m going to help him out. If I can catch this agent and the governor can keep it out of the papers, our business won’t suffer.”

Gerry nodded in the dark. His father had thought the whole thing out.

“Beautiful,” he said.

His father stepped out of the shadows. “There’s one catch. The police got this information from an informant. Bronco Marchese.”

The storm had caught up with them, the sky awash with brilliant flashes of lightning, the booms of thunder drawing closer. Gerry came out of the shadows as well. “The bastard who murdered Uncle Sal?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on him for a long time.”

His father frowned. “This is a job, Gerry, not a vendetta. If you go, it’s as my partner. Otherwise, stay home.”

Gerry felt the indignation rise in his chest. Uncle Sal had been like a second father to him, and he forced himself to calm down.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I’m going to question Bronco, see if I can get the agent’s name out of him,” his father replied. “I’m sure he’s not going to be cooperative. I want you to read him.”

“Read him how?”

“Get his vibes.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Pop.”

His father put his hand on Gerry’s shoulder. “Look, Gerry. I realized something at the track today. You know how criminals and low lifes think. You were one of them, for Christ’s sake. That’s an asset in our business.”

“It is?”

“Yes. So start using it. I’ll interview Bronco, and you tell me what you think is going on inside his head. Sound like a plan?”

Gerry dipped his head. It was a habit he’d picked up as a teenager and never outgrown. It meant “Yes,” only was deeper than that. His father had asked for help, and Gerry wasn’t going to let him down.

“Good.”

They walked up the path to Gerry’s house between scattered raindrops. Reaching the front door, Gerry pulled out his house key and stuck it into the lock.

“One more thing,” his father said.

“What’s that?”

“I overheard your conversation with Yolanda.”

Gerry froze. Busted again. Without another word, his father turned and walked away. He thought about all the bills that needed to be paid, then erased the thought from his mind.

“I’ll take the money back tomorrow,” he heard himself say.

His father waved in the darkness and then was gone.

Chapter 7

Bronco Marchese lay on his cot in his jailhouse jammies, staring at the concrete ceiling. His lawyer, bad-breathed Kyle Garrow, was running late. Garrow had never been late to an appointment before, but Bronco had never been in jail before. Bronco sensed a shift in their relationship that he didn’t like. The moment he got out of jail, he planned to set Garrow straight.

He shut his eyes. It was the strangest damn thing. His first time behind bars, and he wasn’t missing the taste of good food, or the rush of an ice-cold beer. What he was missing were the slots.

He’d started playing in New York forty years ago. Slots were illegal, only most bars in New York had them. He’d been fifteen, and had never experienced the kind of joy that coursed through his body after winning a jackpot. He’d fed his winnings back into the machine, expecting it to happen again. When it hadn’t, he’d gone and gotten a screwdriver, opened the machine, and stolen every last coin.

For the next two years, he’d stolen jackpots all over the city. His parents were dead and he had no friends, and it had kept him alive. One day while sitting at a bar, he’d overheard a conversation that had changed his life.

It was between two hoodlums, and they were discussing a gang of cheaters in Las Vegas who were rigging jackpots. The hoodlums had made it sound like the greatest scam ever invented.

“They’re stealing millions,” one of the hoodlums said.

“You’re garbageting me,” the other hoodlum said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Man, I’d like to get my hands on some of that money.”

Bronco had thought about the conversation for days. He guessed the Las Vegas cheaters were doing the same thing he was, but the jackpots were bigger. Suddenly, his life’s path had been laid out before him: He would go west, and make his fortune. The next day, he’d gone to the Port Authority Bus terminal on west 42nd Street, and bought a one-way ticket to Las Vegas.

The trip had taken a week. When Bronco arrived, he’d been awed by what he’d seen. Las Vegas was a mega-watt shrine to greed that burned twenty-four hours a day. It made the gambling back east seem like kindergarten, and had only further confirmed his decision to come. He had no money, and slept under bridges and ate out of dumpsters, his nights spent in the casinos.

One night at the Riviera, he spotted five people bunched around a slot machine. Their movements looked suspicious, and he quickly made their leader, a red-haired man with a scarred face. When he approached, Red told him to get lost.

“I’m on your side,” Bronco said.

“Prove it,” Red said.

Bronco pointed across the casino floor. “See that guy by the change machine? He’s the house dick. Wait until he leaves before making your play.”

Red had liked that. The house dick wandered off, and the gang went to work. While Red opened the machine with a skeleton key and set the reels, his accomplices stood in front of the machine, blocking it from the surveillance cameras, while a fourth acted as a lookout. Once the reels were set, the gang dispersed, leaving a blonde woman to claim the prize. Bronco stood off to the side, awe-struck.

An hour later, everyone met up in a parking lot across the street, and cut up the jackpot. Red, whose real name was Glenn, handed Bronco five hundred dollars and said, “Kid, you’ve got a future in this business.”

Bronco had stared at the money. It was more than he’d ever seen in his life. He’d handed it back to Glenn, and saw surprise register in the older man’s face.

“You don’t want the money?” Glenn said.

“I want to learn,” Bronco said.

Glenn had taken him under his wing, and become his friend. According to Glenn, any idiot could rig a slot machine. All you needed was a skeleton key and a lot of nerve. The hard part was finding a claimer. They needed to be John Q. Citizens with squeaky-clean backgrounds. Otherwise, the casino would be suspicious when they ran a background check. The blonde at the Riviera was a perfect example. She was a first grade teacher, and had never broken a law in her life.

“But how do you convince claimers to work with you?” Bronco asked one night.

They were eating spaghetti and meatballs at a dump on Fremont Street, and Glenn put his fork down and stared him in the eye.

“You don’t,” his teacher said.

Bronco put his elbows on the table, and stared his teacher in the eye.

“You don’t convince them,” Glenn said. “That’s the secret to this business, kid.”

Bronco looked at his plate of food. He knew everything about rigging slot machines but the important part, and felt defeated. After a moment he lifted his head, and saw a softening in his teacher’s face, and realized Glenn was going to tell him.

“They convince themselves,” his teacher said.

“Hey, punk. Wake up.”

Bronco’s eyes snapped open. A hulking guard stood outside his cell door.

“You the pizza guy?”

“Very funny,” the guard said. “Your lawyer’s here.”

Bronco rose from the cot and held his hands out. The guard entered and handcuffed him, then led Bronco down a hallway to the visitor’s room.

The room was small and stunk of sweat. Garrow stood behind a pocked table wearing a concerned look on his face. Bronco sat down behind the table, and was handcuffed to the leg of his chair, which was hex-bolted to the floor. Garrow remained standing, his hands clasped in front of his chest.

“How you doing?” his lawyer asked.

“Having the time of my fucking life.”

“You’ve opened up Pandora’s box, Bronco.”

“I don’t know any broad named Pandora,” Bronco said.

Garrow unclasped his hands and stepped closer. He was small and greasy and knew how to get under people’s skin. “It’s a figure of speech. You’ve created a shit storm, in case you didn’t know it.”

Bronco knew exactly what he’d created. He stared down at the pocked table. In blue ink someone had scratched the words NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE into the wood. No one but me, he thought.

“Good,” he said.

Garrow gave him a no-nonsense stare. “Listen to what I’m saying. Governor Smoltz has put half the cops in the state on the case. He’s also bringing in outside help. And, he’s putting heat on me.”

“He can’t do that, can he?” Bronco said.

“You’re threatening the state’s livelihood. Smoltz will do whatever he wants.”

Bronco used his free hand to scratch his chin. He enjoyed seeing Garrow sweat; it brought the relationship back to a normal level.

“What kind of outside help?”

“Some casino dick named Valentine.”

“Tony Valentine?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me you know the guy.”

Bronco dropped his head, and stared at the words written on the table. Not a joke, but a premonition. He wasn’t getting out of here alive if Valentine was involved. “Afraid so.”

Garrow gestured nervously with his hands. “Let me guess. He hates your guts.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do to him?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Then we’re sunk.”

Bronco stared up at him. “I can still go to the media. I’ll tell them the name of the crooked Gaming Control Board agent, and the casinos will be fucked.”

Garrow lowered his body so his chin was a few inches from Bronco’s face. “What if the police don’t let you talk to the media? What if they keep you locked up in this stinking jail until they figure out who it is. What then?”

“But I’ve got rights,” Bronco said.

“You’re holding them hostage,” his lawyer said. “Smoltz will do whatever it takes to keep you muzzled. Think about it.”

“Then you talk to the media, and tell them the agent’s name,” Bronco said.

Garrow pulled back. “Me? Are you insane? I’ll be run out of the state. No thanks.”

“So you’re saying I’m on my own.”

“I’m saying give them the agent’s name, and we’ll ask the judge to go lenient on you for shooting Bo Farmer, claim it was self-defense.”

“What kind of sentence are you talking about?”

“Six to eight years, with time off for good behavior. I’ve already talked to the D.A. about it.”

Bronco glanced at the big clock hanging on the wall. The second hand was sweeping in twelve noon. Less than ten minutes had passed since he’d entered the visitor’s room, and his high-priced lawyer had already sold him down the river.

“Listen to me,” Bronco said in a whisper. “If you don’t help me get out of this fucking place, I’ll tell the D.A. about all the crooked shit you’ve done, like laundering money, and hiring hit men for clients. You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life.”

Garrow looked stricken. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“Do more. I need time so I can figure a way to get out of here.”

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it,” his attorney said.

Bronco stared at the pocked table. This whole conversation had started because Tony Valentine was involved in the case. That gave him an idea.

“Take Valentine out of the picture.”

“But he’s a cop.”

“Ex-cop. Nobody cares about them.”

“You want him whacked?”

“You’re a mind reader.”

Garrow understood what his client was saying, and nodded solemnly.

“Consider it done,” the lawyer said.

Walking back to his cell, Bronco glanced over his shoulder at the guard who was escorting him. His name was Karl Klinghoffer, and he was as big as a mule and half as smart. As they reached his cell, Bronco said, “You married?”

Klinghoffer lifted his bovine eyes. “What if I was?”

“Want to make your wife happy?”

“Don’t go there,” Klinghoffer warned.

Bronco dropped his voice. “I’m talking about buying her a fancy appliance, or a big diamond. Think she’d like that?”

Klinghoffer unlocked the cell door, and brusquely shoved him in. Then, he closed the door and started to walk away. It was a slow walk, and Bronco knew that he’d taken the bait.

“This isn’t a bribe,” he called after him.

Klinghoffer shuffled back to Bronco’s cell. His shoes were at least a size fourteen and he couldn’t walk without scuffing the floor.

“Then what is it?”

“Free money.”

“Ain’t no such thing.”

“Yes there is.” Bronco pressed his face against the bars. “There’s a casino in Reno called the Gold Rush. You know it?”

“Sure.”

“Go inside, and go to the first row of slot machines you see.”

“Front door or back?”

“Front. Third machine from the end is a Quarter Mania. Put three quarters into the machine, and pull the handle. Then put in two, and pull the handle. Then put in one, and pull the handle. Then you’re set. Make sure you bet the maximum amount of coins after that.”

Klinghoffer stared at him. There was a security camera watching them, and he was smart enough to answer while barely moving his lips.

“Why should I do that.”

“Because you’ll win a jackpot.”

“Machine rigged?”

“Never been touched.”

“Then how?”

Bronco pulled away from the bars and lay down on his cot. He propped his pillow against the wall, and lay on it with his arms behind his head. “It’s free money, my friend. I have the keys to the kingdom, and I’m willing to share them with you.”

Klinghoffer’s mouth twisted in confusion, his conscience battling with the devil called greed. He started to walk away, then halted, and turned to stare at his prisoner.

“Three, two and one?”

“That’s right. Make sure you buy your wife something nice.”

Chapter 8

The next day, Valentine and Gerry flew to Las Vegas to meet up with Bill Higgins. It was six hours of flying with all the stops, and when they got off at McCarren International Airport in Las Vegas, Bill was waiting for them outside the terminal. A Navajo by birth, Bill’s dark suit complimented his jet black hair and steely disposition.

“I’ve got some good news,” Bill said.

“Let me guess,” Valentine said. “You found the bad agent in your department, and we can go home.”

“No, but we did find Bronco’s apartment. He’s been living in Henderson under an alias. I figured you’d want to be there when we searched it.”

“Who’s we?” Valentine asked.

“Two of my best field agents, plus two detectives with the Metro LVPD.”

“And the three of us?”

“Correct.”

Bill was the smartest law enforcement agent Valentine knew who’d never been a cop. But there was something missing from not having that cop experience. As a cop, you got to learn how bad people could really be. Valentine fished a piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth.

“Governor Smoltz said this was my investigation.”

“That’s right,” Bill said. “Smoltz gave you carte blanche.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you can boss around whoever you want to.”

“Including yourself?”

Bill swallowed a lump in his throat. They’d been friends for more than twenty-five years, only Valentine wasn’t going to let that stand in the way of handling the investigation. Gerry excused himself, and ducked into a Men’s Room.

“Including me,” Bill replied.

“If you don’t mind, I want to excuse your two agents and two detectives, and search Bronco’s place ourselves.”

Bill’s face turned to stone. He didn’t like it, and Valentine fished another piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket, and handed it to him.

“Try this.”

“What for?”

“It helps control your temper.”

Bill popped the gum into his mouth and made a face. “That tastes terrible.”

“See, it’s working already. You’ve got your mind on other things.”

Dozens of people were swirling around them in the terminal, and Valentine lowered his voice. “Look, Bill, who’s to say your two field agents aren’t working with Bronco, or that Bronco doesn’t have cops on the police force in his back pocket? I know it’s a stretch, but why take risks?”

“You’ve got a point.”

“Besides the one on top of my head?”

Bill smiled, no longer pissed off. “Besides that one.”

“One more thing,” Valentine said. “I want some form of identification that will let me do this job.”

Bill thought it over. “How about a Nevada Gaming Control Board shield?”

“Beautiful. I’ll also need an ID for my son.”

“Isn’t he here on vacation?”

Gerry had come off the plane wearing khakis and a loud Hawaiian shirt, and had looked like every other person ready to have a good time.

“No. He’s working with me.”

Bill started to protest, then clamped his mouth shut. Bill had come close to having Gerry arrested six months ago, and was not a member of his son’s fan club.

“It’s your show,” Bill said.

Henderson was a bedroom community twenty minutes outside Las Vegas, and had everything the neon city had — casinos, nightlife, good restaurants — but a lot less tourists. As a result, it had less problems, and Valentine had always considered it one of Nevada’s better places to live. Bronco lived in an older housing development on the outskirts of town. The development’s name was plastered on a sign by the entrance, and Valentine forgot it the moment Bill drove past. Inside were endless rows of one-story, sun-bleached houses on streets with names like Whispering Hills and Emerald Greens, even though there were no hills for fifty miles, and nothing was green.

Bronco’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and was cordoned off with yellow police tape. A pair of Metro LVPD’s finest stood in the shade of the front porch, their thumbs hooked in their belts. Bill got out, and flashed his ID.

“We’re here to search the house,” he said. “I want one of you in front, the other in back. If you see anyone come up, yell.”

“Yes, sir,” the officers replied.

Valentine followed Bill across the front lawn with the sun burning on his neck. Gerry walked beside his father, ignoring the two cops’ stares.

“Next time, wear regular clothes,” Valentine said.

Bill used a crow bar to break down the front door. Then, he stepped aside. “It’s all yours,” he said.

Valentine entered and waited for his eyes to adjust, then stared at a living room straight out of a college frat house. On every table were empty beer bottles and plastic ashtrays overflowing with stale cigarette butts. On the floor were piles of newspapers and magazines that dated back several months. Gerry whistled under his breath.

“Reminds me of my room when I was growing up.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Valentine said. He watched his son head toward the kitchen. “Don’t touch anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Valentine cased the living room. An 58'' plasma screen TV hung from the wall. He had been thinking about getting a new TV, and had priced the same model at Best Buy, then decided he could live without it. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford to spend five thousand bucks for a TV; there was simply nothing on TV worth spending five grand for. In front of the TV was a cracked leather chair that looked really comfortable. Next to it, a small table on which sat an empty fifth of Jack Daniels and three ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. It reminded Valentine of his father, who killed his evenings in front of the tube, smoking and drinking. He noticed a DVD on the table and picked it up. The writing on the DVD said, MARIE/FIRST DATE.

The remote control sat on the chair’s arm. Valentine powered up the TV, and the screen came to life. He inserted the DVD and hit play. A surveillance tape appeared on the screen, showing a group of people playing craps inside a casino. One woman stood out. Short, dark-haired and vivacious, with a melt-your heart smile. She was throwing the dice, and appeared to be winning.

“Hey Pop, in here,” Gerry called from the back of the house.

“You find something?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what it is.”

“You didn’t touch it, did you?”

His son didn’t reply, leaving Valentine to believe that he had. As Valentine crossed the room, he saw Bill leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“He’s learning,” Valentine said.

He walked through the kitchen. It was a disaster area, the sink overflowing with dirty dishes that looked like science experiments, the counter tops covered with empty beer bottles. Most hustlers tried to stay away from the sauce; it was bad for business. Bronco obviously had a problem he couldn’t control.

“Where are you?” Valentine called out.

“In the garage.”

He found a short hallway that led to the garage. He stuck his head in, and saw Gerry standing at a work table that ran the length of the wall. The garage had been converted into a workshop, and contained every power tool ever invented. Gerry pointed at several boxes filled with rings of keys.

“What are these?”

Valentine walked over and pulled a ring from one of the boxes. There was a tag attached to it that said Harrah’s. He pulled out another. The tag on it said Caesars.

“They’re skeleton keys to slot machines. Bronco can see a key once, and make a duplicate. At one time, he probably could open half the slot machines in Las Vegas,” Valentine explained.

“What happened?”

“The casinos changed all their machines.”

“Because of him?”

“He was one of the reasons.”

Gerry moved down the table. A hundred metal devices that looked like reading lights lay stacked in another box. “What are these?”

Valentine stared into the box. A wireless transmitter lay on top of the stack. He pressed the power button, and the lights on every device began flicking on and off. “Strobes,” he said.

“You going to fill me in, or do I have to hold my breath?”

Valentine turned the transmitter off, and the devices stopped blinking. “They’re called monkey’s paws. Every slot machine has an optical sensor to count payouts. The monkey’s paw is inserted up the payout chute, and causes the sensor to overpay. Slot machines also have anti-runaway relays to stop overpayments. My guess is, the strobe light defeats the anti-runaway relay.”

“But why so many of them?” Gerry asked.

That was a good question. Picking up one of the devices, Valentine noticed two tiny magnets, one glued to the top, the other to the bottom. Smiling, he showed them to his son. “Bronco is leaving the monkey’s paws inside the slot machines. Someone inspecting the machine won’t see it, unless they know what to look for. Bronco picks up money whenever he needs it.”

Gerry shook his head in wonder.

“Sweet,” he said.

Valentine returned to the living room. The surveillance tape in the VCR was still playing, the woman with the great smile still shooting craps. She was on a roll, and everyone at the table was reveling in her good fortune. Valentine guessed this was Marie, whose name was written on the DVD.

He watched Marie throw the dice. His gut told him she was your everyday, average player. He wondered why Bronco would watch a tape of her. Had she been a member of one of his gangs? She was wholesome looking, and didn’t seem the type. Gerry and Bill entered the living room.

“We’re going to search the bedrooms,” his son said. “I know, don’t touch anything I’m not supposed to.”

“Keeping your hands in your pockets will do the trick.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

They walked down the hall and disappeared. Picking up the remote, Valentine started to turn off the player, then saw something strange on the screen. A man was leaning over the craps table, his face exposed to the camera. It was Bronco.

As the banker at the table paid Marie off, he was momentarily distracted. The banker turned his head, and Bronco added chips palmed in his hand to Marie’s bet. It was called past-posting, and Bronco did it as well as anyone Valentine had ever seen.

Marie made a startled face. She’s not part of it, Valentine realized. The banker turned his attention back to Marie, and paid her off the higher amount. Marie hesitated, then picked up her winnings, and hurried away from the craps table.

Moments later, the tape ended.

Valentine shook his head in bewilderment. He’d seen a lot of strange things in casinos, but never anything like this. Bronco had added his chips to her bet, even though she wasn’t working with him.

He was still thinking about it when he heard Gerry emit a blood-curdling yell from the other side of the house. Moments later, his son ran into the living room followed by two man-eating pit bulls.

“I opened the wrong door,” he screamed.

Chapter 9

Karl Klinghoffer’s shift at the county jail ended at two P.M. Instead of driving home and eating lunch like he normally did, he drove straight into downtown Reno. The streets were practically deserted, and he guessed he could have driven around with his eyes closed and not hurt anybody.

He drove beneath the famous Reno Arch on Virginia Street. Neon letters bragged against the clear blue sky, “The Biggest Little City in the World.” On a fine spring day in 1928, the arch had been raised to honor the paving of a two-lane highway over Donner Summit to California. As a band played brassy ragtime, the town’s casino operators and bankers had celebrated their good fortune. So had Klinghoffer’s grandfather, a local bootlegger. It had been a glorious time.

A car’s horn snapped him out of his daydream. He was driving below the speed limit, and goosed the accelerator of his fading Tercel. He’d bought the car the same week he’d met Becky, a preacher’s daughter, at a party where he’d had too much to drink. Three months later they’d gotten married. Six months after that, Karl Jr. was born. The car was a constant reminder of how messed up his life had become since that night.

He turned into the Gold Rush’s parking lot. As he parked, his conscience spoke to him. You can still walk away. He sat at the wheel and thought about it.

There was no question in his mind that the slot machine Bronco Marchese had told him to play was rigged. How else could Bronco know that it was going to pay a jackpot? By Nevada law, Karl was supposed to report this information to the police, or risk becoming an accomplice. But was knowing this really wrong? Every casino in town ran promotions for slot machines that paid off 101 %. The trick was finding out which machines they were. Why was knowing that any different than knowing which machine would pay a jackpot?

It wasn’t, he told himself.

He entered the casino. He was still in his uniform, and saw an armed security guard nod. Karl nodded back, then let his eyes slide across the glittering landscape.

The slots were the first thing he saw. They called them one-armed bandits, but that had never stopped people from playing them. Every sound that came out of a slot machine was a variation of the musical note C. Karl knew a lot about slots, and other stuff as well. Because he talked slow, people thought he was stupid. But he wasn’t stupid. Just unlucky.

He went to the cage and bought a plastic bucket filled with quarters. Then, he sat down in front of the third slot machine from the end. It was a Quarter Mania, just like Bronco had said. He realized his hands were trembling. What if the casino’s surveillance department was watching from the eye-in-the-sky? What if they knew the machine was rigged, and were just waiting to see who played it a certain way? There was still time to back out, go home, and eat his peanut butter sandwich.

“Screw that,” he said aloud.

A woman in a tracksuit at the next machine looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

He started feeding his quarters into the machine. He’d thought it over, and decided he should lose some money before he went for the kill. Otherwise, if would look funny if someone watched the tape later on.

He lost thirty dollars in the time it took for a cocktail waitress to bring him a beer. She was dressed like a cowgirl and sneered at his fifty cent tip. The bottle was cold in his hand, and he took a long swallow of beer. It made him relax, and soon his hands stopped trembling.

Karl did not remember feeding the coins into the Quarter Mania machine in the three, two, one order, but he guess he had, because soon the machine was ringing, and he was staring at the flashing number in the payout bar. He’d won $9980.45.

He’d never won anything in his life. It made him want to run around the casino and pound his chest. After a minute, the floor manager appeared, and congratulated him on the casino’s behalf. Her name was McDowell, and she wore glasses and a sharp-looking suit. She asked him if he’d like another beverage.

“Actually, I’d like to collect my money,” Klinghoffer said. “I need to be getting home to my family.”

“We have to inspect the machine first,” McDowell said.

“Why’s that?”

“Governor Smoltz has ordered us to check slot machines that pay out any jackpots. It’s a new rule.”

Karl brought the bottle to his lips, trying to act nonchalant. To his surprise, it was empty. “What are you looking for?”

“Tampering,” she said.

McDowell escorted him away from the machine. The same cocktail waitress returned and stuck a fresh beer in his hand. This time Klinghoffer tipped her two dollars, and she gave him a wink.

Soon a team of casino employees in work clothes appeared on the casino floor. They opened the Quarter Mania machine, and, using a laptop computer, began running a diagnostic test on the machine’s RNG chip. Klinghoffer felt the beer rise in his stomach as waves of numbers rapidly appeared on the laptop’s screen. When it came to cheating, there was no way to fool a computer. He was doomed.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Klinghoffer?” McDowell asked.

“I need to use the bathroom,” he mumbled.

She pointed the way, and he went into the men’s room and puked in a stall. What a god damn fool he was. The last guy to know about a scam was always the sucker who got caught. Washing his face in the sink, he thought about Becky, and how disappointed she was going to be in him. When he emerged from the men’s room, McDowell was waiting with a smile on her face.

“Everything’s fine,” she said cheerfully.

Klinghoffer thought it was a ruse, and looked around for the police. “It is?”

“Yes. The machine hadn’t been touched. Are you all right?”

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I guess all this excitement’s gotten to me.”

“Well, hopefully this will make you feel better.”

She removed a certified check from her pocket, and handed it to him. He could tell that she was genuinely excited, and it made all the bad things he’d been feeling disappear. As far as the casino was concerned, he’d won the jackpot fair and square. And that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

McDowell handed him his driver’s license. Klinghoffer didn’t remember giving it to her, and slipped it into his wallet along with his newfound wealth.

“Much obliged,” he said.

Chapter 10

The pit bulls had Gerry pinned in the corner of the living room. Gerry held a cushion he’d grabbed off the couch for protection, and the dogs were ripping it apart with their teeth, the stuffing littering the floor like cotton candy.

Valentine stood fifteen feet away, looking for something to knock the dogs away. Bill came into the living room with his gun drawn, trying to get a bead on one of the dogs, but afraid of hitting Gerry.

“Pop, do something,” his son cried.

Valentine grabbed the gun out of Bill’s hand. He inched closer to his son, while remembering a pair of attack dogs he’d dealt with during a botched jewelry store heist in Atlantic City. Raising his arm, he aimed the gun at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger. The blast was louder than he’d expected, and the side of his head went numb. The dogs hit the floor, their legs splaying out spastically. He let off another round, and they hightailed it back into the other part of the house. He tossed the gun back to Bill.

“Lock them up, will you?”

“How did you do that?”

“It’s the way they’re trained. At least some of them.”

Bill went down the hall to deal with the dogs. Valentine went to Gerry, took the tattered cushion out of his hands, and stood waiting for an explanation.

“Bill told me not to touch the door,” Gerry said.

“So what happened?”

“I opened it anyway,” his son said.

Bill went outside, and found the pair of local cops sitting in their car by the curb. They hadn’t heard the dogs, or Gerry screaming, or the gun being fired. Bill explained what had happened, and asked them to call Animal Control.

Twenty minutes later, a pair of dog catchers appeared. Gerry sat on the couch with a cold beer, and watched the dogs being marched past. Valentine sat down beside him, took the beer, and poured it into a potted plant.

“No drinking on the job,” he said.

“They nearly ripped me apart, Pop.”

“People get hurt at work all the time,” Valentine said. “You think they all stop what they’re doing, and slug down a beer?”

They resumed searching Bronco’s house. The dogs had been living in a spare bedroom with an open bag of dog food, and a water bowl that refilled itself. The room didn’t smell, leaving Valentine to guess that a neighbor had been letting them out. The room was otherwise empty, save for a metal table. On it were dozens of coin holders filled with silver-dollar sized coins. They were slugs, and designed to fool a device in a slot machine called a comparitor. Valentine flipped one to his son.

“I thought only amateurs used these,” Gerry said.

“Slugs cost casinos ten million dollars a year in lost revenue,” Valentine said.

“Can’t the machines detect them?”

“Not if they’re well made. That’s why casino personnel are trained to watch slot players. If they see someone feed a coin into a machine that isn’t shiny, they arrest the player on the spot.”

“Tony, come here for a minute,” Bill called out.

He found Bill in the master bedroom. It had nice furniture, with drapes that matched the bedspread, and felt like a room in a model home compared to the rest of the house. Bill stood by an open closet, staring at the collection of women’s clothes hanging from the racks, the dresses and outfits still in their dry-clean bags.

“Strange, don’t you think?” Bill said.

“Looks like she lives here,” Valentine said. “Any makeup in the bathroom?”

“Just a razor and some shampoo.”

Valentine examined one of the outfits. It reminded him of clothes his late wife used to wear. “These clothes are old,” he said.

“Maybe she split on him,” Bill said.

Valentine searched the room. On the dresser he found a framed photograph of a couple taken on a beach. It was Bronco and the woman Valentine had seen on the surveillance tape. Marie.

He stared at the photograph. What he’d seen on the surveillance tape hadn’t been staged. Bronco had cheated at the craps table, and Marie had reacted in shock. She hadn’t known him. But now here was evidence that she had known him. He put the picture down and looked at Bill. His friend was staring at him.

“Does this make any sense to you?” Bill asked.

“None whatsoever,” he said.

Valentine went outside the house to the backyard. It backed up onto the desert, the baked earth flat and unforgiving. He found Gerry by the pool, torturing his lungs with a cigarette. His son started to throw the butt away, and Valentine stopped him.

“Let me have a hit.”

“I thought you were trying to quit.”

“One hit won’t kill me.”

His son passed the butt with a grin on his face. “Thanks for saving my ass.”

“And your testicles.”

“Those, too.”

Valentine took a drag off his son’s cigarette. It was a Marlboro, the same brand he’d smoked and his father had smoked. He handed it back, and Gerry flicked the butt into the pool’s sickly green water. It floated lazily across the surface, trailing a thin line of smoke.

“Give me your impressions of what you saw in there,” Valentine said.

“My impressions?”

“Yeah. What do you think is going on?”

Gerry fired up another cigarette. The dogs had scared the daylights out of him, but his father asking his opinion scared him even more. When he answered, his voice was subdued. “Based on the condition of the house, I’d say Bronco is on a downward slide. He sits at home at night, chain-smokes and gets blistered. Except for cheating slot machines, he doesn’t have a life.”

“Anything else?”

“One thing did surprise me. Based upon what you told me about him, I expected his place to be filled with high-tech computers and stuff. He doesn’t even own a computer.”

“So?”

Gerry faced him. “Think about it, Pop. Bronco is claiming that a Nevada Gaming Control Board agent is stealing jackpots from new machines, right? Well, there’s no way to corrupt those machines unless you use computers. You agree?”

Think about it. It was the kind of language Valentine had been using with Gerry since he was a kid.

“Okay,” he said.

“Bronco doesn’t have a computer in his house. Which tells me that either Bronco doesn’t know what this agent is doing, or the information is worthless to him.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because he’d be trying to duplicate it, Pop,” his son said. “There’s no honor among thieves. Whatever the secret is, Bronco isn’t using it.”

“Otherwise, we’d have found it.”

“You got it.”

Valentine took the cigarette from his son’s hand. Gerry had nailed the incongruity on the head. He took a drag, this one deeper than the first, and knew he was hooked again. He handed the cigarette back to his son.

“Sure you don’t want one of your own?” Gerry asked him.

“I’d rather smoke yours,” Valentine said.

Chapter 11

Mabel was eating a tuna fish sandwich while trying to catch a cheater.

Sitting at Tony’s computer, she was watching a live feed from the poker room at the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. The Micanopys ran a casino in Tampa where the highway interchanges met. State law let them offer poker, 21, and slot machines. There wasn’t much cheating, and Tony had turned the account over to her. Mabel regularly watched live feeds from the casino’s surveillance cameras.

She bit into her sandwich while staring at the screen. To help her learn about poker cheating, Tony had video-taped himself doing the moves, like dealing seconds and bottoms, doing the hop, and ringing in a cooler. On the tape, Tony had explained the various “tells” Mabel needed to look for. By watching the tape every day, her eyes had become trained.

