“I already asked the hotel,” Longo said.

“And?”

“They said there isn’t a surveillance camera in the stairwell,” Longo said. “It’s optional under state law to have cameras in stairwells, and they didn’t do it.”

“Who told you that?” Bill asked.

Longo swallowed a rising lump in his throat. “Mark Perrier.”

“Perrier fed you that line of bullshit?”

“How do you know it’s bullshit?” Longo asked.

“Because any door leading off the main lobby of a casino, or its hotel, must have a working surveillance camera according to Nevada state law,” Bill said. “The stairwell where those two scumbags got plugged was right off the lobby. Celebrity couldn’t have gotten a license to operate its casino if there wasn’t a camera in there.”

“But why would Perrier lie?” Longo asked.

Bill finally did his push-up. He worked out religiously, and looked like he could do a hundred of them. “I don’t know, Pete, why don’t you ask him?”

Rubbing his wrist, Valentine walked out of Longo’s office and followed Bill past a warren of detective’s offices to the main reception area. In one office, a black pimp was getting processed by the detective who’d arrested him. The pimp wore flashy clothes and enough gold jewelry to open a pawn shop. Seeing Bill, he threw up his arms.

“I need you, man,” the pimp said.

Bill stopped in the open doorway. “What did you say to me?”

“I said I need you. You know, your services.”

Both of the pimp’s wrists were cuffed to his chair, a sure sign he was a threat. On the desk were his personal belongings, which included an enormous wad of cash and a handful of hundred-dollar black casino chips.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bill asked.

The pimp glanced sideways at the detective who’d busted him, then looked at Bill. “I heard you chewing out that mother down the hall. You sound like you know your stuff. What’s your going rate?”

“You think I’m a lawyer?”

The pimp acted startled. “You’re not?”

Bill marched into the office. Grabbing the chips off the desk, he began peeling back the paper logo on each one. Valentine guessed Bill was looking for the microchip that casinos were required to put in chips over twenty dollars in value. The pimp’s chips didn’t have the microchips, and Bill shoved them into the arresting detective’s face.

“These are counterfeits,” Bill said. “Nail this ass-hole.”

Part III

Deadman’s Hand

25

Lou Preston had struck gold.

The director of surveillance for Bally’s Atlantic City casino had contacted the island’s eleven other casinos, and persuaded them to search their digital databases for any blackjack players who’d recently beaten them and who’d been wearing New York Yankees baseball caps. The search had turned up forty-eight players, all of whom were between the ages of forty and sixty and of Italian descent. Casinos kept records on players who won a thousand dollars or more, and each of these players fell into that category.

As the casinos e-mailed pictures of the players to Preston, Lou projected them onto the wall of video monitors in Bally’s surveillance control room. Gerry, Eddie Davis, and Joey Marconi stood in front of the wall, drinking coffee the color of transmission fluid while watching a montage of sleaze take shape before them.

“These guys give Italians a bad name,” Marconi said.

Gerry sipped his drink, his eyes floating from face to face. The Mafia’s great strength was also its great weakness. The mob didn’t let in outsiders, and consequently there were no women, Asians, blacks, or Hispanics in their ranks. It was all mean-faced, middle-aged Italians with fifties haircuts who tended to stick out like sore thumbs.

He tossed his coffee cup into the trash. His father was always saying that people got what was coming to them. He’d never believed that, especially when it came to crime, but now had a feeling his father was right. George Scalzo was about to get what was coming to him.

He went to the master console where Preston sat. Lou had gotten the directors of surveillance of the other casinos to send him any notes they had on the men whose faces were on the monitors. Surveillance technicians kept copious notes during their shifts, and wrote down anything that was deemed unusual.

“Anything interesting?” Gerry asked.

“All of these guys refused Player’s Cards when they were offered to them,” Preston said. “That’s not normal.”

It was standard practice for casinos to offer gamblers Player’s Cards. The card entitled the person to receive complimentary meals and show tickets and even rooms if their business was strong enough.

“Guess they didn’t want to hand over their identification,” Gerry said.

“My thoughts exactly,” Preston said. “Forty-eight players, all refusing comps. What do you think the odds of that are?”

“Pretty astronomical,” Gerry said.

Preston picked up the gaffed Yankees cap lying on the console. There was a can of soda beside it, which he also picked up. “It’s one more piece of evidence that these players are part of a massive conspiracy to defraud Atlantic City’s casinos.”

“So let’s find out who they are, and arrest them.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

“What do you mean?”

Preston killed the can and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The police don’t have a digital database like we do. It would take hundreds of hours for them to figure out who these guys are, maybe more.”

“Won’t they do that?”

Preston rubbed his face tiredly. “They would if they had the manpower. The island’s high crime rate isn’t going down anytime soon. The police won’t pull officers off the street to do photo matches.”

Gerry felt his spirits sink. Ruining Scalzo’s Atlantic City operation was the sweetest payback he could think of. He stared at a montage of faces on the video wall.

“I can find out who they are,” Gerry said.

Preston sat up straight in his chair. “You can?”

“Yeah. Ever heard of a guy named Vinny Fountain?”

“Vinny ‘the Sleazy Weasel’ Fountain? Sure.”

“I know him. Vinny’s rubbed elbows with mob guys his entire life. I’ll get their names from Vinny, and the police can find out where they live. My father told me that once the police know where a cheater lives, he’s history.”

“That’s true,” Preston said. “The cops will stake out the cheater’s house. When the cheater goes to a casino, the cops alert the casino, and the casino follows him around with surveillance cameras. Once he makes his move, they pounce.”

“So we’ll screw Scalzo’s gang that way,” Gerry said.

“Are you sure Vinny will help you?” Preston asked. “Generally speaking, hoods won’t rat out other hoods.”

Gerry and Vinny Fountain had nearly died in a warehouse on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Gerry’s father had rescued them, and Vinny owed Gerry’s father his life. Gerry had no problem calling in that marker.

“He’ll help,” Gerry said.

Harold’s House of Pancakes was an Atlantic City institution. Of the two hundred restaurants that had once flourished on the island’s north end, Harold’s was one of the last standing. It served greasy breakfast food all day, its signature egg dish called “the whore’s special” by locals. Marconi pulled into the parking lot, and grabbed a spot by the front door. Davis, who rode shotgun, turned to look at Gerry in back.

“I don’t like you going in there alone,” Davis said.

“You want to check the place out first?” Gerry asked. “Be my guest.”

Davis climbed out and went inside. The way he was moving, you wouldn’t know he’d gotten his back sliced open while dodging a bullet a few hours ago. It was the one characteristic about cops that Gerry had always admired. Davis reappeared moments later. “Your friend’s in a booth in the back.”

Gerry got out of the car, wondering how Davis had made Vinny. The answer became obvious as he entered the restaurant. The girls were out in force, and Vinny was the only male in the place. Prostitution was a part of Atlantic City’s culture, and had only gotten worse with the casinos. He slid into Vinny’s booth.