"Billy was the smartest thing I ever did," Nick confided to Valentine. "Every day, rain or shine, Billy makes money."
"You can't beat that," Valentine said.
Outside, Nick's monogrammed golf cart was parked at the valet stand, a perspiring O'Doul's in the drink holder. Valentine got into the passenger seat, then held on for dear life as Nick floored the accelerator and sped down the Acropolis's front entrance.
The Strip was jammed, the mob rivaling New Year's in Times Square. Nick darted in and out of traffic, hopped a median, and ran a red light, all for the sake of traveling a few short blocks. When they reached Caesars' entrance, he hit the brakes and nearly sent Valentine through the windshield. A line of stretch limousines blocked traffic in both directions. Spinning the wheel, Nick hopped the cart onto the sidewalk with his hand on the cart's Harpo Marx horn.
"I've got a sick man here," he announced to a sharply dressed contingent in their path. "Gangway, folks."
The crowd parted and Nick drove through.
"He doesn't look sick," a man in a tuxedo yelled.
"He married his sister," Nick yelled back. "That sick enough for you, buddy?"
The cart still on the sidewalk, Nick pulled up to the busy valet stand, hopped out, and tossed the uniformed kid a fifty.
"I'll take good care of her, Mr. Nicocropolis," the kid promised.
"You'd better," Nick said.
Valentine followed his host into Caesars plush casino. The tables were jumping, the players wall to wall. Nick did a little jig as they sifted through the crowd, the electric atmosphere putting a noticeable jump in his step. Jay Sarno, the impresario who had single-handedly built Caesars, had themed the hotel after a Roman orgy. It had not been planned as a family destination and never would be one.
Passing a sea of blinking slots, they detoured into a shopping promenade with artificial waterfalls and lifelike statues that shifted poses every few minutes. Pleasant 3-D images lit up the domed ceiling, the air filled with the soothing sounds of a rain forest.
"I hate this crap," Nick swore under his breath. "Casinos are supposed to sell dreams, not illusions. You know what I'm saying?"
Valentine nodded, remembering Sammy Mann's comments about the odds Nick offered. "No magic acts for you, huh?"
"Never," Nick swore.
Signs directed them to a bank of doors, which opened onto a parking lot. The boxing ring sat a hundred yards behind the casino, hemmed in by rows of bleachers that rose straight up into the sky. Nick handed his tickets to an attendant, and a toga-clad waitress escorted them to their seats, which were fifth row center. Then she took their drink order.
"Jay Sarno is the smartest guy who's ever lived," Nick said when their drinks came. "Back in '78 when Atlantic City opened, everyone out here panicked. But not Jay. Instead, he started staging prizefights. Each fight got a little better, then Jay went and staked fifteen million for Leonard-Hearns. What a night that was!"
Valentine remembered the fight well. Sugar Ray Leonard and Tommy Hearns, two undefeated, charismatic boxers, fought in Caesars parking lot for the undisputed welterweight championship. The fight had attracted every major gambler in the world and disappointed no one. Atlantic City never recovered.
Nick clicked his fake beer against Valentine's bottled water.
"Here's to catching Frank Fontaine."
"I'll drink to that," Valentine said.
Two Hispanic flyweights entered the diamond-bright boxing ring. A referee gave them their instructions. The bell rang. The fighters met in the ring's center and whaled away at each other.
They fought to a draw and a chorus of boos. Valentine clapped anyway. Fighting to a draw was considered noble in most parts of the world, even worthy of celebration. So what if the kids stunk? They'd fought their hearts out and deserved something for it.
"My boy's up next," Nick announced.
"Is he any good?"
Nick's eyes twinkled. "Yeah, and nobody knows it."
The wind shifted and the rumble of traffic from the nearby highway infused the air with a sense of impending combat. Colored spotlights perched above the ring came on, bathing the canvas in soft hues. The arena was filling quickly, and in the front rows sat several male movie stars and their stunning dates. This was the "exposure section," and Nick explained that the studios paid obscene sums to put their stars in these seats.
Nick's ringer performed as expected and pounded his opponent like a hammer pounding a nail, winning in two rounds. Standing, Nick said, "I'd better go collect my dough. Want anything?"
"No thanks."
"Be back in a few."
Nick strode down the aisle. The next bout was about to start and the referee motioned two snarling females to the center of the ring. Then the bell sounded and they started brawling like alley cats. It was ugly, and the crowd quickly made its displeasure known. Luckily, it ended quickly, a physician climbing into the ring to tend to a young skinny black woman sitting on a stool. Nick returned with his cash.
"If you or I did that," he remarked, "we'd do time."
"No kidding."
"Look," Nick said, elbowing him in the ribs.
Valentine stared across the ring at a well-known movie actor getting his picture taken with a star-struck fan.
"I hate that prick," Nick swore.
It took a moment for Valentine to realize that Nick was referring not to the actor but to Nola Briggs's defense attorney, who rose from a nearby seat. He was small in stature and looked even smaller in the company of the larger-than-life characters that stood yukking it up around the ring apron. Cupping his hands over his mouth, Nick yelled, "Hey, Felix, how's the leg holding up?"
Valentine stiffened. And it hit him: Felix Underman was the F. U. who'd hired Little Hands. He seemed smarter than that, but people often did stupid things when backed into a corner.
Valentine watched Underman leave the arena. Then he rose himself.
"I'll be right back," he said.
Underman wasn't walking very fast and seemed to favor the leg that Nick had kicked, and Valentine quickly caught up to him. Valentine followed him into the casino and through a buzzing mob of gamblers whose excitement was palpable: The odds had dropped, making Holyfield's opponent a two-to-one proposition. Underman went into the men's room, and Valentine followed.
Caesars' johns were something special. Travertine marble ran floor to ceiling and the brass fixtures were so shiny you could see well enough in them to shave. Valentine stood at the sinks and watched Underman enter a stall; then he dropped two fifties in the attendant's tip basket.
"Get lost for a few minutes."
"I could lose my job," the attendant said.
Valentine tossed another hundred into the basket.
"You a cop?" the attendant asked.
"What do you think?"
The attendant left without another word. At the sink, Valentine wadded a handful of paper towels and soaked them with cold water. Then he went to Underman's stall and waited. The defense attorney emerged tugging up his fly. Valentine slapped the towels over his mouth, pushed him into the stall, and shut the door, latching it with his free hand.
"Sit down," he said.
Trembling, Underman lowered himself onto the toilet.
"Look at me," Valentine said.
Underman stared into his eyes.
"See the purple bump on my nose?"
Underman nodded his head vigorously.
"Know who put it there?"
Underman made a noise that sounded like no.
"You sure you don't know?"
A sound like no again.
"A guy you hired put it there. Little Hands Scarpi. Said you sent him to find Fontaine. This ringing any bells?"
Underman took the Fifth.