James Swain - Gift sense

Her tires were smoking as she flew onto the six-lane superhighway and was immediately challenged by a sleek Porsche Boxster whose driver was determined not to give up the lane. Freedom was a glorious thing, and Nola was not about to relinquish hers anytime soon.

Blowing past the Boxster, she was soon doing one hundred and twenty. The cops in their Chrysler were nowhere to be seen.

The fifty-year-old bellman was waiting when Valentine returned to his room. Without a word, he retrieved Valentine's suitcase and escorted him upstairs to his new digs, a twelfth-floor suite with travertine floors, red leather furniture, and a Jacuzzi sporting eighteen-karat gold fixtures. It was high-roller heaven, the kind of room money couldn't buy, and Valentine called the front desk and left a thank-you message for Roxanne.

Exhausted, he went to bed early and slept as soundly as he had in a long time. The next morning, a Mexican busboy appeared at his door at eight A.M. with scrambled eggs, toast, fresh OJ, a pot of coffee, and the local paper. He had finished reading the box scores when there was a tapping at his door. He opened it to find a grinning Sammy Mann.

"Remember me?" the head of security asked.

Old age had robbed Sammy of his debonair good looks, his face gaunt and unhealthy. Gone, too, were the tailored clothes and silk neckties, replaced by beltless polyester slacks and a tacky madras shirt.

"If it isn't Sammy 'The Whammy' Mann, last of the red-hot deck switchers," Valentine greeted him. "Come on in."

Sammy limped in and took a seat at the head of the dining-room table, a chrome-and-glass monster big enough to seat twelve. As he got settled, Valentine poured two cups of coffee and pulled up a chair. Sammy tipped his cup, his dark eyes twinkling. They seemed to be saying, Isn't life filled with little ironies? Sammy was one of the classier cheats Valentine had ever arrested, and for a while they reminisced about the old days and the various hustlers they'd both known.

Their mutual acquaintances were many. Like most hustlers, Sammy had switched partners as often as he changed shirts, and the array of talent he'd plied his trade with was a venerable Who's Who of Sleaze. Jake "the Snake" Roberts, Whitey Martindale, Larry the Lightbulb, Sonny Fontana, Big J.P., and on and on.

"I probably ran with every great hustler of the last twenty-five years," Sammy boasted, working on his third cup.

"Who was the best?"

"Sonny Fontana, hands down."

"They ever catch the guy who murdered him?"

"Not yet."

"Looking back, you have any regrets?"

"I just wish I'd gotten to Atlantic City sooner."

It was a common lament. In the late seventies, Atlantic City had put a new rule into play at its blackjack tables. It was called Surrender and allowed players to look at their cards, and if they had a bad hand, surrender half their bet. Someone had forgotten to do the math, as Surrender actually put the odds in favor of the players, especially those who knew how to card-count. Overnight, the word went out that the little city on the Jersey shore was a candy store, and hustlers from around the globe had come running. Surrender was eventually banned, but by then the damage was done. The casinos had lost millions.

"A lot of boys retired after visiting Atlantic City," Valentine said.

"Until you came along," Sammy said ruefully.

"Someone had to stop them."

Soon the conversation drifted to the topic of Sammy's bribing a judge. He was not ashamed to talk about it. "I was scared as hell of going to prison. You hear stories. Every prison has a crime boss. If the boss finds out you're a hustler, he puts you to work. Believe me, I wasn't about to start cheating other criminals."

"That could prove hazardous to your health."

"No kidding."

"How much did it end up costing you?" Valentine asked.

"Thirty grand and a condo I owned down in the Caymans. I was facing five years minimum, so I didn't mind paying."

Valentine topped off Sammy's cup with the last of the coffee. He'd heard the same complaint from hustlers over the years: Prison was tougher on cheats than other criminals. "So tell me about this Fontaine character. Wily says you know him."

Sammy corrected him. "I think I know him. His play reminds me of someone from a long time ago. His attitude strikes a nerve."

"How so?"

"He's arrogant. Like he's daring us to catch him."

"Think about what you just said," Valentine said, passing the cream. "You paid a judge a small fortune to avoid prison, and this joker Fontaine dares you to nab him. Doesn't make sense."

"I know," Sammy said. "Wily told me you keep profiles of every hustler you've ever arrested. Maybe Fontaine matches one."

"I already tried that," Valentine admitted. "Physically, he doesn't resemble anyone I've got in my computer. That means he probably had plastic surgery. If I'm going to make a match, I need to learn more about him. His habits, the way he dresses, what he drinks, that sort of stuff."

"I'll give you a list of everyone he came into contact with at the casino. Wily had a lot of interaction with him."

"Good."

Across the street, the volcano at the Mirage blew its stack, sending a giant doughnut of black smoke into the humid summer air. They watched it float lazily over their heads and burn a hole in the simmering sky.

"You've seen a lot of hustlers over the years," Valentine said. "How would you rate Fontaine's play?"

"One of the best."

"But no one knows who he is."

"Yeah," Sammy said. "Creepy, isn't it?"

The pager clipped to Sammy's belt went off. He checked it, then pulled out a small cell phone and made a call.

"That was Wily," he said, hanging up. "He's down in Nick's office. Looks like we have a breakthrough."

Valentine had never been fond of snitches. Although most law enforcement agencies depended heavily on them for information, they were still parasites, barely human types who spent their lives clawing on the glass, forever on the outside looking in.

The lady sitting in Nick Nicocropolis's lavish office was a perfect example. Her name was Sherry Solomon, and on the surface, she was a real dish-cute face, nice figure, an easy, engaging smile. A pretty nifty package until you looked hard and saw the bags under the eyes and realized she was pushing forty and the charms she'd lived on all her life were starting to fade. She was afraid for her future, so she'd taken to selling out her friends. Before Nick's secretary escorted her in, Nick Nicocropolis asked Wily if he'd ever slept with her.

"Never," the pit boss had replied sharply.

Nick looked relieved. He explained to Valentine that his memory was shot, and that he could no longer rely on it to keep a record of his sexual conquests. The legendary lover Don Juan, Nick's boyhood idol, had died being unable to name a single lover. Nick didn't want that to happen to him, which was why he'd kept Wily around for so long. Hearing this news, the pit boss tugged uncomfortably at his collar.

Valentine nodded and said nothing. Over the years, he had met his share of oddball casino owners, and Nick fit right into that group. A little guy with a Napoleon complex who'd probably jumped on every female who'd ever shown the inclination. Nothing new there.

Sherry played her tape for the four men. Wily sat beside her, nodding his head enthusiastically. Nick sat at his desk, rolling dice on the blotter. He smirked when the tape went silent.

"So?" the casino owner said.

Wily jumped in. "Nola hates you. You can hear it in her voice."

"A lot of people hate me," Nick reminded him.

"It shows motive," Wily said.

"She was laughing at me," Nick said, throwing a seven. "What's this 'yeah, yeah, yeah' crap? Is this some inside joke?"