Deadman's Bluff (19 page)

36

G
erry Valentine was surprised. He’d expected Detectives Eddie Davis and Joey Marconi to drive to the address of the tailor who Angelo Fountain had fingered and grill him. But the detectives had instead driven to the municipal courthouse on Atlantic Avenue and gone upstairs to the second floor to see a judge in his chambers.

Marconi and Davis had an interesting theory that they’d presented to Gerry during the drive. The detectives had originally thought that the baseball caps were being manufactured on an assembly line. But while sitting outside Angelo Fountain’s house, they’d had a change of opinion.

If a tailor was making the caps, then the caps were custom jobs. If that was true, then George Scalzo’s blackjack cheating gang were coming to the tailor’s place of business, getting fitted, then returning when the cap was done. That meant the tailor probably had records containing the gang’s names and phone numbers. It would be enough evidence to show that the gang was conspiring to cheat the island’s casinos, and land them in jail.

“A slam dunk, ” Davis had said in the car.

Gerry hadn’t seen it that way. The tailor wasn’t going to rat out the mob.

“
If
the tailor has records,” Gerry had replied.

“Every good tailor keeps records,” Marconi said, handling the wheel. “It’s part of the business. The only thing we need is a warrant to search the tailor’s premises. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” Gerry said.

“Yes. We’ll need to have you explain the scams to the judge. You’re the expert.”

Gerry had shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Whatever you say.”

The judge they went to see was named Alva Dopking. Dopking was a lanky, cleft-chinned former prosecutor who’d been making criminals’ lives miserable in Atlantic City for thirty years. Gerry had come up before him in juvenile court and had not enjoyed the experience. Sitting in Dopking’s book-lined chambers, he kept his eyes glued to the floor while Davis and Marconi stood in front of Dopking’s desk, and argued their case.

Dopking listened while sucking on an unlit cigar. His wavy dark hair had turned snow white; otherwise, he looked the same as Gerry remembered. He was a tough nut, and he didn’t like it when his directions weren’t followed.

“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.”

“What about the goombah?” Gerry asked. “Did you arrest him?”

“Yeah. Name’s Albert Roselli. He’s screaming for a lawyer.”

“Screaming?”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen anything like it. Marconi told him to shut his yap or we’d tape it shut. Guy’s sweating, too.”

Gerry stared at the Eldorado parked in front of him.
I’m in a rush.
Was Albert going to work, and needed to get his baseball cap fixed? He relayed his suspicion to Davis, and saw the detective’s face light up.

“Wait here,” Davis said.

Roselli’s vehicle was unlocked and Davis gave it a thorough search. When he finished, he came back to Marconi’s car and tossed Gerry a black address book.

“The hits just keep coming,” Davis said.

Gerry thumbed through the address book, his eyes scanning the pages. It was Scalzo’s play book, and it contained the names of the island’s casinos and the dates and times they were to be ripped off by his gang.

“Beautiful,” Gerry said.

It took Davis two hours to marshal the necessary manpower to start making the busts. Over half of Scalzo’s gang were working that afternoon, and over a hundred police and casino security forces were needed to arrest them.

Gerry stayed with Davis and Marconi as they went from casino to casino and systematically apprehended Scalzo’s gang. The baseball caps made the gang members easy to locate and allowed the detectives to march up to the tables, speak to the gang members by name, and arrest them. As Gerry watched the gang members being led away to vans waiting outside, he was surprised the gang hadn’t retired the scam after the incident at Bally’s the night before. His father said that what usually brought cheaters down was the greed factor. Once a cheater started stealing, it was often hard for him to stop.

The final arrests were made at Resorts International, the island’s oldest casino. By now it was dark, and Gerry stood outside on the Boardwalk, sipping a double espresso to stay awake. He’d scored a big victory, but it felt hollow. He still didn’t know how Scalzo was ripping off the World Poker Showdown, and suspected that none of the people who’d been arrested knew, either. Davis came out through the double doors and gave him a whack on the arm. “I owe you dinner, man.”

Gerry forced a smile. The busts were going to make Davis and Marconi into heroes. That was worth celebrating, even if he wasn’t in the mood.

“You’re on,” he said.

37

I
t was quitting time, and Mabel was heading out the door when the phone on Tony’s desk rang. Glancing at the Caller ID, she saw that it was Special Agent Romero of the FBI.

“It’s about time,” she said aloud.

She’d called Romero earlier, gotten an impersonal voice mail, and left a message saying she urgently needed to speak with him about George Scalzo. She’d expected a prompt call back, having done Romero a huge favor a few days ago. The fact that he’d taken over half a day to respond was annoying to say the least.

“Grift Sense,” she answered.

“Hello, Ms. Struck,” Romero said. “I apologize for not getting back to you sooner, but I had to testify in court today, and they don’t permit cell phones at the federal courthouse.”

Mabel smiled into the receiver. An immediate apology, and a believable one to boot. “Thanks for calling back. I need your help.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Romero said.

She settled into her chair. “I’m assisting my boss with a case which involves a murder I believe George Scalzo was involved with.”

“A recent murder?”

“Yes. It took place two weeks ago at the Atlantic City Medical Center. I’m trying to determine Scalzo’s whereabouts during the time of the murder. When we spoke a few days ago, you told me that the FBI watches Scalzo, which I assume means you follow him whenever he goes out in public.”

Romero cleared his throat. “That would be a logical assumption.”

“Good. I realize that this is all hush-hush, but figured since we’re both trying to accomplish the same thing—”

“Which is?”

She hated when men turned dense, and she let her tongue slip. “To put the murderous bastard in jail.”

Romero laughed softly. “Yes. That’s the FBI’s goal as well. Please continue.”

