Sucker Bet (12 page)

20

Splinters pulled off 595 at the first exit. Parking behind a Shell station, he threw his driver’s uniform back on while muttering to himself. He hadn’t gotten laid, the hooker had nearly escaped, and he’d seen a fucking ghost. Someone had put a curse on him, and he hadn’t even known it.

Back in the limo, doing eighty, he started to feel really bad. Rico had told him to do one thing, and he’d gone and done another. Rico wouldn’t like that if he found out. He would kill Splinters for something like that. The exit sign for Davie loomed in his windshield.

He slowed down. Off to his left, striped carnival tents filled a cow field. He’d been fuming for days over the outrageous bribe Rico had paid the carny owner.
Four thousand two hundred dollars
. And for what?

He put his indicator on. An idea was percolating in his head. He would get the money back—all of it—and show Rico his loyalty. He changed lanes and nearly ran another vehicle off the road.

Black limousines were symbols of power, and he circled the carnival’s perimeter without anyone stopping him. Parking beside the owner’s trailer, he hopped out and looked around. Peals of laughter floated down from the carnival Ferris wheel. It was Friday afternoon, and the grounds were teeming with teenage kids.

He walked up the trailer ramp and rapped loudly on the door. When no one came out, he pushed the door open and stuck his head in. The shit smell that greeted him was like a punch in the face, and his eyes settled on the caged chimpanzee. Rico hadn’t mentioned anything about a fucking ape.

Splinters stepped inside and shut the door. The chimp was strumming a miniature guitar, his head swinging back and forth. The tinny sounds of Madonna’s
Like a Virgin
sent an icy chill running down Splinter’s spine. First a ghost in the swamp, now a chimp playing his favorite song.

“Play something else,” he said.

The chimp broke into Prince’s
Purple Rain
, another favorite. Splinters decided he was hallucinating, the music really nothing more than random chords he was mistaking for these songs. He got behind the desk and started opening drawers. Suddenly, the chimp started hissing at him like a cat.

Splinters drew his gun. He didn’t want to shoot the chimp, but if the chimp started making noise, Splinters wasn’t going to have a choice. The chimp stared at the gun, then flopped on his back and played dead, his feet twitching comically.

Splinters jerked open the top drawer of the desk. Inside lay a stack of hundred-dollar bills. He counted out forty-two hundred dollars and was stuffing the money into his pockets when the chimp came flying out of the cage.

“You want to hear a cool scam?” Zoe asked.

They were sitting on a couch in the Fontainebleau’s lobby, Kat watching the front doors. She’d checked into the Castaway the night before, then started trying to reach Tony. No answer in his hotel room or on his cell phone. She didn’t want to leave a message and sound desperate, so she’d parked herself in his hotel. It would be better to see him in person, she’d decided, and get things back on track.

“Tony taught it to me,” her daughter said. “A world-famous poker player showed it to him. He doped out the math for me and everything. It’s really cool.”

“It’s mathematical?”

“Yeah, sort of. You want to hear it?”

From where she sat, Kat had a bird’s-eye view of the hotel valet stand. A black Volvo pulled up, and a muddy Tony and an Indian woman got out. With them was a woman with red hair whose clothes were also muddy. She was glued to Tony’s side, and Kat felt her stomach do a slow churn.

“Sure,” she said.

“It’s called the birthday bet. You go into a room where there’s thirty people, and you bet someone a dollar that two or more of the people in the room share the same birthday. No shills.”

“Shills?” Kat asked, watching the trio cross the lobby floor. Tony had a funny look on his face. Was he dazed, or smitten?

“No stooges. You don’t have to know anybody in the room. Now, you tell the person you’re betting with that the odds are twelve-to-one in his favor, because thirty people divided into three hundred and sixty-five birthdays is 12.17. The sucker usually takes the bet, and you win!”

“Really,” Kat said, watching them wait for an elevator. The redhead was hanging on Tony like he’d just saved her life and she just
had
to show her appreciation.

“I’ll tell you how it’s done,” Zoe said. “It’s based on a principle called progressive calculation. You’re not betting on two people sharing one particular birthday. You’re betting that two people will share
any
birthday. The chances are fifty-fifty with twenty-two people in the room. Every additional person increases the odds in your favor. With thirty people in the room, the odds are four-to-one against your opponent. You will almost always win. Pretty cool, huh?”

