“A tush hog is an old-timer’s expression for an enforcer,” Gerry said.

“Is that what I am, an enforcer?”

“You were a professional boxer once, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, but all my fights were in Europe,” Frank said.

“So?”

“No one in the United States saw them. If my fights had been over here, people would be afraid of me, you know?”

“You’re still a tush hog,” Gerry said.

Frank shook his head, not liking it. “It makes it sound like I have a big ass.”

“You do have a big ass,” Nunzie said.

Everyone in the car laughed. Then Frank punched Nunzie in the arm, and the rental crossed the double line on the highway. Suddenly they were driving straight into oncoming traffic. Nunzie spun the wheel, and they recrossed the line to safety.

Gerry released his death grip on the door handle, took a few deep breaths, and felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal. That was the bad thing about working with the Fountain brothers. Everything would be going along just fine; then, without warning, your life was dangling in front of your face.

Vinny told Nunzie to drive to an area of town called Naked City. It was on the north end of Las Vegas, stuck between the strip and Fremont Street, and was filled with sleazy strip clubs, adult bookstores and fetish shops, and run-down massage parlors. Gerry had heard that every business in Naked City had ties to organized crime. The mob had once run the town’s casinos; now they just ran the flesh trade.

Nunzie pulled up to the valet in front of a strip club called the Sugar Shack. The valets were all grown men and not moving terribly fast. Gerry had seen similar setups in strip joints up and down the East Coast. The mob ran the valet concession, and gave jobs to made guys just out of prison.

As they waited for a valet to take their car, Vinny said, “I set up a meeting with Jinky Harris. He owns this joint. He also runs the town’s rackets. I wanted him to know what we were doing out here, make sure he was cool with it.”

“I’ve got a question,” Nunzie said.

“What?”

“If this guy’s so important, how did he get a name like Jinky?”

Vinny reached around the headrest and grabbed Nunzie by the ear. No words were spoken, just a gentle twist of the lower lobe. Nunzie twisted painfully in his seat.

“All right, all right, it was a dumb question,” Nunzie said.

The club’s interior was upscale as far as strip clubs went. On three brightly lit stages, dozens of naked young women pranced and danced and gyrated on brass poles, their bodies showing more silicone than Palo Alto. It was a feast for the eyes, but what got Gerry’s attention was the free buffet laid out on two long tables beside the main bar. He stared longingly at the steaming food while Vinny asked the bartender if the boss was in.

“Who wants to know?” the bartender replied.

“Vinny Fountain and associates,” Vinny replied.

The bartender picked up the house phone and made a call. Gerry continued to stare at the food. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starving. He waited until the guy serving the food turned his head, and tried to pilfer an egg roll.

“The food’s for customers,” a booming voice said.

Gerry looked up into the face of a black guy easily seven feet tall. His head was shaved and the strobe lights in the club danced off his skull. Gerry removed his hand.

“Sorry.”

“As well you should be,” the giant said. “Which one of you is Vinny?”

“I am,” Vinny said.

“Mr. Harris will see you now,” the giant said.

They followed him through a red-beaded curtain, then down a dimly lit hallway to a blue door. As the giant rapped on the door, Nunzie whispered to Frank, “Now, that’s a tush hog.”

Jinky’s office was straight out of the movie Scarface,with thick white carpet, luxurious leather furniture, and ugly wall hangings. The boss sat in a motorized wheelchair behind a massive marble desk. In his fifties, he wore a purple velour tracksuit, had a full beard, and looked wider than he was tall. On the desk were four plates of food from the buffet, along with a tall glass of milk. The sizes of the portions were phenomenal. Jinky shook out a cloth napkin, and tucked it into his collar.

“You’re from Atlantic City?” Jinky asked.

“That’s right,” Vinny said.

“I hate Atlantic City. What can I do for you?”

“We’re in town to settle a score,” Vinny said. “I didn’t want to bother any of your operations.”

Jinky plunged his fork into a steaming mound of chow mein. “A score with who?”

“George Scalzo. He’s scamming World Poker Showdown,” Vinny said.

“George ‘the Tuna’ Scalzo?”

“That’s right.”

“Another New Jersey scumbag. What did Scalzo do to you?”

“He stole something of mine, and killed our friend.”

Jinky twirled the noodles on his fork, then stuck the fork into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then turned to glance at the giant, who stood behind him.

“We got any action at the WPS?” Jinky asked.

“Just the ring games,” the giant replied.

“You rig them?”

“Yeah,” the giant said.

Ring games were the side games at poker tournaments, and usually played for high stakes. By rigging these games, Jinky would make a killing without coming under the scrutiny of the tournament’s rules and regulations.

“Stay away from the ring games,” Jinky told them.

“Won’t touch them,” Vinny said.

Gerry’s stomach emitted a growl. The smell of the food was too much for his digestive system to bear. Jinky dropped his fork onto his plate.

“What, your mother doesn’t feed you?”

Gerry couldn’t believe Jinky was treating them this way. Had Jinky walked into his bar in Brooklyn, he would have shown him a certain level of hospitality. Like a cup of coffee and a chair.

“I caught him stealing an egg roll,” the giant said.

“Don’t ever step into my club again,” Jinky said.

Gerry nearly told him to shove it, but instead removed his baseball cap. “I haven’t eaten all day, and my hunger got the best of me. I meant no disrespect.”

Jinky leaned back in his wheelchair and scratched his beard. If he didn’t accept the apology, he’d look like an ingrate. As the boss, he was supposed to be above that.

“Apology accepted,” Jinky said.

Gerry put his baseball cap back on.

“Now get the hell out of my club, and don’t ever come back.”

Gerry felt like he’d been backhanded across the face. Had the giant not been standing there, he would have said something. He noticed a framed photo sitting on the desk. It showed Jinky holding a plaque outside the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans. Gerry had gone to New Orleans with Yolanda before the baby had been born, and had eaten at the Acme. He remembered seeing the plaque hanging above the main shucking area. He looked at his host.

“I can’t believe it. You’re the guy who ate forty-two dozen oysters at the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans, aren’t you?”

Jinky leaned forward. “Forty-two and a half. You been there?”

“Sure,” Gerry said. “I could only eat two dozen.”

“You like oysters?”

“Love ’em. I also love milk.”

Jinky picked up the glass of milk on the desk. “Me too. Since I was a kid.”

“How much do you drink a day?” Gerry asked.

Jinky counted on his fingers. “Ten glasses, at least.”

“Over a gallon?”

“More than a gallon.”

“Think you could drink a gallon of milk in an hour?”

“With my eyes closed,” Jinky said.

Gerry took his wallet out and removed all his cash, which he tossed on the desk.

“Bet you can’t,” he said.

Hustlers have an expression: “Pigs get fed, hogs get slaughtered.” Gerry had decided that it was time for Jinky to get slaughtered. He was going to pay this bastard back for not showing them any respect, and he was going to do it in a mean way.