On the screen, the dealer was starting to deal. He was a native American and heavyset. As he sailed cards around the table, Mabel began to record him. On the third round, he snapped a card off the bottom, and dealt it to the player on his right.

“Gotcha,” she said.

He dealt a bottom on the fourth round as well. Then, Mabel noticed something strange. On the back of his hand was a tattoo. She brought her nose up close to the screen. It looked like a small bird.

“Huh,” she said.

Mabel leaned back in her chair. Normally, she would copy the tape, and e-mail it to the Micanopys. What they did to the dealer was their business. Only she had no way of knowing who at the casino might open the e-mail. What if it was a friend of the dealer, or a relative? That could be trouble. She supposed she could ask Tony, only that seemed like a cop-out. It was her account, and she needed to come up with a solution. She was still thinking about it when the phone rang. She minimalized the computer screen, then picked up the receiver.

“Grift Sense. Can I help you?”

“Is Tony there?” a man with a deep voice asked.

The caller sounded familiar, and Mabel glanced at caller ID. It was Darren Crawford, a likeable FBI agent out of the bureau’s Reno office.

“I’m afraid not. Can I help you?”

“Will you be speaking to him, soon?”

“Perhaps.”

“This is urgent. Please tell him to check his e-mail. I’ve just sent him something that’s for his eyes only.”

“Tony’s out of town, and won’t be checking his e-mail right way,” she said. “Would you please tell me what this is about, so I may relay a message?”

“Do you work for him?”

“Yes. This is Mabel. We’ve spoken before.”

“Hello, Mabel. Can you tell me where Tony is?”

“He’s in Nevada on a case.”

She heard the sharp intake of Crawford’s breath. “What’s wrong?”

“You need to get a hold of him, and tell him to open my email. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Life and death?”

“Yes. Please tell him. Goodbye.”

The line went dead, and Mabel dropped the receiver in its cradle, then typed a command into Tony’s computer and went into his email account. Within moments, she was staring at several dozen email messages. She scrolled through them and found Crawford’s, which was marked with a red flag. She opened it.

Tony,

You are in danger. The FBI is tapping the phones of Bronco Marchese’s lawyer, Kyle Garrow. Garrow is calling around Reno, trying to get someone to take a contract on your life. So far, no takers, but you know how things work out here. Someone will take the job, and come gunning for you. Please keep this to yourself. The tap is illegal, and could land us all in hot water. I will let you know when I learn more. Be careful, my friend.

Darren

Mabel felt an icy finger run down her spine. A contract on Tony’s life? She thought she was going to get sick, and snatched the phone off the desk. Her boss never kept his cell phone on, but Gerry did, and she punched in his number.

Valentine and his son were standing by the pool behind Bronco’s house when Gerry’s cell phone rang. Gerry answered it, then handed the phone to his father.

“Mabel needs to talk to you.”

“Hey good looking, what’s up?” Valentine said into the phone.

“You’re not going to believe the e-mail you just received.” She read the email Crawford had sent. “You need to stay away from Reno until the FBI finds out whose going to take this contract on your life.”

Valentine stared at the desolate backyard. He should have been shocked, yet he wasn’t. He and Bronco had a history that was written in blood. One day, one of them was going to kill the other, and he had a feeling that day was about to come.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Of course I’m right. To be forewarned is to be forearmed.”

He found himself nodding. Mabel, the voice of reason.

“Okay,” he said.

“Oh, Tony, I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be. Remember, I’ve got Gerry to protect me.”

“Now you’re being funny. Please be careful.”

“I will.” He thanked his neighbor and folded the phone. They went inside the house, and found Bill in the living room gathering evidence.

“Change of plans. I’m not going to Reno to interview Bronco,” Valentine said.

Bill looked confused. “How can you conduct this case, and not talk to our only suspect?”

“Bronco’s trying to hire a hit man to kill me. I don’t want to go until I know who the hit man is. Make sense?”

“Sure. Who tipped you off?”

“A little bird.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Switch to Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“I know an inmate in the Jean Correctional Facility for Women in Las Vegas,” Valentine said. “She sends me letters. In one, she described getting approached by a guy in a casino, who asked her to play a slot machine a certain way. She did, and won a jackpot. I think the guy who approached her was your bad agent.”

Bill stared at him. “She’s actually met him?”

“Yes. It was a few years ago. If I talk to her, I’m sure I can get a description.”

Bill suddenly looked mad as hell, and Valentine guessed Bill was thinking they should have talked to Lucy Price first.

“This woman’s had a hard life,” Valentine explained when they were in Bill’s car a few minutes later. “I didn’t want to implicate her in another crime if I didn’t have to. I know how the courts treat cheaters out here.”

“You think even if she cooperated, we’d screw her?” Bill asked.

“Name a cheater or an accomplice you haven’t screwed.”

Bill shook his head and stared at the road.

Chapter 12

Jean Correctional Facility was situated on the north end of Las Vegas. The prison was a depressing complex of sandy brown buildings surrounded by eight-foot chain link fence topped with razor wire. Bill parked in the visitor lot and they got out. The sun was broiling hot, and felt like an oven.

The prison’s main building was three stories high and resembled a school house. Bill showed his credentials to the receptionist, and the warden appeared in the reception area a few minutes later. Being the most powerful law enforcement agent in the state had its privileges, and the warden agreed to Bill’s request to bring Lucy Price to the visitor’s area as soon as she could be found. When the warden was gone, Bill said, “I guess you’d like to talk to this woman alone.”

“That’s the only way she’s going to cooperate,” Valentine said.

Bill and Gerry headed down the hallway toward a sign that said cafeteria. Stopping at the door, Gerry glanced back at his father.

“Good luck, Pop.”

Valentine went into the visitor’s room and took a seat behind a three-inch sheet of plexiglass used to keep prisoners and visitors apart. The room was empty, and he stared at the vacant seat on the other side of the glass. The last time he’d seen Lucy was the day she’d been sentenced. It had been one of the hardest days of his life. Through the plexiglass he saw a door open, and felt the air catch in his throat.

Lucy entered the visitor’s room and sat down stiffly in the chair across from him. She wore a drab brown uniform, no make-up, and had her dark hair tied in a braid. Her face was filled with sadness. Despite the plainness of her appearance and her dark expression, there was no denying the affect she had upon him. To Valentine’s eyes, she appeared to be spun from light.

“It was the letter,” she said. “That’s why you came.”

He blinked, not understanding. “What are you talking about?”

“Please don’t play games with me, Tony.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“The letter I sent last week. Don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”

He shrugged helplessly. “No.”

“Did you get any of my letters?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did you read them?”

“Yes, I read all of them. I still have them.”

“But not the letter I sent last week.”

Despite his advancing years, Valentine’s memory wasn’t fading. He shook his head.

“Oh, for the love of Christ, then why are you here?” she said.

“I need your help.”

Lucy leaned forward, her breath fogging the plexiglass. She was a slender, fifty-two year old woman who reminded him more of his late wife than any female he’d ever met. Maybe that was why he’d fallen so helplessly in love with her.

“I can’t help you, Tony,” she said. “I have a shrink inside the prison who I see every week. He wants me to stay away from you. He thinks you’re part of my problem. That’s what my letter said.”

“I’m part of your problem?”

Her eyes were glistening. “In a figurative sense, yes. You’re in the gambling business. I’m a degenerate gambler, and I’ve always been attracted to people in the business. Old boyfriends, my ex-husband, you. My shrink wants me to stop writing you, and break off our relationship.”

Valentine leaned back in his chair. For some reason, he’d thought that Lucy would always be in his life, even if from a distance.

“Forever?”

She smiled like he’d made a joke. “You want to see me when I get out?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then quit the casino business.”

Lucy would be getting out in five years if she behaved herself. Maybe by then he’d be sick of catching cheaters, and be ready to retire.

“All right,” he heard himself say.

“I mean right now.”

“How can I quit now? I’m on a job.”

“Suit yourself.” She rose abruptly from her chair, and signaled to the guard on duty that she was ready to leave. “Goodbye, Tony.”

“But I need your help.”

“You’re hurting me. Don’t you understand that?”

“Please. It will only take a few minutes.”

She did not bother to turn around as she walked out of the room.

Valentine sat there for a while, staring at the chair she’d occupied. After a few minutes, a guard stuck his head in, quizzed him with a glance, then left. Valentine tried to imagine how he looked, sitting there dejectedly like a jilted highschool kid.

He found Bill and his son in the cafeteria, drinking coffee.

“How did it go?” Bill asked.

“Looks like we’re going to Reno,” he said.

Chapter 13

There were three ways to travel from Las Vegas to Reno. You could drive for eight hours through the mountains, take a throw-up flight on a puddle jumper, or, if the governor was backing your action, go in style on the taxpayer’s nickel. Gerry whistled through his teeth as they boarded Smoltz’s private Lear jet on a tarmac at McCarren.

“Wow, leather seats and upholstery. This guy travels like a rock star.”

Five minutes later they were airborne. The pilot came over the P.A., and announced their cruising altitude at twenty thousand feet, and what side of the plane the best views would be on. After they leveled off, Bill opened his briefcase, and removed a stack of documents.

“I had my secretary Xerox the files of every agent on my payroll,” he said. “She highlighted those agents who had filed grievances, or had disputes with their superiors, plus anyone with a medical problem resulting from the job.”

Valentine took the documents out of Bill’s hands. There were nine hundred agents with the Gaming Control Board, and the stack weighed several pounds. He separated it into three piles, and turned to Gerry. His son had his seat back, and was snoring like a baby. Valentine dropped a stack into his lap, and Gerry blinked awake.

“No sleeping on the job.”

“I was just resting my eyes. What’s up?”

“There’s a bad apple in these files,” Valentine said. “See if you can find him.”

Looking for a crooked law enforcement agent was never fun. It reminded you that even good people turned bad.

In Valentine’s opinion, the Nevada Gaming Control Board had some of the best law enforcement agents in the world. They not only helped casinos protect themselves, they were also responsible for protecting consumers against bad casinos. At any time, a GCB agent could enter a casino, and declare a “freezeout” for a particular game. The equipment would be confiscated, and sent to a laboratory for forensic testing. If the equipment was found to be “gaffed,” the casino would lose its license. Because of these responsibilities, GCB agents were viewed as the knights on the white horses, entrusted to keep things fair. In a place like Nevada, that was no easy task.

As Valentine looked through the files, he tried to imagine why an agent might go bad. Money was the obvious motivator, but he guessed it went deeper. As a cop, he’d known other cops who’d taken bribes, or flagrantly broken the rules. In every case, there had been a prior event that had triggered the event, a turning point.

For a GCB agent to go bad, he imagined the turning point was tied to the job. Why else would an agent cheat a casino, unless he’d seen a casino do something unsavory which he felt warranted a payback? He imagined their bad agent saw himself as an avenging angel. It happened a lot with cops.

“These guys are all boy scouts,” Gerry said after pouring through the agent files for an hour. To his father he said, “You find anything?”

“Maybe.”

His son sat up straight. “Way to go.”

Valentine had pulled out the files of five agents whose primary job was to inspect slot machines. Each had filed a work-related grievance in the past year. Passing the files to Bill, he said, “Tell me what a typical day would be like for one of these agents.”

Bill looked through each file, then removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “The five agents you pulled out are part of our field group. There are a hundred and fifty field agents in Nevada. Every day, they enter casinos, and check different slot machines to ensure they’re running properly.”

“You mean freezeouts?”

Bill shook his head. “We used to cart the machines out of the casino and check them, but the downtime cost the casino money. So, we came up with a way to do a test on the floor. The machine is opened, and the agent wires a laptop computer to the machine’s RNG chip. The notebook runs a series of tests to determine if the RNG chip is generating random numbers. Once the test is finished, the information is e-mailed back to headquarters, and the results are checked by a tech.”

“How many of these tests are done per day?”

“About five hundred.”

“Is there any way an agent could use his laptop to corrupt the slot machine?”

“Believe me, we thought about that,” Bill said. “So, we devised a failsafe system to keep everyone honest. There are two agents present whenever a slot machine is tested, and every tested machine is retested a few days later by another team. If tampering is found, the agents who conducted the first test face dismissal and arrest.”

“Has that ever happened?”

“Never.”

“And you keep all this information stored in Vegas?”

Bill nodded. “The information fills several floors. It’s overseen by Fred Friendly, the director of the Electronic Systems Division. Fred and his team examine the results of the tests every single day.”

“And you think they’d notice any discrepancies,” Valentine said.

“Yes. It’s what they’re paid to do.”

The pilot came over the P.A. to announce he was beginning his initial descent into the Reno/Tahoe International airport, and asked them to make sure their seat belts were fastened.

Chapter 14

Instead of going home after cashing his check, Karl Klinghoffer went to a saloon and drank whiskey with some strangers sitting at the bar. Coupled with the two beers he’d sucked down at the Gold Rush, the alcohol had a more powerful effect on him than he would have liked. Driving home a few hours later, he wrestled with the wheel each time his car crossed the double line.

He drove past the amphitheater where afternoon concerts were performed on the weekends during the summer. Crossing Arlington Street, he entered the area of town called “City of Trembling Leaves.” Maybe they should call it ‘City of Trembling Hands,’ he thought. It was the oldest part of Reno, the streets lined with three-story Victorians left over from the Roaring Twenties, when rich divorcees had waited out the six-week residence required for their freedom.

He parked in the street and killed the engine. He lived with Becky and his son behind one of these grand dames in a converted two-car garage. The rent was steep, but Becky was accustomed to a certain standard of living.

He walked down a dirt path to his place. The people they rented from made him use this path instead of the driveway. It had always made him feel like a servant, and he wanted to knock on their front door, and tell them off.

Instead, he climbed the wood staircase that hugged the side of the garage. Their apartment was on the second floor, and he saw lights inside and stopped. He tucked his shirt in, then unlocked the door and went in.

“Hey, Becky, I’m home.”

“Hey yourself,” his wife said from the dining room.

“Hey,” his son chorused from another part of the house.

Klinghoffer stopped in the kitchen. There was a plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes sitting at his spot at the kitchen table, and he saw a fly buzzing around it. He stuck his finger in the mashed potatoes. They were ice cold.

He went to the doorway leading to the living room and stopped. Becky was hunched over the dining room table, dressed in grey sweats. During the day, she home-schooled Karl Jr. At night, she wrote religious tracts for her father’s church. She did not look up.

“Where you been?” she wanted to know.

“Out and about.”

He came in and peered over her shoulder. Becky’s writing appeared in religious pamphlets that were mass-mailed by her father’s church, and it was not uncommon to see them floating around town during windy days. Her handwriting was poor, and he had to squint.

“Is it any wonder why young people are committing such horrible crimes against the innocent, when we protect the rights of atheists, and abolish the recognition of the Lord Jesus in our schools? The diabolical forces of moral corruption walk the halls of Congress, state legislatures and the courts. The gay coalitions, rabid feminist groups, United Nation one-world government radicals, and A.C.L.U., all use their political action committee funds to influence elected officials who force us under protection of law to tolerate their despicable conduct. These are the forces destroying our society!”

“Where you been?” she asked again.

He pulled up a chair. At the bar, he’d thought over what he wanted to say. Rehearsed it to the drunk next to him. The drunk had seemed to like it. Sitting, he said, “Has Jesus ever spoken to you, Becky?”

She smiled, still writing. “Sure. He speaks to me every day.”

“He spoke to me today. At least I think it was him.”

Her smile grew. “What did he say?”

“Promise you won’t laugh.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Just promise me, okay?”

She looked up and made eye contact with him. “Karl?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Have you been drinking? Your eyes look funny.”

He’d decided in the bar that if he was going to tell a lie, it might as well be a big one. The drunk next to him had approved of the strategy.

“Jesus told me to play a slot machine.”

Becky swallowed hard. “Jesus told you to play a slot machine?”

“That’s right.”

“You sure it wasn’t some drunk you met?” she said, turning nasty.

“Couldn’t have been.”

“And why’s that, Mr. Alcohol on his Breath?”

Klinghoffer took stacks of hundred dollar bills from his pockets, and tossed them onto the table. Becky’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She picked up the money, her face aglow. Right then, Klinghoffer knew he was going to be okay. She wasn’t going to throw him out, or threaten divorce, or do any of the other childish things she did whenever his behavior did not suit her. She held the money to her bosom.

“Praise the Lord,” she said.

Valentine, Gerry, and Bill Higgins landed in the Reno Airport at eight o’clock that night, and were taken by police escort to the Washoe County Detention Center. The Reno police had been alerted to the fact that someone might be gunning for Valentine, and the show-of-force was befitting a politician.

The detention center was an enormous facility. During his trips to Nevada, Valentine had heard it referred to as a debtor’s prison because Reno’s judges often extended jail sentences when prisoners couldn’t pay fines. Bill had called the sergeant who ran the center before leaving Las Vegas, and told him they wanted to interview Bronco Marchese.

The sergeant was at the front entrance when they arrived. He was a large, gregarious Irishman named Joe O’Sullivan, and he greeted them with smiles and handshakes. O’Sullivan escorted them to his office on the second floor, and after they were seated, explained why the interview wasn’t going to happen.

“Bronco’s lawyer left town,” the sergeant said, sitting at his desk. “Slime bucket named Kyle Garrow. I called Garrow on his cell phone, told him you wanted a meeting with his client. Garrow said he was in California, and wouldn’t be available until tomorrow morning. Personally, I think he’s lying, and was nearby. That’s why I hate cell phones. You never know where the person you’re talking to really is.”

“You think Garrow is stalling,” Valentine said.

O’Sullivan nodded. Pictures of his four kids filled his desk. Like their father, they were fair-skinned and red-haired. “I had him checked out. Garrow’s hardly spent a day of his life in court. Makes his money giving legal advice to crooks before they get arrested. Basically, he tells his clients how to stay out of jail, which in my book, makes him a piece of garbage.”

Valentine had known lawyers that did this, and agreed with O’Sullivan’s assessment of them. He said, “Governor Smoltz has given me unlimited power in my conducting this case. Is it possible for me to meet with Bronco without his lawyer?”

“Anything’s possible,” O’Sullivan said. “But personally, I’d advise against it.”

“Why’s that?”

“It would land you in hot water with the judge presiding over the case.”

“I can do hot water,” Valentine said.

“It will also compromise our case against Bronco for killing Bo Farmer,” O’Sullivan said. “If you want my advice, wait until tomorrow.”

There was a window behind O’Sullivan’s head, and Valentine stared at the garish neon which defined Reno’s skyline. He was itching to get in Bronco’s face, and make him sweat; it was one of the great satisfactions of his work. But he didn’t want to ruin the case in the process. He shifted his gaze back to the sergeant.

“What about the girl? Can I talk to her?”

O’Sullivan’s expression turned blank. “Which girl is that?”

“The bride in the scam. Karen Farmer.”

“That’s not going to be very easy either, I’m afraid.”

“Why? Is Garrow also her lawyer?”

“Karen Farmer tried to commit suicide yesterday. Hanged herself with a bed sheet, only the knot came undone. She’s in the psych ward at the Washoe Medical Center under observation.”

“Can she talk?”

O’Sullivan acted offended. “No offense, Tony, but she’s in a bad way. Grilling her could set her over the edge again.”

“Who told you that?”

“Her doctor at the hospital. I talked to him earlier.”

Valentine’s eyes returned to the window. Then, he glanced back at O’Sullivan. “Here’s what I want you to do, Joe. I want you to pick up the phone, and call the hospital. Tell them I’m coming over to talk to Karen Farmer, and don’t accept any ifs, ands or buts from anyone who says I can’t. I’ll make the determination whether she’s stable enough to talk to me. Understand?”

O’Sullivan looked surprised, then mad. Just as quickly, it all vanished, and he put his professional face on. He picked up the phone on his desk, and punched in a number.

Chapter 15

O’Sullivan drove them to the Washoe Medical Center. While Gerry and Bill waited in the lobby, Valentine went upstairs to interview Karen Farmer.

Psych wards in hospitals were depressing places. Valentine’s mother had ended up in one before she died, his father’s years of abuse having finally taken their toll. Walking down the hall to where Karen Farmer was being kept, a little voice inside his head told him to turn around, and go back to the lobby. Let Bill interrogate her, the voice said.

He stopped outside the ward. There was no shame in walking away. He’d learned that from a book by Ernest Hemingway called Death in the Afternoon. It was about bull-fighting, and Hemingway talked about famous matadors who’d run away from bulls they didn’t like the looks of. He started to walk away when the door opened, and a woman in a starched white nurse’s uniform stepped out.

“Mr. Valentine? We’ve been expecting you. Please come in,” she said.

Valentine followed her through the psych ward with his eyes downcast. Out of the corner of the eye, he appraised the room. Most of the patients were strapped down, like his mother had been. A man wearing a maniacal grin hissed at him.

“We put Karen on anti-depression medication this morning, and she appears to be doing better,” the nurse said. “I told her that she was going to have a visitor, but didn’t say who you were. No point in upsetting her.”

“Thanks.”

His voice was barely a whisper and the nurse shot him a concerned look.

“Are you all right, Mr. Valentine?”

“Fine.”

Karen Farmer’s bed was in the corner of the large sterile room, and had a view of the parking lot. A metal chair had been placed beside her bed. There was an Ace bandage around her neck and a contusion below her left cheekbone. Her eyes looked sore from crying.

“Karen,” the nurse said, “your visitor is here.”

Karen Farmer glanced at the nurse, then at Valentine.

“Oh, boy,” she said hoarsely. “Another cop.”

The nurse left, and Valentine sat down, and placed his elbows on his knees. It was a neutral pose, intended to put a suspect at ease. “Want something to drink?”

“A cigarette,” she said.

“I wish.”

“You trying to quit?”

He nodded that he was.

“Me, too. Bad for my health.”

He fished the nicotine gum out of his pocket, and offered her a piece.

“Have a piece. It’s the next best thing.”

Karen mumbled okay. He leaned forward, and fed her a piece of gum. When she opened her mouth, he saw that one of her lower teeth was busted. She chewed the gum and made a face. “Ugh. You’re not trying to poison me, are you?”

“You don’t chew it for the taste. Give it a minute to work.”

“Whatever you say.”

Valentine tried not stare at her. She had soft blond hair and bedroom eyes, the kind of girl boys fought over in grade school. She didn’t have a criminal record, and he guessed her late husband had talked her into stealing the jackpot. That was how it usually happened: The husband talked the wife into joining the gang. It hardly ever happened the other way around.

“I’m not a cop,” he said. “I used to be, but these days I’m a private consultant. I help casinos catch cheaters. I took this case because I want to nail Bronco Marchese.”

Karen stared at him. “You want to nail him? Like in the movies? Track him down and rub his face in the ground?”

“That’s right.”

Tears rolled down her face and blood rose like a curtain behind her skin. “Well, so do I. Bronco Marchese shot my husband through the heart.” She stifled a sob and brought her head back against her pillow, which was propped against the wall to protect her from hurting herself. She stared at the ceiling like it was a portal that could take her back in time, and everything in her life would be normal again. When she looked back at him, her face had grown hard. “Bo died at ten-fifty eight in the morning. We were married the day before at eleven o’clock. We weren’t married one whole day.”

“I’m—”

“Sorry?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head and the tears flew off her face. “I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. We met in highschool. My first date, my first love. He wasn’t perfect, and neither am I. But, we were perfect together. Know what I mean?”

Valentine stared at the tiled floor. He’d met his own wife over a Bunson burner in an eleventh grade highschool chemistry class. It had lasted forty-five years.

“Yes,” he said.

“Bo was my future. We were going to have a couple of kids. We had it all planned out. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then don’t come in here and tell me how you want to nail Bronco Marchese, you piece of shit cop,” she said, spitting her gum into his face.

Valentine found a sink and washed his face. When he came back to Karen’s bed, he had a pair of soda cans in his hand. He popped them both.

“Promise you won’t do that again, and I’ll let you have one,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Karen said.

He took a long swallow of his soda. He was glad for the walk. He didn’t like being spit in the face, even by someone who’d just lost her husband.

“You know something, Karen—”

“What’s that?” she snapped.

“Everyone has a history.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that everyone has reasons for what they do. Want to hear mine?”

She looked out the window beside her bed, her eyes peeled to a moving car in the parking lot, and said nothing.

“When I became a cop in Atlantic City, I was introduced to an old guy named Johnson. I don’t know if that was his first name, or his last. Everyone just called him Johnson. He was a drunk, used to live in the bars. Eventually he got sick and died.”

“This is real uplifting,” she said.

“Right after his funeral, I heard his story. Johnson was a cop during Prohibition. Part of his job was to stop the bootleggers from landing on the island’s beaches.”

“What’s Prohibition?” she asked, still not looking at him.

“Back in 1919 the government outlawed the manufacture, sale or distribution of liquor,” Valentine said. “The country was dry for thirteen years.”

“What did people do instead, get high?”

He nearly laughed, then realized she wasn’t joking. “Maybe some of them did. But the majority made liquor in bath tubs, or bought it from bootleggers. The bootleggers bought whiskey from Canada, scotch from Scotland, and rum from Cuba. They brought it offshore in ships, and used speedboats to deliver it to the mainland. Because Atlantic City has thirteen miles of beaches, it was a prime unloading area.

“One night, Johnson gets a call. An informant tells him that two Jews and two Italians from New York are coming to Atlantic City to hijack a shipment of whiskey. The informant says that these four guys are responsible for all the major heists in New York, and are running the city’s illegal gambling. Know who those four guys were?”

Karen finally looked at him. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense, but had a sultry look that made you pause. It had gotten her in trouble once, and would probably get her in trouble again. “Not a clue,” she said.

“Lucky Luciano, Frank Costello, Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Siegel.”

“I’ve heard of them. They were gangsters.”

“They were more than gangsters. They were the beginning of organized crime in America. They later joined forces with Al Capone, and became the mafia.”

“I guess Johnson didn’t get them.”

“No, he didn’t. He figured they’d probably kill the bootlegger, and that would be one less bootlegger. So he stayed at home and listened to a ball game on the radio.

“The hijacking went so smoothly, the four boys from New York took over all of the bootlegging on the east coast. That one night made them all very rich men.

“Johnson later realized what he’d done. He talked about it openly with other cops. His conscience ate at him, so he eventually turned to the bottle. Okay, now you’re probably wondering, what the hell does this have to do with me?”

Her eyes were cold and unfriendly. “Come to mention it, yeah.”

“Well, here’s the deal. I had a brother-in-law named Sal. He was a vice cop with the Atlantic City police. I started dating his sister in highschool. After we got married, Sal talked me into joining the force. He was my best friend.

“One night, Sal called me. He was about to arrest four casino cheaters. Sal told me these cheaters were from New York, and had ripped off every casino in the city. Two Jews and two Italians.”

“Sort of like Johnson,” Karen said.

“Yeah, sort of like Johnson. Sal wanted me there as backup. I drove to the Boardwalk right as the arrest went down. They were all there. There was a full moon, and I saw Sal lying in the sand. I fired my gun in the air, and the cheaters ran. When I got to Sal, I saw he was shot. I held him in my arms, and he died.”

“Did you run after the cheaters?”

Valentine crushed the empty soda can in his hand. It made an angry sound, and the ward grew still. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t leave him.”

“Was Bronco one of those cheaters?”

“Yeah. After Sal’s funeral, I made a vow to myself. I was going to run every one of them down, and put them in prison.” He picked up the second can of soda, and held it in front of Karen’s face. “I got all of them but Bronco. You want any of this?” She nodded, and he put the can to her lips. When he took the can away, he saw that the hostility had melted from her face, and decided it was now, or never.

“So, are you going to help me, or not?”

“Bo was playing craps in Reno when he met Bronco,” Karen said, her face lighting up whenever she mentioned her late husband’s name. “Actually, Bo wasn’t playing. He was, well, I’d guess you call it stealing.”

“Stealing how?”

“He’d discovered that people sometimes didn’t pick up their bets after the game was over, so he’d claim them if no one else did. Bo said it wasn’t really stealing, being that the house would take the money otherwise.”

It was stealing — the chips belonged to another player — but, there was no use in soiling Karen’s last memories, so Valentine kept his mouth shut.

“Bronco approached us, and made Bo an offer. Said if we’d claim a jackpot from a rigged slot machine, he’d split the money with us. Bo and I talked it over. We both carry a lot of credit card debt. I figured it was a way to start clean, you know?”

“Sure,” Valentine said.

“Later, when we split the money up, I found out that wasn’t really the deal. Bo had agreed to take less money. It made me mad, so I started yelling at him. Then Bronco said something nasty, and Bo jumped him. Then Bronco shot Bo.”

Her eyes returned to the parking lot. Valentine let a few moments pass before speaking again. “The night before, when you had dinner, what did Bronco talk about?”

“Scams.”

“Did he mention a Nevada gaming agent stealing jackpots?”

Karen thought about it. “Yeah. He said a gaming agent was using laptops to rig slot machines. I didn’t understand what he was talking about.”

“Did he mention the agent’s name?”

“Naw.”

“Did he tell you how the scam worked?”

“He said it was an insider thing, and that he couldn’t use it.”

It was the same thing Gerry had said. Score another one for his son.

“What else do you remember?” Valentine asked.

“Bronco said he had a meeting set up in a few days with a member of the Asian Triads. He was going to exchange the laptop scam for a Pai Gow scam.”

Valentine pulled his chair up closer to her bed. Cheaters didn’t tell you things unless they wanted something in return. There had been a reason why Bronco had told Karen and Bo about the Asian. “Did Bronco want you to get involved?”

Karen blew her cheeks out. “You’re real smart, aren’t you?”

“I know how these people think.”

“Bo was stationed in the Far East when he was in the army, and knew how to play Pai Gow. Bronco offered to stake Bo. Said we’d make a fortune with this scam.”

Valentine leaned against the bed’s iron railing. Pai Gow was played in many casinos in the United States. Each player received tiles shaped like dominos, and tried to beat the dealer’s score with the score on their tiles. It was a tough game to cheat, and he had a feeling this scam was something really good. He saw Karen studying him, the expression on her face almost wistful.

“What’s next?” she asked.

“I’ll tell the DA you cooperated, and gave me lots of valuable information.”

“Think he’ll cut me some slack?”

“Yes, Karen, I do.”

“I hope you’re right. Things haven’t been going so hot for me lately.”

She said it without bitterness, and a wave of sadness overcame him. Not a bad kid at all, he thought. He thanked her for her help, and put his chair back against the wall. He started to leave, then went back to her bed. “I’ll also tell the governor.”

“You trying to be funny?”

“No. I’m doing this job for him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I’ll ask him to go light on you.”

She thanked him with her eyes. Valentine had no idea what Bo Farmer was like, yet could imagine him wanting to spend the rest of his life with this young woman.

“Sorry about the gum,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her.

Chapter 16

Bronco got a cell mate right after dinner. His name was Johnny Norton, and he was a dirty-haired street rat with dark shadows beneath his eyes. Johnny took the bottom bunk bed, said he’d been arrested for passing a couple of worthless checks. The catch in his voice said there was more to his story, and Bronco guessed he was hiding from something. Most guys in jail were.

Bronco was standing against the concrete wall opposite the bunk beds, sizing Johnny up. He was a degenerate, and probably used to getting kicked around. A loner, but also capable of seizing an opportunity when it came his way. He’ll do, Bronco thought.

Johnny had stopped pretending to be asleep, and stared at Bronco from his bunk, his eyes shining like a fox hiding inside a hole.

“What you looking at, buddy?”

“What the hell else is there to look at?” Bronco said.

“You got something on your mind?”

“Maybe. You been in this joint before?”

Johnny patted his pockets for a smoke. He snapped his fingers, remembering where he was. “Couple of times.”

“What for?”

“I scammed some old geezers.”