Kat watched them get into an elevator and the doors shut. In the six weeks she’d known Tony, she’d seen a lot of different women try to glom on to him. He was honest and caring, things you didn’t find often in men. The funny part was, he was always slow to catch on. She glanced at her daughter, who was writing the calculations onto a napkin. A hundred and forty IQ, so why was she pulling Ds in school?

Zoe showed her the math. “See how it works? If you’re in a room with fifty people, the odds are over thirty-to-one in your favor.”

Kat rose from the couch. She missed Tony, and she wanted to get him away from these two women and get on with their lives, only what she had in mind wouldn’t work with her twelve-year-old daughter clinging to her side.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Excuse me, but I think I have a right to know what’s going on,” Gladys Soft Wings demanded when Candy was in Valentine’s bathroom, taking a shower.

Valentine shook his head. He sat on the bed, eating Cracker Jacks from the minibar. Because he was covered in puke, he had showered first, then changed into clean clothes.

“You’re not going to tell me who this woman is?”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because it won’t help Running Bear’s case,” he said, opening a soda and taking a swig. “Right now, that’s all you should care about. I’ll explain later.”

“Is that a promise?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? You ask me to be an expert witness for your client, but you don’t trust me when I tell you I’ll do something?”

Gladys acted hurt. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

He held up the bag of Cracker Jacks. Gladys took a handful and shoved them in her mouth. They munched away until the bag was empty.

“I need to talk to this woman alone,” he said. “Go back to the casino and get another tape of Blackhorn dealing blackjack. While you’re at it, search his locker.”

“I’ll need the elders’ permission to do that.”

“Get it. Tell them it’s important. Write down everything you find. Then call me.”

Gladys Soft Wings crossed her arms and looked at him defiantly. He tried to imagine her arguing a case in court and guessed she’d be about as tenacious as a pit bull with a bone.

“Are you always so demanding?” she asked.

“Usually,” he said.

Gladys left, and Candy came out of the bathroom. Instead of putting her clothes back on, she was wearing a fluffy hotel bathrobe. She’d blown out her hair and put on some makeup, and was as pretty as a high school beauty queen. Valentine blinked, then it registered. She was going to thank him for saving her life. He went to the TV and hit power. The screen came to life, Jack Lightfoot dealing blackjack to Candy and her date.

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Go put some clothes on and I’ll tell you,” he said.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting on Valentine’s balcony, the sound of kids roughhousing in the hotel pool filling the air. “I’m an ex-cop,” he said. “The Micanopys hired me to figure out how Jack Lightfoot was ripping them off. I saw you standing in the parking lot and remembered you from the tape.”

“You said ex-cop,” she said.

“That’s right. You don’t like cops?”

“I’m a hooker,” she said.

He let an appropriate amount of time pass. Before casinos had come to Atlantic City, he’d worked vice and known plenty of hookers. Some had been decent women who’d gotten on the wrong track; the rest hard-nosed criminals who’d rip off their own brother. Candy, he guessed, fell somewhere in the middle.

“You don’t dress like a hooker,” he said, seeing where it would get him.

She gave him a sad smile. Then her face melted and reflex tears welled up in her eyes.
That’s good,
he thought.
She still knows how to cry.

“I’m trying to get out,” she said.

“Going to school?”

Her eyes shifted down to the pool. “I teach aerobics.”

“Good for you.” Her face softened. Valentine decided to take a stab in the dark. “Why is Rico Blanco trying to kill you?”

“I told Rico I wanted out,” she said.

“Of the scam?”

She nodded. Valentine pointed inside the room at the TV. “Who’s your date?”

“Nigel Moon.”

“Should I know him?”

“He’s a famous rock-and-roll drummer. Rico hired me to butter him up.”

“You fall for him?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes seemed hypnotized by something or someone in the pool that he wasn’t seeing. He’d known a couple of hookers who had fallen for johns. The relationships had lasted a little while, then run aground when reality set in.

“You realize you’re in a lot of trouble,” he said.

“I haven’t broken any laws.”

“Rico murdered the blackjack dealer. When Rico gets caught, he’ll drag down everything in sight. Including you.”

“And you can stop that from happening,” she said.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell the cops the truth. Rico’s a con man. He hired you to lead Nigel around by the nose. There would be no reason for you to know anything else about the scam. If the cops decide to prosecute you anyway, I’ll go to court as your witness.”

“Provided I help you out.”

“That’s right.”

Still looking at the pool, she said, “And if I don’t?”

“Then you’re on your own, sweetheart.”

