Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [54]
“Guess they didn’t want to hand over their identification,” Gerry said.
“My thoughts exactly,” Preston said. “Forty-eight players, all refusing comps. What do you think the odds of that are?”
“Pretty astronomical,” Gerry said.
Preston picked up the gaffed Yankees cap lying on the console. There was a can of soda beside it, which he also picked up. “It’s one more piece of evidence that these players are part of a massive conspiracy to defraud Atlantic City’s casinos.”
“So let’s find out who they are, and arrest them.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“What do you mean?”
Preston killed the can and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The police don’t have a digital database like we do. It would take hundreds of hours for them to figure out who these guys are, maybe more.”
“Won’t they do that?”
Preston rubbed his face tiredly. “They would if they had the manpower. The island’s high crime rate isn’t going down anytime soon. The police won’t pull officers off the street to do photo matches.”
Gerry felt his spirits sink. Ruining Scalzo’s Atlantic City operation was the sweetest payback he could think of. He stared at a montage of faces on the video wall.
“I can find out who they are,” Gerry said.
Preston sat up straight in his chair. “You can?”
“Yeah. Ever heard of a guy named Vinny Fountain?”
“Vinny ‘the Sleazy Weasel’ Fountain? Sure.”
“I know him. Vinny’s rubbed elbows with mob guys his entire life. I’ll get their names from Vinny, and the police can find out where they live. My father told me that once the police know where a cheater lives, he’s history.”
“That’s true,” Preston said. “The cops will stake out the cheater’s house. When the cheater goes to a casino, the cops alert the casino, and the casino follows him around with surveillance cameras. Once he makes his move, they pounce.”
“So we’ll screw Scalzo’s gang that way,” Gerry said.
“Are you sure Vinny will help you?” Preston asked. “Generally speaking, hoods won’t rat out other hoods.”
Gerry and Vinny Fountain had nearly died in a warehouse on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Gerry’s father had rescued them, and Vinny owed Gerry’s father his life. Gerry had no problem calling in that marker.
“He’ll help,” Gerry said.
Harold’s House of Pancakes was an Atlantic City institution. Of the two hundred restaurants that had once flourished on the island’s north end, Harold’s was one of the last standing. It served greasy breakfast food all day, its signature egg dish called “the whore’s special” by locals. Marconi pulled into the parking lot, and grabbed a spot by the front door. Davis, who rode shotgun, turned to look at Gerry in back.
“I don’t like you going in there alone,” Davis said.
“You want to check the place out first?” Gerry asked. “Be my guest.”
Davis climbed out and went inside. The way he was moving, you wouldn’t know he’d gotten his back sliced open while dodging a bullet a few hours ago. It was the one characteristic about cops that Gerry had always admired. Davis reappeared moments later. “Your friend’s in a booth in the back.”
Gerry got out of the car, wondering how Davis had made Vinny. The answer became obvious as he entered the restaurant. The girls were out in force, and Vinny was the only male in the place. Prostitution was a part of Atlantic City’s culture, and had only gotten worse with the casinos. He slid into Vinny’s booth.
“That cop with you?” Vinny asked.
“My bodyguard, courtesy of my father,” Gerry said.
“Your old man still watches out for you, doesn’t he?”
Gerry nodded.
“That’s nice. My old man hardly talks to me any more. You said over the phone you wanted me to look at some photographs.”
Gerry removed an envelope from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table. “Some mobsters are running a blackjack scam in town. They’re working for our friend, George Scalzo. I was hoping you’d look at these photos, and see if you know any of them.”
Vinny took a cigarette out of the ashtray, and blew a monster cloud of smoke in the air. You