Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [101]
“Say good-bye?”
“Yes. Say good-bye, and then go take care of my uncle. He’s going to need it.”
“Who’s going to take care of you?”
“I am.”
“You sure you’re ready for that?”
DeMarco didn’t know if he was ready to run his own life, or not. But the only way he was going to find out was by trying. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
Guido’s fast-paced breathing returned. So fast, in fact, that DeMarco thought he might have a stroke. Guido had always been there for him, and he reached out and touched the bodyguard’s stomach the way he’d done as a little kid. “You’re a good guy, Guido. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Just doing my job,” the bodyguard said.
DeMarco took his seat at the feature table. He could hear the dealer riffle-shuffling the cards, the fifty-two pasteboards purring like a cat. He’d been exposed to radiation for five days, and realized the dealers who were bringing radioactive cards to the table had known the health risk as well. To themselves, and to him.
“Drink, sir?” a female voice asked.
“Get me a Coke and a pack of cigarettes,” he said.
The cocktail waitress came back a minute later with his order, putting the drink and pack in front of him. He removed his wallet, pulled out a bill. He hadn’t paid for a thing since coming to Las Vegas. He supposed now was as good a time as any to start.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Eight dollars.”
“How much is this bill worth?” he asked.
“A hundred dollars,” she said.
“Keep it.”
She thanked him and departed. He tore open the pack of smokes, stuck one in his mouth. To the dealer he said, “Give me your lighter, will you?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“The lighter sitting next to you. Give it to me. I want to light up my smoke.”
The dealer didn’t know what to say. DeMarco rose from his chair, grabbed his drink, and leaned forward a little too quickly. He sent the drink in the dealer’s direction and heard the dealer squawk. “Did I soak your cards?” DeMarco asked.
“Yes,” the dealer said angrily.
“Good. Now get out of here,” DeMarco said under his breath.
“What?”
“You heard me. Take your trick lighter and leave.”
The dealer said, “Shit,” under his breath, then pushed back his chair and left the table. DeMarco sat down. Moments later the tournament director came up behind him.
“Where did the dealer go?” the tournament director asked.
“He felt sick and left,” DeMarco said.
The tournament director spoke into a walkie-talkie, and asked for someone to clean up the table, and for a new dealer. When he disconnected, DeMarco asked, “Would you mind telling me the chip count for each of my opponents?”
“Sure,” the tournament director said.
Each player’s chip total was on the electronic leader board hanging over the table, and the tournament director read the totals to him. He was first, followed by seven players with roughly the same amount of chips, followed by the last two players, who were two million shy of the others. He would have to lose a couple of hands to the last two. That would make everyone at the table equal.
“Thanks,” he told the tournament director.
A new dealer came, and the other players returned. DeMarco felt the bright lights of the TV cameras come on. It was showtime.
47
“How dare Skipper disobey me,” Scalzo said, standing with Karl Jasper and his bodyguard on the curb in front of Celebrity. “You should have made him come with you.”
“How was I going to do that?” Guido asked.
“You should have put the heavy on him.”
“There were too many people standing around.”
“Keep making excuses and I’ll smack you in the fucking mouth,” Scalzo snapped.
Guido wanted to tell his boss to calm down, there were bigger problems to worry about. He’d spoken to one of their people in Atlantic City, and the news was getting worse by the hour. Forty-two members of the blackjack gang had been arrested last night, and now one had turned state’s evidence and told the cops that Scalzo