Deadman's Bluff (23 page)

45

B
eing the chip leader in a poker tournament was like being king of the world. While the other players were trying to survive, DeMarco could pick and choose his spots, pouncing on players with weak cards when he knew they were bluffing. Letting the other players win a few hands would have made things more equal, but he’d decided it was time to claim his prize and get out of Las Vegas.

The conversation with his father had been eating at him all morning. They hadn’t been talking five minutes when his father had told him what a bad person his uncle George was and how DeMarco needed to get away from him. What were his exact words?
You need to escape your uncle’s dark shadow.

DeMarco hadn’t liked that. His uncle could be mean and do horrible things, but that didn’t negate the treatment DeMarco had gotten from him. His uncle had raised him, and DeMarco wasn’t going to run away just because his father didn’t like the man.

But his father hadn’t let up, and when he andDeMarco had finally said good-bye, DeMarco had been ready to curse him out.

“There will be a fifteen-minute break after this hand is concluded,” the tournament director announced over the public address.

Because DeMarco was not in the hand, he decided to leave the table early. He was not five steps away from the table when his uncle was by his side.

“You okay, Skipper?”

“I’m fine, Uncle George. I just need to hit the bathroom.”

DeMarco heard his uncle snap his fingers.

“Guido,” his uncle said. “Skipper needs to take a leak. Make sure no one gets near him.”

“Yes, Mr. Scalzo.”

Guido led him across the poker room to the men’s lavatories. As they walked, DeMarco listened to Guido’s breathing. Guido’s nose sounded broken from the punches he’d received that morning. His uncle had been abusing Guido unmercifully the past few days, and DeMarco was surprised his uncle’s bodyguard hadn’t walked out on him. They came to the lavatories and Guido stopped.

“Shit,” Guido said.

“What’s wrong?” DeMarco asked.

“That lady newscaster just cornered your uncle and shoved a microphone in his face. Her cameraman is filming them, too.”

“You want to go rescue him?”

“Your uncle told me to keep you company.”

“I can take a leak without peeing on my leg. Go help him.”

Guido hesitated. DeMarco sensed that he was probably enjoying seeing his uncle in a tight spot. His uncle had dished out more than he’d taken over the years, and there was a strange joy in seeing him get paid back.

“Why do you put up with him, Guido?” DeMarco asked.

“What do you mean?” the bodyguard said.

“My uncle’s bullshit. Why do you put up with it?”

“I don’t have a choice,” Guido said. “A long time ago, I did something really stupid, and your uncle saved me from going to prison for the rest of my life. In return, I agreed to be his bodyguard and do whatever he told me. That’s the deal we struck.”

“Oh,” DeMarco said.

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

“What’s that?”

Guido jabbed DeMarco in the chest with his finger. “Why do
you
put up with him?”

DeMarco slipped into the men’s lavatory. Guido had sounded just like his father. Why did he put up with his uncle’s nonsense? He guessed it was because he loved him.

He’d been in the men’s room enough times to have the layout memorized. Stalls on the right, urinals on the left. He soldiered up to an empty urinal and unzipped his fly. He’d heard of guys who’d lost monster hands because they’d had to pee. Thinking about it made him smile, and at first he did not hear the man occupy the urinal beside him.

“How’s that earpiece working?” the man asked.

DeMarco froze. The voice was older, with a heavy Jersey accent. “Excuse me?” he said.

“The inner-canal earpiece you’re using to scam the tournament,” the voice said. “How’s it holding up?”

“I don’t know what—”

“It’s a modified children’s hearing aid,” the voice said. “I’ve got a couple in my collection. They’re smaller than regular hearing aids, which lets you stick them way down in your ear so no one will see them, but they also break down easier. Yours working all right?”

“Who are you?”

“Tony Valentine. I was hired by the Nevada Gaming Control Board to investigate you.”

DeMarco finished his business, then stepped away from the stall and faced his accuser. “You going to bust me?”

“Not today,” Valentine said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re not going down until I decide to take you down. And that won’t happen today.”

“Why not?”

“Because the tournament deserves to have a fair outcome.”

DeMarco did not know what to say.

“You understand what I’m telling you?” Valentine asked.

“I think so. You’re going to let me play.”

“That’s right. But you have to give me the earpiece.”

DeMarco suddenly understood. Valentine was going to let him play, but not cheat. He pulled the earpiece out of his ear and handed it to him.

“There’s one other thing I want you to do,” Valentine said.

“What’s that?”

“Get checked out by a doctor once the tournament is over.”