Candy blew out her cheeks. The sun was giving her skin a lobster complexion. She brought herself back from a long way and stared into his eyes.

“Rico is planning to rip off a bookie named Bobby Jewel,” she said.

“How is Nigel involved?”

“Rico is going to use Nigel’s money. Rico’s been planning it for a long time.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“He said millions.”

“When?”

“The next couple of days.”

“What else?”

“That’s all I know.” She looked deep into his eyes. “You still going to hold up your end of the bargain?”

“I gave you my word, didn’t I?”

Her chair made a harsh scraping sound on the concrete balcony. Valentine walked her out of his room to the elevator. She pressed the button, then threw her arms around him, and gave him a kiss that Valentine didn’t think he’d ever forget.

“Thanks for the save,” she said.

21

Hey, rube!

The words made Ray Hicks’s head snap. Carny slang for trouble. He was helping out at the cotton candy stand. The sun was low in the sky, the carnival starting to empty out. An employee hurtled past, then another. Hicks caught the second man’s arm.

“Talk to me.”

“Shooting,” the man said breathlessly.

Hicks looked up and down his carnival. Everything looked fine. “Where?”

“By the trailers.”

A line of dirty-faced kids was waiting to buy cotton candy. The man who dispensed the candy had run out of change, so Hicks was standing there with a pocketful of coins, helping out. The man who dispensed the candy knew damn well that Hicks was not going to give him his money to hold. In a whisper, he asked Hicks, “Should I shut down?”

Hicks looked at the kids’ expectant faces. He’d been swindling people for years, but he was not in the business of disappointing them. “Give them free candy.”

“Free candy?”

“You heard me.” Hicks hitched up his trousers and hurried across the lot. If there had been a shooting, it would mean a visit from the town clowns, and another fat bribe to keep everyone happy. Some days, it just wasn’t worth getting out of bed.

The trailers were behind the concession stands, and he came around the corner to see a dozen employees running around like headless chickens. Pushing his way through the crowd, he found a ticket-taker named Smitty who had more brains than all of them combined.

“It looks bad,” Smitty told him.

“How bad is that?” Hicks said.

“He might die.”

Hicks twirled the plastic toothpick that had resided in his mouth since breakfast. “Who we talking about here? A customer?”

Smitty’s eyes went wide. “You don’t know?”

“Spit it out, boy.”

“Mr. Beauregard got shot by a robber.”

Hicks nearly knocked Smitty down as he barreled up the ramp to his trailer. Inside, a gang of employees was clustered around the desk. Mr. Beauregard lay with his eyes shut while a Mexican fortune-teller named Princess Fatima pressed a bloodstained towel to his forehead. Kneeling, he said, “Mr. Beauregard, it’s me. Mr. Beauregard, look at me.”

The chimp’s eyes did not open. Hicks thought of all the times Mr. Beauregard had feigned playing dead, just to get a rise out of him. From the cage he removed the ukulele and plucked a few chords. Mr. Beauregard’s eyelids fluttered. Princess Fatima caressed his brow and silently cried, knowing all too well what the future held.

An ambulance came, accompanied by two police cruisers. Hicks knew the best thing to tell the police was nothing at all, and he climbed into the back after Mr. Beauregard was wheeled in on a gurney. The EMT person was a bottled blond with a kind face. As the ambulance pulled out of the carnival grounds, she said, “We’re going to take him to a good animal hospital over in Fort Lauderdale. They deal with the circus animals when they come to town.”

“No,” Hicks said.

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to take him to a people hospital.”

“But, sir . . .”

“Please do as I say. I’ll pay you. Cash.”

The EMT woman discussed it with the driver. Hicks laid his hand on Mr. Beauregard’s forehead and tuned them out. Ten years ago, he’d found Mr. Beauregard in a strip shopping center in Louisiana, huddled in a cage. He’d bought him for a hundred dollars and moved him into a cage in his trailer, hoping to train Mr. Beauregard to do some simple tricks. But Mr. Beauregard had already been to school. Play a tune on the radio, and he would duplicate it on his ukulele. Tell him the name of a city, and he’d find it on a map. He could think, and add numbers, and he also
knew
things, just as people knew things—like hate and fear and jealousy and betrayal—and it had all sunk home for Hicks one day when Mr. Beauregard kicked a carnival worker in the balls for calling him a “dirty monkey.” That was when Hicks had realized that Mr. Beauregard wasn’t just a clever animal, but an evolutionary marvel. He heard the EMT woman talking to him and looked into her kind face.

