“I recognize this tape,” Gloria said, still kneeling beside Sammy’s chair. “This is a game between the Wisconsin Badgers and the Las Vegas Rebels played here in Vegas a few years ago, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Sammy said. “You like college football?”

“I’ve covered it for years,” she said. “This game was a big upset. The Rebels were heavy favorites, but the Badgers ran them all over the field and won by twenty points. If I remember correctly, something odd happened at the very end of the game.”

Sammy raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Yes?”

“The lights in the stadium went out, and the game was awarded to the Badgers,” Gloria said. “I don’t think that’s ever happened in a college football game before.”

“First time it ever happened,” Sammy said. He pointed at the screen. “Watch.”

On the screen, a team of guys in red jerseys were playing a team of guys in white. The white team was getting the worst of it and looked ready for the showers. A healthy-sized crowd was cheering the red team on. Suddenly the stadium lights flickered, then went out altogether, throwing both teams into darkness. The action on the football field stopped, with no one knowing what to do.

The tape ended and the screen went dark. Sammy shifted his gaze to the window, his eyes fixed on the casinos lining the strip. “People think this is a gambling town, but it’s not,” he said. “Las Vegas does not gamble. Never has, and never will. Take the Foreman fight. This city hosts a hundred boxing matches a year. Nobody cares who wins, or loses. Except if there’s a lot of money on the fight. Then everyonecares.

“Axel Schultz beat George Foreman silly that night. Every journalist and sports writer who was there said so. But the judges gave the fight to Big George. Why do you think they did that?”

“Because a lot of German tourists came to the fight, and bet heavily on their boy to win,” Valentine said.

“That was one reason,” Sammy said. “There’s another.”

“I know,” Gloria said. “George Foreman was a huge draw, and Axel Schultz wasn’t. If the judges gave the fight to Schultz, he’d take the belt home to Germany, and Las Vegas would lose out.”

Sammy nodded. “Very good. By denying Schultz the title, Las Vegas didn’t lose any big fights.”

“What about the football game,” Valentine said. “What happened there?”

“Seventeen thousand Wisconsin fans were in town for that game, and bet heavily on the Badgers to beat the Rebels,” Sammy said.

“But the Badgers didbeat the Rebels,” Gloria said.

“Yes, but the Wisconsin fans didn’t collect,” Sammy said. “Las Vegas’s sports books have an unusual rule. If a football game is stopped with more than four minutes left to play, the game is considered no contest, and everyone’s money is returned. When the stadium lights went out, there were more than four minutes left on the clock.”

“So the lights were turned out on purpose,” Gloria said.

Sammy nodded.

“That’s unethical,” Gloria said.

“No one out here saw it that way,” Sammy said. “Just smart business. You’re probably asking yourself, what does this have to do with the World Poker Showdown? The answer is simple. Every casino boss in town knows DeMarco’s cheating. But if he’s exposed, it will hurt their business. So the town is going to let it slide until the tournament is over. After that, it will get cleaned up.”

“But what about the other players in the tournament? Or the fans?” Gloria asked, unable to hide the indignation in her voice. “Don’t they matter?”

Sammy shook his head sadly. Valentine pushed himself off the couch. Las Vegas doesn’t gamble.It was another way of saying that Las Vegas wasn’t in the business of losing. He supposed someone had to pay for all those fancy casinos and flashing neon signs. He shook Sammy’s hand and thanked him for his time, then escorted Gloria out of the apartment.

36

Gerry 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.

“ Ifthe 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.