Authors: James Swain
“Have a seat,” Bill said.
Valentine sat across from the desk and watched Bill rub his face with his hands. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble was predominantly gray. He was up for retirement in a few years, and Valentine guessed he’d take the same route as most Gaming Control Board directors—to the private sector, where he’d make three times the salary and deal with half the headaches. He lowered his hands, and Valentine saw that his eyes were bloodshot.
“You and I go back a long time,” Bill said. He let the statement hang for a few seconds. Then he said, “I’m about to tell you some things that could get me fired.”
“I appreciate that.”
Bill put his weight on his elbows and leaned forward. “Remember that letter you wrote two years ago, criticizing the FBI for demanding that every casino in the country start profiling Middle Eastern gamblers?”
“Sure.”
“Do you remember why the FBI asked the casinos to do that?”
Valentine dredged his memory. “There were two reasons. The first was that the FBI had information about a Middle Eastern gambler in the U.S. with ties to the 9/11 attackers. The second was that a Middle Eastern man was seen the morning of 9/11 about a mile from the White House. He showed a gas station manager a five-thousand-dollar casino chip. The manager thought it was suspicious, and reported it.
“The FBI thought the two stories might be linked. They asked the casinos to play Big Brother, and scrutinize every Middle Eastern gambler. I heard about it, wrote the FBI a letter, and reminded them there are five million Middle Easterners in the U.S. Profiling every one who plays in a casino is a waste of time.”
“You’re aware the FBI dropped the idea.”
“Yes. What does this have to do with my son?”
“The FBI found the guy,” Bill said. “Your son’s been seen with him.”
Valentine thought back to Gerry’s description of Amin and Pash.
“Jesus,” he said aloud.
There was a stack of photographs lying on Bill’s desk. Bill flipped the top one over. It was a surveillance shot of a Middle Eastern man, early thirties, playing blackjack. “This guy popped up in a homicide investigation in Biloxi last month. He befriended a gambler he met in a casino, used the guy’s credit card to buy stuff, then skipped town when things got hot. Before he ran, he murdered the guy and tried to make it look like a suicide.
“A homicide detective saw similarities in the case to another gambler suicide in Biloxi. Thinking he might have a serial killer on his hands, he sent the information to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Division. The FBI matched the case to four other gambler suicides they’d been investigating in Reno, Atlantic City, New Orleans, and Detroit.
“The FBI showed the photograph to the gas station manager in Washington. He confirmed that it was the same guy he’d seen the morning of 9/11. The FBI sent the photograph to every casino in the country, asked them to be on the lookout.”
Bill flipped over a second photograph. It showed two people standing outside a Strip casino called Excalibur. One was the Middle Eastern man, wearing shades and a baseball cap. Beside him was a pretty blond woman.
“Last week, a casino here spotted the guy and alerted the FBI,” Bill said.
Valentine pointed at the blonde. “That the stripper who was murdered?”
“Yes.”
Bill flipped over the last photograph on the desk. Valentine stared at it, and felt his face grow flush. It was the same man, this time wearing an elaborate disguise. He was sitting at a blackjack table. In the seat next to him was Gerry.
“This photograph was taken last night at the MGM Grand. The FBI believes your son is in mortal danger. They also think you’re protecting him. Fuller called me a little while ago. I told him that if you promised you’d bring Gerry in, you would.”
Valentine struggled for something to say.
“No need to thank me,” Bill said. “This can’t be easy for you.”
“How does Fontaine figure into this?”
Bill frowned. “The FBI got a hold of this guy’s phone bills and discovered he has a network of associates around the country. They listened to some calls and realized he was talking in a complicated code. Fontaine is a master at cracking ciphers, so the FBI sprang him out of prison. I was against the idea.”
Valentine looked at the clock on Bill’s desk. It was a few minutes past nine. It was going to take fifteen minutes to reach the Jokers Wild, and he didn’t want to be late. His son had gotten into trouble before, but never anything like this.
He rose from his chair. Bill stood as well, and handed him the surveillance photograph taken outside the Excalibur.
“You didn’t get that from me,” he said.
Valentine folded the photograph and put it in his pocket. “The FBI think I’m somehow involved because I wrote that letter two years ago, and then my son shows up with this guy.”
