“I want you to stay here. Someone needs to watch DeMarco, and make sure he doesn’t continue to cheat the tournament.”

His son started to protest, then bit his lip. “Okay, Pop. But you’ve got to promise me you’ll stay out of trouble. You scare me sometimes.”

There was real concern in his son’s voice. Valentine gave him a hug then jumped into Gloria’s car.

In a hurry to get out of her spot, Gloria ran over the curb and burned rubber pulling away. At the bottom of the exit she hit the brakes and looked both ways.

“Which way did they go?” she asked.

Valentine hopped out of the car, climbed on the hood of the rental, then got back in and pointed to his right. “That way.”

She gunned the accelerator and the rental flew down the road. Celebrity was on the southwest side of Las Vegas in an area that had not yet felt the wrath of bulldozers and earthmovers. It was still desert and sage brush; the land stretched out like an artist’s canvas. Gloria got a quarter mile behind the Mercedes and slowed the rental to sixty-five. Valentine tried Bill again, and got another busy signal.

Several miles passed. Then a sign for a regional airport popped up.

“He must have a plane waiting for him,” Gloria said.

She sped up. The Mercedes pulled into the airport entrance, but instead of driving toward the main cluster of buildings, took a dusty gravel side road. Gloria followed, the rental lurching like a carnival ride. The Mercedes went a mile up the gravel road, then disappeared behind a mold-colored hangar.

“Park next to the hangar,” Valentine said.

“Shouldn’t I follow them?”

“No. They might have guns.”

She parked and they hopped out, went to the corner of the hangar, and stuck their heads around. Several hundred yards away, the Mercedes was parked beside a deserted runway, with Jasper, Scalzo, and the bodyguard standing in the tall grass, a sharp wind blowing in their faces and making their hair stand on end.

“Where’s the plane?” Gloria asked.

“They must be waiting for it to land. I wish I could see their faces.”

Gloria went to the rental, and returned holding a camera with a zoom lens. “It’s Zack’s,” she explained.

He took the camera and extended the lens, then looked across the field. Scalzo was shouting at Jasper and looked like he wanted to kill someone. Valentine remembered running Scalzo out of Atlantic City years ago, and the ugly scene Scalzo had made while being escorted out of town. Scalzo was a monster when things didn’t go his way.

“There it is,” Gloria said, pointing at the sky.

A small plane circled the airport, throwing an elusive shadow over the men. Grabbing a suitcase, Scalzo walked to the end of the runway and stared up at the sky, shielding his eyes with his hand. The plane did another pass, then flew away and disappeared in the clouds.

Scalzo turned and shook his fist at Jasper, like it was his fault the plane hadn’t landed. Jasper drew a silver-plated gun from his sports jacket and pointed it at the mobster. Scalzo looked to his bodyguard, as if expecting him to deal with Jasper. Only the bodyguard had turned his back and was looking in the opposite direction.

Jasper fired three times, the explosive sound swallowed up by the wind. The bullets hit Scalzo squarely in the chest and blew holes in his shirt. Scalzo staggered backward and brought his hand up to his heart. He touched himself, came away with a bloody hand, then looked up at the sky and punched the air. Crumpling to the ground, he lay motionless on his back.

“Oh my God,” Gloria said. “Is he dead?”

Valentine watched as the bodyguard removed a blanket from the Mercedes’ trunk and covered his boss. Then the bodyguard took a shovel from the trunk and started to dig a hole. “It sure looks that way. You’d better get back in the car.”

The bodyguard was covered in sweat by the time he’d finished digging. He dragged Scalzo across the ground by his ankles, then laid him in the hole and covered him with dirt. Finished, he smoothed the ground with the shovel’s edge. Jasper did not help, but leaned against the Mercedes and smoked a cigarette while staring at the ground.

The bodyguard stood over the grave and crossed himself. Valentine put the camera down and started to walk away. As he did, a shiny glint caught his eye. It came from the other side of the field, next to a storage shed with pieces of plywood nailed across its windows. He lifted the camera and had a look.

Two men stood in the building’s long shadow. Both were tall and in their late thirties, with short-cropped hair and dark, off-the-rack suits. They had law enforcement written all over them. A car was parked beside them, and sunlight had crept over the building’s roof and caught the car’s windshield. Valentine adjusted the camera lens and read the car’s license plate. He memorized it, then hustled over to Gloria’s rental and hopped into the passenger seat.

“Time to get out of Dodge?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

Gloria made the tires spin on the gravel. Soon they were traveling down the highway and heading back toward Celebrity. She chewed her lower lip as she drove, the memory of Scalzo’s murder not easy to digest. Valentine took out his cell phone and again tried Bill’s number. This time the call went through.

“Higgins here.”

“I need a favor,” Valentine said.

“Name it,” Bill replied.

“I need you to check out a license plate number for me. ZH1 4L7. I think the plate might be government issued.”

“How soon do you need this?”

“As fast as you can,” Valentine said.

Bill hung up and Valentine did the same. Gloria was looking in her mirror, and he spun around in his seat. There was no one behind them.

“I’m just a little paranoid,” she said.

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said.

Two minutes later his cell phone vibrated and he stared at its face. It was Bill.

“Find anything?” he said by way of a greeting.

“You were right,” Bill said. “The car belongs to the FBI’s office in Las Vegas.”

“Thanks, Bill. Thanks a lot.”

He hung up. Gloria drove for another few miles in silence, then said, “Are you going to call the police, and tell them that you saw George Scalzo get rubbed out?”

That was a good question. Two FBI agents had watched Scalzo die, and he suspected that the small plane they’d seen circling overhead was also law enforcement. Sammy Mann had said the cheating at the World Poker Showdown would get cleaned up after the tournament ended, and he suspected the people in town who ran things had decided that the process should be sped up.

“They already know,” he said.

48

Gloria did not feel well as she pulled into a roadside bar and grill. They went in and Valentine took a seat at the bar, while she searched for a restroom. Two sunburned guys sat at the other end of the bar, their rugged faces bathed in the artificial light of video poker games. He ordered coffee and stared at the TV perched above the bar. It was tuned to the cable channel showing the World Poker Showdown. A commercial for an online gambling site was on.

The coffee was good and strong. He drank it black and felt it warm his insides. He’d come to the conclusion that everyone on the planet had an addiction. His was caffeine. It got his heart going and made him think more clearly. He hadn’t wanted to see Scalzo get whacked, but wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. He believed in the rule of law, and considered cops and law enforcement people who broke the law in order to put criminals away to be rogues. But he also understood that sometimes the rule of law didn’t work, and people took matters into their own hands. The world was a better place with George Scalzo gone.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. Gerry. There had been times in his life when he hadn’t looked forward to calls from his son. He was happy that had changed. “What’s up?”