"My upbringing," he confessed. "My father beat it into us with a stick. Now, why don't you start at the beginning."
For the next twenty minutes, Underman let Nola talk. He had heard of her arrest through one of the snitches he employed on the Strip, as he made it his business to know who in Las Vegas was getting arrested, a tactic that allowed him to decide if he wanted a case well before it ever walked through his door. And Underman certainly wanted Nola's case. The crime she was being prosecuted for, called flashing or signaling, was difficult to prove, and the fact that the Acropolis had allowed her alleged accomplice to walk was the kind of hole he could drive a Mack truck through. Underman liked beating the casinos in court, as it was the only place he had an advantage over them.
An excellent witness, he decided when she was finished. Good teeth, soft voice, an engaging smile. Dealer of the month ten times. Perhaps, if he got the charges thrown out, he could convince her to file a libel suit against Nick Nicocropolis and take that little Greek Neanderthal to the cleaners.
"I need to ask you a few questions," Underman said.
"Shoot."
"Any previous disciplinary problems with the casino?"
"None," Nola said proudly.
"Not one?"
"No sir."
"How about the law?"
"Never. I've never even gotten a parking ticket."
"Let me guess," he said. "You don't drive."
Nola's face lit up, and Underman imagined the effect she was going to have on a jury. No record, a squeaky-clean past, and that wonderful smile. She was almost too perfect.
"Any problems with current or past employees?"
"Problems, no. Relationships, yes."
"You had a relationship with someone at the hotel?"
"I dated Nick Nicocropolis ten years ago."
Underman sat up very straight in his chair. He'd been divorced three times and knew that there was no greater wrath than a woman scorned. He gave his prospective client a hard look.
"And?" he asked.
"And nothing," she said, lighting a cigarette. "It lasted ten glorious days and then Nick dumped me. Later he offered me a job dealing twenty-one. I took it, thanked him, and went on with my life."
"So you don't have an axe to grind with Nick?"
"I wasn't happy then," she admitted. "But it wasn't the first time I'd been dumped. I've been around the carnival a few times, Mr. Underman."
"Haven't we all, Miss Briggs?"
"Please, call me Nola."
"Of course. Nola, I'd like to take your case, but only under one condition."
"Which is?"
"I want you to take a polygraph test. If you pass it, I'll petition the judge who arraigned you. I'll argue that the Acropolis has made a grievous error. In their zeal to nab Frank Fontaine, their security people assumed you were his accomplice, something that often occurs in cases like this. I feel confident the judge will dismiss the case."
"I'll do it," Nola said.
Underman smiled. In his experience, only people with nothing to hide were willing to let themselves be strapped to a polygraph and grilled. This was going to be too easy. Consulting his desk calendar, he said, "Let's see. I have a deposition on Monday, an all-day meeting Tuesday. How about Wednesday morning?"
"I want to do it right now," Nola replied.
"Miss Briggs-"
"It's Nola, Mr. Underman."
Underman made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. "I have other clients, Nola, some of whom are sitting in jail, awaiting my services. I can't let them down."
Nola pulled her chair up, her knees again banging the desk. With trembling lips, she said, "Forgive me for sounding presumptuous, but your other clients are nothing but scumbags and two-time losers who've probably spent the better part of their lives behind bars. They're bad people who need a man of integrity like you to defend them. Well, I'm different. I'm not a bad person. I'm an innocent victim who's being wronged by a system that allows a powerful person like Nick Nicocropolis to trample whoever he pleases. Nick's already hurt me once, Mr. Underman. Please, don't let him do it again."
She was fighting back tears, and Underman found himself at a loss for words. He pushed a box of Kleenex her way and glanced at the bag of money. His poor father was probably rolling in his grave. When he looked back at Nola, she had regained her composure and was staring directly at him.
"Half now, the other if you get me off," she said.
His breath grew short. She was offering him a fortune for a day's work. He counted to five so as not to appear greedy.
Then he said, "Very well, Miss Briggs. I'll take your case."
9
Pumping the Acropolis's staff about Frank Fontaine proved a far bigger challenge than Valentine expected. Fontaine had visited the casino three successive days and had come into contact with dozens of employees, yet except for Wily and the giant African-American named Joe Smith, no one seemed to remember him. Frank who? the employees collectively asked. Never heard of the guy.
Not that Valentine could blame them. Nevada was one of the few states that vigilantly prosecuted its citizens for even knowing about a casino's being ripped off, the crime a felony and punishable by five years in a federal penitentiary. No wonder the staff had quickly wiped Fontaine from their collective memories.
By noon, he was finished. He slipped into Nick's Place and was disappointed to learn they didn't serve lunch. Sliding onto a stool, he laid his notes on the bar and reviewed them while munching on Goldfish and pretzels. His favorite bartender served him a glass of tap water with a lemon twist without being asked.
It was Joe Smith who'd given him the most new information about Fontaine. Each time Fontaine had visited the casino, he'd played One-Armed Billy and chatted with Joe about his hoop days at UNLV. During these conversations, Joe had noticed that Fontaine wore elevator shoes and guessed he was two or three inches shorter than he appeared. He also had a hair weave, something that was not apparent from the surveillance tapes. And he was a smoker. Joe had seen him toss a cigarette into the gutter before he'd entered and knew a nicotine habit when he saw one.
"Company," the bartender mumbled under his breath.
In the back bar mirror, Valentine saw Roxanne making a beeline toward him, her pretty features distorted by an ugly expression. Turning on his stool, he flipped his notes upside down on the bar.
"Fancy meeting you here," he said. "Thanks for upgrading me to a suite."
"You're welcome," she said through clenched teeth. "I hope you didn't find any unexpected girls in the room."
Valentine blanched, remembering his comment to Wily.
"He's used the line all over the casino," she said, seething.
"I'll kill him."
"Get in line."
She started to leave, and Valentine grabbed her arm. She resisted, but not as much as he'd expected. Was she really hurt, or just disappointed? Probably a little of both. Jumping to his feet, he said, "Roxanne, please. I'm terribly sorry. It was a stupid thing for me to say. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
She let him take her to a table and buy her a drink. Her shift had just ended, and she ordered a Bombay and tonic. The bartender served them and gave Valentine a sly wink.
"Heard from my son recently?" Valentine asked.
"He called three times this morning. I told him you didn't want to talk with him, but he kept calling back."
"That's my boy," Valentine said.
"You shouldn't hate him so much," she said, jumping in where they'd left off the last time. "I mean, what's the harm of taking a few bets? Most bartenders I know do it. It's part of the business."
Valentine didn't know what to say. Leave it to Gerry to talk out of school. He could run from his son, but he couldn't hide.
"Roxanne," he said after a pause. "I don't want to discuss this. My son and I have been at odds for as long as I can remember. When my wife was alive, she played referee and kept things civil; now that she's gone, we can't be in the same room without going at each other's throats."