“He sent me an overnight package.”
“Is that bad?”
Yolanda rose from her chair and took a cardboard box off the counter. It had an OVERNIGHT label plastered on its side. She handed it to her.
Mabel peeked inside and felt her heartbeat quicken. She looked at Yolanda, and the younger woman nodded. Mabel removed a stack of bills and held them in her hand. Twenties and fifties, most of them wrinkled. She took out the other stacks. It looked like more than it was, but it was still a lot.
“Did you count it?”
Yolanda nodded. “There’s sixty-five hundred dollars in that box. I may have had a sheltered upbringing in San Juan, but I’m not dumb. Why didn’t Gerry send a check, or wire the money?”
Mabel knew the answer, but refused to say it.
“Because he stole the money, that’s why.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Mabel said. “You should give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Yolanda stared into her guest’s face. “Tony sent Gerry to Las Vegas to learn how to card-count. I think it was a test. I think Tony wanted to see if Gerry could resist the temptation. And Gerry failed. He’s stealing from the casinos.”
“Card-counting isn’t stealing,” Mabel said.
“Call it what you want, it’s still wrong, and Gerry’s doing it.”
“But he’s only been in Las Vegas for five days,” Mabel reminded her. “He couldn’t have learned how to card-count that quickly. It’s more difficult than that.”
Yolanda considered it while staring at the stacks of money in Mabel’s lap. Lifting her eyes, she said, “Okay. If my husband isn’t card-counting, then what is he doing?”
It was a good question, and Mabel racked her brain for an intelligent answer.
“Let me know when you think of something,” Yolanda said, and walked out of the kitchen.
18
Valentine was still smarting over Wily’s crack when he walked into his suite a few minutes later. What did getting old have to do with his vision? He knew a crook when he saw one, and the man on the surveillance tape was the biggest crook of all.
An envelope with his initials was propped on the coffee table. He tore it open and saw it was from Nick.
Hey Jersey Boy,
Bart Calhoun is the invisible man. All my spies could dig up was his cell #. Sorry.
Bart’s cell number was at the bottom of the page. Valentine got a soda and went onto the balcony, his mind wrestling with how to handle this.
He and Bart had a history. In 1980, the New Jersey Casino Control Commission had decided to try an experiment and let card-counters play blackjack at Atlantic City’s casinos. The result had been the immediate loss of millions of dollars. The experiment was halted, and the counters left town.
Except for Bart. Bart liked the little city by the shore, and devised a unique way to keep playing. He sent teams of counters into the casinos and had them sit at different blackjack tables. When a counter determined a table was “ripe,” a signal was given — usually the lighting of a cigarette. Bart would descend, bet heavily, and clean up.
Stopping Bart hadn’t been easy. Technically, he wasn’t counting, so barring him wasn’t an option. Valentine had solved the problem by contacting the IRS and making them aware of the gigantic sums Bart was winning. They had swooped down like vultures, and Bart had run.
Most counters had phenomenal memories, and he was sure Bart remembered him. The question was, was he holding a grudge? There was only one way to find out. Going inside, he found the cordless phone and dialed the number on Nick’s note.
“Who’s this?” a husky voice answered.
“Hi. My son is enrolled at your school, and I need to speak to him.”
“How’d you get this number?”
“A friend gave it to me.”
“Who’s that?”
Valentine had learned that when you were bullshitting someone, it was best to tell as few lies as possible. “Nick Nicocropolis.”
There was a long pause. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Gerry.”
The sound of a match being struck against a flint crackled across the phone line.
“What’s this about?”
“His wife is going to have a baby.”
Calhoun snorted. “Figures. She’s been calling him every ten minutes. Hold on.” He put him on hold, then returned a few moments later. “Most of my students stay at the Red Roost Inn while they’re here. It’s in Henderson. 702-691-4852.”
Valentine thanked him and started to write the number down.
“Mind answering a question, mister?” Calhoun asked.
“Not at all.”
“Is this Tony Valentine I’m speaking with?”
Valentine stopped writing. He hated it when people he’d once chased got the goods on him. “Yeah. What did Gerry do? Use his real name when he registered?”
“Naw, he used a phony,” Calhoun said. “He just looks like you. It’s a funny world. You ran me out of Atlantic City, and now your son is learning to be a crook.”
“Hysterical,” Valentine replied.
Calhoun hung up on him. Valentine smiled, happy he’d gotten in the last jab. He punched in the number for the Red Roost Inn.
Gerry was lying in bed in his motel room when the phone rang. He tried to imagine who it was. Yolanda? Or his father? He didn’t want to speak to either one, fearful of the tongue-lashing he knew was coming. Better to let his caller leave a message.
The ringing stopped. He waited a minute, then went into voice mail and found a message. His father, sounding pissed off.
“Your wife is worried sick, and so am I,” his father said. “I’m staying at the Acropolis. 611-4571. Suite Four. Call me when you get this. You hear me?”
Gerry realized he was grinding his teeth. Leave it to his old man to track him down. He’d call his father back, but not right away. He erased the message and climbed out of bed.
He took his time dressing. He hadn’t slept much, too worried by what had happened at the MGM Grand. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d gotten photographed, and that his face was now in a computer. His days of rat-holing chips for Amin and Pash were over.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t make money together. He had an idea, a really good idea. But he needed to run it by Pash first. He went to the door that separated their rooms and knocked. Pash appeared, holding a toothbrush.
“Want to take a road trip?” Gerry asked.
“What do you have in mind?”
“A whorehouse.”
Pash smiled, the toothpaste making him look like he was foaming at the mouth.
“A wonderful idea,” he gushed. “Let me tell Amin.”
Gerry stared through the open door. Amin lay naked in bed, staring at the mute TV. He watched Pash tell him he was going out. Amin cast him a disapproving stare. Pash shrugged and went into the bathroom. A minute later he emerged with his hair freshly parted and smelling of aftershave.
Great, Gerry thought.
Pash pulled out his cell phone when they were on the road, and called a brothel. They were legal in every county in the state with less than four hundred thousand residents. Gerry pulled into a convenience mart and went inside.
When he came out, Pash was in the middle of a heated negotiation. Pash’s taste was for dark-skinned girls, and he knew to call ahead to avoid being disappointed. He also knew it was best to hammer out a rate before stepping foot in a place.
“Hey,” Pash said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. “The madam said she’ll give us a deal for two. What kind of girl you want?”