Sucker bet - James Swain [60]
The cute stripper appeared and sat in Gerry’s lap. Her blond dye job, fake tits, and rhinestone G-string clashed with her schoolgirl innocence. Nibbling on Gerry’s ear, she said, “Give me some money.”
Stone-faced, Gerry shook his head. “We’re here on business.”
Valentine tossed the Riverboat’s cards back to Rico. “How long you had these?”
“About a year,” Rico replied.
“And you couldn’t find the marks?”
Rico shook his head.
“Shuffle them.”
Rico took the deck out of the box. He gave the cards a riffle shuffle. Valentine took them, shuffled, then held the top card away from the deck with his forefinger and thumb.
“Nine of clubs,” he said.
Rico snatched the card out of his hand and turned it over. “Do it again.”
Valentine did it three more times. The playing card’s logo was the paddlewheel to a riverboat, and he pointed at the spokes on the wheel, and said, “It’s called juice. It’s a combination of clear nail polish and ink. When it dries, it’s invisible to the naked eye. But if you train yourself to throw your eye out, you can just see it.”
“That’s how it works?” Rico said.
No, it wasn’t, but Valentine took pleasure in imagining Rico giving himself headaches for a while. He handed the cards back, then spoke to the stripper.
“Get lost,” he said.
Rico put the cards away. He had lost his bluster, and Valentine leaned over and gave him a hard poke in the chest. A big guy, but totally out of shape.
“You’re stepping on my toes,” Valentine said.
“I am?”
“This is my turf.”
“Hey, I didn’t—”
“How long you been down here?” Valentine said. “A couple months? And already you’ve scammed the Micanopy Indians and put a bullet in one of their dealers. Now I hear you’re planning to take a bookie for a few million. You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, son.”
The bartender came over. Valentine ordered a round of sodas. Once the bartender was gone, Valentine continued. “Normally, I’d toss you in the ocean, only my son says you’re someone who can be talked to. So, here’s the deal. You take us on as partners, or you get lost.”
“Partners?” Rico said.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Valentine gave an exaggerated shake of the head. “You don’t?”
“No,” Rico said.
Valentine leaned over and lowered his voice. “Nigel Moon, asshole.”
Rico acted like he’d been kicked. He drew back in his chair and stared at the floor. Valentine would have given anything to know what Rico’s pulse was at that moment. A hundred fifty? Two hundred? He loved making punks sweat, especially lowlifes like this who gave Italians a bad name.
Their sodas came. The bartender could sense the tension, and placed the glasses on the table without a word. Rico picked up his glass and held it a few inches off the table. Valentine and his son did the same. Rico clinked their glasses with his.
“Partners it is,” he said.
27
Climbing into his father’s Honda, Gerry said, “Pop, no offense, but your car smells like something died in it. It’s time.”
Valentine pulled away from Club Hedo’s valet stand, got onto Collins Avenue, and headed north in heavy traffic. “For what?”
“A new set of wheels. You’ve got the dough. What about a Beamer, or a Lexus?”
That was the thing about his son’s generation; they assumed that if you had money, you were dying to spend it. Valentine’s generation was exactly the opposite. If you had it, you wanted to keep it. “I like this car,” he said.
They drove in silence. Then his son popped the question.
“So, are you going to tell me, or what?”
“Tell you what?”
“How you know all that stuff about Rico.”
“No,” he said.
“At least tell me how you read the backs of those cards.”
“You didn’t believe what I told him?”
“About throwing your eyes out of focus?” Gerry pointed at his left eye. “This eye is out of focus. There was no writing on the back of those cards.”
“So why don’t you get glasses?”
“Pop, stop beating around the bush, would you?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because it’s important,” his son said.
Valentine was missing something.