Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [79]
“A slam dunk, ” Davis had said in the car.
Gerry hadn’t seen it that way. The tailor wasn’t going to rat out the mob.
“If the tailor has records,” Gerry had replied.
“Every good tailor keeps records,” Marconi said, handling the wheel. “It’s part of the business. The only thing we need is a warrant to search the tailor’s premises. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?” Gerry said.
“Yes. We’ll need to have you explain the scams to the judge. You’re the expert.”
Gerry had shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Whatever you say.”
The judge they went to see was named Alva Dopking. Dopking was a lanky, cleft-chinned former prosecutor who’d been making criminals’ lives miserable in Atlantic City for thirty years. Gerry had come up before him in juvenile court and had not enjoyed the experience. Sitting in Dopking’s book-lined chambers, he kept his eyes glued to the floor while Davis and Marconi stood in front of Dopking’s desk, and argued their case.
Dopking listened while sucking on an unlit cigar. His wavy dark hair had turned snow white; otherwise, he looked the same as Gerry remembered. He was a tough nut, and he didn’t like it when his directions weren’t followed.
“I’m just not buying your argument,” Dopking said, tossing his cigar into an ashtray on the desk. “First of all, the tailor who gave you the information—Angelo Fountain—how do you know he doesn’t have a gripe with this other tailor, Bruno Traffatore, and isn’t out to make the man’s life miserable?
“Second, I’m not comfortable with your theory that these gaffed baseball caps are being custom-made by Traffatore. I’ve had cheating cases brought before me in the past, and the equipment came from magic shops or companies that mass-produce this stuff.”
Davis stepped forward. “Your Honor, we have an expert who’s been helping us with this case. The consulting firm he works for specializes in catching casino cheaters. He’ll confirm everything we’ve said to you this afternoon.”
Dopking looked Gerry’s way. “Him?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Dopking shot Gerry an unfriendly look, and Gerry felt himself squirm. Dopking had a reputation for unflinching honesty, and as a result, commanded more respect than all the island’s politicians rolled together.
“What is this expert’s name?” Dopking asked.
“Gerry Valentine,” Davis replied.
The hint of a smile played on Dopking’s lips. “I’d like to hear what Mr. Gerry Valentine has to say,” he said.
Davis turned around, and motioned for Gerry to come forward. Gerry wedged himself between the two detectives and identified himself.
“Tony Valentine’s son?” Dopking asked, as if wanting to be sure.
“That’s right. I mean, yes, Your Honor.”
Dopking’s smile vanished. “I thought you were a bookie.”
Gerry opened his mouth but nothing came out. The judge leaned forward.
“I do keep track of the people who step before me, you know,” Dopking said.
Gerry found his voice. “Yes, Your Honor. I gave up the rackets and now work in my father’s consulting business. I’m here to ask you to grant the detectives’ request, and give them a warrant to search Bruno Traffatore’s place of business. I will personally vouch for the integrity of Angelo Fountain, the informant who gave us the name. He offered up the name only after I pressured him.”
“So he has no gripe with this other tailor?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Dopking studied him. “I’m still doubtful of the detectives’ claim that Traffatore is custom-making cheating equipment. Aren’t these things mass-produced?”
“The items that are mass-produced are junk. The real work is made by pros.”
The gaffed baseball cap was sitting on the desk. “Give me an example besides this baseball cap,” Dopking said.
Gerry removed a five-dollar casino chip