“I was hoping that you could look at your records and see if Scalzo visited the Atlantic City Medical Center the night of the murder. It would be a tremendous help in putting another piece into this puzzle we’re wrestling with. Of course, it would remain strictly confidential.”

There was silence as Romero weighed her request. Mabel picked up a pair of misspotted dice lying on Tony’s desk and rolled them across the blotter. The dice had the numbers 2, 4, 6 printed on both sides. Because the human eye could see only three sides of a square, the duplication went unnoticed, allowing the cheater to win 90 percent of the time that he used them in a game of craps.

“I will need to speak with the agent in charge of monitoring Scalzo,” Romero said. “It will be his decision whether or not to release the information you’re asking for.”

“Of course,” Mabel said. “Should I give you the date?”

“Please.”

Mabel gave Romero the date and time of Jack Donovan’s murder.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Romero said. “Good-bye, Ms. Struck.”

“When should I expect to hear back from you?” Mabel asked.

There was another silence on the line. Then Romero said, “Is this an emergency, Ms. Struck?”

Tony and Gerry were tangling with a man who wanted them both dead. If that wasn’t an emergency, she didn’t know what was. “It most certainly is.”

He exhaled into the phone. “How about twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes would be perfect,” she said.

Mabel had once bought a pamphlet off the Internet that detailed all the free stuff you could get from the government. It included the obvious health care benefits and food stamps, and the not-so-obvious government grants. What the pamphlet didn’t mention was free help from the FBI, which to Mabel’s way of thinking wasn’t as outlandish as it sounded. The FBI were civil servants, no different from the working folks who picked up the trash and worked at the post office. They needed to be reminded of that every now and then.

She heard the front door slam. “Yolanda, is that you?”

“Yes,” Yolanda replied from the front of the house. “I was out taking a walk and saw the light was on.”

“Come on back, I could use the company,” Mabel said.

Yolanda appeared, holding her sleeping baby. The office was small, and she settled on the floor, sitting in a lotus position. She wore cut-offs and a T-shirt, no makeup, her hair topknotted carelessly. Mabel thought she’d never known a woman as comfortable in her own skin.

“Any luck with the FBI?” Yolanda asked.

“Matter of fact, that’s who I’m waiting to hear from,” Mabel said. “I spoke with Special Agent Romero and explained your theory about George Scalzo being involved with Jack Donovan’s murder.”

“Our theory,” Yolanda corrected her.

“Our theory. He promised to look into it and get right back to me.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Me too. Stay put, and I’ll whip something up. Do you mind holding the baby?”

“Of course not.”

Yolanda put the child on Mabel’s lap and headed for the kitchen. Lois was fast asleep, yet Mabel felt compelled to sing to her. Six months old and the picture of innocence. It was hard to believe we all started out this way.

“Does Tony have stock in Subway?” Yolanda asked a few minutes later. Finding several Subway sandwiches in Tony’s refrigerator, she’d cut them up and put them on paper plates. She returned to the floor and took the baby. They started to eat.

“I’ve tried to convince Tony to cook for himself, but it’s a lost cause,” Mabel said. The phone rang and she snatched it up. “Grift Sense.”

“Ms. Struck, I think I’ve got something for you,” Special Agent Romero said.

Mabel scribbled on a legal pad while Romero talked.

When he was done, she had over a page of notes. He reminded her that the information was confidential.

“Of course,” she said. “Thank you for going to all this trouble.”

“No problem. Good evening, Ms. Struck,” he said.

Mabel hung up feeling goose bumps on her arms. Yolanda put down her sandwich and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “Something good?”

“Yes.” Mabel squinted at her own handwriting. “On the night of Jack Donovan’s murder, Scalzo’s bodyguard drove Scalzo from his home in Newark to Atlantic City Medical Center. While the bodyguard stayed in the car, Scalzo went into the hospital and stayed for thirty minutes. The FBI agent who was tailing Scalzo went into the hospital and talked to the receptionist at the main greeting area. According to the receptionist, Scalzo said he was seeing a sick friend.”

“So our theory is correct,” Yolanda said. “Scalzo met up with the killer at the hospital, and took Jack Donovan’s secret out with him.”

“It certainly appears that way. Now, here’s the odd part. According to Special Agent Romero, Scalzo also visited the hospital the following morning carrying a bouquet of flowers. The FBI agent thought it was odd and this time followed him inside.

“Scalzo went to the cancer ward and talked to a nurse on duty. The nurse went on break, and they both went downstairs to the cafeteria. He bought her breakfast and gave her the flowers. They talked for about fifteen minutes, then Scalzo left.”

“Did the agent get the nurse’s name?”

“Yes. Susan Gladwell. She’s a senior nurse, worked at the hospital for ten years. The agent checked her out, said her record was clean.”

“Until now,” Yolanda said.

Mabel looked up from her notes. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you see? Nurse Gladwell is in cahoots with George Scalzo. That’s how Scalzo was able to sneak Jack Donovan’s secret out of the hospital without being spotted. She covered it up.”

“That would make her an accessory to Jack Donovan’s murder,” Mabel said.

“It most certainly would.”

Mabel chewed reflectively on the eraser end of her pencil. It was a good theory, only it wasn’t logical. Why would a veteran nurse risk her career to help a mobster? And the flowers. Why had Scalzo brought those? There was something else going on here, a thread running beneath the surface that neither of them were seeing.

“You don’t agree?” Yolanda asked.

Mabel shook her head. “I think we’re both missing something.”

“What?”

“The connection between Scalzo and this nurse.”

Yolanda bit her lip. “What should we do?”

“I think I’ll call Gerry and tell him what we’ve found,” Mabel said. “Maybe he can make sense of it.”