“These are counterfeits,” Bill said. “Nail this ass-hole.”
Part III
Deadman’s Hand
25
Lou Preston had struck gold.
The director of surveillance for Bally’s Atlantic City casino had contacted the island’s eleven other casinos, and persuaded them to search their digital databases for any blackjack players who’d recently beaten them and who’d been wearing New York Yankees baseball caps. The search had turned up forty-eight players, all of whom were between the ages of forty and sixty and of Italian descent. Casinos kept records on players who won a thousand dollars or more, and each of these players fell into that category.
As the casinos e-mailed pictures of the players to Preston, Lou projected them onto the wall of video monitors in Bally’s surveillance control room. Gerry, Eddie Davis, and Joey Marconi stood in front of the wall, drinking coffee the color of transmission fluid while watching a montage of sleaze take shape before them.
“These guys give Italians a bad name,” Marconi said.
Gerry sipped his drink, his eyes floating from face to face. The Mafia’s great strength was also its great weakness. The mob didn’t let in outsiders, and consequently there were no women, Asians, blacks, or Hispanics in their ranks. It was all mean-faced, middle-aged Italians with fifties haircuts who tended to stick out like sore thumbs.
He tossed his coffee cup into the trash. His father was always saying that people got what was coming to them. He’d never believed that, especially when it came to crime, but now had a feeling his father was right. George Scalzo was about to get what was coming to him.
He went to the master console where Preston sat. Lou had gotten the directors of surveillance of the other casinos to send him any notes they had on the men whose faces were on the monitors. Surveillance technicians kept copious notes during their shifts, and wrote down anything that was deemed unusual.
“Anything interesting?” Gerry asked.
“All of these guys refused Player’s Cards when they were offered to them,” Preston said. “That’s not normal.”
It was standard practice for casinos to offer gamblers Player’s Cards. The card entitled the person to receive complimentary meals and show tickets and even rooms if their business was strong enough.
“Guess they didn’t want to hand over their identification,” Gerry said.
“My thoughts exactly,” Preston said. “Forty-eight players, all refusing comps. What do you think the odds of that are?”
“Pretty astronomical,” Gerry said.
Preston picked up the gaffed Yankees cap lying on the console. There was a can of soda beside it, which he also picked up. “It’s one more piece of evidence that these players are part of a massive conspiracy to defraud Atlantic City’s casinos.”
“So let’s find out who they are, and arrest them.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“What do you mean?”
Preston killed the can and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The police don’t have a digital database like we do. It would take hundreds of hours for them to figure out who these guys are, maybe more.”
“Won’t they do that?”
Preston rubbed his face tiredly. “They would if they had the manpower. The island’s high crime rate isn’t going down anytime soon. The police won’t pull officers off the street to do photo matches.”
Gerry felt his spirits sink. Ruining Scalzo’s Atlantic City operation was the sweetest payback he could think of. He stared at a montage of faces on the video wall.
“I can find out who they are,” Gerry said.
Preston sat up straight in his chair. “You can?”
“Yeah. Ever heard of a guy named Vinny Fountain?”
“Vinny ‘the Sleazy Weasel’ Fountain? Sure.”
“I know him. Vinny’s rubbed elbows with mob guys his entire life. I’ll get their names from Vinny, and the police can find out where they live. My father told me that once the police know where a cheater lives, he’s history.”
“That’s true,” Preston said. “The cops will stake out the cheater’s house. When the cheater goes to a casino, the cops alert the casino, and the casino follows him around with surveillance cameras. Once he makes his move, they pounce.”
“So we’ll screw Scalzo’s gang that way,” Gerry said.
“Are you sure Vinny will help you?” Preston asked. “Generally speaking, hoods won’t rat out other hoods.”
Gerry and Vinny Fountain had nearly died in a warehouse on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Gerry’s father had rescued them, and Vinny owed Gerry’s father his life. Gerry had no problem calling in that marker.
“He’ll help,” Gerry said.
Harold’s House of Pancakes was an Atlantic City institution. Of the two hundred restaurants that had once flourished on the island’s north end, Harold’s was one of the last standing. It served greasy breakfast food all day, its signature egg dish called “the whore’s special” by locals. Marconi pulled into the parking lot, and grabbed a spot by the front door. Davis, who rode shotgun, turned to look at Gerry in back.
“I don’t like you going in there alone,” Davis said.
“You want to check the place out first?” Gerry asked. “Be my guest.”
Davis climbed out and went inside. The way he was moving, you wouldn’t know he’d gotten his back sliced open while dodging a bullet a few hours ago. It was the one characteristic about cops that Gerry had always admired. Davis reappeared moments later. “Your friend’s in a booth in the back.”
Gerry got out of the car, wondering how Davis had made Vinny. The answer became obvious as he entered the restaurant. The girls were out in force, and Vinny was the only male in the place. Prostitution was a part of Atlantic City’s culture, and had only gotten worse with the casinos. He slid into Vinny’s booth.
“That cop with you?” Vinny asked.
“My bodyguard, courtesy of my father,” Gerry said.
“Your old man still watches out for you, doesn’t he?”
Gerry nodded.
“That’s nice. My old man hardly talks to me any more. You said over the phone you wanted me to look at some photographs.”
Gerry removed an envelope from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table. “Some mobsters are running a blackjack scam in town. They’re working for our friend, George Scalzo. I was hoping you’d look at these photos, and see if you know any of them.”
Vinny took a cigarette out of the ashtray, and blew a monster cloud of smoke in the air. You weren’t supposed to smoke in Harold’s, but people did anyway.
Two hookers at the next table started hacking their lungs out. Vinny ignored them.
“You trying to take Scalzo down?”
“I’m working on it,” Gerry said.
“You going to pay him back for what he did to us in Vegas?”
“Yeah, and for killing Jack Donovan.”
Vinny flashed a crooked smile. He was a skinny guy, with pocked skin and bad teeth. What set him apart was his ability to talk. Opening the envelope up, he said, “Walk up to the cash register, and see if it doesn’t send you down memory lane.”
“What am I looking for?”
Vinny laughed through a mouthful of smoke. “Our first scam together,” he said.
Gerry slid out of the booth and went up to the register. He kept his eyes to the floor, avoiding the working girls’ sideways glances. The first pretty girl he’d ever seen was a hooker trolling the Atlantic City Boardwalk. He’d been eight, and his mother had told him this was not the type of girl he wanted to know.
The cashier was a wizened old man with half-dead eyes. He had a tic in his neck that didn’t quit. It was the only way you could tell he was alive.
“Need something?” the cashier asked.
Gerry spotted the ultraviolet light sitting next to the register and nearly burst into laughter. He’d done a lot of dumb things as a teenager, and selling ultraviolet lights to every store owner on the island had been one of them.