“I told Fuller it was a coincidence.”
“Did he believe you?”
Bill shrugged. “Hard to say what Fuller believes. He’s paranoid. He’s gotten the bureau all screwed up because of it.”
“You’re telling me,” Valentine said.
Bill started to walk him out of the study. Valentine stopped in the doorway. The frozen face on Bill’s TV had finally struck a bell.
“That’s Karl King,” he said.
Bill walked back into the room. “Know him?”
“He’s a card-counter. One of the best.”
“You’re kidding. He hardly ever looks at his cards.”
Valentine found the remote and resumed the tape. He stared at the other players, then the spectators standing behind the table. A regular joe smoking a cigar caught his eye. He stood behind King stiff as a statue. Counters had come up with many ways to camouflage their skills. Valentine said, “The guy with the cigar is doing the counting and passing the information to King.”
“How?”
“He has a computer strapped to his leg. See how he’s got his hand stuck in his pocket? He’s entering the cards’ values into the computer.”
Bill stared at the screen. “How’s he passing the information?”
“The computer does that with a radio signal. King wears a transmitter in his ear. The information is sent by Morse code.”
“But the casino’s RF detector didn’t pick anything up,” Bill said.
Every casino had an RF detector. Used to detect illegal radio frequencies on the casino floor, they were pointed down at the players from the ceiling.
“The signal is going through the back of King’s chair,” Valentine explained. “That’s why the RF detector isn’t catching it. The frequency is too short.”
“How do you know so much about this?”
“I busted King’s students a few months ago.”
“His students?”
“He’s a professor at MIT.”
Bill walked him to the front door of the house. They shook hands, and Valentine thanked him for his help. Bill had a funny look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Valentine said.
“How do I stop King?” Bill said, clearly exasperated. “I can’t tell the casinos to have security walk the floor and point RF detectors at everyone.”
Valentine slapped his friend on the back. Sometimes the most obvious solutions were the ones everybody missed.
“Change the chairs the players sit in to ones with solid backs,” he said. “That should put an end to it.”
35
L
eaving Bill’s neighborhood, Valentine turned his rental rightonto Las Vegas Boulevard. In the distance, he could see the neon spectacle that was Las Vegas at night, the casinos burning up hundreds of thousands of kilowatts trying to outshine each other.
Traffic was bumper to bumper, and he crawled ahead while staring at a green laser beam coming out of the tip of a pyramid-shaped casino called Luxor, the light ruining an otherwise flawless sky. Turning on the car’s interior light, he removed the surveillance picture from his pocket and drove with it on the steering wheel.
Was it his fault that this guy hadn’t been caught? He hated to think that it was, but still didn’t believe the FBI’s approach had been the correct one. Profiling people based on skin color was a throwback to the dark ages. There were better ways to catch criminals.
He drove with the picture on the steering wheel, staring him in the face.
At nine twenty-five he pulled into the Jokers Wild parking lot. The casino sat on a deserted stretch of the Boulder Highway. A rinky-dink marquee boasted nickel slot machines and single-deck blackjack.
He ventured inside. There was a theater just off the lobby. People were lined up for the nine-thirty show. Had Gerry said he’d meet him by the theater, or inside? He didn’t remember, and decided to stick his head inside the casino.
The gaming area was a low-ceilinged room with enough cigarette smoke to make breathing dangerous. It was packed, and he elbowed his way through to a pair of double doors. Opening them, he entered a bingo parlor. A caller in a plaid jacket stood on the stage.
“Folks,” the caller said, “it’s time to get up from your seats. Come on, you can do it. Don’t want the support hose to cut off our circulation!”
Valentine returned to the lobby. Gerry had said that he wanted him to see an act in the theater. He’d made it sound like something special. Was his son already inside, waiting for him? He bought a ticket and went in.
The theater was filled with rough-looking people chugging beers. He walked up and down the aisles but didn’t see his son. The lights dimmed, and he went and stood by the exit. Over the PA, a man’s booming voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Jokers Wild, the entertainment capital of Las Vegas—”
“Right!” a guy in the audience with a ponytail yelled.