Robbing the elderly. That qualified Johnny for a low-life scum bag award. Bronco hunched down on his knees and looked Johnny in the eye.

“You know the layout?”

“I can find the front door. You thinking of taking a walk?”

Bronco nodded that he was. “I’ve figured out how to get out of the cellblock, and down the hall to the booking area, but from there I’m lost. Interested?”

Johnny drew his head back into the shadows, thinking it over. The truth was, Bronco didn’t need help escaping. His mind had made a picture of the jail when he’d been booked. He knew where the guards sat, the number of electronically controlled doors, and how many steps to the front door. He’d memorized the layout just like he memorized the pattern of every slot machine key he’d ever seen. His brain was good that way. It made pictures, then stored them.

But he couldn’t tell Johnny this. Johnny needed to think he was the lynchpin. That was the key to having partners; the partner needed to think they were in control. Otherwise, they wouldn’t get involved.

“What are you in for?” Johnny asked.

“First degree murder and ripping off a casino,” Bronco replied.

Johnny brought his face into the light and smiled. His upper and lower teeth didn’t match, and it ruined his face. “You’re a regular public menace, huh?”

“That’s right. What about you?”

“I told you, I got arrested for passing bad checks.”

“Is that why you want to break out?”

Johnny frowned, realizing he’d tripped up. He climbed out of his bunk and stood his full height, then shoved Bronco into the wall. Bronco saw no gain in fighting him, and held his hands up in mock surrender.

“You’d better not be an undercover cop,” Johnny said.

“Is that what I look like?”

“You’re trying to trick me, that’s what it is.”

In the light, Johnny Norton was truly dangerous-looking. Someone watching a security camera would stare hard at Johnny if he came into the picture. And that’s all they’d stare at.

Bronco said, “I think we’d make a good team. I just want to know what your deal is, that’s all.”

“You’re not a cop?”

“I sweat on my mother’s grave.”

“You really want to know what I did?”

“Yeah.”

Johnny tugged back the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit. His left forearm was covered with ugly-looking scratches. Bronco guessed Johnny had attacked someone, and his victim had raked her fingernails down his arm. Lucky for Johnny, the cops hadn’t noticed the scratches when they’d booked him.

“I picked up a woman in a bar and slept with her,” Johnny said. “When she asked me for money, I strangled her.”

“Dead?”

“Uh-huh. Satisfied?”

“You bet.”

Johnny rolled his sleeve down, then went to his bunk, and slid onto the bed. “So when are we gonna break out?”

“Soon. Just be patient.”

“Whatever you say.”

And with that, Johnny closed his eyes and went sound to sleep.

Bronco went to the cell door and grasped the bars. It occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from his crummy attorney since that morning. Something didn’t feel right, and after a few moments of hard thinking, he realized what it was.

Garrow had turned on him. There could be no other explanation. He’d given Garrow the secret to the gaming agent’s slot machine scam for safe-keeping. That had seemed the smart thing to do at the time. He’d also told Garrow how he planned to trade the secret for the Pai Gow scam. In hindsight, he realized how stupid that was.

Garrow was going to cut him out. There could be no other explanation for him not making contact. Garrow knew the details, and was going to go solo. Right now, sitting in a seedy motel room in downtown Reno, was a member of the Triad who’d traveled all the way from China to exchange secrets. All Garrow had to do was call the Triad, and do the deal himself. Then, Garrow could take the Pai Gow scam, and make his fortune. He didn’t need Bronco anymore.

Bronco started to sweat. He had trusted his attorney, and that was always a mistake. He needed to break out of here, and set things right. He had thought Tony Valentine was his biggest problem, but in fact it was his own attorney who was the problem.

He stared at the chairs where the guards sat. Karl Klinghoffer would be starting his next shift in a few hours. Bronco couldn’t escape without Klinghoffer’s help, and he waited nervously for the guard’s return.

Chapter 17

Xing Han Wong lay on an unmade bed, staring at the dirty popcorn ceiling. He’d been cooped up in a seedy Reno motel for two days, watching stupid sitcoms and eating greasy take-out food while waiting for the phone to ring. He hadn’t shaved, combed his hair, or bathed, and was bored out of his mind.

The Asian hit man removed a pair of Pai Gow dominos from his shirt pocket. They were made out of thick plastic, and had red and white dots on one side. He’d been given the dominos by his Triad boss before coming to the United States, and been told to give the dominos to a criminal named Bronco Marchese, then say three words:

“Red, not black.”

This was the secret to the devious Pai Gow scam, even though Xing had no idea what it meant. His Triad boss had said that Bronco would understand, and in return, would give Xing the secret to rigging slot machines.

“A secret for a secret,” his Triad boss had explained.

Xing had traveled seven thousand miles to Reno, expecting to hook up with Bronco, and do the exchange. Then he’d turned on the TV in his motel room, and learned that Bronco was cooling his heels in a Reno jail. He’d called his Triad boss, and explained the problem.

“You wait,” his boss had said.

“For how long?” Xing had replied.

“Until he gets out of jail. Don’t leave without that secret.”

“What if he doesn’t get out?”

“You wait!”

“But...”

“You heard me! No fuck-ups this time! Understand?”

His Triad boss had slammed down the phone before he could reply. His words had been filled with anger, their meaning painfully clear. If Xing didn’t get the slot secret from Bronco, there was no reason for him to return to China.

He slipped the dominoes into his pocket and got off the bed. Going to the room’s single window, he lifted the blind and gazed at the ugly six-lane highway that ran alongside the motel. Cars and heavy trucks rumbled past, the noise a cacophony of sound. Reno was like most cities in China. Everyone was in a hurry, but not going anywhere. Just home to their TV sets, or to eat, or sleep.

It was strange how things turned out. Not that long ago, he’d been living the good life, driving fast cars and sleeping with beautiful girls. Then, he’d been told to execute a Chinese gambler who had not paid his debts. The job had broken bad, and his status within the Triad organization had suffered because of it. Coming to Reno to meet Bronco was his punishment which now felt like a jail sentence.

Returning to the bed, he lay down, and resumed staring at the ceiling. Soon his eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted off to sleep.

The Golden Dragon in Macau was like no other casino in the world. Asians were passionate about gambling, and players stood five deep at the tables, with each player trying to put down a bet. Gamblers who couldn’t get near the table ventured upward on a spiral ramp, and lowered their bets down on long, bamboo poles.

It was all about gambling at the Golden Dragon. Everything else was window dressing. The spiral ramp had two sets of moving walkways. One went up, the other came down. Hookers stood on the walkways, showing off their wares. They were not allowed on the casino floor, for fear they might slow down the games.

Xing had entered the Golden Dragon at a few minutes past midnight and gone straight to the bar, which was shaped like an electric guitar. Up on a small stage, girls in skimpy costumes lip-synched to Madonna’s Like a Virgin while doing a dance number. Xing motioned to the bartender, who served him a Ting Sao.

“Which one?” Xing asked under his breath.

“The bloated one with the cute girl on his arm,” the bartender said.

Xing found his victim in the bar’s smoky backlit mirror, an enormous Chinese gambler in a white silk suit playing 21 while snuggling with an underage girl.

“How much does he owe?” Xing asked.

“Too much.”

The bartender slipped away to serve another patron. Xing smoked a cigarette and sipped his beer. He was in no rush to carry out his assignment. Let the fat man enjoy his last minutes on earth, he thought.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to shoot a gambler inside the Golden Dragon. The casino did not offer credit to its customers, and gamblers often borrowed money at exorbitant rates from the Triad gangs that hung around the bar and restaurants. Gamblers that did not pay off their loans in time were punished, usually with a bullet.

Xing saw movement in the mirror. The dealer was scooping up the last of the fat man’s chips. The fat man had lost all his money, and looked dejected.

Xing unbuttoned his jacket while hopping off his stool. It was every gambler’s dream to die broke, and the fat man was about to fulfill that dream. He walked directly over to the 21 table with his eyes peeled on his prey.

“Out of my way,” he said loudly.

The crowd around the table parted. They knew what was about to happen. It was part of life in the Golden Dragon. Losers died.

The fat man spun around in his chair. Seeing Xing, his eyes grew wide with fear. Xing drew his gun from its shoulder harness and blew a hole in the fat’s man chest. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Xing blew smoke off the barrel of his gun like a cowboy in the Old West. The sound of a man yelling snapped his head. The bartender was pointing excitedly at the exit. Xing shifted his gaze to see another fat man running out the door. The beer in his stomach started to rise. He had shot the wrong man.

The phone rang, snapping Xing awake. Picking up the receiver, he said hello in Chinese, realized his mistake, and said hello again in halting English. He had learned English in school, and from watching American TV shows, which were shown in China with subtitles.

“This is Kyle Garrow, Bronco Marchese’s lawyer,” an unsteady voice said, shouting to be heard over disco music in the background. “I’m ready to do the deal.”

“Is Bronco out of jail?” Xing asked.

“No,” the lawyer said.

“Then how do we do the deal?”

“Bronco put me in charge. I have the secret to the slot scam. I’ll give it to you in exchange for the Pai Gow scam, and you can go home.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t have a choice, pal.”

Xing tightened his grip on the receiver. He did not like this change in plans, or that Bronco’s lawyer was calling the shots.

“I’m at a strip club down the road from your motel,” Garrow went on. “Meet me in ten minutes, and we can do the exchange. And don’t be late.”

Xing’s face burned. He did not like to be ordered around. He wondered if the lawyer knew he was a Triad assassin. Somehow, he didn’t think so.

“Give me the instructions,” Xing said.

Chapter 18

Valentine’s investigation had hit a wall. Karen Farmer had told him a lot, but nothing that would lead him to tracking down the crooked gaming control agent. His case was stalled. He needed to talk to Bronco if he wanted it to move forward.

He drove into downtown Reno with his son, and checked into the Peppermill. It was an old joint, and one of his favorites. The place had started out as a restaurant, and gained fame for the giant fruit dishes it served at meals. That had led to a hotel being built, and then a casino. The rest, as they say, was history.

He and his son were given adjoining rooms. Gerry came into his room, and they went out onto the balcony and stared at the skyline. The sun had set, and the desert was starting to cool down, the sky dotted with stars and passing jets.

Gerry lit up a cigarette, handed it to his father.

“Take a puff before you have a stroke.”

Valentine took the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth.

“That girl in the psych ward really got you worked up, didn’t she?”

Valentine puffed on the cigarette. Talking to Karen Farmer had put him in a funk. She was a decent kid, yet somehow Bronco had corrupted her, her husband as well. It was the one part of this puzzle he didn’t get. Decent people didn’t become thieves at the drop of the hat. Yet, Karen had done it, and so had Lucy Price. He passed the cigarette back to his son.

“She sure did,” he said.

His cell phone vibrated. Caller ID said it was Bill.

“What’s up?” Valentine answered.

“We just tracked down Kyle Garrow,” Bill said.

“Let me guess. You put an illegal trace on his cell phone.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did. Where is he?”

“Garrow’s at a strip club called The Pink Pony, waiting for the Asian to show up so he can do the exchange. One of my men is watching him.”

“You need to arrest him, Bill.”

“I can’t arrest him until the exchange goes down. Garrow hasn’t broken any laws.”

“Yes, he has. He lied to the cops about his whereabouts.”

“You want to arrest a lawyer for lying? That’s a good one.”

“I’m not auditioning for a comedy club. Garrow lied to buy time for Bronco. That makes him Bronco’s accomplice. You need to drag his sorry ass in.”

Arresting a lawyer was serious business, even if the lawyer was pond scum. Bill knew that as well as anyone, and said, “How about if I pick you up, and we arrest him together?”

“Now you’re talking,” Valentine said.

Kyle Garrow had been a dreamer and a schemer all his life. He envisioned himself a master criminal, but didn’t have the spine to really break the law. So he’d become a criminal defense attorney instead. By representing criminals, he stayed close to the action, and felt like he knew the score. He’d represented some of the worst scum bags society had to offer — bank robbers, jewel thieves, casino cheats — and learned something new from every one of them.

Take Bronco Marchese. Bronco had learned how to rip off slot machines from a GCB agent. The problem was, the secret was useless to Bronco. But Bronco was smart, and told Garrow to shop the secret around. There had to be someone out there who could use such a secret.

Garrow had put the word out, and within a few days, gotten a phone call. To his surprise, the call did not come from any of the known syndicates that bankrolled criminal enterprises. It came from a Triad boss in Macau.

The Triad boss had made Garrow a unique offer. His gang was running a devious Pai Gow scam in Macau’s casinos. The scam was foolproof, and the player always won. Was Garrow interested in trading Bronco’s slot scam for the Pai Gow scam? If so, the Triad Boss would send a man to do an exchange.

It had sounded like the kind of money-making opportunity that Garrow had been looking for. He had told the Triad boss yes, knowing that Bronco would agree. The Triad boss had said he’d send his man immediately.

Garrow had hung up the phone with dollar signs in his eyes. He had always been an opportunist, and he decided that he would turn the tables on Bronco the first opportunity he got, and go out on his own with the Pai Gow scam.

Garrow was feeling the champagne when Xing entered the strip club. Xing was a shade under six foot, thin as a rail, with dark bangs that hung lifelessly on his forehead. He wore a sullen expression on his unshaven face, and looked like a punk. Garrow waved him over to his table.

“Have a seat.”

Xing pulled up a chair. A topless waitress hit the table like a shark, and explained the two drink cover. Xing ordered a Heineken, while Garrow got another glass of bubbly. Xing gave him a hard look when she was gone.

“What’s wrong?” Garrow asked.

“You’re drunk,” Xing said.

“Mind your own fucking business.”

Xing grew silent. His face was a blank, and it was hard to get a read on him. They watched a couple of girls get naked on the stage beneath a strobe light. The waitress returned with their drinks. Xing asked her if they served food.

“What are you in the mood for?” she asked.

“Steak. Rare.”

“Coming right up.”

“I’d like some bread.”

The waitress left. Xing took a long swallow of his beer. He acted like he had ice cubes running through his veins. Garrow downed his champagne and slapped the empty glass on the table. The moment of truth had arrived. He was ready to stop being a five-hundred dollar an hour hired mouth, and start being a player.

“Do you have the Pai Gow secret?” Garrow asked.

“Yes. Do you have the slot machine secret?”

“It’s in my wallet. You go first.”

Xing removed two Pai Gow dominos from his shirt pocket, and handed them to the lawyer. The dominos looked perfectly normal. Pai Gow was a simple game where the player attempted to beat the house using the values of the dominos he was dealt.

“What’s the secret?” Garrow asked.

Xing said something in Chinese, then started laughing.

“Say it in English,” Garrow snapped.

“Red, not black,” Xing replied.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Your client will know.”

“Fuck my client. I want you to tell me.”

“I don’t know what it means. I’m just the messenger. Do you have the slot machine secret? That was our deal.”

The waitress brought the bread to the table, then left. The champagne had gone to Garrow’s head, and the club was starting to spin. His dreams were going up in flames. Without thinking, he said, “I’m not giving you the slot machine secret until you explain how the Pai Gow scam works.”

“I just told you — I don’t know what it means.”

“Then call your boss in Macau, and ask him.”

“That would not be wise.”

“Call him anyway. Otherwise, I’m not giving you the slot secret, pal.”

Xing’s face hardened. Taking out his cell phone, he punched in a long number, and spoke rapidly in Chinese to his boss in Macau while looking menacingly across the table at the lawyer. Garrow found the courage to smile.

“My boss wants to talk to you.”

“Put him on,” Garrow said.

Xing rose from his chair and handed Garrow the cell phone. The lawyer put the phone to his ear, and heard a dial tone. It was a trick, and he stared at the small bread knife clutched in Xing’s other hand.

Valentine blew past the bouncer of the Pink Pony with Bill on his heels. Traffic had been heavy, and it had taken ten minutes to drive to the club. His eyes canvassed the darkened interior. A lone figure sat at a table in the VIP lounge.

“Is that Garrow?” Valentine asked.

“That’s him,” Bill said.

“Where’s the Asian?”

“I don’t see him.”

“Where your guy?”

“I don’t see him, either.”

They crossed the noisy club and entered the VIP lounge. Bill had clipped his badge to his lapel, and patrons were getting out of their way as fast as they could. Valentine stiffened as they reached the lawyer’s table. Garrow was trying to remove a small knife stuck in his shoulder, and was a bloody mess.

“Help me,” the lawyer gasped.

Valentine pulled out the knife, and Garrow screamed. Folding a napkin, he made the lawyer hold it against the gaping wound.

“What happened? Where’s the Asian?” Valentine asked.

“Who told you—”

“Answer the damn question.”

“The Asian double-crossed me.”

“Did he get the slot secret from you?”

“Yeah.”

Valentine checked Garrow’s pockets, just to be sure. His wallet and cell phone were gone. The Asian had stabbed and robbed him, and no one inside the club had bothered to jump in. A waitress appeared, and tapped Valentine on the shoulder.

“His tab’s still open. You going to settle for him?”

“In your dreams,” Valentine said.

He looked around the lounge for Bill. His friend stood in the corner, shaking his head. Hurrying over, he saw a man lying on the floor next to a broken Heineken bottle. His throat was slit from ear-to-ear.

“That your guy?” Valentine asked.

“Afraid so,” Bill replied.

Chapter 19

Mabel could not believe her ears. She was at Tony’s desk, talking on the phone to Joe Silverfoot, head of surveillance for the Micanopy casino in Tampa. Joe had caught the cheating dealer that Mabel had spotted — and videotaped it too boot — yet was telling Mabel he wasn’t going to do anything. It was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.

“But he dealt off the bottom of the deck,” Mabel said.

“You’re right, he did,” Silverfoot said. “But, it was an honest mistake.”

Mabel shook her head. There were no such things as honest mistakes when it came to gambling. “The man’s a thief. You need to fire him, and alert the police.”

“We don’t have a case,” Silverfoot said.

“But—”

“Hear me out. The player who got the bottom card was not involved. We pulled him into a back room, and grilled him. He’s in town for a convention, and this was his first visit to the casino. He’s never met the dealer. He agreed to take a polygraph in case we didn’t believe him.”

“Did you?” Mabel asked.

“Yes,” Silverfoot said. “I was a tribal policeman for twenty-five years, and I know when someone’s lying to me. This gentleman wasn’t lying. He wasn’t working with the dealer in any way. He was in the casino having a good time.”

“The dealer was still cheating,” Mabel said.

“Afraid not. I personally grilled the dealer, and told him we had a tape of him dealing off the bottom. He said the humidity inside the casino made the cards stick, and that he probably pulled one off the bottom by mistake.”

It was the worst alibi Mabel had ever heard, and she closed her eyes.

“And you believed him?”

“What choice did I have?” Silverfoot said. “There was no crime. How can I arrest someone if there’s no crime?”

Mabel shook her head. Dealing off the bottom was the card cheater’s most prized skill, and took hundreds of hours of practice. It didn’t happen by accident, despite what Silverfoot wanted to believe, and Mabel said goodbye and hung up the phone before she had a chance to tell him what a nincompoop he was.

She took a walk around the block to cool down. When that didn’t work, she returned to Tony’s study and watched the tape of the crooked dealer that she’d made on Tony’s computer. The dealer was big and tough-looking, and not someone she’d want to meet in a dark alley. His nose was crooked, and looked like it had been broken a few times. If that wasn’t the profile of a crook, she didn’t know what was. The idea that he still had his job irritated her to no end.

She didn’t like it. The man was obviously a thief. She remembered Tony’s comments about casinos that let crooked dealers work for them. Tony called these casinos bust-out joints, and said that they were popping up everywhere — on cruises ships, dishonest Indian reservations, and little towns that weren’t properly regulated by local or state government. Some bust-out joints used shaved dice on their craps tables, slot machines that didn’t pay out, and blackjack shoes missing high cards. Others employed crooked dealers adept in sleight-of-hand. The end result was always the same. The customers got skinned alive.

She decided she had to do something. She composed an email to Joe Silverfoot, and spelled out her feelings in plain English. Dear Joe: I was shocked to hear that the crooked poker dealer we caught is still in your employ. Having reviewed the situation, I believe this dealer compromises the integrity of your casino. If this situation is not rectified, I will no longer be able to do business with you.

She positioned the mouse on the Send button, then realized what she was doing. This was her only account. If she ran the Micanopys off, she would lose all the fun she’d been having, and also lose the firm money. She didn’t like either of those options, and stared at the computer screen. There’s a price for integrity, she thought, then sent her message through cyberspace.

Chapter 20

Bronco lay on the cot in his cell, staring at the three crosses on the walls that the shadows had made from the bars. He’d heard about criminals who’d found Jesus in the slammer, and wondered if this optical illusion had anything to do with it.

He heard stirring above him. Johnny Norton, his cell mate, had turned downright friendly when he realized Bronco was serious about escaping. Johnny had switched cots, taking the less desirable upper bunk and letting Bronco have the lower. He saw Johnny’s upside-down head appear over the side of his bunk.

“You awake?”

“No, I sleep with my eyes open.”

“That’s a good one. Think it will be this morning?”

Bronco put his fingers to his lips. Out in the hallway, he heard feet approaching the cell, and wondered if it was the guard Klinghoffer. In a whisper he said, “Yes. What’s the secret password?”

“What secret password?” Johnny asked.

“The password I’m going to give you when we break out of here.”

Johnny hesitated. “Sword swallower?”

“Wrong.”

Johnny scrunched up his face. Last night, he’d told Bronco how he’d been shoved through school, and could barely read and write. Johnny’s brain didn’t have enough folds in it. The more you read and learned, the more folds your brain got. Bronco had figured out long ago that this was the secret to success.

“Come on,” Bronco goaded him.

“I’m trying.”

“It’s from the Marx Brothers movie, remember?”

Johnny continued to struggle. Bronco had told him about the famous scene in the Marx Brothers movie, where the three brothers enter a speakeasy, and Groucho and Chico give the man at the door a secret password. Harpo came last, and because he couldn’t speak, removed a sword from the belt of his pants, and a large fish from his pocket, and shoved the sword down the fish’s throat, gaining him entry into the bar.

“Swordfish?” Johnny asked.

“There you go.”

Bronco saw Klinghoffer standing at the cell door, pointing his baton at him.

“You’ve got visitors,” the guard said.

Bronco slipped out of the bunk, and stood in the center of the cell with his arms out. Klinghoffer entered and cuffed Bronco’s wrists together. Bronco shot Johnny a glance.

“See you later, partner,” he said.

Bronco had learned a lot of tricks over the years. Like learning to write with his left hand when he needed to carp a check. One of his best tricks was speaking without moving his lips. He couldn’t throw his voice like a ventriloquist, but he could communicate without someone watching through a camera knowing it. As Klinghoffer escorted him down a hallway to one of the jail’s interview rooms, Bronco was aware of the camera in the hallway watching them. Without moving his lips, he said, “You play the slot machine like I told you?”

“Uh-huh,” Klinghoffer said.

“You win?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Ninety seven hundred and change.”

Bronco wished he could see Karl’s face. Klinghoffer’s voice was a monotone, and Bronco couldn’t tell how the experience had affected him. Was he hooked? Bronco decided to go out on a limb, and said, “Buy something nice for your wife?”

“Yeah. Bought her a diamond.”

“I bet she fucked your brains out.”

Klinghoffer shoved the point of his baton into Bronco’s spine. “Move.”

Bronco smiled to himself. They had reached the interview room, and Klinghoffer reached around him, opened the door and told him to go in. Bronco did as told, and the guard shut the door without following him in.

The interview room was a square, with two chairs hex-bolted to the floor, and a mirror on the wall which Bronco assumed was two-way. Garrow sat in one of the chairs, his arm in a sling. His hand-tailored suit was covered in dried blood.

“What happened?”

“I screwed up,” Garrow mumbled.

“What are you talking about?”

“I set up a meeting with the Asian, and he stabbed me.”

“Why did he do that?”

Garrow stared at the floor. “It’s a long story.”

“You tried to double cross me, didn’t you?”

“No, Bronco...”

“I should kill you, you rat bastard.”

Garrow swallowed hard, and said nothing.

“What did you tell the cops?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Bronco dropped into the other seat, and for a long moment, stared at his attorney. Garrow wasn’t really here to see him at all. He was a prisoner, and the cops had thrown them into the same room just to hear what the two men might say. Rising, Bronco went to the two-way mirror, and brought his face a few inches from the glass.

“I want another lawyer,” he told the cops on the other side.

Valentine stared at Bronco through the glass. Twenty years had passed since that night on the Atlantic City Boardwalk. It was too damn long to be chasing someone, yet he felt himself smile. He’d found the bastard, and that was all that mattered.

“I didn’t hear that remark,” Valentine said. He glanced at Sergeant O’Sullivan, then Bill Higgins, then his son, all of whom stood beside him. “Did you?”

“No,” O’Sullivan said, hiding a grin.

“Me, neither,” Bill said.

Gerry looked at his father. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t hear Bronco say he wanted another lawyer. Did you?”

Gerry finally got it. “No.”

Valentine turned to O’Sullivan. “I want to interview Bronco right now, if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course,” O’Sullivan said. “Just give me a minute to get everything ready.”

O’Sullivan left, and Valentine resumed staring at Bronco through the glass. Bronco hadn’t aged well, the excessive drinking and smoking having taken their toll.

“Look at that crummy son-of-a-bitch sitting in there, smirking at us,” Gerry said under his breath.

Valentine glanced at his son. The night of Sal’s murder, he had picked Gerry up from basketball practice, then driven to the Boardwalk. Gerry had stayed in the car, and seen his uncle’s murders run past. Recognizing a family resemblance, Bronco had stopped, and spoken to his son. It had made a lasting impression on Gerry, and not for the better.

“Listen,” Valentine said. “We didn’t come out here to execute this guy. We’re on a job, and we’re going to do everything by the book.”

“But he shot Uncle Sal,” his son whispered.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No.”

Gerry continued to stare, his eyes showing a murderous intensity.

“Comprende?” Valentine said.

His son blew out his cheeks. Whenever Yolanda wanted to get Gerry’s attention, she spoke to him in Spanish. Valentine had found it worked wonders.

“Yeah, Pop,” his son said.

Chapter 21

O’Sullivan went into the interview room first, and cuffed Bronco’ left wrist to the arm of his chair. Not handcuffing him earlier was an old ploy, designed to make Bronco think he was more in control of his fate than he really was.

When Bronco was securely locked down, Valentine and Gerry entered, and stood against the far wall. Garrow looked woefully at the floor, shamed by what he’d done, while Bronco stared right at them, having never felt shame a day in his life.

“You boys are in a lot of trouble,” O’Sullivan said, standing between the two chairs while glaring at his suspects. “If either of you have a lick of common sense, I’d suggest you play ball with these gentlemen. It will make your lives a lot easier.”

“I want another lawyer,” Garrow said loudly.

“What’s that?”

“You heard me.”

Valentine took a step forward. Bronco instinctively brought his legs together like a dog expecting to be kicked.

“Garrow’s your lawyer, so we brought him to you,” Valentine said. “You don’t get any more requests.”

“You’re violating my rights,” Bronco said, looking straight into the video camera that was perched in the corner. “I have the right to counsel. This man next to me is injured. He can’t represent me. I want another lawyer.”

Bronco was as cute as an outhouse rat, delaying things as long as possible. Valentine leaned forward, and put his face a few feet from Bronco’s. Up close, he was really ugly, and Valentine thought of the woman on the tape he’d seen in Bronco’s house. She’d seen something good in that face. She was probably the only one who had.

“You want another lawyer?” Valentine asked.

“That’s right. I know my rights.”

“If you release Mr. Garrow as your attorney, you realize he’ll be free to discuss your dealings with him.”

The blood drained from Bronco’s face. Behind his eyes, Valentine imagined he saw the gears churning, Bronco’s mind weighing every conceivable angle that he had left. That was what made cheaters so dangerous; they always understood the odds.

Bronco nodded toward Gerry.

“That’s your son standing over there, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“I remember that night on the Boardwalk. As I was running away with my crew, we ran past a car, and I saw your boy in the passenger seat. Looked just like you, even back then. I stuck my face to the glass, told him what a pussy he was. Know what he did?”

Valentine shook his head.

“He pissed in his pants, just like you’re about to piss in your pants.”

“Why am I going to do that?”

The sensation that Valentine felt between his legs was almost indescribable. Looking down, he saw that Bronco had taken his free hand, grabbed Valentine’s testicles, and was squeezing them for all he was worth.

Gerry remembered the night his uncle Sal had died like it was yesterday. He’d just turned fourteen and was already shaving. He was a man, or at least he thought he was. His father had picked him up from basketball practice, then gotten an urgent call from his Uncle Sal. His father had driven over to the beach, parked on Atlantic Avenue, and told Gerry to stay put. Then he’d gotten out, and started running to the Boardwalk. Gerry had climbed behind the wheel, and pretended he was driving. His father had already let him drive in a deserted parking lot. It had been scary, but also exhilarating. Each time he’d pumped the gas, the vroom of the car’s engine had made his heart race. He was spinning the wheel when four men ran past. Gerry had guessed the men had something to do with his father being here. They looked like bad people, and he had locked the car doors. One of the men stopped, and came over to the car. He was scary-looking, and had stuck his face to the driver’s window.

“Hey, pussy, what you afraid of?” he taunted him.

“Go away!” Gerry yelled.

“Want me to go get your daddy, momma’s boy?”

“Go away!”

He had started punching the window with his fists, making Gerry cry. Gerry had felt something warm between his legs, and stared at the growing wet spot in his crotch. The man had seen it as well, and laughed. Then, he’d run away.

A week had not gone by when Gerry hadn’t thought about that night. Why hadn’t he blown the horn, and gotten an adult to come to his rescue? Why hadn’t he done something besides piss in his pants? It had been the first true test of his manhood, and he had blown it.

But what Gerry remembered most was the mocking look on the man’s face. Later, when he learned that the man and his friends had murdered his Uncle Sal, that look had become burned in his memory. As he sprang across the room to help his father, it was that look that he was determined to wipe away, once and for all.

Chapter 22

Bronco had been punched in the face plenty of times. By security guards in casinos, cheaters he’d double-crossed, and by irate husbands who’d caught him making sandwiches with their wives. But, he’d never eaten a punch as hard as the one Gerry Valentine delivered to his jaw.

Being cuffed to the chair didn’t help; he was a sitting duck, and even though he tried to get out of the way, he still caught most of it on the face. The blow hurt more than he could have imagined, and in Gerry’s eyes he saw the little boy he’d terrorized long ago in Atlantic City. Bronco had imagined that when he died there would be a lot of people waiting on the other side to pay him back for things he’d done, but he hadn’t imagined he’d encounter one during this lifetime.

He released his grip on Tony Valentine’s nuts, and saw Valentine stagger away. Then, Bronco fell forward, his free, uncuffed hand grabbing Gerry’s leg. Gerry had continued to punch him on the shoulders and arms. Several guards came into the interview room, and Bronco waited for them to pull Gerry off of him. To his surprise, they didn’t, and Gerry kept hitting him. Bronco saw stars in front of his eyes, then for a brief instant, nothing at all.

When Bronco came to, he was being half-carried by Klinghoffer back to his cell. The guard had stuck his head under Bronco’s armpit, and was guiding him down the hallway past several other guards going the other way. One guard leered at Bronco, and said, “You do that to him, Karl?”

“Naw,” Klinghoffer said.

Klinghoffer came to the electronically-operated door that led to the cellblock. A black guard sat on the stool with a shotgun in his lap. Normally, weapons were forbidden inside the cellblock.

“What’s with the gun?” Klinghoffer asked.

“Couple of inmates were giving us trouble.”

The guard flipped a switch and the door swung open.

Bronco had regained his senses and glanced upward. Above the stool was a video monitor the guard had to look at when someone wanted to come out of the cellblock. The screen’s picture was grainy.