DeMarco heard a toilet flush on the far end of the line of stalls. A man came out, walked past them, washed his hands, and left. “Why should I see a doctor?” DeMarco asked.

“Your uncle hasn’t told you how this scam works, has he?”

DeMarco hesitated. For all he knew, Valentine had a tape recorder on him, and was recording every word they said. If he said yes, it was as good as admitting he’d scammed the tournament. Only he sensed that Valentine wasn’t trying to trap him. He shook his head.

“That’s too bad, kid,” Valentine said.

DeMarco reached out and grabbed Valentine’s arm. “Tell me,” he said.

“Ask your uncle.”

“I already did.”

“He wouldn’t tell you?”

“My uncle said he’d tell me when the tournament was over. Is the scam dangerous?”

“Yeah. You could be sterile. Or worse.”

“What?”

“The cards at your table have been treated with radioactive iodine, which was stolen from a vault in a hospital,” Valentine explained. “Each card has tiny drops of the substance put on the back. The number of drops is based on the card’s value and suit, ranging from one drop to fifty-two drops. With me so far?”

DeMarco slowly nodded.

“Once the iodine dries, the cards are covered with a plastic matte similar to what commercial artists use. That seals the iodine into the card, and ensures the iodine won’t rub off. The dealer has a dosimeter at the table, hidden inside a cigarette lighter. When the dealer deals, he holds each card briefly over the lighter. The dosimeter reads the dots on the back of the card, then transmits the information to a computer strapped around the dealer’s waist. Still with me?”

“Yes,” DeMarco said.

“The computer has a program that reads the dots, translates them into Morse code, then tells you through your ear piece what the card just dealt is. The iodine has a half life of eight hours. From the time the iodine is applied to the cards, it starts to break down. Within eight hours it’s disappeared, and the cards return to being normal. A perfect scam, except for one thing. It exposes the people handling the cards to radiation.”

“Am I going to get sick?”

“You might. Two dealers who were involved with the scam have ended up in the hospital. One of them, who was fighting cancer, died.”

“What about the other players at the table?”

“They run less of a risk.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. The tournament director rotates them, and you knock them out so quickly. But you’ve been at the feature table for most of the tournament, which means you’ve been exposed to the cards the most. Chances are, you’re likely to have problems down the road.” Valentine jabbed him in the chest like Guido had done, only with less force. “Now, I’m going to tell you something, kid, and I want you to listen real good.”

DeMarco swallowed hard. “I’m listening.”

“Your uncle stole the scam from a guy named Jack Donovan, then had Jack murdered. It’s never completely made sense to me
why
he had Jack killed. Your uncle could afford to buy the scam from Jack, and murdering people is usually only a last resort. Well, I figured out the reason.”

“What’s that?”

“Jack Donovan told your uncle that the scam was dangerous, and should be used sparingly. Like in a private game, where you only need to win one pot to come out ahead. The scam was never intended to be used in a tournament. Even though Jack was a scammer, he wasn’t a bad guy. My guess is, Jack would have found out what your uncle was using the scam for, and contacted you.”

“So Uncle George had him killed.”

“That’s right.”

Outside the lavatory DeMarco could hear the sounds of the other players approaching. He thought back to what his father had said that morning.
You need to escape your uncle’s dark shadow.
He’d never known how dark that shadow was, until now.

46

T
he men’s lavatory quickly filled up. DeMarco felt Valentine’s hand on his sleeve.

“I want one more thing out of you,” Valentine said.

DeMarco could hear other players swirling around them, the slamming of the stall doors, the loud banter of the players still remaining in the tournament. “What’s that?”

“Level the playing field between you and your opponents.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

Valentine drew close to him, put his mouth a few inches from DeMarco’s ear. “Lose a few hands so that everyone at your table has about the same amount of chips.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because then the tournament will be even,” Valentine replied.

It was DeMarco’s turn to whisper. “Why should I do that, if you’re going to have me and my uncle arrested?”

“Because I’m not going to have you arrested,” Valentine whispered back.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

DeMarco gazed at the floor. “I really appreciate this.”

Valentine squeezed DeMarco’s arm so hard that he winced in pain. “I’m not letting you go because I like you,” the older man said.

“Then why?” DeMarco asked.

“Just because you and your uncle cheated this tournament doesn’t mean you have the right to ruin it. I want the World Poker Showdown to end fairly, with a clean winner. Understand?”

DeMarco took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His arm was singing with pain where Valentine had squeezed it. “Yeah, I understand,” he said.

