The owners hardly there.
Then hes got an arrangement with the manager, or head waitress or whoevers running the place.
Its a waitress, Davis said.
Gerry wasnt his fathers son for nothing, and said, The guy cheats his opponent and gives the waitress a cut, probably twenty percent. More if shes involved in his scam.
Davis briefly took his eyes off the road. Would you mind telling me how you came to that conclusion?
Sure. You said the cards werent marked and the guy wasnt using sleight-of-hand. Well, that leaves only one more thing. Theyre a team.
They are?
Have to be. The waitress is peeking at the opponents cards when she waits on the table, writes it on a paper napkin or a check, and slaps it on the table. The guy picks the napkin up, and reads what his opponent is holding.
A pained look crossed Daviss face, and he resumed staring at the expressway. Gerry guessed Davis had spent some time in the restaurant and gotten to know the waitress. Hed formed an opinion of her, and was experiencing the unsettling feeling that came when you found out someone you liked was really a piece of garbage.
How do I prosecute this guy, and get a jury to believe my story? Davis asked.
Gerry had seen his father handle cases similar to this. Prosecuting cheating wasnt easy, the crime difficult to prove. Haul the waitress in, tell her you know what shes been doing, and youre going to report her to the Internal Revenue Service for income tax evasion if she doesnt cooperate.
I should turn her against her partner?
Yes.
Davis considered it. Like most cops, he rarely saw justice, and when he did, it usually had a pair of horns attached to it.
Thats one of your fathers tricks, isnt it? he asked.
Sure is, Gerry said.
Atlantic City was a thirteen-mile-long island, and their arrival on its north end was greeted by the brilliant neon of half a dozen names synonymous with gambling. Casinos had sucked the lifeblood out of Atlantic
City, and Gerry stared down the Monopoly-named streets hed once played on, seeing poverty and despair.
At a traffic light Davis hit the brakes. You hungry? he asked.
Gerry was thirty-six, and could still eat an extra meal and not have trouble getting into his pants. His father had warned him that someday he would pay, but so far, he wasnt sweating it.
What do you have in mind?
Saccos Sack O Subs.
Saccos made the best submarine sandwiches in the world, and was located on the southern end of the island, in the town of Ventnor where Gerry had grown up.
Youre on, Gerry said.
The restaurant was hopping when they arrived. Taking a booth in the back, they ordered the signature sandwich, an Italian hot sausage sub, then waited for their food. A couple in the next booth were talking with Jersey accents so thick that an outsider would have needed an interpreter to understand them. Gerry felt right at home.
Their sandwiches arrived. A TV set above the counter was turned on, showing Skip DeMarco playing at the World Poker Showdown.
DeMarco used to come into the card rooms here. Davis sprinkled grated cheese over his sandwich. He wasnt sweating the calories either and took a big bite.
How did he do? Gerry asked.
Lost his shirt. He filed a beef with the police, claimed the other players were taking advantage of his blindness and cheating him. It never went anywhere.
Gerry lowered his voice. DeMarco is George Scalzos nephew. Hes scamming the World Poker Showdown.
Daviss eyes grew wide. Well, Ill be. Hows he doing it?
Thats what I came to Atlantic City to find out, Gerry said. My father thinks the scams secret is at the Atlantic City Medical Center where my buddy Jack Donovan just died. He wants me to snoop around the hospital, see what I can find.
Davis chewed reflectively, perhaps familiar with Gerrys friends shady past. Most of the staff at the hospital know me pretty well. Maybe I can help you.
Youd do that? Gerry asked.
Sure. Id like nothing better than to see George Scalzo and his cheating nephew in jail.
Gerry lowered his sub to his plate. The distrust hed felt for Eddie when hed stepped off the plane had vanished. He started to say okay, then stopped himself. His father did not like having outsiders help with jobs, even when they were friends. Gerry needed to run this by the old man, make sure he was okay with it.
Ill be right back, he said, sliding out of the booth.
He powered up his cell phone in the parking lot. He could taste the salt air coming off the ocean, could remember all the summers hed spent playing on the beach. Growing up, hed assumed that hed raise a family here, but the arrival of casinos had changed that. Now, he could no more imagine living in Atlantic City than in Baghdad.
His phones message icon was blinking, and he went into voice mail. Detective Pete Longo, head of homicide for the Metro Las Vegas Police Department, had called two hours ago. Saying he needed to talk to Gerry urgently, he left his number. Gerry had met Longo in Vegas and considered him a stand-up guy. He punched in Longos number.