Bronco felt the strength slowly return to his legs and his head begin to clear. Tomorrow, he was going to feel like he’d been thrown off a cliff, but that was tomorrow. He pretended to still be half-conscious, and let Klinghoffer drag him.

Reaching the cell, Klinghoffer stopped to dig a key ring out of his pants pocket. The cells were still operated manually, and he struggled to find the correct key. Bronco stole a glance into the cell. Johnny Norton lay on the top bunk with a smug look on his face. Bronco winked at him.

“Can you stand on your own?” Klinghoffer asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then do it.”

Bronco stood on shaky legs. Klinghoffer found the key and unlocked the cell. As he did, Bronco removed the pen he’d lifted from Gerry Valentine’s shirt from his underwear. He’d also gotten Gerry’s wallet, which was thick with cash. “In you go,” Klinghoffer said.

“I’ve got another slot machine jackpot for you,” Bronco said under his breath. He saw Klinghoffer stiffen.

“Yeah — where?”

Bronco went into the cell and turned around. “Same routine as before — three, two, and one. Jackpot will be less than ten grand, so you won’t have to report it.”

Klinghoffer stood in the open cell door. “Where?”

Bronco told him, only he didn’t tell him, the word coming out of his mouth a jumble of syllables. Then, he pretended like he was going to faint.

“I didn’t hear you,” the guard said.

There was an open crapper in the cell. Bronco sat on it, and shook his head like he was trying to clear the cobwebs. Klinghoffer stepped into the cell, his huge feet scuffing the floor. A little closer, Bronco thought.

“Say the name of the casino again,” Klinghoffer said.

“Swordfish,” Bronco said.

Johnny Norton leapt off the bunk and grabbed Klinghoffer from behind in a bear hug. For a little guy, Johnny was strong, and for a moment Klinghoffer couldn’t use his arms. A look of desperation crossed his face, like he suddenly realized that everything Bronco had done and said in the past twenty-four hours had been setting him up for this moment. He wasn’t as dumb as he acted, Bronco thought.

Bronco jumped to his feet, plunging the pen into Klinghoffer’s throat, piercing his windpipe and sending a stream of blood spurting out of his neck and onto the floor.

“What in God’s name is wrong with you?” Valentine asked his son. They were driving away from the Washoe County Detention Center in their rental, Gerry holding an ice pack over his bruised hand while staring out the windshield. His son had been disobeying him for as long as Valentine could remember. It was about to stop, or Gerry was going to start working for someone else. “I told you not to touch the guy, didn’t I? His lawyer was sitting right there. Garrow is going to claim police brutality, and you and I will have to explain ourselves in front of a judge.”

“He had your balls in a vice grip,” Gerry said.

“So what? I told you not to touch him, and you disobeyed me.”

His son shot him a look. “If a guy was holding my balls like that, I sure hope you’d hit him.”

Valentine stared at the road. His son didn’t get it. Gerry had let the situation dictate him, instead of him dictating the situation.

“Would you?” his son demanded.

“Beat up a guy squeezing your balls?”

“Yeah,” he said indignantly, his eyes burning a hole in his father’s face. “Or would you just stand there and whistle the Star Spangled Banner?”

They came to a traffic stop. Valentine braked the car while laughing silently to himself. He loved his boy more than anyone in the world, but that didn’t change who Gerry was, or the fact that his son wasn’t going to change his stripes. The quicker Valentine accepted that, the better off he was going to be. He said, “Yeah, probably.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’d probably beat up a guy doing that to you.”

“So what makes what I did to Bronco any different?”

“I’m thirty years older than you.”

“So?”

He tapped the accelerator. “I’m not using my balls as much as you.”

They came to a shopping center with a pharmacy, and Gerry asked his father to pull in so he could buy some painkillers for his hand. There was an empty spot by the front door, and he pulled in and Gerry hopped out. Before he shut his door, he stuck his head into the car. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Pop, but Bronco had it coming, and I gave it to him.” Then his son went inside.

A minute later, Gerry came out of the pharmacy and jumped into the car, his face a deep crimson.

“What’s wrong?” his father said.

“That son-of-a bitch stole my wallet and my pen!” Gerry exclaimed.

“The guy inside the store?”

“Bronco! He picked my pocket.”

Valentine stared at his son. The first thing a cop did when he got into an altercation was to check his pockets, and make sure they hadn’t been picked. He ran over the curb leaving the pharmacy’s parking lot.

Chapter 23

Johnny Norton walked out of the cell with his arms handcuffed behind his back. Bronco came out behind him, wearing Klinghoffer’s baggy uniform. As he closed the cell door, he glanced at Karl lying face-down on the bunk bed, bleeding to death. He hadn’t wanted to murder him, but sometimes there was no avoiding it.

They walked down the hall toward the electronic door. Beyond that door was the booking room, and beyond that the entrance to the jail. Maybe a hundred yards from here to freedom. Bronco kept his face hidden behind Johnny’s back and whispered, “You’re doing great. Walk with a scowl on your face, and keep talking.”

Johnny obliged him, and spit out a steady stream of chatter. He spoke to the new arrivals, while keeping a running commentary on the crummy food. If someone was watching them on a surveillance camera, they would be drawn to Johnny’s mouth, and not focus on Bronco. Hustlers called it the turn, and had been using it for years to distract casino security.

They came to the electronic door. It was massive, like something you’d see inside a bank. Bronco got behind Johnny and said, “Open sesame.” to the speaker in the wall, trying to imitate Klinghoffer’s delivery. As if by magic, the door slid open.

“Oh, baby,” Johnny said under his breath.

They marched out of the cellblock. In the hallway sat a big, bored black guard with a twelve-gauge shotgun lying across his lap. It was rare to see a firearm inside a jail, and Bronco felt like he’d hit the lottery.

“Top of the morning,” Johnny said.

“Same to you,” the guard said.

Drawing the baton from his belt, Bronco whacked the guard in the head, and dropped him to the floor. Placing the shotgun on the stool, he dragged the guard into the cellblock. Coming back, he closed the electronic door, then picked up the shotgun, and placed it vertically against Johnny’s back.

“You’re one smooth talker.”

“My speciality,” Johnny said.

“I’m going to buy you a steak and a Lowenbrau when we get out.”

They walked down the hallway to the next door, which led to the booking room. Then, they waited. Bronco had told Johnny that he didn’t know how this door operated. Not that it mattered: There were so many prisoners flowing through, he’d assumed the door opened fairly regularly.

“You sure this is gonna work?” Johnny whispered.

“Positive.”

Sweat was pouring down Johnny’s face and drenching the collar of his shirt. Bronco kept whispering sweet nothings in his ear, knowing Johnny was scared. Thirty seconds later, a white cop leading a black prisoner came through the door. The cop was pushing his prisoner like he had a grudge. Bronco gave him room, then grabbed the door before it closed. In the next room he could hear lots of men talking and phones ringing. Stupid sounds, yet beautiful to someone facing a life without them.

“Start walking,” he said.

Johnny stepped into the booking room. Bronco followed him, his eyes doing a quick sweep. A half-dozen cops in uniform, another five or six dressed in street clothes, a couple of secretaries, and a bunch of punks getting booked. The punks sat at desks with their wrists handcuffed to their chairs, giving information to the cops who’d arrested them. Just one big happy family, Bronco thought.

Johnny stiffened, and Bronco followed the path of his eyes. Johnny was staring at a skinny cop with sandy brown hair sitting at one of the desks. Bronco guessed this was the cop who’d arrested Johnny. All the cop had to do was lift his head, and he was going to see Johnny and Bronco and know something wasn’t right. Bronco thought back to the inscription on the desk in the interview room. NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE

No one but me, he thought.

Bronco removed the handcuff key resting in his pants pocket. He shoved the key into the handcuff on Johnny’s right wrist, and heard the lock click open. Johnny whispered “What you doing?” and Bronco said, “Shhh,” then took the baton hanging from his belt, and shoved it into Johnny’s hands. Johnny’s fingers clumsily grabbed the handle.

“This my ticket to freedom?” he whispered.

“You bet,” Bronco said.

Lifting his foot, Bronco placed the heel of his shoe into the small of Johnny’s back, and shoved him into the center of the booking room. Johnny fell forward like a man slipping on ice, then righted himself, the baton clutched in his hands.

“Escaped prisoner!” Bronco yelled at the top of his lungs.

Johnny Norton had killed a girl named Sandy the day before he’d been arrested. He’d met her in a roadside bar and seen she wasn’t all right in the head. That and she was all liquored up had told her she’d be easy pickings. He’d taken her out to his car and screwed her in the backseat. When they were done and Sandy asked for the fifty dollars he’d promised her, Johnny strangled her. There had been no reason to kill her, only a repulsed look in her eyes he wanted to extinguish. All his life, Johnny had been seeing that look in other’s people’s faces. Like he wasn’t clean or something.

The cops were going to find out he’d killed Sandy. He’d left his prints on her clothes and done a crummy job of dumping her body in a deserted lot. The other times he’d killed girls, he’d dumped them in bodies of water, only those were hard to find in the desert. He’d left too many clues, and it was just a matter of time before the police connected him to the crime.

These were the thoughts going through Johnny’s mind as he swung the billy club at the cop closest to him. He was a goner, so he was going to go out in style. It didn’t bother him that Bronco had betrayed him, just that he hadn’t seen it coming. Given the chance, Johnny would have done the same.

The cop shielded his head with his arms, and the club bounced off his forearms. People in the room were yelling, the noise so loud that Johnny couldn’t hear himself think. The cop who’d arrested him, a Pollock named Turkowski, rose from his desk with his gun drawn, and shot Johnny in the stomach.

Johnny flew backwards into a wall, then sank to the floor. He stared down at himself. The hole in his stomach was as big as his fist, his blood gushing out. The baton slipped out of his hand and pools of black appeared before his eyes. He saw Bronco slip out the door with the shotgun cradled to his chest.

As he died, Johnny closed his eyes, and wished it was him going out that door.

“You’re not yelling at me,” Gerry said.

Valentine saw the Washoe County Detention center a block ahead. “Is that a statement or a question?”

“You’re not mad?”

Valentine shook his head. He’d had his pocket picked several times when he was a cop. There was nothing you could do except be more careful the next time.

“Hopefully, the guard that led Bronco back to his cell kept him handcuffed,” Valentine said.

“You think Bronco would use my pen to attack him?”

He nodded. The gambling world was replete with stories of Bronco wrestling with security guards and jumping through plate glass windows rather than allow himself to be captured by the police. He pulled into the visitor parking lot. It backed up on the employee lot, and he saw a cop wearing a baggy uniform running up and down the aisle of cars, pointing his key chain at the vehicle.

“What’s that guy doing?”

“Looks like he’s using the unlock mechanism in his key chain to find his car,” Valentine replied.

“How does that work?”

“You forget where your car is parked, you point the key chain, and press the unlock button until your car lights up. I do it all the time.”

“Holy shit — he’s got a shotgun.”

The cop in the baggy uniform was running directly toward them. It was Bronco, and he raised the shotgun hanging by his side, and aimed at their windshield.

“Sweet Jesus,” Valentine said.

Chapter 24

Mabel was examining a double-sided chip when the phone rang. The chip had been sent by a grateful casino boss, along with a thank-you card. Tony had spotted the gaff while watching a surveillance tape, and alerted the casino to the theft.

The double-sided chip was a marvel of ingenuity. On one side was a $5.00 red chip; on the other, a $25.00 dollar green chip. The scam used two people — a crooked blackjack dealer, and a dishonest player. The player would make a bet with his double-sided chip, with the $25.00 side showing. If the player won, the dealer paid him even money. If the player lost, the dealer would pick the losing bet up, flip it over secretly in his hand, and place it in his tray with the $5.00 dollar chips. The player would toss twenty-five dollars in bills on the table, and ask for chips. The dealer would give him five $5.00 chips, including the double-sided chip. What made the scam so deadly was no matter what happened, the player always came out ahead.

“Grift Sense,” she answered.

“Good afternoon,” a man said. “May I please speak to Mabel Stuck.”

Mabel Stuck? It sounded like some pesky telemarketer.

“The name’s Struck, not Stuck, and this number is on the national Do-Not-Call-Registry,” she informed her caller. “Please remove us from your list, or we will contact the Florida attorney general.”

“Ms. Struck, I’m terribly sorry. Please accept my apology.”

“Who is this?”

“Chief Running Bear of the Micanopy nation,” the man said.

Mabel brought her hand up to her mouth. Running Bear ran the show at the Micanopy Indian Reservation casino. Because of a court fight he’d waged twenty-five years ago, casino gambling was now legal on over four hundred Indian reservations. All Mabel could think was he’d read the e-mail she’d sent, and had called to fire her.

“Hello, chief,” she said.

“Please call me Running Bear.”

“Sure. Please call me Mabel.”

“I’m calling in response to the e-mail which you sent my director of surveillance. You were rather blunt in your assessment of how we are handling this situation.”

Mabel liked the chief’s choice of words. Tony had worked for Running Bear before, and had said the chief was as honest as the day was long. “You have a dealer who has been caught on videotape using known cheating techniques. The fact that this dealer is still working for you is absolutely shocking.”

There was a pause on the other end. Mabel liked how her response had come out. Not too harsh or prickly. And calling their inaction shocking was a nice touch.

“I have shared your e-mail with the elders of our tribe,” Running Bear said. “The elders have final say in these matters. They have asked if you would be willing to come to the casino this evening, and explain your reasoning. You will be compensated for your time, if you choose to accept.”

Something dropped in Mabel’s stomach. Go over to the casino? Talk to the elders? She hadn’t spoken to a roomful of people since highschool.

“Well, I don’t—”

“I should tell you that I am in agreement of your assessment of the situation,” he said, “and would like to see this dealer terminated.”

“You would?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Mabel said, “but if the elders of your tribe won’t listen to you, what makes you think they’ll listen to me?”

“The elders don’t believe a crime has been committed. You make a case in your e-mail that a crime has been committed since the dealer broke the rules of play, which constitutes a breach of trust. I need to hammer this point home, with your help.”

Mabel considered what Running Bear was asking. Because the Micanopys were a sovereign nation, they ran their casinos by their own rules, and not the state’s or the federal government’s. These rules weren’t as strict as other casinos, and as a result, not as good. Running Bear needed help; otherwise, he’d have unscrupulous dealers stealing him blind.

“Our firm charges three thousand dollars for house calls,” she said. “We prefer checks, although we will take cash. Is this agreeable to you?”

“That sounds fine. Will Tony Valentine be coming with you?”

“Tony Valentine is out of town,” Mabel said. “I’ll be coming alone.”

Chapter 25

Bronco was close enough to take both their heads off with his shotgun. Valentine braked the rental and waited. Without a word, Bronco marched over to the car, climbed into the backseat, and shoved the shotgun’s barrel into the seat behind Gerry’s back.

“Drive,” Bronco said.

As Valentine pulled out of the visitor’s parking lot, he glanced in his mirror, and saw policeman spilling out of the jail and frantically running around the grounds. No doubt Bronco had planned to drive away in one of their cars. If he had, the police would have had little problem finding out which car, and tracking him down. But since he was in Valentine’s rental, there was no way for the police to know where he’d gone. Bronco was home free, and Valentine saw him grinning in the mirror.

“Isn’t this wonderful,” Bronco said. “You came out here to stick me in prison, and you help me get out. There must be a name for that.”

“Irony,” Gerry said, staring straight ahead.

“There you go. That’s a fancy word, isn’t it?”

“Just to you,” Gerry said.

Bronco stuck his head between them. “He’s a smart one, isn’t he, Tony? Knows I won’t shoot him while we’re here in the city around all these people. Now, when we get out in the desert, that’s a different story.” To Gerry, he said, “You punch hard, kid.”

“I had a good teacher,” Gerry said.

“Your old man here?”

“That’s right.”

They came to an intersection. Bronco gave Valentine instructions to get out of town. Valentine drove with his eye in his mirror, hoping for a police cruiser to magically appear behind them. He saw Gerry staring at the road, and guessed his son was hoping for a similar miracle.

Ten miles outside of town, Bronco made Valentine pull down a side road, then after a mile take another road, this one made of crushed gravel. It led to a deserted auto graveyard, the rusted carcasses of vehicles piled high in the air, with families of crows nestled within the metal skeletons. Bronco told him to brake and the car came to a halt.

“Get out,” he said to Valentine. To Gerry, he said, “Take your father’s spot behind the wheel. Do it real slow.”

Valentine got out. Except for the graveyard, there was nothing but scrub brush and flat land, with no real place to hide. His mind was racing for an escape, only none were making themselves apparent. It made his soul ache to know that Bronco had outsmarted him, but no one had ever said life was perfect.

Bronco rolled down the back window, and poked the barrel of the shotgun out the window. The look in his face was stone cold evil.

Valentine looked up at the sky. It was a flawless blue, the sun a perfect hole within that blue. As he’d grown older, his fear of dying had ebbed. He’d been married to a great woman, raised a halfway decent son, and had his share of good times. He’d played by the rules, and had no regrets.

“You want to say anything to your son?” Bronco asked.

Valentine glanced over his shoulder. Gerry’s face was white. He mouthed the words I love you. and looked back up at the sky.

“Anything else?” Bronco asked.

Valentine shook his head. He wasn’t going to look at Bronco, and give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d won this fight. In the auto graveyard he spied a car bumper, and in its shiny reflection Bronco aiming the shotgun at his back.

He closed his eyes. His late wife appeared as if my magic. She was standing in a lush forest, holding her arms out, and looked as beautiful as the day they’d met. He imagined himself holding her in his arms and kissing her, and could not think of a more wonderful gift. As Bronco’s shotgun went off, he was actually smiling.

Chapter 26

Valentine heard the shotgun blast and saw his life flash before his eyes. A flock of crows nesting in a car skeleton burst into the air around him. He felt their wings violently brush against his body, and imagined they were taking his soul to the hereafter.

The birds continued to fly upward, leaving him behind. He blinked and realized he was still standing, then heard the sounds of wheels spinning. He spun around and saw the rental race past, it’s rear end fish tailing. The vehicle was halfway across the field before he realized what had happened. Gerry had floored the accelerator just before Bronco had squeezed the shotgun’s trigger.

Valentine watched the rental burn across the field, expecting to hear a shotgun blast at any moment. Bronco would pay Gerry back for doing this. His son was doomed.

But the blast never came, and he guessed Bronco hadn’t shot Gerry because his son was driving too fast. But it was a temporary reprieve from an inevitable situation. Gerry eventually had to slow down, and Bronco would kill him. Valentine took out his cell phone, and powered it up. If he could alert the police, perhaps they could save his son. His cell phone made an unpleasant sound, and he glanced at its face. NO SERVICE. He lifted his eyes, and stared across the field. The rental was a blip on the horizon, his son still driving like he was protecting the Pole at the Indy 500. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

The back country of Reno was bumpy and uneven. Gerry came to a wide ditch he couldn’t cross, and was forced to slow down. He’d pulled some wild stunts with cars as a teenager, but he’d never driven this fast before without pavement under his wheels. If Bronco was going to kill him, at least he was going to die with adrenalin pumping through his veins.

The ditch was about fifteen feet wide and ten feet deep with brownish water in its bottom. Gerry turned the rental so he was driving parallel with the ditch. As the speedometer fell below fifty, he felt the shotgun’s barrel being scraped across the back of his neck. It felt like a hot wire and he braked the car, then threw it into park. Bronco leaned forward, and put his lips next to Gerry’s ear.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Gerry thought about it, then shook his head.

“Can’t think of any?” Bronco asked.

“I can think of plenty,” Gerry said. “None of them are any good.”

Bronco let out a mean little laugh. “Get out of the car.”

“You going to shoot me in the back, like my old man?”

Bronco stared back, saying nothing. Gerry realized he was a goner unless he did something. Think, he told himself.

“You’re going to need money,” Gerry said.

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

“You’re on the lam and don’t have any money. Well, neither do I, unless you think you’re going to get far with my credit cards and the forty bucks in my wallet. You’ll be back in jail before you know it.”

“That’s all that’s in your wallet? Forty bucks?”

“That’s right.”

Bronco chewed on his lower lip, thinking.

“I know how you can make a fast buck,” Gerry said.

“How? Flipping burgers at McDonald’s?”

Gerry grinned. His father had liked to say that even Hitler had a sense of humor.

“With a monkey’s paw,” Gerry said.

Bronco lowered the shotgun so it was no longer touching Gerry’s neck.

“Where’d you get a monkey’s paw?”

“From your house in Henderson,” Gerry said. “The Las Vegas Metro Police found the place, and they let me and my father have a look around. We found the monkeys paws in a box in your workshop; my father explained how they worked. I grabbed one when he wasn’t looking, and shoved it into my suitcase.”

“Why?”

“Because I planned to use it.” Gerry turned his head and looked Bronco in the eye. “I used to be a bookie. My wife talked me into quitting the rackets, and going into business with my old man. Only, I can’t quit. It’s something in my blood. So I stole one of your little devices.”

“You’re saying you’re a scammer,” Bronco said.

“All my life.”

“Where’s the monkey’s paw you took from my house?”

“In my suitcase in the trunk.”

“Show me,” Bronco said.

Gerry pushed a button beneath the dashboard that popped the trunk, then climbed out of the rental with his hands stuck on his head like a POW. He’d gotten Bronco to start thinking about his own salvation, and sensed that Bronco wasn’t as intent on killing him as he had been a few minutes ago.

Bronco climbed out of the vehicle in his baggy guard’s uniform and cheap prison sandals. He aimed the shotgun at Gerry’s face. Gerry dropped to his knees. Bronco went and flipped open the trunk. There were two suitcases in back.

“Which’s one yours?”

“The black Tumi. The monkey’s paw is on top, wrapped in plastic.”

Bronco unzippered the Tumi. Seeing the monkey’s paw, his eyes lit up like someone who’s found buried treasure. He removed the cheating device along with a shirt and a pair of pants, then slammed the trunk closed. Coming around the rental, he shredded the plastic from the slot-cheating device, then pushed the button that made the strobe light flash on its end.

“You took my favorite one.”

“Lucky me,” Gerry said.

Chapter 27

Valentine hiked down the dirt road back to the highway, all the while staring at the face of his cell phone, waiting for a satellite signal so he’d could make a call. Several times the phone lit up like it was working, only to betray him by losing the signal when he tried to call. He’d hated cell phones and always would. Whenever he went to the movies, some guy who couldn’t make the rent was blabbing loud enough to ruin everyone’s good time. He stared at the one clutched in his hand.

“Come on, you crummy piece of junk,” he said.

He came to a rise in the road, and as he reached the top, saw the cell phone light up. Was it really working, or just trying to torture him? He stopped walking and waited for the signal to disappear. When it didn’t, he began to dial Bill Higgins’ cell phone number, thinking it would be best if he had Bill tell the police what had happened, rather than trying to get a police operator to believe him.

He heard the call go through, then saw a car racing across the field in the distance. It was their rental, and it was coming towards him.

“Higgins here,” he heard Bill say.

Valentine considered running, then realized there wasn’t enough time. Instead, he retreated several steps, then lay down on his belly in the tall grass, keeping his head up so he could watch the car, the cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Tony, is that you?”

“Yeah,” he said, watching the rental bump across the field. His vision wasn’t worth a damn anymore, and he strained to see how many people were inside. It looked like two, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Where have you been?” Bill said. “Bronco escaped from jail; every cop in Reno is hunting for him. I tried to call you, but your cell phone was turned off.”

“He hijacked my rental and kidnaped my son,” Valentine said.

“What?”

Valentine explained how Bronco had abducted them, then told Bill the getaway route they’d taken. Bill repeated it back to him, word-for-word. Valentine was still watching the rental approach as Bill finished.

“How did you get away?” Bill asked.

“My son saved my ass,” Valentine said.

The rental was a hundred yards away. Valentine stared at the driver’s side, and saw Gerry manning the wheel. Bronco was in the bucket seat, and had the shotgun stuck against Gerry’s neck. He got a good look at Gerry’s face. His son looked flat-out terrified, and Valentine’s heart did the funny thing it did when he was faced with a situation out of his control. His doctor called it a flutter, but Valentine had always thought it was God’s way of reminding him that life was rarely fair.

The rental flew past, then disappeared down the road. Valentine slowly rose and dusted himself off, the cell phone still to his ear. He started to walk toward the highway.

“You there?” Bill said.

“Barely,” he said.

Chapter 28

“You’re a liar,” Bronco said.

Gerry stared at the dirt road through the rental’s dirty windshield. There was not another car in sight. He had planned to flash his brights at the next car he saw, and alert them so they’d dial 911 on their cell phone. But that option suddenly seemed like a bad idea: Bronco was acting like he was going to kill him the first chance he got.

“What are you talking about,” Gerry said.

“Look at these clothes I’m wearing.” He shoved the shotgun’s barrel into Gerry’s chin. “Look at them!”

Gerry glanced at the clothes Bronco had taken from the trunk and exchanged for Klinghoffer’s uniform. The pants were black, the shirt a white Brooks Brothers with a button-down collar. They were old man’s clothes, and Bronco looked ridiculous in them.

“What about them?” Gerry said.

“These aren’t your clothes.”

“Sure they are.”

“You think I was born yesterday?”

“The day before,” Gerry said.

Bronco cuffed him in the side of the head. The car swerved dangerously over to the side of the road, nearly flipping. Gerry quickly straightened the wheel.

“These are your old man’s clothes,” Bronco said. “The monkey’s paw was in your father’s suitcase. He took the monkey’s paw from my house, didn’t he?”

Gerry resumed staring at the road. Still no sign of another car. If he’d learned anything from the rackets, it was that there was always an angle to exploit. This angle had run its course, and he said, “That’s right. My father said it was the nicest one he’d ever seen. He asked the cops in Las Vegas if he could take it, and add it to his collection of cheating equipment. You had so many of them, the cops said sure.”

“So you made up that stuff about being a scammer to save your neck,” Bronco said.

Gerry glanced at his captor. “That part was true.”

“Bullgarbage.”

“I was a bookie in New York for ten years. I’ve only been clean for a little while.”

“Tell me who the last person was you scammed.”

Gerry told Bronco about scamming the Daily Double at Tampa Bay Downs, while helping his father expose the horse that had been silked. He glanced at Bronco while he spoke, and saw the same surprised look in his captor’s eyes as he’d seen in his father’s two days ago. He guessed Bronco had never heard of silking, either. By the time he’d finished, they’d reached the main highway. Bronco made him hang a left, and a short distance later, another left.

“Where we going?”

“Back to Reno,” Bronco said.

Gerry remembered the route they’d taken from the jail, and this wasn’t it. He watched Bronco reach across the seat, and remove the pack of Marlboros tucked in Gerry’s shirt pocket. Bronco banged one out, then offered Gerry one.

“Sure.”

Bronco lit two cigarettes from the same match, and shoved one into Gerry’s mouth. Bronco smoked his cigarette while studying him. “Let me get this straight. You and your old man were hired by the track to catch some cheaters. While you were there, you saw another scam going on, and you bet money on it, and took the track for six grand.”

“That’s right,” Gerry said.

“Why didn’t you bet more, and make a killing?”

“It’s a small track.”

“And you were afraid it would get noticed.”

“Yeah.”

Bronco blew smoke at him. “How do I know you ain’t bullgarbageting me again?”

“The winning stub’s in my wallet.”

Bronco pulled Gerry’s stolen wallet from his pocket, and extracted the winning stub. Gerry had kept the stub as a memento. In his bar in Brooklyn, he’d framed the first hundred dollars he’d ever made as a bookie, and he’d planned to frame this stub to signify that his days in the rackets had come to an end.

Bronco took his time studying it. Then he removed the money from the wallet, and counted it on the seat. Forty dollars in wilted bills.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Bronco asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You won six grand. Where’s the rest of the money?”

Gerry didn’t think Bronco would believe he’d given the money back. He pointed at the photo section of the wallet. “In there.”

“You keep it hidden, huh?”

Bronco opened the photo section and saw a smiling picture of Yolanda taken when she was a third-year medical student at New York University’s School of Medicine. He stared long and hard at the photo.

“She got it,” Gerry said.

Something resembling a smile crossed Bronco’s face, but it didn’t last very long. Still holding the wallet, he said, “You won the money at the track two days ago, but you told me you quit the rackets.”

“I quit the day I ripped off the track. That night, actually,” Gerry said.

“Why?”

That was a hell of a good question. Why had Gerry quit? He could say his old man shamed him into it, but that wasn’t the truth. He’d done it because his life had gone down a different road, and he needed to change, or risk turning his life into a train wreck. The truth was, he’d finally been forced to grow up. That was why he’d quit the rackets.

“Turn the page,” Gerry said.

Bronco shot him a blank stare.

“Look at the next picture in my wallet.”

Bronco flipped to the next picture. It was of Lois, taken a few days ago, his baby daughter lying on the rug in his father’s house, the same rug Gerry had lain on as a baby.

“I quit because of her,” Gerry said.

Bronco stared long and hard at the photo.

“Didn’t want her growing up thinking her old man was a crook, huh?”

Gerry nodded, surprised Bronco would understand. Then he remembered the woman’s clothes hanging in his closet in the house in Henderson. Maybe in his past there had been a family.

Bronco tossed the wallet into Gerry’s lap. He pointed up the road. They were on a deserted stretch except for a convenience store sitting off to the side. Even from the distance Gerry could read the neon Budweiser sign shimmering in the window.

“Here’s the deal,” Bronco said. “You’re going to take your forty bucks, and make it grow.”

“I am?”

“That’s right. Otherwise, I’m going to kill you.”

Bronco quickly explained the scam. The convenience store, like many in Nevada, had a row of slot machines in the back. Bronco had checked the store not long ago, and discovered an old Bally among the machines. The Bally had a unique feature: A player could stick his fingers up the payout chute, and hold the door open. This turned a small payout into a large one. Since the machine paid out a jackpot roughly every thirty pulls, Bronco believed Gerry’s money could be turned into a quick profit.

“I’m going to stand outside, and watch you,” Bronco said. “Do anything stupid, and I’ll come in and shoot you, then rob the place.”

They were sitting in the car, parked outside the store. The midday sun beat down unmercifully on the rental’s windshield. Behind the counter, a teenage girl with braces on her teeth, probably still in highschool.

Gerry said, “What about her?”

“I’ll kill her, too.”

Gerry stuck his hand out. “Give me the money.”

Bronco took the wilted bills off the seat and laid it onto his palm. “The machine probably has a sensor for overpays. If you leave the payout door open too long, the candle will come on, and an alarm inside the machine will go off.”

“The candle?”

“The white light on top of the machine,” Bronco said. “That’s the candle. They start blinking when something’s wrong.”

“How long will it take for the sensor to come on?”

“Ten seconds, more or less.”

“More or less? What if it’s less? What if the alarm goes off?”

“Then I’ll have to kill you,” Bronco said.

Gerry got out of the rental and so did Bronco. Bronco went to the corner of the convenience store, and stood there and smoked his cigarette, one eye on the road, the other looking inside the store. The shotgun hung at his side, hidden from the street and from the girl working the counter. The guy knew all the angles.

Gerry entered the store. As he came in, the girl behind the counter smiled and said hello. Her face had the wonderful freshness of someone on their first job. He handed her his money and asked for change.

“You okay, mister?” she asked.

He looked at himself in the mirror that was directly behind her. He saw his face, which was white, then saw Bronco staring at him while blowing smoke rings. He looked back at the girl. Real young, sixteen if she was a day.

“Fine,” he said. “Quarters please.”

She handed him a plastic bucket filled with quarters. “Play the machine on the very end. It’s been paying off lately.”

Gerry walked to the back of the store. The slot machines hugged the wall, and took up about a fourth of the available floor space. There were probably as many slot machines in convenience stores and bars in Nevada as there were in the casinos. Gerry found the old Bally, and started to feed in a coin.

