Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [96]
“He’s on the phone in his bedroom, talking to somebody,” Guido said.
DeMarco asked, “Do you think he can hear us right now?”
“No, the door’s shut.”
“I want to ask you a question, Guido, and I want you to be honest with me.”
“Sure, Skipper.”
DeMarco reached out and touched Guido’s arm. The muscle beneath the silk shirt was rock-hard. “There’s an attorney in Philadelphia named Christopher Russo. He’s tried to contact me a bunch of times over the years. My uncle made you keep him away, didn’t he?”
“That’s right,” Guido said proudly. “That guy claimed to be your father. He was nothing but trouble.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your uncle. He said Russo was trying to blackmail you. I took care of him.”
“What did you do to him?”
“You know, the usual stuff.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“Oh yeah,” Guido said, getting his bluster back. “I drove to Philly one weekend in the limo and cornered him in the covered parking lot of the building where he worked. I slapped him around a bunch, told him I’d introduce him to pain if he kept trying to see you. I made that bastard promise to leave you alone.”
DeMarco felt himself well up and swiped at his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Guido said. “Did he try to contact you again?”
“Yeah,” DeMarco said. “He’s my father.”
44
Valentine was explaining to Bill Higgins and a homicide detective with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department how he’d sent Little Hands to the big craps game in the sky when the cell phone in his pocket vibrated. Pulling it out, he saw it was his son.
“Would you gentlemen excuse me for a minute?” he asked.
Bill and the detective both nodded solemnly. Before being sent away to prison, Little Hands had earned himself a reputation as the most vicious killer in Nevada, and Bill and the detective seemed to be having a hard time accepting that Valentine had managed to beat him in a fight, even though Little Hands was lying beneath a sheet only a dozen feet away. Stepping into the shade of a palm tree, Valentine answered the call.
“Hey, Pop, it’s me,” his son said.
“You still in Atlantic City?” Valentine asked.
“No, I took a plane out last night and just landed in Las Vegas. I made DeMarco’s scam, and figured I’d better fly out and help you put this to bed.”
Valentine didn’t know what to say. Gerry had beaten him to the finish line. He’d never felt more proud of his son in his entire life.
“You’re a star,” he told his son.
“Yolanda helped, and so did Mabel. And you put me on the scent, so you get credit, too,” Gerry said. “That’s the good news. Now here’s the bad. I think DeMarco is being played for a sucker by his uncle. He’s being used, Pop, and in a real bad way.”
“Used how?”
“This scam is dangerous. Scalzo is putting his nephew’s health in jeopardy, and I don’t think DeMarco knows it. Matter of fact, I’m sure he doesn’t.”
Gerry was jumping to conclusions, a bad thing to do in detective work. The facts were the facts and everything else was air. “How can you be sure, Gerry?”
“Because DeMarco could get sterile,” his son said.
Valentine had investigated plenty of scams where a member of the gang hadn’t been given a complete script of the play. In the end, that person usually got the raw end of the deal, and became a victim.
“Explain this to me,” Valentine said.
Gerry explained what he’d learned from the nurse who’d been having an affair with Jack Donovan. As scams went, it was one of the most ingenious Valentine had ever come across, but did contain a significant health risk. It wasn’t meant to be used in a tournament, where long-term exposure could be dangerous. Gerry was right. DeMarco probably didn’t know the risks he faced.
“That’s one heck of a piece of detective work,” Valentine said when his son was finished. “Maybe I should go to work for you.”
“That would be the day,” Gerry said. “So what do you think we should do?”
That was a good question. Valentine had been thinking about his conversation with Sammy Mann the day before, when Sammy told him that everyone in Vegas knew DeMarco was cheating, but weren’t going to do anything until after the tournament