Loaded Dice (19 page)

But this cage was in the center of the casino. It was small, with brass bars and cutouts for two cashiers. A sign said
CHANGE FOR SLOT PLAYERS ONLY
. Inside were several hundred plastic buckets filled with quarters and half-dollars.

Valentine found himself smiling. So this was how Fontaine’s gang was getting coins stolen from slot machines out of the casino. They were converting them.

“You got a key for the cage?” he asked Nick.

“Of course I’ve got a key,” Nick said.

“Open it up. I’m about to make you some money.”

Nick fished a key ring from his pocket and opened the cage door. Valentine went in and searched around the cashiers’ chairs. He found two women’s handbags and poured their contents into Nick’s outstretched hands. Both were stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. Nick counted it. Over thirty grand. He grabbed Valentine’s arm and said, “You’re a beautiful human being, you know that?”

“Thanks,” Valentine said.

“Now tell me what was going on here.”

“Fontaine’s gang rigged the scales in the Hard Count room to show less weight,” Valentine said. “Then they stole the difference and brought those coins back into the casino to this cage. The coins were put in buckets and sold to customers, and that money was put in handbags and carried out by the cashiers.”

Nick made a face. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“What’s that?”

“Putting this cage in the center of the casino was Albert Moss’s idea. He said it would make things easier for the little old ladies who played the slots.”

“Little old ladies?”

“Yeah. And I fell for it.”

They shared a good laugh. Hustlers had been using little old ladies in their scams since the beginning of time. And it still worked.

They started to walk out of the casino when Valentine heard his cell phone ring. He pulled it from his pocket and stared at its face.
CALLER UNKNOWN
. He imagined Gerry calling him from a pay phone, and answered it.

“Tony? This is Lucy Price.”

It was the last person he expected to hear from. Saturday night, and she was home alone. “Can I call you right back?”

“Don’t hang up,” she said.

“Look, I’m in the middle of something important.”

“Please don’t hang up.”

He frowned. Hadn’t she told him off a few hours ago?

“Please.”

“Okay, I’m not hanging up.”

She sniffled into the phone. “I-I have someone here who wants to talk to you.”

“Who’s that?”

“Him.”

“Who’s him?”

“Him, goddamn it.”

Valentine thought back to Albert Moss’s remark just before he’d cut him:
Frank’s with your girlfriend.

“Fontaine?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

He looked at Nick and saw the little Greek start to punch the air.

“Put him on,” Valentine said.

30

I
t was pitch dark when he drove his rental into Lucy Price’s neighborhood in Summerlin. Fontaine had threatened to kill her, and Valentine had believed him. Twenty years ago, Fontaine had killed Valentine’s brother-in-law in Atlantic City. Stomped him to death on the Boardwalk while a group of other hoodlums had watched. He was different from any other cheater Valentine had ever known, and a true sociopath.

“Come alone,” he’d said, “or I’ll put a bullet in her head.”

So Valentine had driven to Lucy’s condo by himself. Nick had offered to send a car of security goons for backup, and he was glad he hadn’t taken Nick up on the offer. A few blocks from Lucy’s house, a car parked on the curb put its headlights on and pulled out. He was being tailed.

Her neighborhood was quiet, everyone inside eating dinner. Taking out his cell phone, he retrieved Bill Higgins’s home number from its memory bank and hit
SEND
. His friend answered on the third ring. Valentine quickly told Bill what was going on.

“Don’t go in there alone,” Bill said.

Valentine looked at his watch. Six fifty-four. Fontaine had told him to arrive no later than seven o’clock. The smart thing was to wait for backup. But if he waited too long, Lucy would end up lying on a cold slab in a morgue.

“I have to,” he said.

“You know this woman?” Bill asked.

“I met her yesterday.”

“You armed?”

Valentine was more than armed; he was a walking commando, courtesy of the cache of weapons Nick kept in his office safe. Valentine had taken every gun he could shove into his pockets. He’d been waiting a long time to pay Fontaine back.

“To the teeth.”

“Give me the address.”

He told Bill where Lucy lived.

“Stall Fontaine for a few minutes,” Bill said. “I’ll get backup over there pronto.”

