Sucker bet - James Swain [39]
“One thing at a time,” he said.
She did not seem offended. Opening her briefcase, she removed several sheets of paper, then read aloud Smooth Stone’s and the other dealers’ accounts of what had happened. In their story, Running Bear had vandalized Smooth Stone’s trailer, then attacked them when confronted. Running Bear laughed softly when she was done.
“You find this funny?”
“I find their reasoning funny,” he said. “It was five against one. Blackhorn had a knife and a gun. I was unarmed.”
“Blackhorn is dead. And you’re a martial arts expert.”
“They attacked me.”
“So it was self-defense. But why were you in the trailer?”
“I hired a consultant to do a job. This consultant is an expert in catching cheaters. Someone put an alligator in his car. I suspected Smooth Stone, so I went to his trailer. I found a ledger in Smooth Stone’s desk that implicated the men who attacked me.”
Gladys opened her briefcase again and handed him a sheet of paper. It was a list of the items the tribal police had found in Smooth Stone’s trailer after they’d searched it.
“The tribal police didn’t find a ledger,” she said.
Running Bear removed from his shirt pocket the page he’d torn out of the ledger. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. “I took this as a memento.”
Gladys studied the page. Running Bear could vividly remember her as a child. Shoeless, dirty most of the time, hardly ever spoke. And now here she was, wearing nice clothes and talking for a living. He saw Gladys shake her head.
“I don’t know what any of this means,” she said.
“Neither do I,” Running Bear said. “But I know someone who does.”
“Your consultant?”
“Yes,” he said. “My consultant.”
Saul Hyman’s condo was on the fourth floor of a dumpy high-rise in north Miami. Valentine had called and caught Saul riding his stationary bike. Hearing his voice, Saul had acted like he was a long-lost brother and not someone who’d once busted him.
“Of course you can come on over,” Saul said. “Provided it’s a social call.”
“I’m retired,” Valentine had replied.
“How many years has it been?” Saul asked an hour later, ushering Valentine in. He was small and wiry, maybe one-fifty soaking wet, and sported a debonair little mustache, which he dyed along with his hair. Normally, Valentine didn’t like dye jobs. But Saul’s looked okay.
“Twenty.”
“Miss me?”
“Not for a minute.”
“You were my favorite cop.”
“Why’s that?”
“That partner of yours wanted to beat the daylights out of me. You stopped him.”
Valentine vaguely remember the incident. Atlantic City had been a candy store in the early days, and cheaters were often pummeled before reaching the station house. Saul led him into the living room. It was small and had a view of two apartment buildings across the street. Between them, he could see a tiny sliver of ocean.
“Nice view.”
“Thanks,” Saul said, pointing at a chair as he took the couch. “So when did you retire?”
“Last year. I opened a consulting business. I help casinos nail cheats.”
“I hope you’re charging them through the nose.”
“You bet.”
Saul smiled, and the sunlight reflected brightly off his teeth. They’d been artificially whitened and looked like piano keys. “Good for you,” he said.
“Because I went out on my own?”
“Because you’re making money off the fucking casinos.” He slapped his hands on his knees. “So, how about a drink? I can offer you soda or fruit juice. I’ve got this Indian doctor, Deep Pockets Chokya, who made me swear off the hard stuff.”
“That’s his real name?”
“That’s what I call him. Every time I see him, I leave a little lighter.”
“Diet Coke, if you have it.”
“Diet Coke I can do.”
Saul sprang off the couch and disappeared. While he waited, Valentine appraised Saul’s digs. It wasn’t a great place, but it wasn’t a trailer park, either. Saul’s philosophy toward cheating had obviously paid off. “It’s better to gamble with someone else’s money than your own,” he’d said after Valentine had arrested him. “Much