“No, not that one,” the girl said, hanging over the counter. “The machine on the end.”

Gerry felt sweat march down his back. He tried to ignore her, and the girl came out from behind the counter, and walked over to where he sat. Grabbing him by the arm, she led him to the machine on the end.

“This one. I think the guy who adjusts it screwed up.”

Gerry sat down at the machine. She stood beside him with her arms crossed, and he saw no other choice than to put two quarters into it, and pull the handle. The machine was themed after Star Wars, and space-age sounds serenaded him as the reels spun. When they stopped, two bars lined up, and realized he had a winner. He looked at the payout bar on the side of the machine. He’d won ten bucks.

He cashed out, and walked with her to the front. He stopped by the cooler, and plucked out a pair of ice-cold Cokes. Paying for them, he handed her one.

“What’s your name?”

“Darlene.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

Darlene took a swig of soda, belched and covered her mouth in embarrassment.

A cell phone rang behind the counter. Darlene answered it, and started yakking to her boyfriend. Gerry went back to the Bally and resumed playing it. Within a few minutes, he hit a small jackpot and stuck his fingers up the chute and hit the cash out button on the machine. Quarters flowed into his hand. He counted to eight, then pulled his hand out.

He continued to play while Darlene spoke on her cell phone, hitting two more small jackpots and stealing three times as many coins during the payout. By now, the hopper was filled with quarters, and he grabbed a plastic second bucket off the machine and filled it, then put the remaining coins into his pockets. When he went back to the counter, Darlene was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Well, look at you,” she said.

His total win came to a two hundred and thirty-eight dollars. He walked outside and handed Bronco the money. Bronco peeled off five dollars and handed it back to him, then stuffed the rest into his pocket.

“Go buy me some nail polish,” Bronco said.

“You’re kidding.”

“Just do it.”

Gerry came out a minute later with a cheap bottle of nail polish that Darlene had tried to talk him out of buying. He handed Bronco the bottle.

“Get in the car.”

Chapter 29

Bronco made him drive to a sprawling storage facility on the outskirts of town. A sign said that air-conditioned units were available by the month or year. The facility was surrounded by chain link fence, and Bronco told him the code to open the gate.

Moments later they were inside. Bronco pointed at a unit and Gerry braked in front of it. They both got out. Bronco punched another code into the keypad by the door, all the while holding his shotgun on Gerry. The sliding door went up, and Gerry stared at the brand new Ford Taurus sitting inside the unit.

“We’re going to exchange cars, and park yours in here,” Bronco said.

“Whatever you say.”

They exchanged the two cars. As Gerry pulled the rental into the unit and killed the engine, Bronco slipped out of the car.

“Been nice knowing you,” he said.

Coming around to the driver’s side, he pointed the shotgun at the side of Gerry’s head, then closed one eye and took dead aim.

“Got anything you want to say?”

Gerry shut his eyes, and tried to think of what he wanted his dying words to be. It didn’t really matter, yet somehow it did. He had to say something, only, he couldn’t, his body gripped in fear. Thinking about dying always did that to him.

“No.”

“That’s what you want to say?” Bronco asked.

“No, I’m just...”

“Spit it out, god damnit.”

“...scared, man. I’ve got a wife and kid. She’s three months old.”

“Say goodbye to them.”

Gerry choked on the words. It had taken him a long time to realize that all he really wanted out of life was a woman who loved him, and a child to call his own. And now they were being taken away from him. It was the worst form of robbery, and he shut his eyes and started to cry. Bronco cursed him.

“You little piece of shit. Why did you have to go and do that? Why?”

Gerry was watching his life pass before his eyes and regretting all the dumb things he’d done. Opening his eyes, he turned his head and stared into the shotgun’s barrel.

“Do what?” he said.

Bronco grabbed Gerry by the back of the head, and smashed his face into the steering wheel. “That!”

Gerry looked straight down. His crotch was wet. He’d pissed in his pants, just like the night on the Boardwalk twenty years ago when his bowels had betrayed him. “Why did you do that?” Bronco yelled at him.

“Because I’m scared,” Gerry whispered.

Bronco cursed him some more. Gerry didn’t know what was worse. Dying, or being humiliated right before he died. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, then turned his head. Bronco was staring at him, his face twisted and confused.

“God damn you,” he said.

Walking outside the storage unit, Bronco punched a command into the keypad by the door. Moments later, the sliding door came down, and Gerry was enveloped in darkness.

Gerry listened to the Taurus drive away, and took several deep breaths. He cracked open his door, and the car’s interior light came on. In the mirror he saw the purple-black bruise on the bridge of his nose. He touched it and winced.

He pressed the button that released the trunk. He needed to call his father on his cell phone and tell him he was okay, but first he was going to change his clothes.

He walked around to the trunk, and from his suitcase removed a pair of slacks and clean underwear. His heart was beating a hundred miles an hour and his head was spinning. Growing up Catholic, he liked to think there was a reason for everything. Maybe someday, he’d know the reason why Bronco hadn’t shot him.

He changed in the light of the open trunk, then balled up his dirty clothes and threw them in the corner. He’d had some humiliating things happen to him in his life, and he’d always pretended later that they hadn’t happened. It had seemed like the easiest way to deal with them.

But he couldn’t run away from this one. His father was going to want to know what had happened, and Gerry would tell him how he’d saved himself by pissing in his pants.

And that was the only person he was going to tell.

Chapter 30

Valentine was standing on the side of the highway when his cell phone rang. The caller ID said GERRY. He fumbled hitting the Receive button.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Pop, it’s me.”

Hearing his son’s voice brought a flood of emotions over him that Valentine couldn’t control, and he sat down on the shoulder and began to weep. He hadn’t done that since his wife’s funeral, and the tears burned his eyes.

“You still there, Pop?”

“Yeah,” he choked. “I’m here. Where are you?”

“In a storage facility on the north side of town,” his son said. “I banged on the door, but no one came out. I didn’t see any people when we drove in, so I’m guessing the place is self-serve. I’m going to leave the cell phone on so you can find me.”

A trailer truck appeared on the highway. The driver didn’t slow down, and Valentine guessed it was common to see grown men sitting on the side of the road, bawling their heads off. Rising, he dusted himself off.

“How am I going to do that?”

“Call my cell phone company,” Gerry said. “They’ll know which tower my phone’s signal is originating from. It will be within a five mile radius. Once you know that, the Reno cops can look at all the self-serve storage facilities within that radius.”

Valentine saw another car coming up the road, the driver behind the wheel looking like Bill Higgins. Waving, he said, “How do you know that?”

“I saw it on a cop-show on TV,” his son said.

Valentine said goodbye to his son and killed the connection. Climbing into the passenger seat of Bill’s car, he told him that Gerry was still alive. Then, he explained his son’s clever solution to finding him in the storage facility.

Bill called the Reno police on his cell, and asked them to call Gerry’s cell phone company. Hanging up, he said, “You realize Bronco did this to stall us.”

The same thought had occurred to him. While they were finding Gerry, Bronco would be running away. Bill did a U-turn on the highway, and headed back to Reno. He drove way over the speed limit, the desolate scrub landscape going by in a blur. After a few minutes had passed, Valentine said, “Have I ever told you how smart my son is?”

Bill shook his head.

“Yesterday, when we were at Bronco’s house, Gerry said that he thought your bad agent was stealing jackpots using computers. Well, since there’s no physical way to rig modern slot machines, Gerry must be right. Which led me to realize something. Your bad agent works for Fred Friendly in the Electronic Systems Division.”

Bill looked stunned. “You think the bad agent is in ESD? That’s a stretch, Tony.”

“No, it isn’t. Bronco said this bad agent stole hundreds of jackpots. A field agent couldn’t do that, simply because hundreds of stolen jackpots — even small ones — would be noticed if they occurred in the same part of the state. But, they wouldn’t be noticed if they were spread out across the entire state. Somebody working for ESD could do that.”

Bill’s mouth worked up and down in silent thought.

“You’re right,” he said.

Another minute passed. They could see Reno ahead in the distance, the city a black dot on the brown landscape.

“How many agents work for ESD?” Valentine asked.

“Seventy-five,” Bill said.

“Those are our suspects,” Valentine said.

Gerry had discovered that being a father had its drawbacks. He couldn’t listen to loud music anytime he wanted to, like he had when he was single. So, he’d bought an Ipod, and plugged himself in whenever he got the chance. He was tapping his foot to Arethra Franklin’s soulful singing when his cell phone lit up. He’d turned the car’s interior light off, fearful of the battery dying, and stared at the cell phone’s illuminated face. It was his father.

“Feel up to doing a job?” his father asked.

“I don’t know, I’m kind of busy right now.”

He paused, hoping to hear his father laugh. When he didn’t, Gerry said, “Of course I’ll do a job, Pop.”

“In the trunk are the files of the nine hundred Nevada Gaming Control Board agents,” his father said. “I’ve winnowed the field down to seventy-five.”

“Let me guess,” Gerry said. “You want me to pull those seventy-five out, and find the bad agent.”

“That’s right. Sure you’re up for it?”

Sure you’re up for it? That didn’t sound like his father at all. Maybe saving his old man’s life had erased some of the horrendous crap he’d put his father through over the years. Through the IPOD’s earplugs lying on the seat he could faintly hear Aretha singing about respect, and found himself smiling.

“I’m up for it,” Gerry said.

He hung up, then got the stack of files out of the trunk and returned to the front seat of the car. Leaving the door ajar, he grabbed a handful of files, and began sorting through them. He pulled out every agent who worked for the ESD, and placed those files into a separate stack. When the larger stack was exhausted, he picked up the smaller stack and counted it. Seventy-five files, just like his father had said.

The IPOD was still playing, and he considered plugging himself back in, then decided against it. This was work, and he needed to start acting serious.

He heard the storage unit’s air conditioner come on, and felt the manufactured air cool the car’s interior. His father had once told him that to catch a criminal, you needed to know his motivation. He tried to imagine what the motivation was for a gaming agent to rip off the people he worked for. He’d once had a woman who worked for him as a bartender, and had discovered her stealing money out of the till. When he’d confronted her, he’d discovered that she’d been carrying a grudge because he’d never asked her out. The stealing had nothing to do with money. It was spite. The woman had also taken a lot of sick and vacation days, and worked all the angles.

He thumbed through the stack, and pulled out the file of every agent who’d taken a high number of days off in the past few years. There were seven in all.

He worked through the seven files. Two women and five men. Each had been out of work well above the norm. Maybe they’d been sick, or had to deal with a sick family member. He began to think he was barking up the wrong tree, when a thought occurred to him. If a bad agent was running around Nevada stealing jackpots, that agent needed to be taking time off to engineer those thefts. There was no way around it.

He felt the tingle of excitement. One of these seven agents was their thief. His father was going to be proud of him.

Another first, he thought.

Chapter 31

A few miles outside of Reno, Valentine had an epiphany. He’d been having them since childhood, and he asked Bill to pull the car into a roadside gas station. Bill took his eyes off the highway, and gave him a funny look.

“What’s up?”

“Just pull over,” Valentine said.

Bill pulled into a gas station and parked the car by the air pumps. Killing the transmission, he turned to look at him.

“I want to know why you’re holding out on me,” Valentine said after the engine’s fan had stopped whirring. Bill shot him a guilty look, and Valentine knew he had him. “Last night at the strip club, you knew Garrow was going to exchange secrets with the Asian. Who the hell told you that? I certainly didn’t, and neither did my son.”

Bill stared through the windshield at the desolate empty field behind the gas station. There was a lot of pretty geography in Nevada, but mostly it was a desolate place, and Valentine couldn’t imagine himself taking a nature walk and finding anything but snakes and scorpions and maybe a coyote or two. He waited for Bill to defend himself, and when he didn’t, resumed.

“You know something about this case that I don’t. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me. You’re the head of the largest law enforcement agency in the state, and it’s your business to know things other people don’t. Only, there’s a problem. I’m supposed to be running this investigation. So, tell me what’s going on, okay?”

Bill went inside the convenience store that was attached to the gas station, emerging a minute later with two cups of coffee. Bill liked his coffee black and strong, just like Valentine. Handing him a cup, Bill said, “Maybe I should start from the beginning.”

“That’s usually the best place,” Valentine said.

“How much do you know about what’s going on inside China?” Bill asked.

“Just what I read in the papers. The country is booming.”

“Their economy is growing at an annual rate of ten percent, while the rest of the world’s is stagnant. Any idea why?”

Valentine shook his head.

“The underlying factor is the Chinese government. They will stop at nothing to dominate any business that will make money. Right now, they’re the world’s number one manufacturer of electronic equipment, clothing, sporting equipment, and household appliances. They’re also trying to dominate other markets.”

“Including gambling?”

“Including gambling. The casino gambling on the island of Macau is booming. The government is helping build a number of lavish casinos there. The plan is to attract the high-rolling Asian gamblers who are coming to Las Vegas, and get them to gamble in Macau instead.”

It made sense. Every week, American Airlines flew five luxury jumbo jets from Hong Kong to Las Vegas. These jets were filled with high-rolling Asian gamblers, or what the industry called whales, and were the single most profitable group of gamblers in the world. Of course the Chinese government wanted them to stay at home and gamble. They were worth hundreds of millions of dollars to the economy.

“How does the Pai Gow scam fit into this?” Valentine asked.

“Rumor is, the Chinese government struck a deal with the Triads to gaff every Pai Gow game in Las Vegas,” Bill said. “Since the equipment is manufactured in China, the story makes sense. The Chinese are hoping that if Las Vegas starts losing money at Pai Gow, the casinos will close the games down.”

“And the Asian gamblers will stay home and play Pai Gow in Macau.”

Bill blew on his coffee. “That’s right.”

“And Bronco was the cheater who was going to rip off the casinos with the Pai Gow scam.”

“Right again. Now, there’s a problem with this story, and it’s this. Once I heard the rumor, I had every casino in Las Vegas pull their Pai Gow equipment off the tables, and send it to a forensic lab. They tested for marks, luminous paint and hidden gaffs. Nothing showed up.”

“What about ultra-violet inhibitors?”

“They were tested for those, as well. The dominos are clean.”

“No, they’re not,” Valentine said. “Think about what you just told me. The Chinese government is intent on shutting down every Pai Gow game in Las Vegas. That means every Pai Gow game in Las Vegas can be scammed. There’s something wrong with those dominos. You just don’t know what to look for.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

Bill’s cell phone went off. He took the call, then hung up and started the car’s engine. “That was O’Sullivan. The cops got a reading on your son’s cell phone. It’s coming from a storage facility on the south side of town. They’re waiting for us.”

The cars wheels spun pulling out of the parking lot.

Ten minutes later, Bill pulled into the self-storage facility where the Reno police had determined that Gerry was being held. The front gate was open, and Bill drove around back and parked. As a cop, Valentine had always hated industrial parks. Every car thief and drug smuggler he’d ever busted had worked out of one, and he considered them a haven for crooks and scum bags.

Eight uniformed Reno cops were standing outside a unit with a sliding metal door. They were all big and tan, wore bulletproof vests and clutched shotguns protectively to their chests. One had a large mallet, and Valentine guessed his job was to break the lock on the sliding door. O’Sullivan stood beside the building, staying cool in the shade.

“I spoke to your son through the door,” the sergeant said. “He thinks his nose is busted, but otherwise he’s okay.”

Valentine felt something drop in his stomach. Gerry hadn’t said anything about his nose when they’d talked earlier. “What happened to his nose?”

“Bronco roughed him up.”

“Did you ask my son if he thought the unit was booby-trapped?”

“Come to mention it, I did. Your son said the interior was clean, but I had my men drill some holes through the door to let some light in. I had your son check the unit visually, and also run his hands up and down the door to check for wires and vibration tape. He didn’t find anything.”

Valentine didn’t like it. It would be a long time before he forgot the hatred he’d seen in Bronco’s face earlier that day. Walking onto the grass, he looked at the line of hills overlooking the facility. They were a half-mile away, and covered with scrub brush. He tried to imagine what kind of animals he’d find if he hiked through them. He guessed snakes and squirrels and maybe a man with a high-powered hunting rifle. He got O’Sullivan’s attention and pointed at them. “I want you to send a pair of men up there, and make sure Bronco isn’t waiting to ambush us.”

“A police helicopter did a sweep fifteen minutes ago. The area is clean.”

Valentine looked back at the hills. Even though he didn’t gamble, he’d learned how to play the odds a long time ago. Bill was standing nearby talking with a couple of cops, and he walked over to him and said, “Do me a favor, and explain to Sergeant O’Sullivan that I’m in charge, and that he needs to do whatever I tell him, even if it means standing on his head and spitting nickels. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, Tony.”

Bill explained the situation to O’Sullivan. The sergeant grew red in the face, then sent two men up the hill. He came over to where Valentine was standing.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“No problem,” Valentine said.

A few minutes later, one of the cops radioed O’Sullivan, and said the hills were clean. Valentine still didn’t like it, but told the sergeant to break down the door anyway.

The cop with the mallet opened the sliding door with several well-placed whacks. As the door was pushed up, Valentine found himself thanking God, something he didn’t do nearly as much as he should. He’d already had a piece of his heart torn out by losing his wife, and could not stand having another piece torn out losing Gerry.

Sunlight flooded the unit’s interior and the Reno cops swarmed in. The unit was rectangular in shape and contained Valentine’s rental car. Gerry sat in the front seat and got out of the car while shielding his eyes from the sudden flood of light. Valentine went and put a bear hug on him.

“Thanks for saving my life,” Valentine said.

“I owed you one,” his son replied.

They held each other. Valentine’s late wife had gotten him addicted to hugs, and it felt really good. Then they walked onto the grass where Bill’s car was parked, and Gerry took out his cigarettes and lit up. They shared a smoke without saying anything.

“You’re going to be proud of me,” Gerry said.

“I’m already proud of you.”

“I narrowed down your slot cheater to seven suspects.”

“Show me.”

Gerry went back to the rental, and returned holding a handful of paper, which he handed to his father. Valentine counted seven files of gaming agents who worked for the Electronic Systems Division. He looked at his son expectantly.

“I once had a woman who worked for me as a bartender who was stealing money,” Gerry explained. “She also took a lot of personnel days and sick days. The two go hand-in-hand.”

“Stealing money and stealing time,” Valentine said.

“That’s right. The woman who was stealing from me did it out of spite. Well, that fits the profile of your slot cheater, don’t you think?”

Valentine took a drag off the cigarette. “You think this agent has a vendetta?”

“Why else would he steal hundreds of jackpots? Why not just steal one big one?”

Gerry pointed at the files in his father’s hands. “Those seven agents have all taken lots of time off in the past two years for ‘personal’ reasons. I’d bet the rent one of them is your slot cheater.”

The cigarette was down to nothing, and Valentine burned his fingers getting a final drag. Last one, he told himself, knowing it was a lie. Then, he looked through the seven files. The agents were some of the most senior people in ESD, and included Fred Friendly, the man running the show. It seemed inconceivable that one of them might be a slot cheater, yet all the evidence was pointing that way.

“I think you’re right. Good job.” Valentine put the files down and squeezed his son’s arm. Then he noticed that Gerry was trembling. “What’s wrong?”

“Bronco tried to kill me earlier,” his son said.

“Jesus, Gerry. What happened?”

“I talked him out of it.”

“How the hell did you do that?”

“Right before he was going to pull the trigger, I pissed in my pants. Bronco saw it, got real upset. I think it reminded him of that night on the Boardwalk when he murdered Uncle Sal.”

“You think that’s why he didn’t shoot you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. Gerry lit up another cigarette and Valentine broke another promise to himself and took a drag. His son broke the silence.

“I know this is going to sound strange...”

“What’s that?”

“I think Bronco regretted doing that to me. You know, terrorizing a kid.”

“You’re saying the guy’s human.”

“Yeah,” his son said.

“And that he has a heart.”

“Yeah.”

Valentine filled his lungs with the rich-tasting smoke. If he’d learned anything as a cop, it was that there was a fine line between sinners and saints. Even the best people went bad, and sometimes the worst people surprised you. When it came to human behavior, there was no real black and white. It was all a hazy shade of gray.

“I’m still going to nail his ass,” Valentine said.

Part 2

Cheats

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.

Part 3

Jackpot

Chapter 47

McCarren International Airport in Las Vegas had a special area reserved for private planes. It was one of the busiest areas of the airport, with hundreds of private planes and jets landing at all hours of the day and night. Many of these planes had wealthy gamblers coming to town for a few days of fun, and a long line of chauffeur-driven limousines sent by the casinos were parked just outside the gates, waiting to whisk these gamblers away. Governor Smoltz’s private jet landed at seven-thirty in the morning with Valentine, his son, and Bill Higgins on board. As the three men disembarked onto the windy tarmac, Valentine’s cell phone rang. Caller ID said Mabel. He told Gerry and Bill that he’d meet them inside the terminal, and moved into the shade before answering the call.

“How’s it going?” he said by way of greeting.

“I just met with Mira,” Mabel replied. “You’re not going to believe what she told me.”

“Try me.”

“Mira is convinced that all seven GCB agents are involved in a massive conspiracy. Mira said it was apparent from the downturn of the triangularis — that’s the muscle that depresses the corner of the lips — that they were involved. Tony, it was so amazing. The moment she pointed it out to me, I could see it! Their mouths had a distasteful look, like they’d just bitten into a sour piece of fruit.”

Valentine felt something drop in the pit of his stomach. His earlier suspicion that Bill was holding back was taking on new meaning. Something had happened to those seven agents that had turned them into crooks. Their jobs, or something related to their jobs, had pushed them to the dark side.

“I need to run,” he said. “Thanks for doing this.”

“One more thing,” Mabel said. “I looked at these seven agents’ files again. They all report directly to your friend Bill Higgins. It occurred to me that they may not be the only people involved in this conspiracy.”

“Come again?”

“Your friend Bill. I checked him out as well.”

“How did you do that?”

“I pulled up his photograph on my cell phone, and showed it to Mira. It wasn’t a good photo, but Mira was able to read Bill’s face.”

Valentine felt an icy finger run down the length of his spine. Was Bill involved? It was a jump he’d been unwilling to make. He’d known Bill for twenty-five years, and considered him more than just a friend. But it was possible. When it came to money, just about anything was possible.

“And?”

“She said that Bill was filled with dark secrets.”

Valentine found himself nodding. Bill did have his secrets. He’d been sent away from the Navajo reservation by his parents at an early age, something he’d never gotten over. Valentine guessed there were plenty of things hidden beneath Bill’s calm exterior, and said, “Did she think Bill was involved?”

“Mira said it was possible. She said you should be very careful.”

“Will do. Talk to you later.”

Valentine went inside the terminal and found his garment bag waiting for him in the baggage claim. His son was at the car rental counter, getting them a set of wheels. He tapped Gerry on the shoulder and said, “Where’s Bill?”

“He went outside to make a call. He said the reception was better out there.”

Valentine frowned. Bill always seemed to walk away when he needed to make a call. It hadn’t seemed suspicious before, but now it did. He walked outside the terminal and found Bill standing in a remote spot, talking on his cell. He looked at his friend in the bright sunlight, and tried to see what Mira had seen. Bill finished his call.

“That was Sheriff Bolden of the Metro Las Vegas Police Department,” Bill said. “His men tracked down the Asian through Garrow’s cell phone. His name’s Xing Han Wong, and he’s holed up at the Cordova motel on Fremont Street. The police are parked in the room next to Xing’s, listening to his phone calls. Xing talked to Bronco a couple of hours ago. They’re going to meet up this afternoon, and do the exchange. I told Bolden we wanted to be there when the bust went down.”

Valentine studied Bill’s face as he spoke. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. “You’re going to let the police arrest him?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“Bronco stabbed a guard at the Reno jail yesterday. You know how the Vegas cops treat people who attack cops. They shoot them.”

“I’m not going to shed any tears if Bronco gets killed.”

If Bronco got taken down by the Vegas cops, they’d never hear him say who the crooked gaming agent was. And since they didn’t have any real proof that a gaming agent had stolen jackpots, the scam would get swept under the rug, just like every other bad thing that happened in this town.

Bill pulled out his car keys. “My car is parked in the lot. Follow me once you get your rental.”

Now Bill was ordering him around. His friend had forgotten that this was his investigation. Or maybe it had never been his investigation at all.

“Will do,” Valentine said.

“What did Mabel say?” Gerry asked when they were on the road.

Valentine clutched the wheel of his rental. He was driving down Las Vegas Boulevard into the heart of the strip, the lanes filled with lunatic drivers. Bill’s silver Volvo was a hundred feet ahead with its government-issued plates.

“Mira looked at the photos. She thinks all seven agents are involved in the scam.”

“What? Jeesus.”

“It gets worse.”

“How can it get worse?”

“Bill might be involved, too.”

Gerry fell back in his seat. It was rare for his son to be at a loss for words. This was one of those special occasions.

“I want to get to the bottom of this. It’s going to mean us going rogue, and sticking our noses where they don’t belong. You up for it?”

His son swallowed hard and nodded.

“Good. Hold on.”

They had reached the intersection with Harmon Avenue. The palatial Aladdin Resort and Casino was on their right, the majestic water fountains of the Bellagio on their left. Valentine jammed on his brakes and spun the wheel, taking the corner on two wheels. Within seconds they were heading away from the strip, and had lost Bill.

He drove down several side roads, keeping his eye on his mirror. When he decided that Bill hadn’t followed them, he returned to the strip, and drove to the Acropolis Hotel & Casino. The Acropolis was an old-time joint and a monument to debauchery, with statues of naked women everywhere you looked. The old ad campaign that had touted Las Vegas as a family destination had never mentioned the place.

He drove up the snaking front entrance and braked at the valet stand. “Here’s the deal. I want you to talk with Nick Nicocropolis, the owner of this dump. Nick and I go back a long way. Nick knows all the dirt about this town. Ask Nick what might have caused seven gaming agents to go dirty, and start ripping off the casinos.”

“Where are you going?” his son asked.

“To have a talk with Lucy Price. Lucy was approached several years ago by a man who got her to play a rigged slot machine. I’m sure he’s the gang’s ringleader.”

“Why do you say that?”

“That’s the way it works with gangs. The ringleader is the front man. In this case, he was recruiting claimers while the others rigged the laptops the field agents used. If I can get Lucy to pick his photo out, we can pull in the ringleader, and grill him. Chances are, he’ll give up the rest of them.”

“Pop, she tore your heart out the last time. Let me go talk to her.”

Gerry was right. His last meeting with Lucy had ripped him apart. But a part of him had to see her again, no matter how painful that might be. He patted his son’s arm. “This one’s mine. I’ll be back in a couple hours. Say hi to Nick for me.”

His son got out, and Valentine peeled out of the valet stand.

Chapter 48

Valentine drove to the Jean Correctional Facility with the snapshot of Lucy Price that he kept in his wallet stuck on the steering wheel. She reminded him a lot of his late wife. Same height, same hair color, and a killer smile.

During the drive, he called the warden on his cell phone, and requested that Lucy be brought to the visiting area in the main administration building. The warden had agreed, having remembered him from a few days ago. Valentine appreciated that. Just about every other law enforcement officer in Nevada had challenged him in the past few days, and it was nice not to run into another wall.

He checked in with the receptionist, then passed through a metal detector and made his way to the visiting area. Walking down a hallway, he stared through a window onto a yard, and saw several hundred women inmates talking and puffing on cigarettes. Three months ago, he’d talked Lucy into throwing herself upon the mercy of the court, and now tried to imagine her surviving here, with drug addicts and prostitutes and who knew what else. Had he made a mistake? He sure hoped not.

He sat in the visitor’s room and waited. The room smelled like a tobacco factory, and he found himself craving a smoke. He didn’t think he’d ever really kick the habit until they threw dirt on his face. After a few minutes, a bearded man wearing a navy sports jacket entered the room. His name tag said Dr. R. Bob Smith, III.

“I’m Dr. Bob Smith, the prison psychologist,” he said.

“Where’s Lucy?”

“She asked me to come instead.”

“Is that so. Where’s the warden?”

“Why do you want to see the warden?”

“Because I’m not talking to you.”

The good doctor acted surprised. He was a gentle-looking man, the kind of thoughtful person that Valentine had hoped the prison system would provide to help Lucy get her gambling problem sorted out. Smith said, “Can we first go to the employee cafeteria, and discuss this over a cup of coffee?”

“I didn’t come here to drink coffee. I’m conducting a criminal investigation. Were you aware of that?”

Smith brought his hand up and tugged nervously at his beard. “No, I wasn’t. Is Lucy in some kind of trouble?”

“She could be. She helped a cheater steal a slot machine jackpot a few years ago. She wrote me a letter about it. I need her to identify the cheater from a group of photos so we can apprehend him. If she refuses to help, I might have to haul her in.”

“You can haul her in for that?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because there are dozens of women in here who’ve done the same thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They help cheaters,” Smith said. “I hear about it regularly during my counseling sessions. It’s goes on all the time.”

Valentine stared into Smith’s eyes. It sounded like a bunch of crap, only there was sincerity in Smith’s voice. Was this how Bronco lured innocent people into being claimers for him?

“I’ll take you up on that cup of coffee.”

The employee cafeteria was a rectangular room with six tables, a refrigerator and a Mr. Coffee machine with a glass jar for donations. Valentine poured two cups and dropped two dollars into the jar. They sat at a corner table, and shared a short silence.

“Have you ever studied the work of Charles Darwin?” Smith asked.

Valentine’s proper education had ended when he’d graduated from highschool.

“I think I was out sick that day.”

Smith blew the steam off his cup. “Darwin said that evolution relentlessly encouraged the survival of the fittest. If that’s true, human beings should be naturally selfish, and only care for themselves. Yet, the fact is, we are not a selfish species, per se. We interact with scores of individuals, sometimes hundreds or even thousands, and we cooperate with them.”

“We do?” Valentine said.

“Of course. We tip waiters in restaurants, give blood, drive on the correct side of the street, obey rules, and cooperate with people we’ll never see again. And we do it for a purely selfish reason. We want to survive.”

“You’ve lost me. How does that lead to survival?”

Smith put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Throughout human history, groups of cooperators have been more successful than groups of selfish individuals, and have driven the selfish individuals into extinction. Darwin believed that the desire for survival led to humans’ mutual aid and trust. He called it the evolution of cooperation.”

The coffee tasted like rocket fuel, and Valentine felt it kick his brain into another gear. “Let me see if I can guess where you’re taking this. You think Darwin’s evolution of cooperation is happening inside casinos. People like Lucy Price cooperate with cheaters because they want to beat the casinos, just like every other player. Lucy helps, even though she knows it’s wrong.”

“Wrong in a legal sense, but not in a cooperative one,” the doctor said. “Inside a casino, it’s us vs. them, and them is the casino.”

“If that were the case, lots of people would be helping cheaters.”

“They are. Lucy told me you work with the casinos. How often do players turn in other players for cheating, or stealing, or not playing by the rules?”

“Hardly ever,” Valentine conceded.

“But those things go on. The casino is the oppressor. The casino never loses. The players know this, and they hate it. As a result, players who see cheating either turn a blind eye, or become accomplices. Make sense?”

Valentine’s coffee suddenly didn’t taste so good. He’d assumed that people like Bo and Karen Farmer had been talked into becoming thieves by promises of lots of money. But Smith was saying that money was only a part of it. The Farmers had turned bad because it was human nature to fight something that was beating you silly.

“You still haven’t told me why Lucy won’t speak to me,” Valentine said.

“Lucy is afraid that by talking to you, she’ll regress,” Smith said. “She believes that by seeing you again, she’ll undo all therapy.”

“I need her help. Doesn’t she know that?”

“She knows, but she has to think about herself.”

Valentine drummed the table. Where was the evolution of cooperation that Smith had just spoken about? Valentine had helped Lucy plenty of times, even given her money when her situation had seemed hopeless. How could she now be so unwilling to help him? He didn’t like it. In fact, it made him mad as hell.

