The giant took Gerry’s money and counted it on the desk. There was exactly four hundred dollars, which wasn’t much by Vegas standards.

Jinky glanced up at Vinny. “You want some of this action?”

Vinny started to say no, but Gerry elbowed him in the ribs.

“Take the man’s bet,” Gerry said under his breath.

“What?”

“Just do as I say.”

Vinny blew out his lungs and removed a wad of cash from his pocket. He threw half of it onto the desk beside Gerry’s money. The giant counted it as well. Twenty-six hundred bucks, all in C-notes.

“Three thousand bucks says I can’t drink a gallon of milk in an hour?” Jinky said. “What if I drink it in half an hour?”

“We’ll pay you double,” Gerry said.

Vinny let out a gasp.

“You’re on!” Jinky exclaimed.

The giant went down the hall to the kitchen. When he returned he was holding a fresh gallon of milk. He opened it, and poured a tall glass for his boss. Jinky raised it in a mock toast.

“Here’s to the easiest six grand I’ve ever made. Thanks, boys.”

Jinky drank the first four glasses of milk without a problem. But by the fifth glass, he began to slow down, the color of his face turning from deep red to a subdued pink. He was struggling to keep the liquid down, and placed the empty glass on his desk and filled his lungs with air. A little over half the gallon was gone.

“How much time have I used?” he asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” the giant said. He sat on the edge of his boss’s desk, guarding the money.

“Give me a minute to catch my breath.”

“You’ve got another forty-five minutes, boss.”

“Fifteen,” Jinky said. “I’m going to drink the rest in fifteen.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, boss.”

“Shut your mouth,” Jinky said.

The sixth glass was a monumental achievement, and went down as slow as honey. By the time the seventh had been raised to Jinky’s lips, five more minutes had passed, and Jinky’s face had turned as white as the liquid in the glass. He was a goner, and Gerry tugged Vinny on the sleeve.

“Get out of his way,” he said beneath his breath.

“He gonna blow?” Vinny whispered back.

“Any second.”

“You slip something into his drink?”

“No. It’s all the enzymes in the milk. The stomach can’t tolerate them all at once. The king is about to be dethroned.”

Vinny hid the smile on his lips. “Long live the king,” he said.

13

Valentine landed at McCarran International Airport at nine thirty the next morning, and was greeted by Gloria Curtis as he stepped out of the jetway. She wore a striking blue suit and stood out among the poorly dressed tourists. He’d watched her announce sports for years, and always liked her direct, no-nonsense style. She looked younger than her age, which he guessed to be fifty. She was an attractive woman who’d opted for crow’s feet instead of a face lift. He liked that, too.

“Mr. Valentine, I’m Gloria Curtis with WSPN Sports,” she said.

He did not slow down, his clothing bag slung over his shoulder.

“How did you get out here without a ticket?” he asked.

It wasn’t the best lead, and he saw a twinge of hurt on her face. “I was just wondering,” he quickly added. “Being an ex-cop, my curiosity kind of runs away with my mouth sometimes.”

“I was supposed to be leaving this afternoon,” she said. “I used that ticket. Look, I’ll get right to the point. I need to air my story in a few hours.”

“Time’s a-wasting, huh?”

“Yes. I have a deadline to meet, and I’m hoping you’ll accommodate me.”

“Off camera, as we agreed,” he said.

“Yes. I rented one of the airport’s conference rooms.”

Valentine shook his head.

“Would you prefer one of the casinos, instead?” she asked.

He shook his head again. If there is anywhere in the world where the expression “The walls have ears” is true, it is in Las Vegas.

She made an annoyed face, and he said, “Don’t worry. I know the perfect place we can talk.”

There was something deliciously sweet about taking a woman that you’d always admired for a drive ten minutes after meeting her. But that was what Valentine was able to do, having rented a convertible at the Avis counter while convincing Gloria that a car would be the safest place to have their conversation about cheating at World Poker Showdown. As he opened the passenger door for her, she smiled.

“How nice. You’re also a gentleman,” she said.

Outside of the airport he got onto Tropicana Avenue and took it to Las Vegas Boulevard, then headed south, away from town. The pattern of two- and three-story condominiums broke after a few miles, the scenery changing to desert fields that lay in dusty rest. He glanced at his passenger and saw her eyeing the scenery.

“This feels like a date,” she said with a laugh in her voice.

“Does that mean the interview’s off?”

She turned in her seat, the shoulder harness pulling at her blouse.

“Don’t try to wiggle out of this one.”

He stared at the highway. “Fire away.”

“First of all, I’m pretty sure that Skip DeMarco cheated during the first day of the tournament,” she began.

“How did you do that?”

“I got my hands on the tournament registration logbook. DeMarco registered with the same seven guys he played with. I looked at the tapes from their table. They all folded to him, and gave him a huge advantage because he had so many chips. That let him beat Rufus Steele, plus a number of other top players. It was such an advantage that he’s currently the chip leader in the tournament. I also ran a background check on him. His uncle is a gangster from Newark named George ‘the Tuna’ Scalzo. Scalzo is out here, backing him.”

Gloria folded her hands in her lap, obviously pleased with herself.

“So what’s the question?” Valentine asked.

She shot him a bite-your-head-off look. “Are you trying to be funny? I want you to confirm what I just said.”

“Confirm what?”

“That DeMarco is a cheater.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t have any proof,” Valentine said.

“But I just told you my proof.”

“It won’t hold up. Play devil’s advocate with me for a minute. DeMarco registers with seven guys, and they end up at the same table. It looks suspicious, but maybe it’s a coincidence. He is blind, so you can’t blame him. Unless you can get one of those seven guys to admit it was done on purpose, you’ve got nothing.”

He took his eyes off the road and glanced at her. “Agreed?”

Gloria bit her lower lip. “I guess.”

“Now, those seven guys fold to DeMarco. Or did they just lose to him? Unless one of them says they gave him their chips, you’ve got nothing. Agreed?”

“Come on. You and I both know that DeMarco cheated.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. There are plenty of cheaters playing in the World Poker Showdown, including your source, Rufus Steele.”

“He is?”

“Yes. Rufus has been conning people for fifty years. Having one crook accuse another crook of cheating isn’t credible.”

“But Rufus has never been arrested,” she said. “I checked him out.”

“He’s still a crook.”

“But—”

“Trust me on this, okay?”

She acted wounded, and Valentine guessed she’d already written her story, and was just hoping he’d verify it so she could get in front of a camera and blow the lid off DeMarco’s scam. That wasn’t going to happen if he had a say in the matter, and he saw a gas station ahead and turned his indicator on.

“Look, Gloria,” he said when they were sitting in the gas station’s parking area. She had refused his offer of a hot drink, and stared coolly at him as he spoke. “A lot of gamblers are crooks. They try to get an edge whenever they can. Sometimes it means doing things that aren’t kosher.”