It was the closest thing he had to a plan, and Valentine thanked him. Bill raised his voice. “You be careful, hear me?” and then he was gone.

Valentine passed one of the area’s many golf courses and spied a kid hitting drives off a fairway in the dark. At Lucy’s street he flipped his indicator on. The tail did the same. Making no pretense about following him.

He pulled up Lucy’s driveway. The motion-triggered floodlight above the garage door came on. He got out of the car, feeling naked in the bright light. The tail parked a block away, the driver watching him.

He drew a .38 from his jacket and blew the light out. One shot was all it took, and he felt safe again.

The gunshot got a neighbor’s dog barking. He went to Lucy’s front door and glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock on the nose. He pressed the bell and stood to one side.

“It’s open,” a voice inside said.

He grabbed the handle with his free hand and cracked the door open. Light streamed out, cutting a blade in the darkness. He stared inside the condo. Lucy sat on a couch in the living room, facing the door. Fontaine sat beside her, holding a gun to her temple. It was a shitty little .22, just powerful enough to kill her.

Standing beside Fontaine was a straw-haired cowboy. Valentine remembered him from the scam at the Acropolis two years ago. The cowboy had tried to kill him with a lead pipe. He was the only member of the gang to get away.

“I’m coming in,” Valentine said.

“Be my guest,” Fontaine replied.

Driving over, Valentine had wrestled with how to handle this. One of Fontaine’s men would be hiding behind the door. That was a given. How he dealt with him was the big question.

He had two options. He could shoot him, and take him out of the picture. Only shooting blind was risky and a waste of bullets. Or he could use the door to take him out. He couldn’t miss with the door.

Using his shoulder, he opened the door very quickly and heard it bang against the man on the other side. He heard the man fall, and quickly stepped inside.

“That’s far enough,” the cowboy declared.

The cowboy was holding a stainless-steel Colt Anaconda by his side. The gun was thirteen and a half inches of pure menace. Valentine aimed the .38 at the cowboy’s chest, and saw a surprised look appear on his face. Like the cowboy had expected him to fight fair.

Valentine pumped three bullets into him. The cowboy staggered backward and fell onto a glass coffee table with a loud crash. He still looked surprised.

“Goddamn you,” Fontaine said, rocking Lucy’s head with the .22’s barrel.

Valentine took a step into the living room. Lucy stared at him, looking terrified and ashamed. He glanced behind the door. Fontaine’s man had rolled onto his back and was passed out.

“Lay your gun on the floor,” Fontaine said.

“Forget it.”

“I’ll kill her.”

“It’s all you’ll do,” Valentine told him.

Fontaine blinked, the realization sinking in. By sitting on the couch, he’d made himself an easy target. He couldn’t jump behind anything, or fall into a crouch.

“Don’t play that macho shit with me,” he said. “I found your pants in the bedroom. I’m going to shoot your lady. You want that?”

Valentine let the words play through his head.
His lady.
He looked into Lucy’s face. She was fighting back the tears, holding herself together.

“No,” he said.

“Then put the gun down.”

They heard the death rattle of Cowboy’s boots as he passed into the great beyond. Valentine tried to gauge how much time had passed. A minute? How much more time before Bill’s people or the police showed up? There was no way of guessing, and he said, “I didn’t come here to die. Tell me what you want. I’ll do it, and you’ll let Lucy go, and I’ll let you go.”

“A horse trade?”

“That’s right.”

Fontaine chewed it over. The scar he’d gotten in prison made him look gruesome. It was a look he seemed bent on cultivating, his head shorn like a patient in a psycho ward, his eyes bugged out like he was on drugs.

“Okay,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“Call Nick and tell him to release my people.”

Valentine had expected something like this and played his trump card. “He can’t release all of them.”

“Why not?”

“Albert Moss is in the hospital.”

Fontaine blinked. “You put him there?”

“Afraid so.”

A dark cloud passed over Fontaine’s face. He didn’t care about any of his people except Albert Moss. Moss knew everything; he was the only person the police would need to break to press charges. Letting everyone else go was a smoke screen.

“Have Nick call the hospital.”

“And take Moss out on a stretcher?”

“That’s right.”