He’d been walking around with an envelope tucked under his arm since he’d entered the prison. Opening it, he laid the photographs of the seven suspected gaming agents on the table. Five men, two women. He removed the photos of the five men, and handed them to Smith.

“One of these five guys is the ringleader of a major casino scam. In the spirit of cooperation that you’re so fond of talking about, I want you to show these photographs to Lucy. Tell her it would be therapeutic for her to turn in a cheater.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Do it anyway.”

“You can’t order me around.”

“I can’t?”

“No. I don’t work for you.”

Valentine leaned forward. “Your job is being paid for by casino dollars, just like every other employee in this prison. Think about it.”

Smith blinked as Valentine’s words registered in his brain. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. If I don’t cooperate, and get Lucy to look at these photographs, you’ll have me fired.”

“Not me. But maybe the people I’m working for.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“You realize Lucy will hate you for this.”

“That’s my cross to bear, not yours.”

Smith scooped the five photographs off the table and left the cafeteria. Valentine rose from the table, and bought a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine in the corner, pausing to read the Surgeon General’s warning stamped on the glass. Printed in bold letters, it said that smoking would eventually kill him.

He ripped open the pack and banged out a smoke. Sometimes, a person didn’t want to live forever. For those times, a cigarette was the perfect thing to stick in your mouth.

Smith returned fifteen minutes later. His face was flush. He angrily tossed the photographs into Valentine’s hands.

“It’s the guy on top,” the doctor said.

Valentine took another drag on his cigarette. An investigation was like running a race. Some were sprints, others marathons. The only thing they had in common was the finish line.

He stared down at the photo. It was Fred Friendly, the head of ESD.

Chapter 49

Gerry stood inside the lobby of the Acropolis feeling like he’d entered a 1970’s sitcom. The carpeting was an ugly burnt orange color that he hadn’t seen since his grandparent’s house, the walls covered in dark smokey mirrors. Statues of half-dressed women with huge breasts were stuck in every corner, and appeared to be someone’s idea of art. It reminded him of the movie Casino without the beautiful people.

He entered the casino. It was also a time warp, and was designed like a wheel. A person could not walk through the main floor without passing through that wheel, and hopefully, stopping at a table and wagering a few dollars.

He went searching for the house phones. Before he could find them, a hulking security guard approached him.

“Your name Valentine?”

“That’s me.”

The guard pointed to the elevators. “You have a phone call.”

It had to be his father. Who else knew he was here? He thanked the guard, and went to the elevators where the house phones were located. He picked up a phone.

“Hey.”

“Hey?” an unfamiliar voice replied. “What kind of greeting is that?”

Not his father, but someone with the same attitude.

“Okay,” Gerry said, “Hey, you.”

The man snorted at him. “Where’d you go to charm school?”

“Sing-Sing prison.”

“You’re hysterical. You come into my casino and don’t say hello?”

“Who is this?” Gerry asked.

“Nick Nicocropolis, you pin head. I’m in the penthouse. Come on up.”

Gerry hung up with a grin on his face. Nick was the hard-headed little Greek who owned the Acropolis. Gerry guessed Nick had seen him in the casino, and mistaken him for his father. He’d heard stories about Nick for years — Nick had been married eight glorious times, all to Vegas knockouts — and had always wanted to meet him. He stepped into an elevator, and pressed the penthouse button. The buttons were made of see-through plastic, and featured silhouettes of naked women in provocative poses.

“That’s just beautiful,” Gerry said.

The penthouse was a major disappointment. Nick’s sexual prowess was legendary, and Gerry had expected Nick’s digs to be a living testimonial to his conquests. Instead, his office was a clone of Fortune 50 °CEO’s digs, and as sterile as a hospital emergency room. Gerry was bummed.

Nick was something of a disappointment as well. He was a smallish Greek with a perfectly round pot-belly, bushy eyebrows, bushy hair, and other small bushes of hair sprouting from different parts of his body. As Gerry entered the office, Nick jumped out of his chair, and came around the desk to greet him.

“Holy shit, you’re not Tony,” the little Greek said.

“Gerry Valentine. I’m Tony’s son. Nice to meet you.”

“Nicky!” a woman’s voice crackled over the intercom on the desk.

Nick froze in his spot and hunched his shoulders. “Yes, honey.”

“Promise me you won’t swear again,” she purred.

“I promise, dear.” Smiling sheepishly, Nick lowered his voice. “That’s my wife Wanda. She works in the adjacent office.”

Gerry grinned. Talk about a short leash, he thought. As if reading his thoughts, Nick said, “It’s not what you think.”

“What’s not what I think?” Gerry asked.

“The office isn’t bugged.”

Nick was a client, and one of the few casino owners in the world who his father implicitly trusted. Gerry couldn’t make fun of him, only he couldn’t stop grinning.

“Stop laughing,” the little Greek scolded.

“Sorry.”

“Wanda’s developed a sixth sense to my swearing. It started right after she got pregnant. Every time I swear, she breaks out in hives, and chews me out.”

“Wow.”

“Shut up,” Nick told him.

Nick offered Gerry a seat, then settled into a leather chair behind the desk that made him look several inches taller than he really was.

“Your dad in town with you?” Nick asked.

“Yeah. He’s on a case.”

“I like your old man, even if he is from New Jersey.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell him to call me when he’s done. I’ll treat you boys to dinner in The Wanda Room. It’s our new steakhouse. You should see the waitresses.”

“Something else, huh?”

“They’ll poke your eyes out.”

Gerry smiled to himself. Nick was a dinosaur. Yet he’d managed to survive longer than any other casino boss in Las Vegas. There was a reason for that.

“I need to ask you a question,” Gerry said. “My father says that you know everything that’s going on in this town.”

Nick kissed the end of an unlit cigar. “Correct.”

“This in confidence.”

“Won’t leave this room.”

“What happened in the past three years that would make seven Nevada Gaming Control Board’s top agents turn into thieves?”

Nick’s eyes narrowed, and Gerry almost thought he heard the gears shifting in the little Greek’s head. He tossed his cigar down, made a face that said he wasn’t happy.

“That’s a loaded question, kid.”

“Something did happen,” Gerry said.

“Lots of crap happens in this town. Most of it gets buried in the desert.”

“My father would be indebted to you if you’d tell me what it is,” Gerry said. Then added, “And, so would I.”

Nick pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to the mini bar. He fixed two Scotches on the rocks and gave one to his guest. Gerry hadn’t had a drink before noon in forever, but this was Vegas, and the rules were different here.

They clinked glasses, and then Nick told him a story.

According to Nick, only two things mattered in Las Vegas. Sex, and money. Everything else was just camouflage.

The story Nick told him was about money. Lots of it. And it did not have a happy ending. It had started three years ago in a casino called Diamond Dave’s.

Diamond Dave’s was what locals called a sawdust joint, its clientele consisting of tour bus gamblers and locals. Dave’s shouldn’t have been making much money, yet it was. In fact, it was making more than many of its bigger rivals in town.

A routine audit by the Gaming Commission had uncovered a serious problem. The games at Diamond Dave’s were raking in the cash. The hold, which was the amount of money the casino kept, was double what it was supposed to be. The Gaming Commission had smelled a rat, and asked the Gaming Control Board to investigate.

The GCB had raided Diamond Dave’s, and shut it down. They’d brought in their experts, and carefully examined each game. What they’d found had shocked them. On every blackjack table the dealing shoes were missing high cards, making it impossible for the players to win. On the craps tables, the dice were shaved so only certain combinations would come up. At the roulette tables, the wheels were magnetized so management could make the ball stop wherever they choose. The slot machines were also rigged so players hardly won; even the lowly Keno game was fixed.

The casino’s manager was hauled off to jail, and soon confessed. His owner was losing money, and had ordered the casino manager to rig the games. Under pressure from the police, the casino manager agreed to testify against his employer, and was released on bail. Three days later, he was found in his car with two bullets in the back of his head.

Gerry sat on the edge of his chair, hanging on every word. He’d heard stories about casinos cheating their customers, but never anything on a scope like this.

“What happened then?” he asked.

Nick swirled the cubes in his drink. “That’s when things got interesting.”

Chapter 50

At eleven-thirty, Bronco took the elevator downstairs and gave the claim check for his car to the hotel valet. Minutes later he was driving south on Las Vegas Boulevard. It was a sunny day, the desert colors so vivid that they hurt his eyes. He’d always loved the fact that Las Vegas was in the desert. The town was like a mirage that did nothing but rip off suckers, and it was fitting that nothing grew here.

The Instant Replay was five miles from the hotel. He pulled into the gas station across the street and got out of his car. There was a phone booth beside the station, and he made sure the phone was working, then went inside the tiny convenience store, and talked the clerk at the register into giving him a rubber band and some scotch tape.

Back outside, he got into the booth, took out his wallet, and removed twenty single dollar bills and a single hundred. He wrapped the hundred around the wad of singles, secured it with the rubber band, and used the scotch tape to attach it beneath the pay phone. Then, he dialed the phone’s number into his own cell phone.

When he was done, Bronco glanced across the street at the Instant Replay’s parking lot. No cars had come in since he’d arrived, and he guessed Carmichael was still at the hotel with his son.

Bronco drove around until he found a boarded-up Mexican restaurant a block away. Behind the restaurant was a dusty lot. He parked beside the building, got out and popped the trunk, and removed the interior liner which covered the car’s spare tire. In the tire’s spot was an aluminum briefcase, which he removed, then slammed the trunk shut.

The restaurant had been closed a long time, its windows boarded with plywood. He removed his shoes and socks, and climbed onto the roof of the car clutching the briefcase. He placed the briefcase onto the restaurant’s roof, then used both hands to hoist himself up.

The restaurant’s roof was flat and covered with broken glass, and Bronco guessed it was a meeting place for kids to drink beer. The nearby buildings were also one-story, and he didn’t think anyone was going to see him if he kept low. Sitting cross-legged on the roof, he popped the briefcase, and removed the telescopic lens, barrel, and stock of the Sauer 202 “varmint” hunting rifle. He took his time assembling the weapon.

At ten minutes of twelve, Bronco raised his rifle, and began to take note of the cars entering the Instant Replay’s parking lot through the cross hairs of its telescopic lens. It was a busy place, and he saw a variety of different people pull into the lot, and go inside.

At noon, a black Mercedes with tinted windows came into the lot. The driver’s door sprung open, and a man wearing lots of gold chains hopped out and hurried inside. He looked like a two-bit hustler, and Bronco guessed this was Joey Carmichael.

Bronco carefully put his rifle onto the roof. Opening his cell phone, he got the Instant Replay’s phone number from information, and called the number. A few moments later was talking to a girl who sounded sixteen. He asked for Carmichael.

“Anybody here named Carmichael?” she called into the bar.

Someone said yes, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Guess who,” Bronco said.

“Tommy Pico? Where are you?”

“I’m nearby. There’s a pay phone across the street at the gas station,” Bronco said. “I’ll call you there in a minute.”

“What the hell are you trying to pull?”

“I wanted to make sure you came by yourself. You can never be too careful.”

“Don’t screw with me, Pico. I’m warning you.”

“Goodbye.”

Bronco killed the connection. He retrieved the pay phone’s number from his cell phone’s memory bank, and hit Send. Hearing the call go through, he placed the phone down on the roof, then picked up his rifle, and stared through the telescopic lens at the Instant Replay’s front door.

Carmichael came out of the restaurant a few moments later. He could have shot him right then, only he’d learned that it was damn hard to hit a moving target, especially at this range. Carmichael crossed the street and entered the phone booth. He looked around suspiciously, then snatched up the receiver. Bronco picked up his cell phone, and stuck it into the crook of his neck.

“Hello?” Carmichael said suspiciously.

“Hey,” Bronco said.

“This better not be a trick.”

“No tricks. I want to ask you something before I give you the money.”

“You’re pushing it, Pico.”

“Who else did you tell about me?”

“Why? Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“I didn’t tell a soul. I didn’t think anyone would care. Now, where’s the money?”

“Reach beneath the phone. I left a present for you.”

Through the lenses, he watched Carmichael stick his hand underneath the pay phone, and tear away the wad of money. Carmichael was no fool, and he pulled off the rubber band, and saw the deception.

“You lousy bastard,” he said.

“See yah.”

He squeezed the trigger, then felt the rifle’s sharp recoil. The plexiglass wall of the phone booth exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. The bullet had blown off the front plate of the machine, causing hundreds of coins to spill out. Carmichael spun around, and started to run, his body covered in broken glass.

He took aim and fired again. Carmichael had reached the curb. His body twisted violently as a giant blood stain appeared in the center of his shirt. He halted momentarily, then somehow found the strength to start walking across the street toward his car in the restaurant lot. In the middle of the street he stopped, and fell to his knees.

Carmichael looked up into the cloudless sky. The bills were still clutched in his hands. His fingers opened, and they fell and were picked up by the wind. He pitched forward and lay motionless on the pavement.

Bronco lowered the rifle. Served the bastard right.

“Daddy!”

Bronco felt his heart start to race. The voice had come from the vicinity of the restaurant. He lifted the rifle, and found the child through the lenses. A boy of maybe ten, with cute blond bangs and an iPhone dangling around his neck. He had jumped out of the Mercedes, and was running toward his father’s lifeless body.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

The boy knelt down and tried to gather his father in his arms. He started to scream, his youthful wail ripping into Bronco’s very soul.

What have I done? Bronco thought.

Bronco thought he was going to be sick. He jumped off the roof and tossed the rifle into the trunk of his Lexus. Normally, he would have cleaned up after himself, and made sure nothing was left behind that might lead the police to him. But those were the farthest thoughts from his mind. All he could think about was the boy, and the fact that he’d just seen his old man die. He drove back to the Mandalay Bay hearing police sirens going in the opposite direction, filling the air with panic.

He walked into the Mandalay Bay five minutes later, still feeling sick. He needed to lie down, and headed for the bank of elevators to go upstairs to his room. A brightly colored parrot in a cage in the lobby screeched at him. Someone said, “Mr. Pico?” and he went to the concierge desk where an attractive young woman stood.

“What’s up.”

She held a ticket in her hand. “The Loopers are playing in the House of Blues tonight. Front row ticket, compliments of the house.”

He waved her off. The image of the kid holding his dead father in his arms was stuck in his head like a bad dream. He couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how hard he tried. He went to the elevators and pulled out his room key. Across the way were a bank of glittering slot machines with yellow police tape stretched across several of the machines. A bellman walked by, and he stopped him.

“What’s wrong with those slot machines?”

“A group of gaming agents shut them down,” the bellman explained.

“Any idea why?”

“I guess they’re not working right. Have a nice day.”

Bronco went over to check the slot machines out. The manufacturer’s plate was usually found on the left side. Kneeling, he stuck his head between two of the machines, and read the plate. It was made by Universal. Then he checked out the others. They were made by Universal as well.

Shit.

Going upstairs to his suite, he sat on the couch, and stared into space. The slot machine scam was worthless now that the police knew about it. He could only hope that Xing hadn’t heard, and that he’d be able to make the exchange before they found out.

If he didn’t get the Pai Gow scam, his cheating days were over. And then what was he going to do? Live a normal life? He didn’t know what that meant.

He went into the bathroom and washed his face, then stared into the mirror at the black hole that was his soul. He’d wanted to be normal once. Falling in love with Marie had done that to him, and having a kid. But it hadn’t lasted. His wife had gone to jail, and the court had thrown Mikey into a foster home. That was the extent of what he knew about the normal life. It didn’t last.

He needed the Pai Gow scam more than he’d realized. But what if Xing refused to hand it over? Then he’d have to take it, even if it meant killing him.

He went to the window, and stared down at the wave machine in the hotel pool. He’d never killed two men in one day, and supposed there was a first time for everything.

Chapter 51

Gerry walked out of the Acropolis into the blinding sunlight. He’d been inside the Acropolis less than an hour, yet had already lost track of the time. If casinos were good at anything, it was making a person forget the real world. He spotted his father parked next to the valet stand in the rental. He hopped into the passenger seat, and they peeled out with a rubbery squeal, and were soon heading north on the strip.

His father drove without speaking. There was a faraway look in his eyes, and Gerry assumed he’d retreated to that place that he went to when life got him down.

“Rough time at the prison?”

His father nodded. Lying on the seat was a snapshot of Lucy Price. The woman was a bad news buffet, yet his father still cared deeply for her. Gerry wasn’t surprised; his father hadn’t abandoned him, and he’d been screwing up his entire life.

“I’m sorry, Pop.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

They drove through the canyon of gigantic casinos that lined both sides of the strip. Gerry guessed they were going to meet up with Bill Higgins, who was with the police stake out team on Fremont Street in old downtown.

“Lucy identified the ringleader of the gang,” his father said, breaking the silence. “It’s Fred Friendly, the head of the Electronic Systems Division.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. Fred’s got twenty-five years on the clock, and is up for retirement in a few years. Why decide now to start stealing? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does. Nick Nicocropolis told me.”

His father braked at a light. They had passed the Wynn and its sister property, Encore, and the strip had started to turn seedy. His father waited for him to continue.

“It isn’t pretty, Pop. Seems a casino in town called Diamond Dave’s got caught cheating their customers. Every single game in the joint was rigged. The Gaming Control Board shut the place down, and got the casino manager to confess. A few days later, the casino manager ended up with two bullets in his head.”

The light changed. His father pulled ahead, still staring at the busy road.

“Then a strange thing happened,” Gerry went on. “Diamond Dave, the owner of the casino, got hauled in. Dave claimed he didn’t know a thing, even though he was pocketing all the money. I’m talking millions, Pop. The GCB took his gaming license away, and shut the joint down. And that’s where the story ends.”

His father jerked his head sideways. “Say what?”

“They let him go. He’s in California now, selling real estate.”

“That’s impossible. He broke the god damn law. He’s also probably a murderer.”

“I know. I asked Nick how Diamond Dave got away with it. Nick said Diamond Dave had greased a lot of palms, and had friends in high places.”

“Nick wouldn’t tell you who sprung this crook?”

“No. I asked but he wouldn’t give it up.”

“And Nick thinks this is why Fred Friendly and the rest of his group went bad.”

“Yeah. Nick said the gaming agents that worked on the case were given counseling to make sure it didn’t affect their work. I remember seeing that in the files. Fred Friendly and the rest of ESD all took extended leaves three years ago.”

“I guess it didn’t work.”

“Guess not.”

The rental picked up speed. Gerry saw his old man talking to himself, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. It was a lot of information to absorb, but that was what made his father the world heavyweight champ at catching cheaters and crooks. Several blocks later, his father punched the dashboard with his fist.

“Son-of-a-bitch.”

“You figured it out,” Gerry said.

“Damn right I did.”

His father pulled up a number on his cell phone. Gerry stole a glance, and saw that it was Bill Higgins he was calling. This was going to be good.

The call went through. His old man didn’t mince words.

“You and I need to talk,” his father barked into the phone.

They met up with Bill at a dive motel on Fremont Street. Fremont had once been a cool place to hang out, with a number of old casinos and funky restaurants. Those days were long gone, and today it was a human cesspool, the sidewalks filled with strung-out hookers, runaways, and street people who didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

Bill greeted them at the door. His necktie was pulled to one side, and he wore the haggard look of a man who hadn’t gotten enough sleep in the past few days. The stakeout team was in the room, and consisted of four members of the Metro Las Vegas Police Department. The team had placed sensitive eavesdropping equipment against the wall, and were listening to the activity of the room next door.

Valentine and his son entered, and Bill shut the door. Bill put his finger to his lips, and pulled them into a small kitchenette.

“You figure out which one of the agents is our crook?” Bill asked.

“They’re all crooks,” Valentine said.

Bill appeared too stunned to speak.

“The motive was Diamond Dave’s,” Valentine said.

Bill blinked. “Who told you about Diamond Dave’s?”

“It sure as hell wasn’t you.”

Bill ran his fingers through his thick head of hair. When he was a younger man, he’d worn his hair so it touched his collar, and impressed Valentine as a guy who marched to his own drummer. Time had obviously changed him. Bill looked at Gerry, who was leaning against the wall, then back at Valentine, who stood across from him.

“I’m sorry, Tony.”

“Explain,” Valentine said.

Bill tugged at his necktie like it was choking him. “The owner of Diamond Dave’s had money problems, and decided to rig the games in his casino to pay off his creditors. We caught him, and shut the place down. We hauled Diamond Dave into jail, and guess who the first person was he called with his one phone call.”

“Governor Smoltz,” Valentine said.

Bill blinked again. “Who told you that?”

“I figured it out. Smoltz takes care of his friends. Diamond Dave probably helped put him in office.”

“That’s right. Diamond Dave was one of his biggest fund raisers. Two days after we arrested Diamond Dave, his casino manager turns up dead. He was our only witness. I got a call from Smoltz a few hours later, telling me to let Diamond Dave walk. Smoltz claimed the scandal would hurt the town’s business, and he wanted me to put a lid on it. I was under orders not to talk.”

Valentine had been a cop once, and obeyed plenty of orders he hadn’t agreed with. Bill had done what he’d had to do. But it still didn’t make it right. He watched his friend jerk his necktie off, and stuff it into his pocket.

“Let me ask you a question,” Valentine said. “When Bronco first told you there was a crooked gaming agent stealing jackpots, did you think this was blow-back to what had happened at Diamond Dave’s?”

Valentine already knew the answer to the question, but had to ask it anyway. Bill had known, which was why Smoltz had gotten involved. How Bill answered was going to determine whether they remained friends.

“Yes,” Bill said.

“Did Smoltz?”

“Yes, he figured it out as well.”

“Why didn’t you just focus your investigation on just the agents who’d been involved in shutting down Diamond Dave’s? Why throw such a wide net?”

“Because every agent working for the GCB knew about the scandal, and had been tainted by it,” Bill replied. “I had to look at everyone.”

Bill was being honest with him now. The dark secrets that Mira had told Mabel were hidden beneath the surface were finally coming out.

“What are you going to do now?” Valentine asked. “Or should I say, what’s Smoltz going to do? Let Fred Friendly and his gang skate?”

“Smoltz wants us to nail Bronco first, and muzzle him. Then we’ll haul in Friendly and the others.”

“Aren’t you afraid Friendly and his gang will go into the wind? They have to know that you’ve shut the Universal slot machines down.”

“I’m sure they do. But where are they going to go?” Bill said. “They all live here. Trust me, they’re going to be a lot easier to run down than Bronco.”

“I hope you’re right.”

One of the cops on the stakeout team appeared in the doorway.

“What’s up?” Bill said to him.

“The Asian just got a phone call,” the cop replied. “It’s Bronco. They’re setting up the meeting.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right in.”

The cop left, and Bill turned his attention back to Valentine.

“We done?”

“Done,” Valentine replied.

“I’m sorry I didn’t level with you Tony. I really am.”

“I’ll get over it.”

Bill nodded and went into the next room. Valentine started to follow, and saw Gerry motion for him to wait. His son went to the door and glanced into the next room, then came back and pulled his father into the corner.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Gerry said in a whisper.

“I’m never thinking what you’re thinking,” Valentine replied.

“If Bronco gets muzzled, only two people outside of Bill and Smoltz will know what’s going on. You and me.”

“So?”

“I sure hope we don’t end up with bullets in our heads.”

“Come on, Gerry, be serious.”

“I am, Pop. Think about it.”

Valentine did. And then it hit him. His son was right. In Vegas, it was all about the money, and the things they knew could permanently damage the way business was done. People had been killed in this town for less than that. A lot less.

“Guess we’d better watch each other’s backs,” Valentine said.

“Deal,” his son replied.

Chapter 52

Bronco was setting up the meeting with Xing, when there was a knock on his hotel room door. He said, “Hang on.” into his cell phone, and placed it down.

Going to the door, he stared through the peephole. A male uniformed hotel employee pushing a metal cart stood in the hallway.

Bronco opened the door. “What’s up?”

“Would you like your mini-bar restocked?”

“No thanks.”

He shut the door in the employee’s face. He’d had three visitors in the past hour. A maid wanting to turn down his bed, a maintenance man wanting to check the AC, and now this guy. It didn’t feel right, and he guessed the casino was getting antsy about him being in his room, and not downstairs gambling.

Or maybe it was something else. The police had probably figured out he was in town, and asked the hotels to check on any male guests who’d registered in the past twenty-four hours. Which meant that staying here was no longer safe.

He got back on the phone with Xing.

“You still there?”

“I’m here,” the Asian replied.

“Let’s do this now.”

“Come to my room in an hour.”

“Why not now?”

“Why? Are you in a rush?”

Xing was testing him. The Asian seemed to enjoy getting under his skin.

“No, I just want to get this over with.”

“One hour. The Cordova motel, room #24.”

“Got it.”

He folded his phone. If Xing knew that the slot machine scam was worthless, he hadn’t mentioned it. Hopefully, he hadn’t strayed far from his motel, and gone into any of the casinos on Fremont Street. If he did go into a casino, he was going to know, and then Bronco would have to kill him to get the Pai Gow secret.

Throwing his clothes into a suitcase, Bronco went downstairs and got his car from the valet. He still had not shaken the events of that morning, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. He pulled out of the hotel, and decided to cruise the strip.

He drove to the north end, turned around, and drove back. Back when he’d been married to Marie, he’d owned a convertible, and they’d often driven the strip with the top down, and looked at the tourists. He imagined Marie was sitting next to him, and heard her singing along with the radio. She’d always loved the slow stuff.

He came to Tropicana Avenue, and put his blinker on. The light changed, and his hands instinctively spun the wheel. He drove down Tropicana until he was in the desert. Up ahead, a road sign said Henderson, 10 miles. He was heading back to his house, and hadn’t even realized it.

He parked one street over from his house, and walked across a neighbor’s property to his own backyard. Yellow police tape was stretched across the back slider, telling him that his house had been turned into a crime scene investigation.

He stuck his head around a corner. No police cars were in the driveway or the street. He went to the front door, removed a key from a flower pot, and let himself in.

He wasn’t ready for the smell. Old cigarette smoke and spilled beer mixed with the house’s dead air. He considered opening up the windows and airing the place out, then realized he wasn’t coming back, so what was the point?

His next stop was the master bedroom. He instantly noted what things inside the room the cops had touched or moved. Nosy bastards.

Opening the closet door, he unzippered one of Marie’s clothing bags, and stuck his face into her dresses. Whenever he missed her so much that he felt like sticking a gun in his mouth, he’d gone and smelled her clothes. It was hard to explain how much he’d loved Marie; even he didn’t understand it. Or why he couldn’t get over her.

They’d met at a craps table at the MGM Grand. She’d been gambling with some friends. She was an innocent looking kid, real pretty, and Bronco had sensed she was someone he could work with.

The shooter had won. As the dealer paid the shooter off, he turned his back on Marie, and Bronco had added a stack of chips to Marie’s bet. He didn’t think the dealer would accuse her of cheating, because most dealers were suckers for pretty girls.

He’d been right. The dealer had paid Marie off without squawking. Marie had taken the money while staring at Bronco with her big blue eyes, like she couldn’t imagine anyone being so brazen. Bronco had stared right back. He’d never believed in love at first sight until he’d laid eyes on her.

Marie had taken her winnings and left the table. He’d followed her outside the casino, his palms sweating from the arrow that Cupid had shot in his ass. Marie walked to her car, then spun around. Taking her winnings from her purse, she threw half at Bronco’s feet.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she said accusingly.

He’d stood there helplessly. She was a vision; dark hair, dancing eyes, with a small, full figure and a face that every Italian kid dreams about.

“We could have both gotten arrested,” she said.

Bronco realized what she was saying. She’d thought it out, and decided the risk was worth taking. That was why she’d thrown his half at him. She knew what she’d done was wrong.

“Let me buy you dinner,” he’d said.

He’d expected her to walk away, and out of his life forever. Only she’d hesitated. It was just enough for him to know.

Reaching down, he scooped the money off the pavement, and handed it back to her. It was the beginning of something, and they’d both known it.

On the night table was a framed photograph of Marie taken on their honeymoon. There was a slit in the cardboard backing of the frame. He slipped his fingers into the slit, and removed the photograph of Mikey he’d hidden there long ago. It was the only photo of Mikey he had, and Bronco counted all the freckles on his son’s face. Mikey had died a year after Marie, and nothing had ever been the same.

He slipped Mikey’s photograph back into the frame so it lay next to Marie. He hadn’t planned to touch anything in the room, but now realized that was impossible. He had to take some memento of Marie and the boy, and he slipped the photograph under his arm.

He left through the backdoor. Crossing the backyard, he saw a fluttering of curtains behind a neighbor’s window. He’d been spotted, and started to run. The ground was uneven and his foot landed in a hole. The photograph slipped from his grasp, and hit the ground.

He picked it up with a shudder. The glass frame had turned into a web of fractures. He felt a catch in his throat, his body humbled by the weakness of love. He was crying by the time he reached his car.

Chapter 53

Xing did not believe in taking chances.

He knew that the police were looking for Bronco. Bronco’s face was being shown regularly on the TV news shows, and there were only so many places a man could hide, especially in a city like Las Vegas. If Xing was going to meet with Bronco and do the exchange, he needed to be sure that Bronco wasn’t being tailed. Otherwise, he’d end up sharing a jail cell with him.

Xing’s motel was directly on Fremont Street. He could open the front door, and step right into the action. He started to do that now, and spotted a man standing by the curb, reading a newspaper. Something about the man’s body language felt wrong, and he silently shut the door.

Xing went to his room’s only window and tilted the blind with his finger. Outside, the man continued to read his paper. Xing couldn’t remember seeing anyone on Fremont Street reading a paper. Either they were talking on cell phones or walking around drunk. He studied the man. Muscular in build with a short haircut and conservative clothes. Everything about him screamed policeman. And if there was one cop, there were probably many more, all waiting for Bronco to appear before swooping in.

Time to run.

He went into the bathroom and shut the door. Put down the toilet cover and climbed onto it. The window above the toilet was wide enough for him to slither through. He stuck his head out to make sure no policemen were in the alley, then climbed through, and dropped to the ground. The alley was filled with overflowing garbage cans, and flies swarmed around him. He’d turned up his collar and walked onto Fremont Street.

The policeman with the newspaper was still outside his room. His back was to Xing, and Xing walked in the opposite direction, and became lost in the swarm of people.

The east end of Fremont Street was covered by a giant metal canopy which was transformed into a Star Wars-like special effects show every half hour. The show was called the Fremont Street Experience, and as Xing passed beneath the canopy, a booming voice came over the Public Address system, and announced that the next show would begin in exactly two minutes.

The street quickly filled with people. There were lots of uniformed cops, no doubt for security, but they put Xing on edge. He ducked into a souvenir shop, and bought a pair of shades and a baseball cap. He appraised his disguise in a mirror, and decided it wasn’t enough. From the racks he grabbed a black leather jacket. On its back was printed Jesus Wasn’t Born in Las Vegas Because They Couldn’t Find a Virgin. He took another look at himself in the mirror, and decided he looked like every other misfit he’d seen walking around. He paid for the items and headed outside.

A laser light show had started, with booming music and lots of explosions. He checked the time. Over an hour had passed since he’d last spoken to Bronco. Bronco had sounded eager to do the exchange, and he wondered what the holdup was.

Xing walked around and tried to act like every other tourist. A few minutes later, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and saw that it was Bronco.

“Yes?” he answered, having to shout over the music.

There was no one there. He wondered if the canopy was killing his connection, and started to walk to where the canopy ended. His phone vibrated again.

“Hello?”

Still nothing. He flipped the phone shut and continued to walk. Ten seconds later, his phone vibrated again. He was standing directly outside the Golden Nugget, one of the larger casinos on Fremont and one of the busiest. He tried again.

“Are you there?”