“—and maybe the world. Tonight we’re proud to introduce two premier novelty acts. Get ready to laugh and be amazed, to hold your sides and not believe your eyes. The show is about to begin!”
“Get on with it,” Ponytail yelled.
“Our first act is a man who needs no introduction. You’ve seen him on Johnny Carson, heard his voice in a hundred TV commercials. Here he is, the master of mirth, the one, the only . . . Hambone!”
A spotlight hit center stage. The crowd did its best to make some noise. An old guy with a face like a basset hound shuffled out. Walking into the spotlight, he shielded his eyes with his hand.
“Turn that fucking thing down,” he hollered.
The spotlight dimmed, and the old guy lowered his hand. He wore a tuxedo, or rather the tuxedo wore him, his shoulders sagging so badly that it seemed his clothes were the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.
“So how you folks doing this evening?” he asked.
“Better than you,” Ponytail replied.
Hambone threw his arms out in surprise. “Holy cow! I didn’t know this was Jerry Springer! Hey buddy, you ever help a comic before?”
“No!”
“Well, you’re not helping one now. Shut up!”
The crowd started laughing. Valentine saw a man enter the theater, and he tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around. It wasn’t Gerry.
“Sorry.”
“A funny thing happened on the way to the show,” Hambone said. “I got here! But seriously folks, it’s tough when you’ve got Celine Dion singing down the street. Anyone know how much money she’s making a week?”
“Two million bucks,” someone said.
“Two million bucks,” Hambone repeated. “But it’s not steady!”
A woman in a red dress appeared on stage. She wore her hair like Snow White and weighed about two hundred pounds. Holding up an envelope, she said, “Telegram for Hambone!”
“That’s me,” the comic said. Snatching the envelope, he tore it open. “It’s from the William Morris Agency. Oh, boy. It says, Hambone—stop. Saw the act—stop, stop, stop, stop . . .” He crunched the telegram into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. “Everyone’s a comic!” Turning to his assistant, he said, “What’s your name?”
“Twiggy.” She had a voice like air slowly escaping from a balloon. “Hambone, is it true you were once a boxer?”
“That’s right.”
“How many fights did you have?”
“A hundred and one.”
“How many did you win?”
“All but a hundred.”
“Ever make any extra money boxing?”
“Sure. I sold advertising space on the soles of my shoes.”
“I heard you had back trouble.”
“It’s true. I had a yellow streak up and down my back.”
“Why did you quit?”
“Couldn’t make hospital expenses.”
It wasn’t long before the crowd turned hostile. Arm in arm with his assistant, Hambone shuffled off stage, immune to the audience’s taunts and jeering. Valentine checked the time. Nine forty-five. He would give his son fifteen more minutes, then drive to Henderson and start looking for him.
There was something wrong with the curtains, and the next act had to set up in front of the audience. Valentine found himself smiling as Ray Hicks and Mr. Beauregard, the world’s smartest chimpanzee, came on stage. Two months ago, Hicks had saved his life in Florida, and they had become friends. This was why Gerry had picked the Jokers Wild to meet, he realized. To surprise him.
Hicks wore a canary-yellow sports jacket, baggy black pants, and a porkpie hat. He was funny looking, only no one in the audience was paying attention to him. They were looking at Mr. Beauregard, who wore a magnificent tux with a shiny satin cummerbund. As the chimp glided across the stage on roller skates, his eyes settled on Valentine’s face. A happy noise came out of his mouth.
“Good evening,” Hicks said, holding a microphone. “My name is Ray Hicks, and this is Mister Beauregard. Several years ago, while traveling with my carnival in Louisiana, I found Mister Beauregard in a pet shop, abused and underfed. I bought him for five hundred dollars.”
“Louisiana?” Ponytail shouted. “They shoot mad dogs there, don’t they?”
“I planned to teach Mister Beauregard a few simple tricks,” Hicks went on, “and put him in my carnival. But when I tried to train him, I discovered that Mister Beauregard had already been to school.”
A large chest sat stage center. It was the act’s only prop, and the chimp flipped open the lid and removed a beat-up ukulele. He strummed the instrument with his thumbless hand.
“Someone name a song, any song,” Hicks proclaimed.