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 whyhe 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
The 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—”