Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [3]
“They’re showing the different players you knocked out of the tournament today,” Scalzo said. “Treetop Strauss, Mike ‘Mad Dog’ McCoy, Johnny ‘the Wizard’ Wang, and a bunch of other guys. It’s beautiful, especially when you call their bluffs. They don’t know what hit them.”
Bluffing was what made poker exciting. A man could have worthless cards, yet if he bet aggressively, he’d win hand after hand. DeMarco had made a specialty of calling his opponents’ bluffs, and had become the most feared player in the tournament.
“Is the camera showing me a lot?” DeMarco asked.
“All the time. You’re the star.”
“Do I look arrogant?”
Scalzo didn’t know what arrogant meant. Proud? That word he understood. He glanced across the suite at Guido, who leaned against the wall. His bodyguard had a zipper scar down the side of his face and never smiled. Guido came from the streets of Newark, New Jersey, as did all the men who worked for Scalzo.
“Guido, how does Skipper look?”
“Calm, cool, and collected,” Guido said, puffing on a cigarette.
“Is he a star?”
“Big star,” Guido said.
“There you go.” Scalzo elbowed his nephew in the ribs.
The show ended, and was followed by the local news. The broadcasters covered the day’s headlines, then a story from the University of Nevada’s football field came on.
“What’s this?” his nephew asked.
Scalzo squinted at the screen. The story was about Rufus Steele challenging a racehorse to the hundred-yard dash. Rufus appeared on the screen dressed in track shorts. Beside him was Tony Valentine, the casino consultant who’d caused them so much trouble. Scalzo grabbed the remote and changed the channel.
“Put it back on, Uncle George,” his nephew said.
“Why? He can’t beat no fucking racehorse,” Scalzo protested.
“I want to see it anyway. This is the old guy who challenged me to play him. I said I’d play him after the tournament was over if he could raise a million bucks.”
The suite fell silent. “You’re not going to play that son-of-a-bitch,” Scalzo declared.
“If he raises the money, I’ll have to, Uncle George,” DeMarco said.
“Why?”
“Because this is poker. If I don’t accept Rufus’s challenge, he wins.”
Scalzo did not like the direction the conversation was taking. He clicked his fingers, and Guido rose from his chair.
“Yes, Mr. Scalzo,” the bodyguard said.
“A glass of cognac for me. What would you like, Skipper?”
“For you not to drink while we have this conversation,” his nephew said.
Scalzo balled his hands into fists and stared at his nephew’s profile. If someone who worked for him had said that, he would have had him killed. “You don’t like when I drink?”
“You get mean. Doesn’t he, Guido?”
Swallowing hard, the bodyguard said nothing. Scalzo made a twirling motion with his finger. Guido walked into the next room, shutting the door behind him.
Scalzo changed the channel with the remote, and watched Rufus beat Greased Lightning in the hundred-yard-dash while explaining it to his nephew. Then he killed the power and the room fell silent.
“This cowboy is the real thing,” his nephew said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Scalzo snapped.
“He’s an old-time hustler, Uncle George. I can’t scam him the way we’re scamming the tournament. It won’t work.”
Skipper had won several dozen poker tournaments on the Internet. Live games were a different matter, with other players ganging up on him because of his handicap. Scalzo had wanted to level the playing field, and found a scammer in Atlantic City named Jack Donovan who’d invented a scam that would let Skipper win. Scalzo had Donovan murdered for the scam, then taught it to his nephew. Although Skipper had never cheated before, he’d gone along, wanting the recognition that winning brought, which he believed he deserved.
“But no one has figured out the scam so far,” Scalzo said.
“Steele will. He’ll feel a breeze.”
“So let him put a sweater on.”
“It’s