“Afraid I left my cell phone in my car.”

“There’s one on the table,” Fontaine said. “I’m going to have Lucy pick it up and slide it across the floor to you.”

“Albert Moss isn’t going anywhere.”

“Do it.”

Valentine hesitated. If Moss skipped town, Fontaine was off the hook. As if reading his mind, Fontaine shoved the .22 deeper into Lucy’s face.

“All right, I’ll call the hospital,” Valentine said.

“Give him the phone,” Fontaine told Lucy.

Lucy’s eyes had filled with tears, but she wasn’t letting them come out. She picked up the cordless phone off the coffee table. Her arm tensed.

Valentine had been involved in two hostage negotiations as a cop. In both, an X factor had upset the balance of the situation. In the first, it had been a flock of seagulls flying over a schoolyard. In the second, a pizza boy coming to the door. This time, it was Lucy slamming the cordless phone into Fontaine’s face. With her other hand, she grabbed the .22 and raised the barrel to the ceiling. The gun discharged, the bullet causing an explosion of sparks as it hit something metallic.

Valentine did not remember physically moving across the condo and jumping on Fontaine. It just happened. Knocking Fontaine to the floor, he began raining blows onto his shaved head. Lucy stood beside him, holding the .22 by her side while bellowing at the top of her lungs.

“Beat the shit out of him! Do it! He deserves it!”

What a woman,
he thought.

Moments later, he heard someone yell “Freeze!” and looked up to see the condo become filled with armed men.

Not cops, Valentine realized as they pulled him off Fontaine and got the .22 away from Lucy. And not Gaming Control Board agents. Both of those groups had to identify themselves upon entering someone’s home. These guys didn’t.

There were a dozen, each identically dressed in black pants and black sweaters that were hiding bulletproof vests. All had short hair, and looked to be in their thirties. Six were white, the others black. All looked real strong. He guessed FBI.

One of the agents made him stand against the wall and frisked him. Valentine heard a bunch of surprised grunts as the arsenal he was carrying got dumped onto the couch.

“He’s clean,” the agent finally announced.

“No, he’s not,” another man said, and grabbed Valentine from behind by the balls. It was a sensation like no other, and Valentine yelped as the man took him by the collar with the other hand, and dragged him across the room. Glancing over his shoulder, he stared into the eyes of Director Peter Fuller.

Fuller pulled him into the spare bedroom and slammed the door. Dressed in black like the others, he looked like an action figure from a comic strip, with bulging muscles in his arms and chest. He hadn’t changed much over the years, except for his hair. Once light blond, it had recently turned snow white.

“How would you like to spend the rest of your life in jail?” Fuller said.

“What for? I didn’t break any laws.”

“Oh, no? Tell that to the guy you shot in the next room.”

“That guy is a wanted criminal,” Valentine said. “He and Fontaine were holding Lucy Price hostage. Why the hell are you reading
me
the riot act?”

“Because I know you have a blood feud with Fontaine. Frank told me you were gunning for him.”

Valentine stared at Fuller in disbelief. “Frank
told
you? Don’t tell me you sprang him out of prison and have him working for the FBI.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you know that while he’s been working for you, he bankrupted the Acropolis?”

“Can you prove that?”

Valentine thought about Albert Moss lying in the hospital. He was the key, and was probably not going to say anything for a while.

“Eventually, yes.”

“Eventually?” Fuller jabbed him in the chest. “Fontaine’s been working with the FBI for a month. He hasn’t had time to scam the Acropolis.” Fuller jabbed him again. “You lied to me this afternoon. The gym bag we found in the stripper’s townhouse
is
yours. Your son brought it to Las Vegas. His airline confirmed it.”

Valentine’s face burned from where Albert Moss had slashed him, but it didn’t burn as much as the shame he was feeling. He should have called Fuller back and told him the truth. Only he hadn’t.

“I figured it out after we talked,” he said quietly.

“Did you know about the gun?” Fuller asked him.

“I knew he purchased one.”

“Your son bought a three fifty-seven Smith and Wesson at a Las Vegas gun store. A three fifty-seven was used in the murder of the stripper who had your gym bag. I need to talk to your son immediately. Do you understand?”