“I said, we’re going to take your friend here to a regular hospital. Okay?”

Mr. Beauregard’s forehead had grown cold, and Hicks took his hand away.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

Opening a topless joint on South Beach had been Victor Marks’s idea.

“A man needs a place to do business,” Victor had told Rico. “It should be a strip club, too. No one knows how much money a strip club is supposed to make.”

Rico hadn’t understood Victor’s reasoning.

“You need a way to launder your money in case the IRS comes calling,” Victor explained. “That’s how your old boss, John Gotti, screwed up. He put on his tax return he sold kitchen fixtures for a living. And look at what happened to him.”

So Rico had opened Club Hedo. A former Arthur Murray Dance Studio, it sat a block removed from the beach. Every day, guys strolled in wearing flip-flops and sand stuck between their toes, paid a stripper twenty bucks to give them a lap dance, then went back to their families and their beach chairs. Weekends saw a lot of Europeans, but mostly it was the beer and T-shirt set.

It was Friday night, and the club was packed. Rico was in his office in back. Through a one-way mirror, he kept one eye on the action while watching basketball on TV.

Miami College, who he had money on, was getting slaughtered. They were a brand-new team and they stunk. The starters were freshmen, and the pressure had done a number on their heads. They hadn’t won a game all season.

His phone rang. It was big Bobby Jewel.

“You sweating through your underwear yet?” Jewel asked.

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” Rico said.

“I know who said that,” the bookie said.

“Hundred bucks says you don’t.”

“Yogi Bear.”

“It was Yogi Berra, you idiot. Yogi Bear was a cartoon character. You owe me a hundred.” Through the mirror he saw Splinters enter the club. He said good-bye to the bookie, expecting Splinters to come back and tell him how things had gone with Candy. Only, Splinters didn’t do that. Bellying up to the bar, he ordered a rum and coke and clicked his fingers to the music. The DJ liked disco, and Splinters sang along to an old Donna Summers song, having the time of his fucking life.

Rico picked up the phone and called the bar—“Send that asshole back here”—and looked at the TV. Fifty seconds left in the game, and Miami College was down by six. Splinters sauntered in. His starched white shirt was covered in tiny red dots.

“What did you do, cut her fucking head off?”

“I drowned her,” his driver said.

“In the ocean?”

“In the swamps, where we dumped the blackjack dealer.”

“So what’s with the shirt? You cut yourself shaving?”

Splinters glanced at the TV. He knew a little bit of what was going on, and how important Miami College was to the scheme of things. He removed two stacks of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket and dropped them on the desk.

“Where did you get that?”

The phone rang. Rico answered it.

“You’ve got a visitor,” his bartender said.

Rico stared into the mirror. Goofy Gerry Valentine from Brooklyn was sitting at his bar, nursing a Budweiser.
What the hell did he want?

“Tell him I’m not here.”

“He says his father’s in town, wants to set up a meeting.”

“
His father?”

“That’s what he said.”

An alarm went off in Rico’s head. Gerry’s old man had blown up the Mollo brothers in Atlantic City and was not someone to take lightly. “Tell him to come back tomorrow morning.”

The bartender relayed the message. Through the mirror, Rico watched Gerry leave. Splinters started to walk out.

“Tell me where you got the money,” Rico demanded.

“You don’t know?” his driver said.

Rico leaned back in his chair. That was the crazy thing about Cubans; they never answered you directly. “You shot the carny owner,” he guessed.

“His chimp.”

“You shot his chimp?”

“Fucker attacked me.”

Rico massaged his brow with his fingertips. The night before, he’d dreamed he was five years old and visiting the Bronx Zoo with his parents. They’d gotten separated, and Ray Hicks’s chimp had walked out of a cage, taken Rico by the hand, and led him to his mom and dad. Everyone had been smiling, and then Rico woke up.

Through the wall, Rico heard hooting and hollering, the strippers taking turns spinning naked on a barber pole. He removed a leather bag from beneath his desk and tossed Ray Hicks’s money into it. Standing, he shoved the satchel into Splinters’s hands.

“I did good, huh,” his driver said.

Rico looked at the TV. A Miami College player was at the free throw line. He missed both shots. The buzzer sounded, ending the game. In one swift motion, Rico drew his .45 Smith & Wesson and shoved the barrel into the satchel’s folds.

“Not really,” he said, pulling the trigger.