Jasper’s cell phone was vibrating in his pocket. He pulled the phone out, and stared at the face. Mark Perrier, the hotel’s general manager, had sent him a text message: COME TO MY OFFICE! Jasper punched in Perrier’s number, heard Perrier pick up on the first ring.

“What’s going on?” Jasper asked.

“I’m going to close down your fucking tournament,” Perrier informed him.

“I’ll be right up,” Jasper said.

Perrier’s office was on the hotel’s top floor, not big, but with a breathtaking view. Jasper took the private elevator up while staring at the bad carpeting job. The hotel was a big white elephant, and once the newness wore off, its bad location was going to catch up with it. Perrier knew this, so he’d agreed to host the World Poker Showdown.

Perrier was standing by the window when Jasper walked in.

“Have a chair,” the general manager said.

Perrier was a drop of water in an Armani suit, and not the kind of guy Jasper took orders from. He joined him by the window.

“Great view. What’s the problem?”

Perrier’s eyes bore into Jasper’s face with an animallike intensity. “Were you aware that I sicced the police on Valentine?”

“No, but it was a good idea,” Jasper said.

“Do you know why I did that?”

“You wanted him out of the way?”

“I wanted to buy time,” Perrier said.

“To do what?”

“Sit down, and I’ll show you,” Perrier said.

The sitting area in Perrier’s office was dwarfed by his desk, and Jasper wedged himself into the stiff-backed chair that sat in front of it. Perrier went to the DVD player that was part of an entertainment unit, and fiddled with the remote. A flat-screen plasma-TV flickered to life.

“Nice picture,” Jasper said. “That high definition?”

Perrier remained standing, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “When you came to me with this tournament, I knew it wasn’t clean, and that I’d probably have to cover your tracks. That’s why I’ve put up with that mobster Scalzo in my hotel, and why I didn’t say anything when I heard you were using dealers with criminal records. I kept my mouth shut, and cleaned up your mess as best I could. But we’ve got a new mess, a real big one, Karl, and I’m not going to clean it up for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Jasper asked.

Perrier jerked his thumb at the TV screen. “Take a look.”

Jasper squinted at the flickering images on the screen. The picture was grainy black-and-white, and taken from above. “What am I looking at?”

“A surveillance tape.”

Jasper took out his glasses, fitted them on, and squinted at the screen. The tape showed two men standing at the bottom of a stairwell, one black, the other white, the camera’s angle revealing the worried looks on their faces. Jasper stared at the bottom right-hand corner of the tape. It contained the date and time the tape had been recorded, which was at a few minutes past midnight. He felt himself growing restless. “Come on, Mark, what am I looking at?”

Perrier continued looking at the screen. “Here we go.”

On the tape, the door to the stairwell burst open, and a silver-haired man rushed in wielding a handgun. He shot each man in the forehead, then ran out of the picture. It was over in a matter of seconds.

Jasper heard himself exhale. On the tape, the two guys lay dead, blood pooling around their heads. He knew who they were. Hitmen, hired to kill Valentine. Scalzo had said that Valentine had shot them in the stairwell, only now Jasper knew otherwise. It was Scalzo who’d shot them. Jasper rose from his chair.

“Give me a drink,” he said.

Perrier poured Jasper a Scotch on the rocks at the bar. The drink was strong and made Jasper’s mouth burn. They stood by the window, staring into the distance.

“The police asked me about the surveillance camera in the stairwell,” Perrier said, sipping water. “I lied, and told them it didn’t exist.”

“Good move,” Jasper said.

“Maybe. I could tell them I was wrong, and turn the tape over to them. Or, I could destroy the tape. What I do depends on you.”

Jasper stared at Perrier’s reflection in the glass. “How so?”

“The tournament is a winner, and everyone wants it to continue. But there’s a hitch. We have a mobster running around killing people in the hotel. I want you to make the mobster go away.”

“I can’t do that,” Jasper said.

“No?”

“He’s my partner. He put up the cash.”

“Make him go away, anyway.”

“How? You saw what kind of person he is.”

“That’s your problem. All I’m doing is giving you an out,” Perrier said. “If I turn over the tape to the police, you and Scalzo will go to jail, and the World Poker Showdown will go up in flames. Your career and everything you’ve worked for will be ruined. You don’t want that, do you?”

Jasper took a gulp of his drink. His stomach was empty and the booze went down hard. It made him nauseous, and he felt cold beads of sweat march down his neck. He’d always wondered what his day of reckoning would feel like, and now he knew.

“No,” Jasper heard himself say.

“The tournament is a huge success. Get rid of the mobster.”

Jasper nodded stiffly. The tournament was making money, so he was being given another chance. It was better than the alternative, he supposed.

“Okay,” Jasper said.

27

Leaving police headquarters, Bill Higgins drove Valentine back to Celebrity. The freeway was jammed with traffic, and Valentine sat in the passenger seat with his window cracked, staring at a cloudless sky and leaden sun.

“There’s one part of this case that I can’t figure out,” Valentine said.

“What’s that?” Bill asked.

“Why haven’t you run George Scalzo out of Las Vegas? Nevada has spent twenty-five years cleaning up its image of being controlled by the mob, yet this guy runs around town like he’s Teflon-coated. I don’t get it.”

Eyes glued to the car in front of him, Bill emitted an exasperated breath. “I’ve tried to run him out.”

“Did someone stop you?”

Bill nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

“Mind telling me who?”

“Call them the powers that be,” Bill said.

Valentine knew that the rules were different in Vegas. There were only a handful of ways to make money in the desert, and right and wrong sometimes got a little fuzzy.

“But the guy’s a crook,” Valentine argued.

“Scalzo is a reputedcrook,” Bill said. Traffic was moving, and he inched the car ahead. “The fact is, he’s never spent a day in jail, never been convicted of a crime, has paid his income taxes every year, and enjoys all the freedoms and protections of every other law-abiding citizen. He’s just as entitled to come here as you are.”

“But he’s helping his nephew scam the tournament,” Valentine said.

“Trust me, Tony, I’ve told everyone who’ll listen that I think Scalzo and Skip DeMarco are up to no good.”

“And?”

“Everyone asks me what the scam is. I say I don’t know, and they change the subject.”

“But you and I both knowthat they’re cheating. Together, we’ve got over fifty years’ experience catching cheaters. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Traffic again halted and Bill slammed on his brakes. Moments later, a motorcyclist driving on the white line in the highway sped past, mocking them. Bill watched the motorcyclist with a disgusted look on his face, then faced his friend.

“When it comes to Scalzo and DeMarco, it doesn’t mean shit,” Bill said.

“How’s your blood pressure?” Bill asked as they climbed the stairs to Celebrity’s surveillance control room on the third floor.

“A little high,” Valentine admitted.

“So’s mine. My doctor wants me to monitor my blood pressure regularly. I bought one of those machines from CVS. You should think about doing the same thing.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. It’s a silent killer.”

They had reached the third floor and Valentine was puffing. He walked two miles a day, and kept in good shape. Maybe he wasstressed out. Perhaps it had some thing to do with George Scalzo and his nephew robbing the joint blind. Or perhaps it was that this was his fifth day in Vegas, and the town had become transparent. They marched down the hallway to the steel door at the end where the surveillance control room was housed. A security camera was perched above the door, and Bill knocked loudly, then peered up into its lenses.