Xing felt the barrel of a gun being shoved into his back. He lowered the phone, and stared into the reflection in the glass windows of the Nugget. A man with a shaved hand stood behind him with a scowl on his face. A stocky Italian with eyes like black ice.

“Turn around. Do it slow,” Bronco whispered into his ear.

Xing obeyed. Bronco was holding a magazine in front of his chest, and had hidden his gun behind it. The idea that Bronco might shoot him right in the street was not far from Xing’s thoughts. Hadn’t he shot a man inside a casino?

“You set me up,” Bronco said. “There are cops all over your motel.”

“I just saw them myself,” Xing replied.

“Really. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I was waiting for you to call.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I had no reason to set you up.”

Xing waited. He was not going to beg for his life. To do that would have meant losing face, and he would rather have died than let that happen.

“Do you have the Pai Gow secret?”

Xing felt himself relax. They were back on even terms. He nodded, and they edged over to the curb to do the exchange. Despite all the people on the street, it was the perfect hiding place, Xing thought. Everyone sees us, yet no one sees us.

“You go first,” Xing said.

“My pleasure,” Bronco replied.

Xing took out his wallet, and removed a piece of tissue paper. He carefully unfolded the tissue to reveal a small black object that resembled a miniature toothbrush. He had found this miniature toothbrush inside Kyle Garrow’s wallet in Reno when he robbed him in the strip club, yet had no idea what it was.

“Guess you don’t know what this is,” Bronco said.

Xing shook his head. Had he known, he’d be back in China by now.

“Its called an EPROM chip,” Bronco explained. “With it, you can rig any slot machine made by a company called Universal. Universal slot machines are all over the world, so you shouldn’t have any problem finding them in China.”

“How does it work?”

“Put the EPROM chip into a laptop computer, and run a diagnostic test on the Universal machine’s RNG chip. When the test is done, you must play three coins, two coins, and one coin, and you’ll win a jackpot. Got it?”

Xing repeated the instructions and saw Bronco nod.

“You’re all set. Now tell me the Pai Gow secret.”

The pair of Pai Gow dominos were resting in the breast pocket of Xing’s shirt. He handed them to Bronco, happy to be rid of something that he had no use for. Bronco still held the gun hidden beneath the magazine. With his free hand, he held the dominos up to the glaring overhead strobe lights.

“Tell me.”

“Red not black,” Xing said.

Bronco looked confused. He held the dominos at a different angle. Then, his face lit up. “Isn’t that beautiful. They’re made out of red plastic instead of black. The red’s so dark, you can’t tell the difference. Are all of them like this?”

All the dominos being used in American casinos were being manufactured at a plant in China. Whatever had been done to this pair, was true with them all.

“Yes. They’re all the same,” Xing said.

“Do you understand how this works?”

“No. My boss did not explain the scam to me.”

“Red plastic can be penetrated by an infra-red lens. With a special pair of glasses, I can see through these dominos, and know what the dealer has. You just made me a very rich man.”

Bronco patted Xing on the shoulder and started to smile. Suddenly, his scowl returned. Xing followed his gaze, and saw the manager of the motel where he was staying leading a group of policemen down the middle of Fremont Street. The manger was pointing at young men the same age as Xing, and the policeman were grabbing the men, and showing them to the manager, who kept shaking his head. Then, Xing saw the manager point directly at him.

“Run,” Xing said.

Xing stepped off the curb, then felt his legs stop moving. His stomach was burning, and he placed his hand inside his leather jacket, came away with blood. He looked over his shoulder; Bronco had disappeared into the crowd.

Xing fell to his knees as the policeman swarmed around him. The noise went away, and the world grew still. The reality of what had happened was slow to sink in. Bronco had shot him in the back so he could get away, and save himself.

And I just made him a rich man, Xing thought.

Chapter 54

Everybody died differently. Valentine had learned that the hard way as a cop. He’d seen plenty of people pass on to the great craps game in the sky, and each departure was a little different and carried some signature of that person’s time here on earth.

The Asian with the bullet in his back died with a thin smile on his face. Valentine had gotten to him first, and had knelt down, and pulled the Asian’s head into his lap. Even though he didn’t know the guy from Adam, he thought it was the least he could do.

“Bronco’s getting away,” Gerry said, sounding panicked.

“Let the cops run him down,” Valentine said.

“But Pop—”

“He’s got a gun, Gerry. Stay here.”

His son reluctantly agreed. Valentine gazed down into the Asian’s face. He tried to remember the guy’s name? Was it Xing or Zing or Bling? He couldn’t recall. He looked like a decent enough sort, but most people did when they died, all the bad things they’d done seemed to seep out of them, and just the core remained, until that too was gone. The Asian’s eyes fluttered and his smile grew. What was that about?

“Anything I can do?” Valentine asked.

The Asian shook his head, and then he was no more.

One of the cops got a blanket from inside the Nugget, and laid it over the dead man’s body. Valentine stood up and crossed himself. Then he grabbed Gerry and went looking for Bill, who was handling the search for Bronco on Fremont Street. They’d caught a glimpse of their fugitive as he’d run away; he had disguised himself by shaving his head, and would not be hard to pick out of a crowd.

The Fremont Street Experience was still in full swing, with laser lights flashing across the steel canopy accompanied by blaring disco music that was a few seconds out of sync with the rest of the show. The Experience normally drew a good crowd, and today was no exception. Thousands of tourists were packed on the street, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with their plastic cups of beer and glazed expressions on their faces.

“Where did all these people come from?” Gerry asked.

“This is Vegas, Gerry.”

“I know, but this is unreal.”

They sifted their way through the throng. Soon they could barely move. Gerry was right — the crowd was huge, and seemed to be growing by the minute. There was no sign of Bill or his posse, although he could have been a few feet away, and Valentine wouldn’t have spotted him. They reached the end of the Experience where Fremont met Las Vegas Boulevard, and Valentine pulled his son out of the crowd to a secluded spot beneath a withered palm tree where a homeless man lay sleeping.

“Look at all those cars,” Gerry said.

Valentine followed his son’s gaze. The boulevard was jammed with vehicles, none of which were moving. An irate motorist honked their horn. Within seconds, everyone was making their displeasure known, the situation spiraling out of control.

“What do you think’s going on?” Gerry asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s ask someone.”

Gerry had a knack of being able to talk to complete strangers. He jogged over to one of the stuck vehicles, and struck up a conversation with the driver, a white-haired man traveling with his wife. The driver handed Gerry a sheet of paper, and Gerry thanked him and shook his hand. Then, his son jogged back.

“It’s some kind of promotion,” his son explained.

“Let me see.”

Gerry handed him the sheet of paper. It was an e-mail addressed to Harold and Lorraine Duffy, its sender THE LAS VEGAS CONVENTION & VISITOR’S BUREAU. The print was huge, and practically leapt off the page.

Dear Video Poker Enthusiast — Never let it be said that money doesn’t grow on trees! At three P.M. today, money will grow on trees in the form of five million dollar jackpots, payable to five lucky people playing a video poker machine at a Las Vegas casino. As any video poker player knows, the casinos are required to pay a certain number of jackpots, or risk losing their licenses. This afternoon, five lucky players will win a jackpot, courtesy of this wonderful rule. So, grab your honey and your money, and head to your favorite casino. Remember to do the following when you play:

1) Bet the maximum number of coins the machine allows

2) Be sure you are playing at 3:00 P.M.

3) Be at a Las Vegas casino.

Have fun and good luck!

Yours truly,

The Las Vegas Convention & Visitors Bureau

Valentine smelled a rat. A big, giant rat. Still holding the email, he crossed the street with his son and entered Fitzgeralds, one of the older casinos on Fremont Street. The joint was mobbed, and he had to push his way through the front doors.

He pushed his way to a bank of video poker machines. Every seat at every machine was taken, and there were lines of people standing behind each seat. He approached several of the people on line, and held the email in front of their faces.

“Did you get one of these emails?” Valentine asked.

The people on line said they had. He showed the email to the people in the seats, just to be sure. They’d all received the email as well.

The noise inside the casino was too loud to think. Valentine went back outside with his son, and stood beneath the withered palm tree. The homeless man was still sound asleep.

“Who do you think’s behind this email?” his son asked.

“Fred Friendly and his gang,” Valentine replied. “The convention and visitors bureau does email promotions to bring customers into town. Fred and his gang got their hands on the data bases, and sent this letter to them.”

“You think they’re trying to skip town, and this is their smokescreen?”

Valentine glanced at the email clutched in his hand. The letter hadn’t been written on a whim. Someone had spent time constructing it.

“I think it’s real,” Valentine said.

“You do?”

“Friendly and his gang have a score to settle with Governor Smoltz. I’m guessing they rigged a bunch of video poker machines to pay off jackpots, and planned to send out that e-mail if the law ever caught up to them. When they heard that Bill ordered the Universal slot machines taken out of commission, they put the plan into effect.”

Valentine’s cell phone was vibrating. It was Bill, and he answered it.

“Bronco’s gone,” Bill said.

“Forget Bronco,” Valentine said. “I’ve got some really bad news for you.”

Chapter 55

Bill was at the other end of Fremont Street. Normally, it would have taken two minutes for him to walk to the sidewalk outside of Fitzgerald’s casino where Valentine and Gerry were standing. Because of the crowds, it took ten minutes.

Bill looked frustrated and angry when he arrived. Bronco was in the wind, and their chances of now finding him were slim. Valentine didn’t think his news would make Bill feel any better, and showed him the email. Then, he explained what Friendly and his gang were up to. When he was finished, a wall of resolution rose in Bill’s face.

“That isn’t possible, Tony.”

“Why not?”

“Because I personally worked on a project to upgrade the security of every video poker machine in Nevada,” Bill said. “This is one game which can’t be scammed.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“Damn straight I am. I’d bet my paycheck on it.”

Gerry started coughing. It wasn’t a natural sounding cough, and Valentine quizzed him with a glance. “What’s the matter?”

“Bill’s wrong,” his son said. “Video poker machines can be scammed.”

“They can?”

In a quiet voice, Gerry said, “Yeah. I helped scam one.”

Valentine stared long and hard at his son. There was a streak of gray hair on the back of Gerry’s head, just like his own. They were alike in so many ways, yet there were times that he felt he hardly knew his son at all.

“Go on,” Valentine said.

“This was back when I was running the bar in Brooklyn. This guy came in one day, a client of mine.” He glanced at Bill. “I used to be a bookie.”

“So I’ve heard,” Bill said.

“Anyway, this guy owed me five grand from some football games he bet on. He had this thing about the Jets, and their quarterback was having a lousy year—”

“Get on with it,” Valentine said.

“Sorry. So, this guy offers me a deal. He says his kid brother, who’s a computer wiz, knows how to scam a video poker machine in Atlantic City. If I play the machine, I can win my five grand back. I told him I wanted to know how his kid brother had scammed the machine. You know, just to be sure that it couldn’t be traced back to me.”

Valentine’s face felt like a four-alarm fire. He’d still been working for the Atlantic City police department when Gerry had his bar, which meant that his son had scammed an Atlantic City casino while he was still policing them. He knew Gerry had balls; he just hadn’t known how enormous they were.

“So the guy brings his kid brother into the bar the next day,” Gerry went on. “The kid explains how he got a video poker machine for Christmas. He analyzed the machine with his computer, and discovered that it used something called a random function to shuffle its internal deck of cards. This random function created different ‘seeds’ which insured that the cards were always different.”

Valentine had little experience with video poker machines because the belief in the industry had been that no one had ever successfully scammed one. Looking at Bill, he said, “This make sense to you?”

Bill nodded. “Random functions generate starting values, which are called seeds. The seeds are randomly changed to insure a fair game.”

“Exactly,” Gerry said. “The kid discovered that his game used the machine’s internal clock to create seeds. When he hit the start button, the random function looked at the number of milliseconds which had elapsed since 12:00 A.M., and used that number to create the seed. Since there are eighty-six million milliseconds each day, the seed should have been random. Only it wasn’t, because the kid could generate the same eighty-six million seeds on his computer because he knew the starting point. That let him calculate which cards were coming out.”

“How did this translate to you beating a video-poker machine in Atlantic City?” Valentine said. “The kid was playing a game, for Christ’s sake.”

“The kid’s game was manufactured by a company that made casino video poker games,” Gerry explained. “He told his brother, and his brother went to Atlantic City, and played one of the company’s real games. Guess what? The same cards came out as his brother’s game at home. They were generating the same seeds.”

Bill crossed his arms. “Gerry, what you just described is ancient history. Remember what I told you before, about my being involved in updating the machines? We discovered that flaw, and made the manufacturers stop using internal clocks.”

“But what if a company didn’t?” Gerry said. “What if one company ignored your order, and didn’t change the program? You know, to save money.”

“Like Universal did when it used the same fingerprint on its slot machines,” Valentine said.

“Exactly,” Gerry said. “And Fred Friendly’s gang discovered the flaw. But instead of making the company update the machines, they keep it a secret, just waiting for the day when they knew they could screw the casinos with it.”

Valentine sensed where his son was headed. “If that was true, it would mean that those video poker machines could be scammed if a player played at a certain time, and a certain way. Just like the e-mail is telling them.”

Bill’s face had turned ashen, and he clenched both his hands into fists. Out on the boulevard, traffic had gotten worse, the angry blare of car horns echoing across town. “How far are Fred Friendly’s offices from here?” Valentine asked.

“A couple of miles,” Bill said.

“We need to pay them a visit.”

Chapter 56

The Electronic Systems Division of the Nevada Gaming Control Board was headquartered in a nondescript three-story building on Sahara boulevard, two blocks off the strip. At a quarter of two, Bill pulled into the parking lot with Valentine and Gerry, and braked by the front doors. Bill had taken back roads, and it still took twenty minutes. Bill used his pass to enter the building’s elaborate security system, and they took an elevator to the third floor, where the ESD managers worked. The gang’s offices were at the end of a hallway, and stood side-by-side. Each had a brass name plate on their door. Haskell, Robinson, Lacross, Dolan, Howard, Ortiz, and Friendly.

Bill did a quick check of each office. Their personal belongings were gone from their desks, and their computer screens were blank. Fred Friendly occupied the corner office, and Bill sat down at his desk, and rifled the drawers. His elbow touched the keyboard for the computer, and the screen came to life.

“What is this?” Bill muttered.

Valentine edged up to the computer to have a look. On the screen was a spread sheet with a heading that said LV/VIDEO POKER. He touched the keyboard, and began to scroll through the document. “It’s all the video poker machines in Las Vegas.”

“Do you think Fred left this for us to see?”

“Sure looks that way. Looks like he highlighted some of them.”

They brought their faces up to the screen. Friendly had highlighted a quarter of the machines on the spread sheet. Each highlighted machine had a notation that said UNV. Valentine thought he knew what it meant, but asked anyway.

“It means Universal,” Bill said softly.

“Universal makes video poker machines, too?”

“Yes. They’re responsible for a quarter of the machines in town.”

Valentine drew back from the computer screen. The realization of what Friendly’s gang had done hit him over the head like a lead pipe. Friendly’s gang hadn’t corrupted five Universal video poker machines to pay out jackpots at 3:00 o’clock; they’d corrupted hundreds of them to pay out jackpots, then sent out emails to insure that the machines got played. Las Vegas’s casinos were about to lose hundreds of millions of dollars.

“What are we going to do?” Bill said.

“Run them down, and find out how to reverse what they’ve done.”

Bill looked at his watch. “It’s almost two. We’ve got an hour.”

“Piece of cake.”

Bill glanced up at him, and smiled grimly.

Valentine gathered the garbage pails from each office, dumped them on the carpet in Friendly’s office, and with Bill kneeling beside him, went through their contents. His guess was, the gang had split up, and taken different routes out of town. That was the smart thing to do, and these guys were as smart as they came.

The garbage didn’t say much, but then he found a coffee-stained receipt in the bottom of the pail that had come from the office of Janet Haskell, one of the two women in the gang. The receipt was for three paperback books purchased at the nearby Borders, and was from yesterday afternoon. Two of the books were mysteries by Valentine’s favorite authors, Michael Connelly and Elmore “Dutch” Leonard. The third book was a Fodor’s Guide to Acapulco. He showed it to Bill.

“You’re a genius,” Bill said.

Clutching the receipt in his hand, Valentine walked down the hallway to the empty office where Gerry had parked himself behind a desk, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he tried to access the computer. His son looked up expectantly.

“You find something?” Valentine asked.

His son nodded. “I think this was left for us. I’m printing it now.”

The laser printer sat atop a metal stand in the corner. Valentine grabbed the sheets as they were spit out and quickly read the manuscript. It had been co-authored by the gang, and explained in detail why they’d gone bad. Every criminal had a “reason” for committing crimes, and the reasons were all bogus. Everyone on the planet knew the difference between right and wrong; even the severely retarded. But this gang surprised him. They weren’t saying they weren’t guilty. They simply stated in plain English that they were fed up with how justice was administered in Las Vegas.

A hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned to face Bill.

“There’s an American Airlines flight to Acapulco out of McCarren that leaves at two-thirty,” Bill said. “I called TSA, and told them to ground that plane.”

They went downstairs and climbed into Bill’s car. Bill started to pull the vehicle onto the street, then jammed on the brakes. Traffic had reached critical mass on Sahara, and the cars looked glued together. Bill called the Metro Las Vegas police on his cell phone. They weren’t much help, and he cursed after hanging up.

“The city’s roads and highways are at a standstill,” he said.

Valentine was riding shotgun. “Where are the cops?”

“The cops have been dispensed to the casinos to keep things under control,” Bill said. “Thousands of people have come in for the promotion. They’re fighting over seats at video poker machines.”

Valentine tapped his fingers on the dashboard, then turned around and looked at Gerry in the backseat. “How did you leave things with Nick?”

“What do you mean?” his son asked.

“You didn’t ogle his wife’s breasts or anything, did you?”

“Come on, Pop. I didn’t even meet her.”

“So you left on good terms?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Valentine took out his cell phone, and dialed Nick Nicocropolis’s direct line from memory. Twice in the past four years he’d saved Nick from going under, and he didn’t feel ashamed to call in a favor. The little Greek answered on the third ring.

“I need help,” Valentine said.

“Name it,” Nick said.

Nick showed up fifteen minutes driving a personalized white golf cart that looked like a pimp-mobile, with a frilly white curtain with pom-poms around the interior, and a shiny gold hood ornament of a naked woman leaning forward in a provocative pose. Valentine knew that Nick’s wife was six months pregnant, and could only wonder when fatherhood was going to catch up to the little Greek.

“Hop in, boys,” Nick said.

“I thought you were bringing your chopper,” Valentine said, climbing into the front.

“My pilot used it to take some big shots to the Boulder Dam,” Nick explained, flooring the accelerator once they were settled in. “Besides, this will get us there faster.”

“It will?”

“Yeah. It’s got a real tiger in the engine.”

Nick drove the golf cart onto the sidewalk and headed for the strip, his hand on the Harpo Marx horn hidden beneath the hood. The sidewalks were filled with tourists who didn’t seem to care if they got run over, and Nick screamed at anyone who stood in their path. Some people jumped out of the way, others didn’t, and more than once Valentine thought they were going to run somebody over.

“Slow down before you kill someone,” Bill yelled from the back.

“There’s plenty more where they came from,” Nick replied.

McCarren International Airport was a few short miles from the strip, its main runway visible to most hotel rooms on the south end of town. Nick drove his golf cart down the sidewalk on Tropicana Boulevard which ran parallel to the airport, then pulled into a gated entrance marked RESTRICTED/Airport Employees Only. As Valentine hopped out of the golf cart, he banged the hood with his hand.

“Thanks for the save.”

“All in a day’s work,” Nick replied. To Bill he said, “Mr. Higgins?”

“Yes, Mr. Nicocropolis,” Bill replied.

“You owe me, pal,” Nick said, then drove away.

Bill showed his laminated ID to the man in the guardhouse, and the gate was raised. They drove to Terminal A where a team of TSA agents were waiting for them. The agent in charge had straw-colored hair that he wore in a military buzz cut.

“Mr. Higgins, we’ve detained the American Airlines flight for Acapulco, per your request,” buzz cut said. “It’s at the gate loaded with passengers.”

“What reason did the pilot give for the delay?” Valentine asked.

“He told the passengers there was a mechanical malfunction that needed to be fixed,” buzz cut said.

“So no one knows what’s going on?”

Buzz cut shook his head. The key to nabbing Janet Haskell and getting her to talk was going to be the element of surprise: If she knew she was about to be arrested, she’d scream for a lawyer, and Valentine planned to put the fear of God into her before that idea crossed her mind. He said, “Do you have the plane’s manifest?”

The manifest was produced. Valentine opened it on the hood of the cruiser, and scanned the list of names. He didn’t think Janet Haskell was traveling under her own name, and had assumed a false identity.

“How long have you’ve worked with Haskell?” he asked Bill.

“Fifteen years.”

“She married?”

“Divorced a few years back. Why?”

“What’s her maiden name?”

Bill dredged his memory. “I think it was Bowen. No, Brown.”

Valentine ran his finger down the manifest and found Jane Brown. She was sitting in first class, no doubt already enjoying life on the lam.

“Got her. Let’s get her off that plane.”

Buzz cut got Haskell off the flight by having a filght attendant make an announcement over the plane’s P.A. system, and asking Jane Brown to come forward, and claim a personal belonging that had dropped from her handbag while it was being X-rayed. As they waited for Haskell to come down the jetway, buzz cut explained that he’d used this ploy successfully many times before.

“Most ladies have so much stuff in their handbags, that they don’t know when something’s missing,” he said.

Haskell came down the jetway with a bounce in her step and a glassy look in her eye, and Valentine guessed she’d started hitting the sauce the moment she’d boarded. She was dressed for Mexico, with a festive straw hat on her head, and a flowery skirt and matching silk top. A happier crook he’d never seen.

The happy look disappeared when she spied Bill. She did an about-face, and tried to beat it back to first class, only to have two TSA agents run down the jetway, and grab her by the arms. They lifted her clean in the air, and with cries of “Help! No!” coming out of her mouth, carried her off the plane, and into a windowless room beside the screening area.

Valentine entered the room to find Haskell wiping her eyes with a tissue. He started to shut the door, and saw Gerry standing outside.

“Get me two cups of coffee.”

By the time Gerry returned with two cups of Starbucks, Haskell had killed the water works, and was sitting with her back against the wall, her arms crossed defiantly.

“I want a lawyer,” she said.

She was in her late forties, with rings beneath her eyes and a sad face. Valentine guessed that she’d planned to start her life over in Acapulco. First she’d buy all the things that she couldn’t afford before — a sports car, house on the beach, maybe even a water craft — then go hunting for a male. This was the plan of most people who robbed and ran, and Valentine had tracked enough of these people down to know that it rarely panned out. But you couldn’t tell the Janet Haskells of the world that.

He handed her one of the cups.

“I want a lawyer,” she said again.

“Talk to me first.”

“Up yours.”

He leaned against the wall. “You’re the first member of the gang to be caught. That can be either bad for you, or good for you.”

She blew steam off her drink, and said nothing.

“It’s bad for you if we don’t catch Friendly or any of the other members of the gang. Bronco Marchese murdered a man in Lake Tahoe, and just killed another man on Fremont Street. Because your gang was working with Bronco, you’re all responsible for those deaths. If you end up being the only person we catch, you’ll take the rap.”

As she sipped her coffee, tears ran down her cheeks. Valentine believed that when a criminal cried, it meant that deep down, there was still a person left to work with.

She said, “How can it be a good thing?”

“You can play ball with me, and that will be the first thing the judge hears when you go to trial. You’ll do time, but it won’t be as much as the others. And, you won’t get pinned for two murders. Think about it.”

She did. After a long moment, her body started to shudder, her conscience finally starting to win out. Her hands shook so badly that coffee spilled onto the floor. Valentine took the cup from her, then went into a crouch, putting their eyes on an equal plain.

“You going to work with me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s more like it. I need you to tell me something. How many Universal video poker machines did ESD rig to pay off jackpots?”

“All of them.”

He rocked back on his heels. “What? How many is that?”

“Ten thousand.”

He did the math in his head. Ten thousand jackpots at a million dollars apiece was ten billion dollars. In exactly one hour, Las Vegas was going to be wiped out.

Haskell saw the look of shock on Valentine’s face and let out a bitter laugh. She’d drunk enough alcohol on the plane that it cut right through the coffee.

“And there’s nothing you can do about it,” she added.

Chapter 57

The honorable Franklin E. Smoltz arrived in his private helicopter at McCarren International Airport at two-thirty in the afternoon. To be governor of a state whose tax base came primarily from legalized casinos and prostitution, you had to have a special view of the world, and Smoltz was the right man for the job. A former federal prosecutor, he had never tried a case where he hadn’t considered how its outcome would affect his career. He exited from his chopper spewing obscenities at his two aides.

“How many god damn times do I have to tell you?” Smoltz bellowed, his voice rising over the chopper’s blades. “I am unavailable to the media at the present time. Got it?”

His aides had short haircuts, wore matching pin stripes, and looked like they’d been ordered out of the same catalogue.

“Yes, sir,” they chorused.

Smoltz stood on the edge of tarmac as if looking for a cab. Seeing Bill standing nearby with Valentine and Gerry, he hustled over and shook his fist in Bill’s face. The blood in his cheeks had risen to the surface, and he looked ready to explode.

“What the hell is going on? Every casino boss in Las Vegas has called me. They’ve got more video poker players than they can handle. It’s pandemonium.”

“Fred Friendly and his gang corrupted ten thousand video poker machines in Las Vegas,” Bill explained. “In thirty minutes, they’re all going to pay jackpots.”

“That’s horsegarbage!” Smoltz said, breathing down on the shorter man’s head. “Our games can’t be corrupted. What are you doing, drinking your own bathwater?”

Bill jabbed his thumb in Valentine’s direction. “Tony confirmed it.”

Smoltz looked angrily at Valentine. They’d disliked each other since the first time they’d met, and the governor said, “Is this shit true?”

“Shit’s true,” Valentine said.

Smoltz’s face contorted like he was about to have a seizure. He angrily stomped the ground. “This is your god damn mess, Bill. I wanted to cut a deal with Bronco Marchese from the start. But you said no. Well, your ass is on the line, my friend.”

The wind was blowing off the runway, and it pulled Bill’s eyelids back as he spoke. “Governor, I just told you that a quarter of all the video poker machines in Las Vegas are corrupted. It’s your responsibility to deal with it, not mine.”

“What are you suggesting I do?”

“Las Vegas’s casinos are connected through a special intra-net called Secure Internal Network,” Bill said. “SIN lets the casinos make each other aware when there are gangs of card-counters and cheaters running around. You need to contact the casino owners through SIN, and tell them their video poker machines have been rigged, and not to pay out any jackpots which occur after 2:59 this afternoon.”

“That’s your solution?”

“Yes,” Bill said. “We’ve proven that the video poker machines are corrupted, so it will hold up in court if anyone tries to challenge us.”

Smoltz’s face changed colors. “That’s insane! Do you have any idea what type of shit storm that will cause? I have a better idea, Bill. I want your resignation on my desk tomorrow morning. Now, get out of my face.”

Bill walked away without saying a word. Brushing him off, Smoltz turned to his aides. “We have to keep a lid on this story. If it does leak out, here’s what I want you to tell the media. This afternoon, a major conspiracy was unearthed at the Nevada Gaming Control Board. A gang of GCB agents tried to destroy us. These people are...”

“Traitors?” one of his aides suggested.

Smoltz snapped his fingers. “They’re traitors! But we headed them off at the pass, and averted a disaster. Be sure to tell the media that no video poker machines were corrupted in Las Vegas. Understand?”

One of the aides spoke up. “But Governor, a quarter of the video poker machines were corrupted. Bill Higgins just told you that.”

“I didn’t hear that, and you didn’t hear that. Understand?”

His aides nodded like wooden soldiers. Smoltz turned to Valentine and his son. “You didn’t hear that, either.”

“Right,” Valentine said.

Smoltz came over to where the Valentines stood. The governor was a big man, and used to getting his way. “Don’t smart mouth me, Tony. You know how the game is played in this town. I have to protect the integrity of our casinos, at any cost.”

“Protect them how? If you don’t do what Bill just suggested, your casinos will lose ten billion dollars,” Valentine said.

“Bill’s a fool,” Smoltz said. “I can never admit our games are rigged, even if they are. Keep your mouths shut, and let me handle this. Now, I want your word that his conversation will go no further. Understood?”

Valentine and his son exchanged looks. The governor clearly had come up with another plan of attack. It was his problem now, and they both nodded.

“Good,” Smoltz said.

Valentine and his son found Bill inside an empty hanger with a dejected look on his face. Bill had spent his entire career working for Gaming Control. He didn’t have any family or close friends. He lived for his work, and now it was a thing of the past.

“Smoltz tell you what he’s going to do?” Bill asked.

“No,” Valentine asked.

“Guess we’ll find out at three o’clock.”

“Guess so.”

“What are we standing here for?” Gerry said impatiently. “Let’s go find Bronco.”

“He’s long gone Gerry,” Valentine said. “Let it go.”

“Like hell he is,” his son replied matter-of-factly. “Bronco’s in a casino, trying out the Pai Gow scam.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s got a new toy, and he wants to play with it.”

“You think so?”

“Damn straight,” he son said. “He threw on a disguise, drove to the other side of town, and went into a casino where he knew they had Pai Gow. Trust me. He’s ripping someone off right now.”

“Then he shouldn’t be too hard to find.” Bill said, punching numbers into his cell phone. “I’ll alert the SIN network that a white male is cheating at a Pai Gow game, and ask them to alert the casinos. Since most people who play Pai Gow are Asian, Bronco will stick out like a sore thumb if your theory is true.”

“It isn’t a theory,” Gerry said. “Just wait.”

Ten minutes later, Bill got a call back. A white male playing Pai Gow at the MGM Grand had taken the casino for twenty-five grand in less than an hour. A surveillance photo of the player appeared on the screen of Bill’s cell phone.

“You think this is him?” Bill asked.

Valentine took the phone out of Bill’s hand and had a look. The player in question wore a baseball cap and tinted sunglasses. Most of his face was hidden, and Valentine couldn’t be sure if it was Bronco or not. But the shades bothered him. Only poker players wore shades in a casino, or cheaters using infra-red marks to beat the house. Maybe that was the secret of the Pai Gow scam.

He showed the photo to Gerry. “What do you think?”

“That’s him,” Gerry said after a pause.

“You sure?”

“Positive. Look how he cups his hands. He did that in the car in Reno.”

“Hell,” Bill said, “he’s right across the street.”

The MGM’s sparkling emerald green buildings were visible from where they stood. Valentine felt a tinge of excitement knowing that Bronco was so close. He listened as Bill called the MGM’s head of security and ordered him to put guards at every exit.

“I’ve got my job until tomorrow,” Bill said, ending the call. “Maybe I can end it on a high note.”

Gerry ran over to an airport employee driving a luggage cart, and talked him into giving the cart up. Jumping behind the wheel, Gerry drove over to where they stood, and Bill and Valentine hopped in.

“What did you tell that guy?” Valentine asked.

“Don’t ask,” his son said.

Chapter 58

They pulled into the MGM at five minutes till three. The front entrance looked like a parking lot, and Gerry drove the luggage cart on the sidewalk and braked by the front door. He threw the keys to a bewildered valet, and they hurried inside.

The casino’s head of security waited in the lobby. His name was Richard Goldman, and he wore a designer blue power suit that was the trademark of his position. On the giant screens behind the check in area, a troupe of Chinese acrobats that were appearing in the hotel’s theater did gravity-defying somersaults through the air.

“I’ve got a guard covering each exit,” Goldman said as he led them through the packed casino. “I would have used more, only there are so many players in the casino, I needed the others for crowd control.”

The MGM’s casino was over three football fields in length. It had more video poker games than any other casino in town, and players were lined up to play them. It was a madhouse, and Goldman pushed his way through with a walkie-talkie to his ear.

