“I’m just not buying your argument,” Dopking said, tossing his cigar into an ashtray on the desk. “First of all, the tailor who gave you the information—Angelo Fountain—how do you know he doesn’t have a gripe with this other tailor, Bruno Traffatore, and isn’t out to make the man’s life miserable?
“Second, I’m not comfortable with your theory that these gaffed baseball caps are being custom-made by Traffatore. I’ve had cheating cases brought before me in the past, and the equipment came from magic shops or companies that mass-produce this stuff.”
Davis stepped forward. “Your Honor, we have an expert who’s been helping us with this case. The consulting firm he works for specializes in catching casino cheaters. He’ll confirm everything we’ve said to you this afternoon.”
Dopking looked Gerry’s way. “Him?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Dopking shot Gerry an unfriendly look, and Gerry felt himself squirm. Dopking had a reputation for unflinching honesty, and as a result, commanded more respect than all the island’s politicians rolled together.
“What is this expert’s name?” Dopking asked.
“Gerry Valentine,” Davis replied.
The hint of a smile played on Dopking’s lips. “I’d like to hear what Mr. Gerry Valentine has to say,” he said.
Davis turned around, and motioned for Gerry to come forward. Gerry wedged himself between the two detectives and identified himself.
“Tony Valentine’s son?” Dopking asked, as if wanting to be sure.
“That’s right. I mean, yes, Your Honor.”
Dopking’s smile vanished. “I thought you were a bookie.”
Gerry opened his mouth but nothing came out. The judge leaned forward.
“I do keep track of the people who step before me, you know,” Dopking said.
Gerry found his voice. “Yes, Your Honor. I gave up the rackets and now work in my father’s consulting business. I’m here to ask you to grant the detectives’ request, and give them a warrant to search Bruno Traffatore’s place of business. I will personally vouch for the integrity of Angelo Fountain, the informant who gave us the name. He offered up the name only after I pressured him.”
“So he has no gripe with this other tailor?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Dopking studied him. “I’m still doubtful of the detectives’ claim that Traffatore is custom-making cheating equipment. Aren’t these things mass-produced?”
“The items that are mass-produced are junk. The real work is made by pros.”
The gaffed baseball cap was sitting on the desk. “Give me an example besides this baseball cap,” Dopking said.
Gerry removed a five-dollar casino chip from his pocket and handed it to the judge. The chip was actually a shell with a hollowed-out interior. Dopking examined it, then said, “Explain how this works.”
“It’s a dealer/agent scam, Your Honor. Let’s say a blackjack dealer wants to rip off his own game. His agent plays at his table, and bets the shell. Every time the agent loses, the dealer picks up the shell and places it over another player’s losing bet. The shell is put in the dealer’s tray, and the agent buys the shell back. What he gets in return is the shell, and whatever denomination chip the dealer just stole off the table.”
Dopking tossed the shell back to him. “And these shells are custom-made?”
“Yes, Your Honor. They have to be.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of the extremes casinos take to ensure their chips aren’t counterfeited, Your Honor. A shell must be made from one of the casino’s own chips.”
“Do you know this from experience?” the judge asked.
Gerry flushed. He’d thought a lot about the file Marconi had shown him that linked his name to numerous scams on the island. He guessed there were a lot of law enforcement people who had a bad opinion of him as a result of that file. “No, Your Honor. I’ve never used that scam, nor have I ever scammed a casino. My father explained it to me.”
Dopking leaned forward. “That was inappropriate of me to ask. Please accept my apologies.”
“Of course, Your Honor.”
“Tell me something. You did well as a bookie, didn’t you?”
Gerry didn’t know what to say. Part of the success of being a bookie was his ability to hide the success of his operation. From the law, the Internal Revenue Service, and his father. Telling a judge how well he’d done didn’t seem like a good idea.
“My uncle was a bookie, used to work out of the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel,” Dopking went on. “He did well, so I’m assuming you also did well.”
“It wasn’t a bad way to make a living,” Gerry conceded.
“I’d like to know why you left that and joined your father’s business.”
The hardest part of going straight was having to tell the truth. Gerry didn’t like it—the truth made you vulnerable—but in this case, he saw no other choice.
Taking out his wallet, he showed Dopking a recent snapshot of his wife and daughter.
“I’d say you made a smart choice,” the judge said. “Is there anything else you wish to add?”
Gerry couldn’t tell which way Dopking was leaning, and didn’t want to leave his chambers empty-handed. “Yes, Your Honor. Bruno Traffatore has made other items used to scam Atlantic City’s casinos. If Detectives Davis and Marconi search the tailor’s business, I believe they’ll find the records of these other scammers.”
“So we’re talking about more than one crime, here?”
“Many crimes, Your Honor.”
“Would you be willing to sign a sworn affidavit supporting the need for a search warrant? You can do it anonymously, with the detectives attesting to your honesty.”
Gerry hesitated. He was about to take a bunch of crooks down, and had a feeling that some people he knew were going to get burned as a result. He felt bad about it, but wasn’t going to let that stop him. “Yes, Your Honor, I would.”
Without further discussion Dopking issued the warrant to the detectives. As they started to leave, the judge said, “I heard about your mother’s passing. How’s your father holding up?”
“He’s back to his old tricks,” Gerry replied.
Dopking picked up his cigar and sucked on it. “Good. Tell him I miss him.”
Bruno Traffatore lived on the east side of the island in a depressing neighborhood of 1950s shotgun-style houses. Gerry remained in Marconi’s car while the detectives went inside the house and searched the premises.
After ten minutes, a black Cadillac Eldorado pulled up in front of the house and parked in front of Marconi’s vehicle. The big Italian guy who climbed out was the epitome of a goombah, and carried a crumpled paper bag. Seeing Gerry, he sauntered over.
“Yo,” the goombah said.
Gerry rolled his window down. “Hey.”
The goombah scratched his stomach. “You waiting to see Mr. Traffatore?”
Another customer, Gerry thought. “Yeah,” he said.
“Let me go ahead of you,” the goombah said, removing a Yankees cap from the paper bag. “I’m in a rush, you know?”
Gerry hid the smile forming on his lips. They’d hooked a live one. “Sure,” he said.
The goombah stuck his meaty paw through Gerry’s open window and they shook hands. Gerry guessed his age to be about thirty, his rank in Scalzo’s organization no higher than a soldier. He watched the goombah walk up the brick path to Traffatore’s house and punch the bell. Moments later, Davis opened the front door. From the car, Gerry pointed at the goombah while mouthing the words Arrest him. Davis flashed him the okay sign, then ushered the goombah inside.
Fifteen minutes later Davis emerged from the house, the look of exhaustion on his face having been replaced by one of glee. He knelt down next to Gerry’s open window. “Looks like we hit the mother lode. Traffatore keeps records of all his clients in a shoe box. We’ve got the names, phone numbers, and addresses of every member of Scalzo’s gang.”