“Where are you?” his son asked.

“In the middle of nowhere,” Valentine said. “Scalzo is out of the picture. Case closed.”

“No, it’s not,” Gerry said.

Valentine put his coffee cup down. He sensed his son knew something that he didn’t. “What do you mean? Why isn’t the case over?”

“Because DeMarco just won the World Poker Showdown,” Gerry said.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Afraid not. He started out losing a few hands, and everyone at the table was equal in chips. DeMarco looked beatable. Then he came back strong and wiped his opponents out.”

“Was he cheating?”

“No, Pop. There was a new dealer at the table and a new deck of cards. DeMarco played the final table on the square. It was really something to watch.”

Gloria came out of the ladies’ room looking pale. She sat next to him at the bar and ordered a sparkling water. Valentine asked, “What do you mean, Gerry?”

“DeMarco took a lot of chances, even bluffed a couple of times. I hate to say it, Pop, but he’s a helluva poker player.”

“You think so? He didn’t just get lucky?”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Gerry said. “Pop, I need to beat it. They’re about to give DeMarco his prize, and I want to hear what he has to say.”

Valentine said good-bye and folded the phone. On the TV, the commercial was over, the tournament back on. DeMarco sat at a table surrounded by his ten-million-dollar prize. Dangling off his wrist was the sparkling diamond and platinum bracelet that came with winning the event. Beside him sat the CEO of Celebrity, a ham-faced guy with a loose smile and a loud tie. Clutched in the CEO’s hand was a microphone.

“So, champ,” the CEO said, “how does it feel to beat the best poker players in the world?”

“It feels pretty good,” DeMarco admitted.

“You predicted you’d win the tournament, and you did. Did you come here believing you were the favorite?”

“If I did, I was mistaken,” DeMarco said.

The CEO lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Really?”

“There were plenty of players in the event who could have won.”

“Sounds like winning has humbled you.”

DeMarco tilted his head almost imperceptibly.

“One of the players you knocked out called you a cheater and challenged you to play heads up,” the CEO said. “His name is Rufus Steele, and you agreed to play Steele if he could raise a million dollars. I’m told that Steele has raised the money and is itching to take you on. Are you still up for playing him?”

DeMarco straightened in his chair and his face turned expressionless. He’d just beaten the best players in the world, and adrenaline was pumping through his veins. But Steele was a different animal. Steele didn’t want his money. He wanted revenge.

“Bring him on,” DeMarco said, the swagger returning to his voice.

“When?”

“How about right now?”

“You sound ready for a fight,” the CEO said.

“No disrespect, but Rufus Steele is past his prime, and I’m entering mine,” DeMarco said. “I’ll play him anytime, anywhere.”

“Eieee!” Gloria said, jumping up from her chair at the bar. The color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes were blazing. “This is my story! Come on!”

They were speeding down the highway toward Celebrity when Valentine’s cell phone started vibrating. He’d been the last person he knew to buy a cell phone, and now he couldn’t live without one. He stared at the phone’s face. CALLER UNKNOWN.

“Valentine here,” he answered.

“Hey pardner,” Rufus Steele’s voice rang out. “You anywhere near the hotel?”

“I’m about five minutes away.”

“Good,” Steele said. “I just agreed to play that punk DeMarco. I threw in a little stipulation, just to keep things honest.”

“What kind of stipulation?”

“You’re the dealer,” Steele said.

49

Gloria Curtis hadn’t lasted twenty-five years as a newscaster by being a wallflower. Upon reaching the hotel, she cornered the tournament director and convinced him to let her announce DeMarco and Steele’s showdown, then persuaded the hotel’s general manager to let the event be played in the poker room. Once that was arranged, she hit every bar and restaurant in the hotel, rustled up a few dozen well-known players still hanging around, and talked them into sitting ringside.

“You really know how to set a stage,” Valentine said, shuffling the cards at the table where the match was to be held.

Gloria stood beside him with a pencil stuck between her teeth, studying the room. Removing the pencil, she said, “There’s something still missing.”

“What’s that?”

“Steele will be dressed up, and so will DeMarco. I think you need to be dressed up as well.”

With the tournament now over, he’d switched out of his geezer disguise and was wearing his last clean shirt and sports jacket. “What do you want me to change into?”

“A dealer’s uniform,” she said.

A dealer’s uniform consisted of a white ruffled tuxedo shirt, a black bow tie, and a black vest. It was a monkey suit, sans the jacket.

“You’re going to be on television and need to look the part,” she added.

“You’re the boss,” he said.

He left the table and found the tournament director, and got directions to the employee dressing rooms, which were at the far end of the lobby behind an unmarked door. He knocked loudly, and a male dealer opened the door. The dealer was about his size but heavier, and Valentine asked him if he’d be interested in renting his uniform. The dealer seemed amused by his request.

“You doing this on a bet?” the dealer asked.

“To impress a woman,” Valentine said.

“I figured it was one or the other. Sure, I’ll rent you my uniform.”

Valentine paid the dealer a hundred bucks, and the dealer took him to his locker, where a fresh set of clothes hung. Valentine stripped and put the dealer’s clothes on, then looked at himself in a mirror. The vest was too large, the shirt too tight, and the bow tie made him look silly. Otherwise, it was perfect.

“Thanks a lot,” he told the dealer.

He returned to the poker room tugging at his collar. Gerry was standing by the doorway waiting for him, and appraised his new wardrobe.

“Table for two, please,” his son said.

“Very funny,” Valentine said.

“You’d better hurry. They’re ready to start.”

Valentine went to the table and stood behind his chair. Close to fifty spectators had ringed the table with chairs, and he spied the Greek, Marcy Baldwin, and several suckers whom Rufus had fleeced sitting front row. The rest of the crowd consisted primarily of old-timers with chiseled faces who’d come to cheer Rufus on.

Steele stood at one end of the table, puffing away on a cigarette. He wore a scarlet United States Cavalry shirt buttoned diagonally from waist to shoulder, and his Stetson sported an ostrich feather in its band.

“Hey pardner,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Valentine replied.

DeMarco stood at the other end of the table dressed in a bilious gold shirt, opened to the middle of his hairless chest, and black designer slacks. He’d rolled back his right sleeve, exposing his champion bracelet.

Gloria stood directly between the two participants, mike in hand. She did a sound check with Zack, then began. “Good afternoon, everyone. This is Gloria Curtis, coming to you from the poker room in Celebrity Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. To my right stands Skip DeMarco, newly crowned champion of the World Poker Showdown. To my left, Rufus Steele, one of the greatest players in the history of the sport. These two gentlemen are about to play for two million dollars. Before we start, I’d like to ask each participant to give us a few words.”

Gloria moved toward DeMarco, shoving the mike beneath his chin. “Skip? Would you care to say something?”

“Age before beauty,” DeMarco said.