“He’s still there? Good. We’re coming.”

Valentine glanced at his son. Gerry was gritting his teeth.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Valentine told him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They reached the area of the casinos devoted to Pai Gow. The tables had pretty Asian girls dealing the games, and Asian pit bosses watching the action. The players, all Asian males with excited looks on their faces, were drinking imported beer and talking excitedly amongst themselves, oblivious to the chaos taking place around them. As Valentine neared the table, he spotted an empty spot with a gigantic stack of chips. He motioned to the pit boss..

“Whose sitting here?”

“Some guy wearing a baseball cap. He’s taking a leak,” the pit boss said.

“Is he winning a lot?”

“He hasn’t lost.”

“You need to shut down this table.”

The pit boss acted shocked, and looked to Goldman for help.

“Do as the man says,” Goldman said.

To the anger of the Asian gamblers at the table, the game was shut down. The gamblers left, and the dealer went on break, leaving the pit boss to watch Bronco’s winnings.

“When our friend comes back, tell him the game was shut down,” Valentine told the pit boss. “If he beefs, offer to give him a free meal voucher.”

“Whatever you say,” the pit boss said.

“What are you doing?” Bill wanted to know.

“I don’t want to arrest Bronco on the floor,” Valentine said. “Better to let him take his winnings to the cage. Then we’ll get him.”

“Good idea.”

They moved behind a bank of slot machines. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the Men’s Room. Valentine’s palms were sweating, and his mouth had turned dry. He’d never hunted, and wondered if this was what a hunter felt when their prey was in range, ready to be taken down. He checked the time. In two minutes, the ball was going to drop. They needed to catch Bronco before that happened.

“Here he comes,” his son said.

Bronco sauntered out of the Men’s Room and approach the Pai Gow table he’d been playing at. Valentine had always wondered how Bronco had managed to slip through the hands of the law so many times. Watching him cross the casino, he saw the slow, unsteady walk of a gambler who’d had too much to drink. It was an act, and he realized then Bronco’s great secret. Bronco was a chameleon who could play any role.

Bronco came to the empty table and halted. A strange look registered across his face. He knew something wasn’t right. He had a short conversation with the pit boss. Scooping up his chips, he began to slip them into his pockets. He took his time and stayed in character, a real pro. Then he headed across the floor to the cage, continuing his impersonation of a tipsy tourist. His shirt was pulled out, and Valentine guessed he had a gun tucked in his waistband.

Reaching the cage, Bronco began sliding his chips through the bars to the female cashier. She had big hair and an easy smile, and was talking a mile-a-minute. It was the best distraction they could ask for.

They moved in fast; Bill to Bronco’s right, Valentine and Gerry to his left. Bronco was leaning on the cage’s marble counter, yukking it up with the cashier. He looked surprised when they sandwiched him in.

“Freeze.” Bill had his weapon drawn, and pointed it at his suspect’s chest. “Put your hands behind your head, and keep them there.”

Bronco dutifully raised his arms into the air. Bill reached beneath Bronco’s shirt, and removed the gun from where Valentine had guessed it would be.

Bronco seemed resigned to his fate. He looked at Valentine and laughed.

“How long you been chasing me?”

“Twenty-five years,” Valentine replied.

“That’s a long time. You happy, now?”

Catching crooks had never made Valentine happy. It was about as much fun as cleaning septic tanks, which had been his first job before becoming a policeman. But, this was different. This was for Sal.

“Sure am,” he said.

“Glad somebody is,” he said, and laughed again.

Bill made Bronco drop his arms, and began to cuff him. Bronco glanced at the cashier, who was watching, her eyes aglow.

“Nice talking to you, sweetheart.”

Valentine looked at his watch. It was exactly three. His eyes shifted to the casino, ready to see how many video poker machines lit up, and showed a million dollar jackpot. He wondered how Smoltz planned to deal with this disaster. The casinos couldn’t pay off that many jackpots without bankrupting themselves. But if the casinos didn’t pay off, no one would ever gamble in Las Vegas again.

A few seconds later, he got his answer.

Chapter 59

The lights inside the MGM flickered, then went out all together, throwing the interior into darkness. The casino had no windows, and the blackness was like being inside a cave. A roar of panic came from the startled patrons.

“Son of a bitch,” Bill shouted.

“What’s going on?” Valentine said.

“Smoltz!”

It took a moment for Valentine to understand what Bill was saying. Rather than allow a quarter of Vegas’s video poker machines to register jackpots and potentially bankrupt the casinos, Smoltz had killed the power throughout the city.

Bill let out a startled yell. Then a gun went off, the sound ripping across the casino. Valentine hit the floor, and covered his head with his hands. Self-preservation had been the first thing he’d learned as a cop, and he rolled across the floor until he hit the wall where the cage was, and stayed there.

“Gerry — you okay?”

“Yeah, Pop.”

“Bill — how about you?”

Bill did not reply. Valentine preyed his friend was not hurt. On the other side of the casino came the sounds of people screaming, as well as chairs and tables being broken. Were people destroying the place out of anger, or just trying to escape?

Valentine felt the toe of a man’s shoe catch him squarely in the face. He tasted his own blood and the world began to spin. The shoe kicked him again, this time in the forehead, and his head snapped back, and hit the wall. An ugly laugh accompanied the kick.

“Hey Valentine,” Bronco said. “Guess who’s gun I’ve got?”

Valentine lay perfectly still, and tried to determine where Bronco was standing. If he could just grab his leg...

“Want me to shoot you?” Bronco asked.

Valentine hesitated, then said, “Not really.”

Another laugh. “You’re a funny guy. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Your brother-in-law Sal was on the take. He tried to squeeze me, so my boys and I killed him. He was dirty.”

Valentine felt the anger rise in his throat. Sal was like most cops, and had lived close to the poverty line. He couldn’t have been taking bribes.

Gerry started to say something. Valentine kicked him before the words tumbled out of his mouth, and his son fell silent.

“Sal got what he deserved,” Bronco said, his voice moving away. “I’ll send you a postcard when I get settled. See you around.”

A second gunshot ripped through the casino. A door leading to the street opened and closed, throwing light inside the darkened interior. Valentine pulled himself to his feet and ran toward the door. Blood was pouring out of his mouth, and his head was spinning. Gerry was right beside him, their shoulders almost touching.

“You didn’t have to kick me so hard,” his son said.

“Yes, I did.”

The darkness was deceiving, and made it hard to judge distances. Valentine found the door and jerked it open. Sunlight flooded through the space. Lying on the floor was the guard assigned to make sure Bronco didn’t escape. He’d taken a slug in the shoulder and had his hand pressed against the wound.

“You okay?” Valentine asked.

“Flesh wound,” the guard said. “Get that son-of-a-bitch.”

Valentine and Gerry went outside. The exit led to an overhead pedestrian walkway that connected the MGM to the other side of Las Vegas Boulevard. Vegas was filled with pedestrian walkways, and Valentine hated every single one of them. They served no other purpose than to give escape routes for criminals.

Bronco was halfway across the walkway. He had eyes in the back of his head, and spun around, then aimed and fired. The bullet winged the building above their heads.

“Fuck you, Valentine!”

Laughing, Bronco climbed over the walkway’s restraining wall, and jumped to the street, landing on the hood of a car filled with people. Rolling off, he began to run. The loss of power had knocked out the traffic lights, and he darted through the sea of cars.

“Let’s get him,” Gerry said.

“Stay here. That’s an order.”

The door to the MGM banged open. Bill staggered out, clutching his bloody arm. It was a nasty wound, but the pain was nothing compared to what he was feeling inside.

“We lost him,” Valentine said.

“What a way to end a career,” Bill said.

“It’s not over, yet.”

“It is for me.”

“You don’t look good. We need to find a doctor.”

“Where’s your son?”

Valentine spun around. Gerry had taken off. He felt himself panic, and heard the pounding of footsteps as Gerry ran down a stairwell that led to the street.

“Gerry!”

Valentine was never going to outrun his son. He stepped onto the walkway, and hung his head over the railing, trying to find him down below.

“There he is,” Bill said.

His eyes followed the direction of Bill’s finger. Gerry stood in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard in the spot where Bronco had rolled off the car. His son picked up a piece of paper lying on the street. Thirty seconds later, he was standing next to his father, all out of breath.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” Valentine asked.

“This fell out of his pocket,” Gerry explained. “It’s a photograph.”

Valentine had a look. The photo had been taken in the days before digital cameras. In it, a little boy was swimming in a plastic above-ground swimming pool. He was a cute kid, with loads of freckles and a playful smile. He flipped it over. Written on the back was the word Mikey.

“You sure this was in Bronco’s pocket?”

“Positive,” his son said.

Valentine didn’t know what it meant, and wasn’t sure he ever would. Bill had turned white as a ghost, and looked ready to pass out. They went back inside the MGM. There was a flicker of light in the ceiling, and people in the casino cheered. Moments later the lights came on, only dimmer than before, the patrons enveloped in a sickly yellow glow. As they helped Bill across the floor, Valentine noticed that everyone had gone right back to gambling. It was as if nothing had happened.

Which was exactly what Smoltz had wanted.

Chapter 60

Valentine stood on the balcony of his comped suite at the Acropolis, watching the neon jungle that was nighttime on the Las Vegas strip. Down below, thousands of people, some in cars, other on foot, snaked through the canyon formed by the gigantic casinos.

They’d checked Bill into the hospital a few hours ago, then tried to find lodgings for the night. The town was sold out, and Valentine had called Nick, and asked a favor.

Through the open slider came the voice of a TV newscaster, talking about the power outage that had taken down Vegas that afternoon. The outage was being attributed to a faulty generator in the city’s main power plant, located at the Hoover Dam. It was the first time since the assassination of President Kennedy that the city’s casinos had been shut down. The newscaster was making it sound like it had been no big deal, and Valentine supposed it wasn’t a big deal, unless you happened to know the truth.

He went inside and killed the TV. Gerry lay on the bed, still fully clothed, snoring away. His son had surprised him on this trip, and made him think there was still hope.

On the coffee table lay the photo of Mikey the mystery boy. He and Gerry had spent several hours trying to determine the photo’s significance. The photo had not been well taken care of, which had led them to believe that it wasn’t important to Bronco, and was something he planned to use when he established another identity.

Or maybe it meant something else. He sat down on the couch, and stared into space. Bronco had always been an enigma. He’d been chasing him for a long time, yet had never understood what made him tick. The things he’d learned about him on this trip had only added to the confusion. It had started with the tape of the woman named Marie. She’d obviously meant a great deal to Bronco, yet there was no evidence that she’d been in his life recently. So why had Bronco kept her dresses in his closet, and a framed photo on his night table? Had he been in love with her? It didn’t seem possible. Bronco had impressed him as someone incapable of love. That was true with most killers. They did not know how to love, or be loved in return.

Then Bronco had kidnaped Gerry. Bronco could have killed his son, only he hadn’t. Gerry’s comment about why Bronco hadn’t killed him had bothered Valentine. He has a heart. No, he didn’t. If Bronco had a heart, he wouldn’t have shot Bo Farmer on his honeymoon in front of his wife.

Valentine got a ginger ale out of the mini bar. It tasted good and cold. When it was gone, he went back onto the balcony, and thought about it some more.

Another strange thing had happened in Reno. Bronco had been nice to Karl Jr., buying him an ice cream cone, and later stuffing three hundred dollars into the little boy’s shirt pocket. Sociopaths didn’t do things like that, at least not the ones he’d encountered.

Did those things make Bronco a nice guy? Far from it. He’d killed Bo Farmer, stabbed Karl Klinghoffer, been responsible for his cell mate getting killed, and caused all sorts of mayhem in Las Vegas, including shooting the Asian in the back on Fremont Street. Bronco was a stone-cold, cold-blooded killer. Yet for some reason, he’d shown kindness to Gerry and Karl Jr., and revealed a side of himself that few killers had.

He has a heart.

That bothered Valentine. Going inside, he put on his reading glasses, and studied the faded photo. He stared until his eyes hurt.

It took a while, but he finally saw it. The resemblance was faint, but it was there. Mikey had Bronco’s genetic stamp.

Bronco didn’t have a heart, but he did have a son. That was who this kid was. And he’d died a long time ago. Otherwise, the photo would have been new.

He paced the room, and thought about it some more. Bronco had spoken to him inside the MGM that afternoon. I’ll send you a postcard when I get settled. He probably would, too, just to get under his skin.

Bronco was going to leave Las Vegas, and never come back. Would he say goodbye to Mikey, just like any loving father would do? Valentine had a feeling that he would.

Valentine shook his own son awake.

“What’s going on?” Gerry said groggily.

“Get up. We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter 61

Marie Marchese was buried at Woodlawn Cemetery on north Las Vegas Boulevard. She had died at age thirty-nine of an infection contracted in a prison hospital, a victim of neglect. Instead of a phone call, Bronco had gotten a letter in the mail.

He had picked Woodlawn to bury Marie because it was close to where he’d been living at the time. But the cemetery’s name had always rankled him. A wood lawn, made up of endless caskets, laid side by side.

At six-thirty the next morning, he drove his Lexus to the entrance of Woodlawn, parked in the visitor area, then got out and had a look around. A maintenance man in a gray work suit was tending to the grounds, but otherwise the place was deserted.

“Hey, Pops, you got a cigarette to spare?”

The maintenance man shuffled over, dragging a bad leg. He looked about seventy-five, with sagging skin around his mouth and eyes that had seen too much. Probably wasted his retirement money gambling, and been forced to take this crummy job. Las Vegas was filled with a hundred thousand people just like him.

The maintenance man dug out a pack, and threw it at him. Bronco grabbed the pack out of the air, pissed off at first, but then breaking into a smile. The old guy had spunk. “Marlboros, huh,” Bronco said, banging out a smoke.

“That’s all I’ve ever smoked,” the maintenance man said.

“Got a light?”

The maintenance threw a pack of matches and Bronco lit up.

“Look, the place doesn’t officially open until eight, but I won’t say anything if you want to visit,” the maintenance man said. “That’s my policy. Mind your own business.”

“Thanks.”

Bronco handed him the pack and the matches, and the maintenance man pocketed them. He’d left a rake on the ground, and used his foot to right it, then limped away. Bronco puffed on his cigarette and had another look around. Woodlawn was as dead as its inhabitants. He could say his goodbyes, and then be gone.

He finished the cigarette, and ground it out. Marie had hated tobacco, and he hadn’t smoked when they were married. Around Marie, he hadn’t needed to.

He entered the cemetery and walked down a maze of paths until he reached her marker. It wasn’t much, just a simple gray stone with her name, and the dates she’d been born and died. She’d wanted to be cremated, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, wanting a place to visit where he could be sad and then walk away, and not be sad any more.

The ground around her grave site was ragged, the grass unkempt, the flowers he’d brought the time before withered and gone. The rest of the graves didn’t look so crummy, just hers, and it made his blood boil and the anger pulse hot through his veins. His eyes found the gimp maintenance man and he yelled at him coarsely.

“Get your sorry ass over here.”

The maintenance man shuffled over with his rake, a butt dangling from his lip. “Put out that cigarette,” Bronco said. “Show some respect.”

The maintenance man lifted his foot and ground the cigarette into the heel, then pocketed the stub. Then he looked at Bronco with hesitant eyes.

“What do you want, mister? I’ve got work to do.”

Bronco pointed down. “My wife’s grave looks like shit. Fix it.”

The maintenance man stepped forward, and began to rake the dead grass from Marie’s grave, drawing the rake delicately across the parched earth. He was being gentle with her, showing some respect, and Bronco felt himself relax. He pointed at a marker several yards away.

“When you’re done here, I want you to fix that one, too.”

The maintenance man lifted his head. “Which one is that, mister?”

“Michael Marchese. My son.”

“I’m sorry, mister.”

“He died in a foster home,” Bronco said. “My wife was in prison, and the state put him in a foster home, and he died. We never got the complete story. Some bullgarbage about falling down a staircase, and banging his head.”

The maintenance man followed the direction of Bronco’s finger. “I’m sorry, but which one is it?”

Bronco felt the rage build up inside of him. He grabbed the maintenance man by the shoulder, and pulled him close. “You don’t listen too good. It’s right over there, third marker from the end of the path. It’s taller than the others.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Yeah. Make sure you take care of it.”

“I’ll do that.”

The maintenance man dropped his arms, and thrust the rake’s handle squarely into Bronco’s groin. Bronco let out a painful yelp and doubled over in agony, then felt a fist crash down on the back of his neck, sending him face-first to the ground. Before he could react, the maintenance man pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him.

“You’re not the only one good at disguises,” the maintenance man said.

Bronco sat handcuffed in the passenger seat of Tony Valentine’s rental car and slowly got his bearings. His face had hit the ground hard, and two of his front teeth were chipped. Valentine was in the driver’s seat, peeling off his disguise, while his son was over at the Lexus, going through the trunk.

“There’s one part of this whole thing I don’t understand,” Valentine said.

Bronco started laughing. The great thinker was stumped. “Just one thing?”

“Okay, maybe there’s a bunch of things. But there’s one thing about this case.”

“Gimme a cigarette first,” Bronco said.

Valentine banged out a cigarette, put it between his busted lips, and lit it. Bronco took a drag, and blew a purple plume of smoke into Valentine’s face.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why did you kill Bo Farmer in Reno? You knew it would screw things up. Why didn’t you just beat him up?”

Bronco stared through the windshield at the cemetery. He’d asked himself the same question many times. The answer came out slowly. “He was a good-looking kid, had a pretty young wife. I’d lost my wife, and my son. I looked at Bo, and just hated him.”

“So, you killed him.”

“Yeah.”

“Any regrets.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“But you had all that money from that jackpot you stole. You could have gone to Mexico or South America, and started over. Why didn’t you?”

Bronco gave Valentine a murderous stare. It was easy to dream about building a new life, easy to dream about a lot of things. But it wasn’t real. He could tell that Valentine didn’t get it, so he explained it to him.

“There’s no such thing as starting over,” he said.

Gerry climbed into the passenger seat of the rental. “I checked his car. It’s not there. He must have hidden it someplace else.”

Bronco twisted uncomfortably. The handcuffs were tight, and starting to cut off the circulation to his hands. Looking into the mirror, he saw Valentine staring at him.

“Want to do a deal?” Valentine asked.

“I ain’t got nothing you want.”

“Yes, you do. I want the tape you secretly made of Fred Friendly talking about all the jackpots he and his gang stole.”

“Who said I had a tape?”

“I did. You told the D.A. in Reno you had evidence that a gaming agent was stealing jackpots. What else could it have been?”

“You’re pretty smart, for a dumb ass cop.”

“Yes or no?”

Bronco’s hands had gone numb. He wanted to ask Valentine to loosen the cuffs, only he knew Valentine wouldn’t do it. Cops liked to treat criminals badly. He knew it would only get worse when he went to prison.

“Yeah, I’ll do a deal.”

Valentine turned in his seat and faced him. “What do you want in return?”

“Put a bullet in my head, and bury me in the desert.”

“You serious?”

“Dead serious.” He laughed at his own joke.

“You’ve got a deal. Where’s the tape?”

“Crawl under my car. It’s stuck to the bottom with a magnet.”

Gerry hopped out and went to fetch the tape. A minute later he returned covered in grime, holding the tape triumphantly in his hand.

“Just don’t make me suffer,” Bronco said.

Leaving the cemetery parking lot, Valentine hung a left on Las Vegas Boulevard, and drove a mile before turning right on Stewart Avenue. The streets were deserted except for a city bus spitting black exhaust a few blocks away. Bronco felt his heart catch in his chest as Valentine pulled into the Las Vegas Metropolitan Sheriff’s Department headquarters, and parked near the gleaming front doors.

“You’re turning me in?”

“That’s right,” Valentine said.

“But we had a deal. I want to die.”

“You are going to die. But first, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison, thinking about all the rotten things you’ve done.”

Bronco stared at the ugly stucco that defined the building. Like a monster hidden beneath the surface, the fear welled up inside of him, knowing what his life was about to become.

“You bastard,” he swore.

Chapter 62

When Governor Smoltz was not in the state capital in Carson City conducting business, he could be found in his luxurious suite at the Grant Sawyer State Office Building in North Las Vegas, an attractive five-story structure painted in natural earth tones. Valentine entered the building a short while after turning Bronco over to the police, and asked for Smoltz at the reception area. The uniformed security guard, a ham-faced man with no neck, raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the guard said.

Valentine dropped a business card on the desk in front of the guard. “My name’s Tony Valentine. Tell the governor it’s urgent that he speak with me.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who jokes?”

The guard studied him like he was in a line-up. “Have a seat.”

Valentine sat on a leather couch facing the window. Out in the parking lot, he could see Gerry sitting in the car, nervously waiting for his return. He had weighed having Gerry with him when he talked with Smoltz, but had decided against it. If Smoltz pitched a fit and threatened him, it would be better if his son wasn’t around.

He had done some stupid things in his life, no question about it. What he was about to do now would get added to the list. But he didn’t see that he had a choice. When he had first gone to work policing the casinos in Atlantic City, he’d discovered how the gambling business preyed on human weakness. It had bothered him to no end. Eventually, he’d decided the only way he could justify his work was to make sure the games were clean and honest. To accept anything else would have made him a hypocrite.

A minute later, the guard called him back to the desk, and handed him a plastic ID tag. “Clip that to your jacket. The governor’s office is on the top floor.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve been working here for a long time, and the governor’s never seen anyone who’s come in off the street. Who are you?”

Valentine hesitated. He could have given the guard several answers. He was a gaming consultant, and also an ex-cop. But that wasn’t why he was here now.

“A concerned citizen,” Valentine said.

Smoltz’s office was befitting the most powerful politician in the state. Wood floors covered with thick Persian rugs, fine antiques, the walls decorated with restored photographs of the city back when it had been run by gangsters and murderers.

Smoltz was on the phone when Valentine came in. His desk was covered with newspapers, and Valentine glanced at the headlines. The media had dubbed yesterday’s fiasco “The Afternoon the Lights Went Out,” and claimed over ten million dollars had been lost in gaming revenues, not to mention all the negative publicity. But in the end, it was nothing compared to the money that the casinos would have lost had the lights stayed on, and Valentine guessed that the next time Smoltz ran for office, the casino owners would happily bankroll his campaign. It was the least they could do to thank him.

Smoltz finished his call. His hair was unkempt, his face flush. He looked like a pressure cooker with too much steam, and glared harshly at Valentine.

“Sit down,” Smoltz said.

Valentine remained standing and crossed his arms. “Tough morning?”

“You have no idea.”

“Let me guess. The media wants a more thorough explanation of how the power went out yesterday. Only you can’t give it to them.”

“They’ll go away. They always do.”

Smoltz poured himself a glass of water, but did not offer his guest a glass. The gesture was not lost on Valentine.

“I need a favor. Actually, several of them,” Valentine said.

“Why should I do you a favor?”

“I caught Bronco Marchese this morning. He’s cooling his heals over at the Stewart Street jail. In Bronco’s car I found a tape he secretly recorded of Fred Friendly, talking about why he ripped off the casinos. It’s pretty heavy.”

“Did you give the tape to the police?”

Valentine shook his head.

“Will you give it to me?”

“Yes. But I want some things in return.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Actually, I’m doing you a favor. This tape is evidence. By law, I should turn it over to the police, and give a copy to Bronco’s defense attorney. If I did that, it would eventually get played in court. Then you’d have to take the sign on Las Vegas Boulevard that says ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas!’ and replace it with one that says, ‘Hello, Suckers!’ It would be more appropriate.”

“You’re an asshole, Valentine.”

He had Smoltz exactly where he wanted him. He picked up an empty glass off the desk and poured himself some water. It tasted good and cold. A sheet of sweat did a death march down Smoltz’s face, and he stammered like a punk on the witness stand.

“What do you want in exchange for the tape?”

“Give Bill Higgins his job back, with the promise that you’ll let him keep his position until he’s ready for retirement. He did nothing wrong.”

“Very well. Have Bill call me, and I’ll reinstate him.”

“No. You have to call him.”

Smoltz grit his teeth. “You want me to eat crow? All right, I’ll eat crow. What else?”

“There’s a casino owner named Diamond Dave living in California,” Valentine said. “I want you to find a reason to arrest him, and throw his ass in jail. He cheated his customers, and is also responsible for the death of his casino manager.”

“I can’t go after Diamond Dave.”

“Why the hell not?”

“The evidence against him was destroyed. I ordered it.”

“Diamond Dave pocketed several million bucks in illegal winnings. I’m sure he didn’t report it on his income tax return. Sic the IRS on him.”

“You know all the angles, don’t you?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I have friends with the IRS. Consider it done. What else?”

“My fee.”

A look of indignation rose in Smoltz’s face.

“You want me to pay you myself?” the governor asked.

“Yes. I don’t work for free.”

“What are the damages?”

“Ten grand.”

Smoltz took a check book from his desk and wrote him a check. Ripping it out, he held it in the air and said, “Where’s the tape?”

Valentine removed the tape from his jacket pocket. They did the exchange. Then Valentine stuck out his hand. Smoltz stared at it.

“We have a deal,” Valentine said. “I don’t talk, and you keep up your end of the bargain. Agreed?”

The best deals were ones that weren’t written on paper. Smoltz stood up and shook his hand.

“Agreed,” the governor replied.

Valentine went to the door, then remembered something. He’d become a cop because he liked helping people. It was the same reason he ran his consulting business. If he could make someone’s life better, then he’d accomplished something far greater than earning a paycheck. Turning around, he walked back to the governor’s desk, and cleared his throat. “I have another request I’d like you to consider.”

“I thought we were done,” Smoltz said.

“This is personal.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s a woman I know who’s in jail here in Nevada. I want you to pardon her.”

Smoltz leaned back in his leather chair and considered the request. “I don’t release criminals on a whim. Why should I help this woman?”

Valentine was surprised by his reply. Even Smoltz had his limits.

“Let’s just say she deserves a break.”

“Girlfriend?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“But you know her.”

“Yes, I know her.”

“What if she breaks the law again?”

“She won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Valentine thought back to their last conversation. He’d never been more sure about anything in his life. “I’ll vouch for her,” he said.

Smoltz drummed the desk. “Is this the end of it? No more requests?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

Valentine hesitated. He had always respected authority, even when it came in the form of the sleazy stuffed suit sitting on the other side of the desk.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

A thin smile formed across Smoltz’s face. Order had been restored.

“All right, give me her name.”

Valentine gave him the name, and watched Smoltz write it down. He left the governor’s suite feeling better than he had when he walked in.

Chapter 63

People called different places home. For her, it was an eight-by-ten green concrete cell with a plastic chair, a steel toilet, and two bunk beds bolted to the wall. There was also a tiny window which she tried not to look through. Looking at the sky only made her feel sad, and life was tough enough inside the jail.

She spent most of the day sleeping. Sleep was the antidote to the black hole her life had become. In sleep, everything was peaceful and sane, her dreams filled with chirping birds and long walks in the forest and beautiful sunsets. The hard part was waking up, when she had to erase those beautiful images from her mind.

Today had been a little better. She’d been allowed outside for a walk in the yard with the other female prisoners. Looking up, she’d seen a chalky white cloud in the shape of an exclamation mark, and taken it as a promise of better times ahead.

She’d spent the afternoon reading an adventure novel given to her by another inmate. It was about a fishing guide named Thorn who helped people in the Florida Keys. She’d become lost in it, and did not hear the guard until he was standing outside her cell.

“You’ve got a visitor,” the guard said.

She put her book down. “I do. Who’s that?”

“Kimberli Bronson, your lawyer.”

The guard led her to the visitor’s room, where Bronson sat behind an five inch-thick wall of plexiglass. Bronson wore a dark blue suit and had her hair tied in a bun. Nice-looking, but not a show-off. She pulled up a chair expectantly.

“I have wonderful news,” Bronson said.

Wonderful was a relative term when you lived in a concrete cell.

“What are you talking about? What’s happened?”

“The governor of Nevada has pardoned you.”

Time seemed to stand still, and a pool of darkness appeared before her eyes. She took several deep breaths until her composure returned.

“Did you hear what I just said. You’re going to go free.”

“When?”

“Today, right now. The governor signed the papers a short while ago, and his office called me. I thought I should deliver the news in person.”

She cried without making a sound. The guard, who’d been standing dutifully behind her, handed her a Kleenex. She thanked him and blew her nose.

“Do you know why?” she asked.

Her lawyer leaned forward, smiling. “The governor wouldn’t tell me. I know a woman who works in his office, and asked her. She said a consultant named Tony Valentine struck a deal with him. Valentine got him to do it.”

She leaned back in her chair, the Kleenex clutched in her hand. “Tony Valentine did this for me?”

Bronson lifted her eyebrows and nodded.

“That’s so wonderful,” she said.

With her lawyer by her side, she went to the jail’s booking area, and signed a stack of papers that she didn’t bother to read. The man behind the desk flashed her a smile and said, “Well, I guess then you’d like your things back. Full name, please.”

“Karen Farmer,” she said.

The man got a plastic bag with her things and dumped them on the desk. It was all there — jewelry, purse, belt, shoelaces — and Karen quickly collected the items, then went into a small room, and changed out of her prison jumpsuit into the clothes she’d been wearing the day she’d been arrested. Then, she followed her lawyer outside the Washoe County jail and into the sunshine. The day had gotten more beautiful, the desert colors bleeding through like paint on a canvas. Her lawyer pointed at a Subaru parked nearby.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Karen hesitated. Bronson had gone the extra mile for her. She didn’t want to take advantage of her any further, and said, “Are you sure it’s no problem?”

“Of course. Where are you going?”

“To the Cal Neva lodge,” Karen said. “My car is still parked in the hotel valet.”

“You going back to Sacramento?” her lawyer asked.

“It’s the only home I’ve got,” Karen replied.

The drive to the Cal Neva was straight uphill, and her lawyer spent more time maneuvering her Subaru than talking. Karen enjoyed the silence, and watched the scenery with a sliver of fresh air blowing in her face. Forty minutes later, her lawyer pulled into the Cal Neva’s winding entrance and braked at the main entrance.

“Well, here you go. Good luck.”

Karen reached over and squeezed her lawyer’s hand. “You’ve been awfully good to me. Thank you.” Then, she climbed out of the car and walked over to the valet. As the Subaru pulled out, she turned and waved. Her lawyer was already on her cell phone.

Karen give her stub to the valet.

“You checking out, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Any luggage?”

She felt a catch in her throat. Her clothes and toiletries and wedding dress were probably still somewhere inside the hotel, waiting to be claimed. And so were Bo’s things, his tux and work clothes and the funny tee shirts he liked to wear to bed.

“No,” she said.

She was soon on the road. The sun was blinding, and she dropped her visor and saw something fall into her lap. It was the size of a parking ticket, and she didn’t look at it until she was sitting at a traffic light a short while later. It was a snapshot of Bo taken at a neighbor’s backyard barbecue a few months ago. She stifled a sharp cry.

“Oh, baby,” she said.

In the snapshot, Bo was smiling like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. The devilish look on his face said he’d just done something, and was just daring her to find out what. It was the look that had made her fall in love, and now she was falling in love with him all over again.

She pulled into a gas station and parked in a shady spot. For ten minutes she cried her heart out. When she’d run out of tears, she kissed the photograph and tucked it into her purse. God, she was going to miss him.

Then, she got back on the road, and drove the three hundred twisting miles back to Sacramento, all the while dreaming about the life she might have lived.

Author’s Note:

In 1998, a computer regulator with the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s Electronic Surveillance Division was arrested for stealing hundreds of jackpots from Nevada’s casinos. This novel is loosely based upon that story.

Content

James Swain
Jackpot

Part 1 The Claimers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part 2 Cheats

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Part 3 Jackpot

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Author’s Note: