The Big Scam (3 page)

When they got close, Tatorrio said, “Officer, is there a five-dollar table?”

“Yes, sir.” He led Tatorrio over and put his hand on the back of an empty chair next to Dellaporta. “Right here, sir.” The dealer held up his palms questioningly to the guard, who shrugged. “Upstairs said it was all right. Whatever he wants. When he's done, call us so we can get him a cab.”

“How's he…” The dealer decided that to question how a blind person could read the cards was not only insensitive, but unnecessary. Instructions would have to be issued shortly.

“Chips, sir?”

Tatorrio pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills, each folded in the same peculiar way. He fingered the edge of two of them. “Two hundred dollars, please.”

The dealer straightened the bills before pushing the chips across the table until they touched Tatorrio's left hand.

“I'm sorry, dealer, what's your name?”

“Randy.”

“Randy, I'm John Waylon, and in order for me to play, I need Rusty to sit in the chair next to me.”

As soon as Parisi heard the phony name, he knew that Tatorrio wasn't completely confident about the success of his plan. Parisi started visualizing the con going bad and the four men and dog legging it to the nearest exit.

“Rusty?”

“My dog.”

“I'm sorry, there are strict rules about the chairs. They're only for playing customers.”

Tatorrio smiled in the general direction of the dealer. “Randy, not to be a pain in the butt, but it sounds like you're making up rules to fit the situation. I've been blind since birth, and I've heard every excuse there is for denying me access to the things that are apparently reserved for the sighted. I've spent my life trying to prove to myself that being blind is not that big a handicap. Something as simple as counting to twenty-one certainly shouldn't be.”

A small crowd had started to gather. The shift supervisor, noticing the swelling knot of people, walked over. “Everything all right, Randy?”

“This gentleman says he needs a chair for his dog so he can play.”

“The dog's going to play?”

“No, the man. Says he can't play without the dog sitting next to him.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the supervisor said. “Why do you need him next to you? Wouldn't he be more comfortable on the floor?”

“This dog is my eyes.”

“You mean when you walk.”

“Right now I mean when I play. You might find this hard to believe, but I don't watch a lot of TV. So, at night, Rusty and I work on tricks. I have a Braille deck, and I have taught him to play blackjack. Now unless you have a Braille deck, I need him to sit next to me to read my cards. We actually play the hand together.”

“I'm afraid I find that a little hard—”

“Let him play, I want to see this,” someone called from the crowd, which had tripled since the supervisor had come over. The potential for embarrassing the casino seemed only one or two bad decisions away. “How about we get an employee to sit with you and tell you what your cards are?”

“You're not getting it. Do you think I came here to gamble? I came here to prove to myself that there's something else in the world that my blindness can't prevent. It's only a lousy chair. What's the problem? Is this casino that crowded?” A couple of voices in the crowd started booing. “I'm sorry, I know I'm putting you in a bad position, but it's just for an hour or so.”

“It's just that—”

“Did your dealer take my two hundred dollars?”

The dealer nodded to the supervisor. “Yes, sir, he did.”

“And since he gave me chips, I assume my money's good.”

“Of course it is, sir.”

“Let's say, I'm…let's say I'm crazy, and this dog doesn't know a jack from a jackass. The only thing that will happen is that I'll lose two hundred dollars very quickly.”

“Can you hold on, sir, while I call upstairs?”

“Sure. And maybe I could get a drink.”

A cocktail waitress said, “What can I get you, Mr. Waylon?”

“Vodka rocks, and I'd like to buy a drink for everyone at the table, for the inconvenience.”

“There'll be no charge, sir,” she said.

As the supervisor hurried to the nearest phone, the crowd started chanting, “Let them play! Let them play!”
Them?
he thought.
Now they're cheering for the fucking dog.

His boss had apparently already seen the commotion on the surveillance cameras. “What's going on down there?”

The supervisor explained Tatorrio's demand. “And it's starting to get ugly down here.”

Parisi took another sip of his scotch. Tatorrio was still in character, head cocked, humbly accepting slaps on the back from the crowd. Parisi had to hand it to him, Tatorrio was able to judge his own lack of beauty so objectively that he had found a use for it. Now he was in the process of turning it into legend.

The supervisor's boss came back on the line. “Andrews said this could be a publicity bonanza. You're to do whatever you have to, just keep him at the table. It'll work better than free liquor to get the crowd pumped up to gamble. Comp him whatever you have to. I'm going to get the photographer down there. Andrews wants pictures of this for the website.”

As soon as the crowd saw the supervisor coming they started to boo again. He held up his hands and smiled. “Mr. Waylon, I'm sorry for the delay. It's always a little confusing when someone is about to make history.” The crowd started high-fiving one another. “We'd be honored to have you and Rusty at our table for as long as you like. I have been authorized to extend you every courtesy of the house.”

A corner of Tatorrio's mouth curled up. “Maybe I could play longer, if I had a room for the night.”

Having accomplished his prime directive, the shift supervisor said with rising elation, “With the compliments of Mohegan Sun, sir.”

“I'm sorry, do you have anything with two bedrooms? Sometimes Rusty snores.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.”

“Thank you.”

Dellaporta, who was sitting next to him, got up. “Here, John, Rusty can have my seat.” He lifted the animal effortlessly into the chair. The dog, sensing that it was finally time to perform, instantly became alert. Parisi was now sitting on the other side of Rusty. The waitress arrived with the drinks and put Tatorrio's in his hand.

Clumsily, Tatorrio found his stack of chips and, taking two from the top, handed them to the waitress. He pushed another one out crookedly in front of him. Parisi, Chianese, and Dellaporta anted up.

Tatorrio said, “Randy, you need to put my cards right in front of Rusty. Think of it as him playing and I'm just his voice.” The dealer dealt everyone two cards face up, carefully arranging Tatorrio's directly in front of the dog. Tatorrio leaned over and patted the dog. With his head cocked, he listened carefully as the others played their hand. When it was his turn, he leaned closer to the dog and said, “You ready to play, boy?” The dog shifted on its hindquarters eagerly. Tatorrio's cards were a seven and a five. With his left hand, he tapped the table in front of the dog. Rusty extended his nose toward the two cards. “Do we need a hit, boy?” Almost immediately, the dog raised its right paw and placed it across Tatorrio's left forearm. “We'll take a hit, Randy.” A murmur of cautious approval shot through the crowd. The dealer turned over a six, totaling eighteen. “Do we need a hit, Rusty?” Tatorrio asked, tapping the table again. The dog sat frozen. “We'll stand.”

The dealer, with a ten showing, turned over his hole card, a seven, for a total of seventeen, disqualifying him from taking a hit. “You win, Mr. Waylon.” The huge ring of spectators exploded with cheers.

The shift supervisor watched Tatorrio carefully during the next four hands, only one of which he won. He called to his bosses upstairs. “Can you see how he's doing it?”

“No, but what difference does it make? He's losing. I wish he was winning, it'd make a better story. Just keep him happy, that photographer should be there by now.” Three more hands were played before the photographer arrived. During that time, Tatorrio did not change his body alignment, presumably so his arm would be within range of Rusty's paw. But to Parisi, something about his positioning seemed unnatural. For one thing, he had never seen Jimmy sit with his hand in his pocket.

The photographer arrived. “I'd like to get some pictures of you and your dog, Mr. Waylon, for the casino website, if you don't mind.”

“Is my hair on straight?” Tatorrio asked, using both hands to smooth the sides.

The photographer laughed. “You look fine, and so does the dog. I just need you to sign this release.”

Tatorrio smiled in his direction. “I'm sorry, I didn't bring my reading glasses.” The crowd laughed. “I'm sure it's perfectly harmless, but I don't know what I'm signing.”

Parisi surprised himself when he said, “John, I'm an attorney. I'll give it a quick once-over if you like.”

Tatorrio turned toward him, and Parisi could see through the dark lenses that he was surprised, too. “That's awfully nice of you…I'm sorry, what is your name?”

“Mike…Reynolds.”

“Mike Reynolds. Good name—you know, for a lawyer. Has that ring of integrity. Thank you.”

Parisi took the document from the photographer and pretended to read it. “It's a standard release.”

“Then hand me a pen.” As Tatorrio signed it an inch above the signature line, he said, “And could somebody please get my attorney a drink?”

The game slowed for the next half hour while the photographer asked Tatorrio to pose in different situations, everything from Rusty pawing for a hit to the dealer pushing a fictitious winning stack of chips in front of the courageous John Waylon. When he finished, Tatorrio said he'd like some copies and gave the mailing address for the Sons of Catania Social Club. A few more hands followed, and then Tatorrio pushed a button on the side of his wristwatch, flipping the crystal up. With his head still looking forward, he fingered the dial. “Ten minutes to one, can that be right? Have I been here an hour already?” Through his sunglasses, he stared at Joe Chianese, who smiled and nodded his defeat. “Randy, could I talk to your supervisor, please.” When the dealer waved him over, Tatorrio said, “I'm a little tired. If you don't mind, I'd like to go up to that room and take a load off for a few minutes.”

“No problem, Mr. Waylon. I'll be glad to take you up.”

Tatorrio turned in the general direction of the other players. “Gentlemen, I wouldn't have been able to do this without your patience. I'd be honored if you'd come up to the room for a drink.”

“Sure,” they answered in unison. Dellaporta lowered Rusty to the floor and handed Tatorrio the harness grip.

As soon as the supervisor closed the door to the suite behind him, Tatorrio held a finger up to his lips. After a few seconds, he peered through the peephole. He took a long stage bow, which evoked laughter and applause from his four-man audience.

Chianese was shaking his head. “How the fuck did you get the dog to do that?”

“In a minute. I've got to make one quick call. Get yourselves a drink from the bar.” He went into one of the bedrooms to use the phone. When he came back, he told the dog to sit. Holding his left forearm near the dog, he put his right hand in his trouser pocket and said, “Rusty, do you want a hit?” The dog immediately raised its paw and draped it over the offered arm. Tatorrio took his right hand out of his pocket. In it was what looked like a pushbutton door-lock device for a car, the kind found on a key ring. He held it up and pushed the button. Rusty raised his paw, reaching for Tatorrio. Then laying the dog on its side, he took off the harness. Something hard the size of half a pencil had been sewn inside the belly strap. He placed it in Chianese's hand and pushed the button again.

“It's vibrating.”

“The guy who sweeps the club for bugs built it for me. It's part of a beeper. Pretty simple really. The only thing I had to do was teach old Rusty to paw me every time he felt the vibration.”

Chianese said, “I've got to hand it to you, Jimmy, it was fair, and it was square. And your act, man, you had every one of them. Hell, for a while there I actually thought the goddamn dog could read cards.”

For the next hour, they drank and retold the story, each from his own perspective. Then there was a knock at the door. Tatorrio checked the peephole and said, “In appreciation of everyone's assistance, I've ordered room service.” He opened the door to reveal five young women. “My treat.”

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER SEVEN A.M. WHEN NICK
Vanko's phone rang. “Global Fish,” he offered, using the undercover name of the squad's off-site location.

“Nicky, how are you?”

When Special Agent in Charge Ralph Hansen was in a buoyant mood, he added a
y
to everyone's name. Intended to give the appearance of familiarity, the gesture's real value was to discourage serious discussion, and therefore leave unsaid any delicate detail that Hansen might later have to deny under oath. Being an FBI boss had taught him that whatever success was being celebrated had more often than not been gained by violating Bureau rules or even committing the occasional high misdemeanor, either possibility capable of ending a career.

And Vanko understood that the SAC, no matter how strongly he urged candor, did not want specifics. “It sounds like the Dimino debriefing went well.”

“Nobody called you?”

“Not yet, but my guys didn't hand him off to Leary's squad until after eleven-thirty last night, so I'm sure everyone's running late.”

“Well, as of fifteen minutes ago, he was still talking. Gave up Delvecchio on some murders and a ton of other stuff. We should be able to take out the whole top shelf of the family.”

“I'm glad it worked out,” Vanko said.

“He said something about someone trying to kill him.”

That Dimino had so completely believed the production surrounding his conversion made Vanko smile. “These people have to invent reasons to justify becoming an informant. I can guarantee you his life was never in danger.”

“That's good enough for me. And I guess you were right about every wise guy hiding things from their bosses. Dimino was skimming from Delvecchio's vending machine operation and was under the impression that a contract had been put out on him because of it.”

“Wise guy” had been pronounced with slightly more enunciation, in the way of a person trying to sound familiar with a world in which he had no experience or insight. Before Hansen had worked his way through the management ranks to SAC, the majority of his time as a field agent had been spent in foreign counterintelligence, a specialty that kept its agents at a calculated distance from violent crime. Evidently his only exposure to organized crime had been at the movies. But Vanko preferred having him in charge because he was practical enough not to get in the way. “As much as hard work is necessary in these cases, it'll never be as productive as a few well-placed moments of paranoia.”

“You are unbelievable. You get a call that it would be nice to turn Dimino, and the next thing I know he's in, and we have to slap him to shut him up.”

“The world is overflowing with best-laid plans. Executing them is the hard part, and last night the troops did that with only a few minor problems. They're the ones you should be telling this to.”

“Okay,
your people
did a hell of a job last night.”

“If you mean that, I'd like to do something for Howard Snow. He was largely responsible for this thing going so well.”

“Nick, I seriously doubt that he had that much to do with it. His history is that of a screwup. If it was anybody else, I'd do it simply because you asked, but I can't. I appreciate you trying to help him, but he's got major baggage with OPR. Sticking an attaboy in his file isn't going to help. This is one of the few times I can remember an agent actually being investigated for incompetence. I think we both know he's terminal.”

Hansen was right about the Office of Professional Responsibility investigation threatening Snow's future as an agent, but still Vanko felt he had to try. “Out here, he's been indispensable.”

“Christ, Nick, he got a search warrant for the church of a high-profile black minister based on the information of an unproven informant. Then he executed it during a Sunday prayer meeting. He damn near started a riot. I suppose he's a decent enough person, but as an agent, he just doesn't get it. There's a common-sense gene or something missing.”

“But they found the stolen equipment inside the church, exactly where the informant said it was.”

Hansen took in a deep breath and let it stream out. “Let me give you the three
un
official reasons Snow is in trouble, each infinitely more important than any official reason, each indisputable.
High-profile. Black. Minister.
What's legally right or wrong doesn't matter. This is the twenty-first century. Politics trump the law.”

Vanko knew what the SAC said was more true than not. “Could you put a memo in his file anyway? Who knows, it might help.”

“I—”

“Please.”

“Okay, okay. It's a mystery to me how you get anything accomplished with that collection of freaks.”

Freaks.
The word made Vanko touch the right side of his face where the skin sagged against two long, thin horizontal scars, one along the hairline and the other immediately under the eye, giving it the appearance of melting wax. The word was invariably stated with disdain, the strongest nonprofane expression against the lower forms of the species. In a culture where most intolerance was spoken in hushed tones, it was pronounced with grinding conviction, a universally acceptable pillorying of those perceived to be clinging to the edges of society—the identification and distancing of caste.

Vanko picked up the framed photo on his desk. It was taken at the twenty-fifth anniversary of his parents' restaurant in New Jersey. Everyone was crowded into the room his father liked to advertise as “suitable for banquets.” Years earlier, after a free, anesthetizing meal, the fire marshal had generously allowed its occupancy to be listed at twenty. Vanko smiled at the photo's asymmetry. At his father's insistence, everyone was squeezed into one end so there would be room in the shot for the serving dishes brimming with all the menu items. His father in an ill-fitting tuxedo and his mother in a glistening beaded top were flanked on one side by Vanko's brother and sister and on the other by Vanko and his girlfriend, Caly Panos. Actually she was more than a girlfriend. Anyone who dated a male member of the family for more than a month, especially if she was a “good Greek girl,” was assumed to be a fiancée in waiting. His father was beaming, his arm locked around Caly's waist, pulling her toward him.

Vanko tried not to look at his own image. His face wasn't scarred then, but, even so, wasn't handsome enough for someone as attractive as Caly. She had the kind of creamy olive skin the camera loved. Vanko thought about the last time that he'd seen her. It was just before he had gotten out of the hospital. Fearing the inevitable, he had taken off the bandages to show her the damage the doctors said was irreparable. Her eyes flashed. Tradition or not, he knew they were through.

“There're a thousand agents in the division, Boss,” Vanko said. “That's a lot of people to expect to be in lockstep. Not all of them are meant to wear wingtips. I know that their motivations don't always line up with the Bureau's, but whatever it is that drives them off course is what makes them invaluable when we need to do something that's not exactly in the Bureau handbook.”

“Not exactly in the Bureau handbook” was not a phrase the special agent in charge of New York liked to hear, especially when it came to covert operations. His voice became more hurried, slightly more foreboding. “Well, it came out right last night, and contrary to your protests, I'm going to assume that's as much your doing as theirs. Now, is there anything you need?”

“There was one small problem that came up. The UC car they used was wrecked. I understand that Bernie Dreagen wanted it for his own personal car. These guys don't need any more enemies downtown than they already have.”

“I'll have the administrative ASAC in for a little chat.” The SAC's audible code softened abruptly. “Anything else?” He was about to request something he wasn't comfortable with.

“Not unless you had something.”

“You know the inspectors are coming in Monday.”

Vanko had forgotten the inspection staff was due so soon. Every couple of years middle managers charged into each of the field offices convinced that they were about to save the Bureau's reputation. Their cover story was always the same: they were there to ensure “compliance,” a euphemism that to everyone but them explained why they had chosen management as a career path. The inquisition had been instituted under the long, totalitarian reign of J. Edgar Hoover; its mission was professed to be quality control. That the practice had survived while the agency did everything possible to free itself of the first director's image proved the appeal of reminding the Field just who was in charge. Without exception, the process began with what street agents regarded as the most outrageous—and the most laughable—statement ever floated by management:
We're here to help you.
It was just another in a long list of pious fictions that agents pointed at to demonstrate the dark comedy of the ever-widening distance between themselves and their future leaders who, experience had taught, would someday obstruct them. The inspection battle cry, “The Betterment of the FBI,” invariably turned into an indiscriminate scalp count as the inspectors feverishly worked to discover what degenerative viruses the inventive street agents had released into the system since their last visit.

But for Nick Vanko, inspections meant something different. “So I'm about to welcome some new members to the squad.”

“Nick, I feel bad about this, but with the inspectors inbound, everybody's looking to hide their problems, or, to be honest about it, get rid of them. With your squad being off-site, it's kind of ideal for that.”

“How many?”

“For now, just one, but I'm sure a few others will trickle down in the next couple of days. I'll call you as I get the requests.”

“Who's the one?”

“Bradley Kenyon. Have you heard anything about him?”

Vanko laughed. “So he's bad enough that even I might have heard about him.”

“It's not that he's bad, he's, ah, different. He's fairly new. He's been working some art theft cases and actually has made some nice recoveries.”

Vanko waited a moment before saying, “But?”

“Well, he's single and he's been hanging around with some…some…I don't know how to say this diplomatically. He's been spotted hanging around some gay bars.”

“Maybe it's work-related?”

“It could be, but how are we supposed to find out? This isn't something we have experience with. At least, I hope we don't. All this stuff is so goddamn touchy these days. The bottom line is everyone wants him at arm's length.”

“Just so I'm clear, why are you sending him out here?”

“You have an ability to read people. Maybe you could find out?”

“If he's gay?”

“It's not like we can ask him. I might as well dial up the ACLU and tell them we hate queers and what are they going to do about it.”

“When is he getting here?”

“I think today. Sorry, Nick, with the inspectors coming, I just want to minimize potential problems.”

“I know.”

The next question Hansen was reluctant to ask. Previously, he had mentioned to Vanko that the office was getting a lot of heat concerning the disappearance of a local judge, and because it was thought to be organized crime–related, had hoped that Vanko, like he had with Paul Dimino, could use his unorthodox bunch to somehow resolve it. “Have you got anything going on Judge Ferris?”

“Nothing concrete yet, but we're working on some ideas,” Vanko lied. The SAC had mentioned it casually right after the incident appeared in the papers, but Vanko found that the SAC liked to throw out “intuitive” ideas to his managers without any real thought or direction. Too many supervisors put into motion elaborate plans no matter how counterproductive for their agents. Their subsequent reporting of “progress” to the SAC further convinced him of his leadership acumen, which, in turn, caused the release of even larger and more unstable trial balloons. Vanko never did anything until Hansen mentioned a problem at least twice.

Vanko's answer was as specific as the SAC wanted to get. “Good enough,” he said. “I don't suppose I could get you to come out of hiding and let me buy you a drink.”

“I appreciate the offer, but things are a little busy right now.”

Inexplicably, Hansen, even though assigned to New York for almost two years, had never seen Vanko in person. The supervisor always offered some undefined urgency to keep from meeting with the SAC or, for that matter, anyone outside of his squad. Although Hansen was tempted to order him in and end the odd but minor breach of protocol, Vanko's selfless shunning of credit in matters like the Dimino case made Hansen examine his own motives more closely. He decided that such a demand would simply reveal a need to pull rank. He was sure Vanko had a reason for his reclusiveness. His file stated that he had been involved in a bad automobile accident as a young agent. Someone had been killed, and he had suffered permanent facial damage.