“Good,” Valentine said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

DeMarco walked out of the men’s lavatory to find Guido waiting for him. When his uncle’s bodyguard got excited, his breathing accelerated, each breath sounding like a short pant. He was doing that now and said, “Skip, your uncle needs to talk to you.”

“That’s nice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t want to talk to him. Walk me back to the table.”

DeMarco stuck his arm out, and Guido took it and escorted him back.

“How many players are left in the tournament?” DeMarco asked.

“Only ten,” Guido said. “A bunch of guys got knocked out in the last hand. They’re down to the final table. Look, Skip, I don’t know how to tell you this—”

“Then don’t.”

“—but your uncle has decided to leave Las Vegas right away. The situation in Atlantic City is bad. Karl Jasper has a private plane waiting for us at an airport just outside of town.”

“Us?”

“Yeah, you, me, and him.”

DeMarco stopped. They had reached the feature table, and he could hear the TV people adjusting their equipment and talking about the lighting. He could also hear gamblers in the crowd setting the odds on the remaining ten players in the tournament. They were calling him the favorite. “I’m not going,” he said.

“Say what? Your uncle—”

“Tell my uncle to call me, and I’ll meet up with him later.”

“Skip, that’s not such a good idea. Your uncle—”

“—isn’t running the show anymore,” DeMarco interrupted. “I am. I’m the tournament chip leader, and everyone expects me to play. So I’m going to play.”

“Don’t make me do this, Skip.”

DeMarco turned so he faced his uncle’s bodyguard.

“Do what? Drag me across the room by my collar? I’ll have you tossed out of here so fast it will make your nose bleed. I’m in charge of my own life, not you, and not Uncle George. Now say good-bye.”

“Say good-bye?”

“Yes. Say good-bye, and then go take care of my uncle. He’s going to need it.”

“Who’s going to take care of you?”

“I am.”

“You sure you’re ready for that?”

DeMarco didn’t know if he was ready to run his own life, or not. But the only way he was going to find out was by trying. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Guido’s fast-paced breathing returned. So fast, in fact, that DeMarco thought he might have a stroke. Guido had always been there for him, and he reached out and touched the bodyguard’s stomach the way he’d done as a little kid. “You’re a good guy, Guido. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Just doing my job,” the bodyguard said.

DeMarco took his seat at the feature table. He could hear the dealer riffle-shuffling the cards, the fifty-two pasteboards purring like a cat. He’d been exposed to radiation for five days, and realized the dealers who were bringing radioactive cards to the table had known the health risk as well. To themselves, and to him.

“Drink, sir?” a female voice asked.

“Get me a Coke and a pack of cigarettes,” he said.

The cocktail waitress came back a minute later with his order, putting the drink and pack in front of him. He removed his wallet, pulled out a bill. He hadn’t paid for a thing since coming to Las Vegas. He supposed now was as good a time as any to start.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Eight dollars.”

“How much is this bill worth?” he asked.

“A hundred dollars,” she said.

“Keep it.”

She thanked him and departed. He tore open the pack of smokes, stuck one in his mouth. To the dealer he said, “Give me your lighter, will you?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“The lighter sitting next to you. Give it to me. I want to light up my smoke.”

The dealer didn’t know what to say. DeMarco rose from his chair, grabbed his drink, and leaned forward a little too quickly. He sent the drink in the dealer’s direction and heard the dealer squawk. “Did I soak your cards?” DeMarco asked.

“Yes,” the dealer said angrily.

“Good. Now get out of here,” DeMarco said under his breath.

“What?”

“You heard me. Take your trick lighter and leave.”

The dealer said,
“Shit,”
under his breath, then pushed back his chair and left the table. DeMarco sat down. Moments later the tournament director came up behind him.

“Where did the dealer go?” the tournament director asked.

“He felt sick and left,” DeMarco said.

The tournament director spoke into a walkie-talkie, and asked for someone to clean up the table, and for a new dealer. When he disconnected, DeMarco asked, “Would you mind telling me the chip count for each of my opponents?”

“Sure,” the tournament director said.

Each player’s chip total was on the electronic leader board hanging over the table, and the tournament director read the totals to him. He was first, followed by seven players with roughly the same amount of chips, followed by the last two players, who were two million shy of the others. He would have to lose a couple of hands to the last two. That would make everyone at the table equal.

“Thanks,” he told the tournament director.

A new dealer came, and the other players returned. DeMarco felt the bright lights of the TV cameras come on. It was showtime.