15

“It’s open, and I’ve got nothing worth stealing,” Rufus Steele called out.

Valentine opened the door to Rufus’s hotel room and poked his head in. Rufus was standing by the bed with the phone pressed to his chin, the look on his face pure agitation. Seeing Valentine in the doorway, he flashed a crooked grin, and motioned him inside.

“Hey, Tony, you’re a sight for sore eyes. How you been?”

“Fine,” Valentine said, shutting the door behind him.

Rufus hadn’t changed that much since Valentine had last seen him. He was in his scruffy cowboy clothes and looked like he’d just stepped out of a spaghetti western. Back in his day, he’d been the greatest poker player in the world, but that had been a long time ago. Compared to the brash young kids who now ruled the poker world, Rufus looked sadly out of place.

“Hello,” Rufus said into the phone. “Is this the hotel’s general manager? Well, listen to what I’m about to say. You have as much chance of getting me to leave this room as you do getting French kissed by the Statue of Liberty. That’s right, son. I know the law, and you can’t throw me out. You think I’m mistaken? Well, here’s an idea. Why don’t you take this phone and shove it up your ass?”

Rufus dropped the receiver into its cradle. Then he grabbed two sodas from the minibar, and pointed at a pair of chairs by the room’s window. They made themselves comfortable and clinked bottles.

“They trying to throw you out?” Valentine asked.

“They sure are. They’re mad I blew the whistle on that smart-aleck DeMarco kid,” Rufus said. He took a long swig of soda and let out a belch. “Besides, I can’t leave the hotel even if I wanted to.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t pay the bill. I blew the last of my money on the entry fee.”

“Times been hard?”

Rufus tilted back his cowboy hat. His forehead was covered with liver spots and his hair was a thin reminder of the mane he’d once sported. “Yeah, but I guess I should have expected it. They say a poker player spends the first twenty years of his life learning, the second twenty years earning, and the last twenty years yearning for what he once was. I believe I may have entered into that third stage.”

“You can still beat ninety-nine percent of these kids,” Valentine said.

“Thanks. I needed that.”

“Bill Higgins said you had something to tell me.”

Rufus raised the soda to his lips and all the liquid inside disappeared. “You need to grill the tournament director. He seated those boys together with DeMarco. It was fixed from the start.”

“Can you prove that?”

Rufus frowned. “No, but it’s obvious what happened.”

Valentine leaned forward in his chair. He remembered Rufus once telling him about poker games in Texas where they’d put guys with machine guns on the roof of the house to protect the players inside. Rufus had seen plenty of thieves in his day, and would undoubtedly run across plenty more. “Rufus, you’re taking this personally. That’s not like you. There will be other tournaments.”

“This is different,” Rufus said.

“How so?”

“That kid bad-mouthed me on national television. My ninety-eight-year-old momma called me from the Sunset Nursing Home. She said, ‘You need to teach that loudmouth a lesson, Rufus.’”

Valentine put his soda on the windowsill. Then he pulled his chair a few inches closer to his host. “I want you to do me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Stop calling DeMarco a cheater. That’s my job.”

“So what should I call him?”

“A worm, a toad, a snot-nosed schoolboy who doesn’t know his ass from third base, a rank amateur, whatever you want.”

Rufus grinned, getting his drift. “I’ll do it, provided that you return the favor, and let me go about my business.”

“Meaning what?”

“I made a bet with a guy in the tournament which I’m about to go downstairs and settle.”

“A sucker?”

“I suppose you could call him that. He fancies himself a professional poker player.”

“What’s the bet?”

“I bet him ten thousand dollars that I could make a fly land on a sugar cube. The sucker thinks I’m off my rocker. I ask that you not tell him otherwise.”

“I thought you said you were broke,” Valentine said.

Rufus put down his drink, then pulled out both his pockets. There was nothing in either of them. “I am. That’s what makes the bet so intriguing.”

There was an impatient knock on the door. Rufus took his time getting to his feet, his old bones moaning and creaking. He’d been a cowboy all his life, had a wife and a bunch of screaming grandkids, and still called Texas home. He’d once told Valentine that he didn’t permit gambling around the house, and Valentine had believed him.

Rufus opened the door and stuck his head into the hallway. A hotel maintenance man stood outside accompanied by a beefy security guard. The guard did the talking.

“Mr. Steele? I’m with hotel security. We’d like to come into your room.”

“What for?” Rufus asked.

“The general manager informed me that you swore at him a few minutes ago,” the guard said.

“All I did was ask him to shove the phone up his ass,” Rufus said.

“He was deeply offended by the remark.”

“Guess he doesn’t spend much time inside his casino, huh?”

“The general manager has instructed our maintenance man to take your phone out of your room,” the guard said.

“You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

“Afraid not,” the guard said. “Please step aside.”

Rufus’s shoulders sagged. He turned and looked back into the room at Valentine sitting by the window. “Can you talk to this guy, Tony?”

“I’m afraid it won’t do any good,” Valentine said.

“I thought you were here on behalf of the hotel.”

“The Gaming Control Board hired me.”

Rufus’s shoulders sagged some more. He stepped away from the door, and gestured weakly with his arm. The two men entered the suite. The maintenance man took an electric screwdriver off his belt, and placed it on the bed. Then he dropped to his knees, and peered behind the bed, looking for the electrical outlet that the phone was plugged into. Valentine got out of his chair, and came over to where Rufus stood. He felt bad for Rufus, but didn’t know how to express it without offending him any further. Take away a man’s pride, and there wasn’t much left.

Rufus turned to the guard. “Can I make one last call?”

The guard scratched his chin. “Is it local?”

“It’s right here in the hotel,” Rufus said.

“I don’t see why not.”

“I have your permission?”

“Sure,” the guard said. “Go ahead.”

The maintenance man got off the floor, and gave Rufus some room. Rufus picked up the phone’s receiver, and punched in zero. An operator came on the line, and Rufus asked to speak to the hotel’s general manager. A few moments later, he was put through.

“This is Rufus Steele,” he said when the GM came on. “Remember that phone I suggested you shove up your ass? Well, hold on, son. They’re about to deliver it to you.”

16

The sucker was waiting for Rufus in one of the tournament side rooms. He was in his mid-twenties, wore his shirt out to hide his round stomach, and had yellow spiked hair. He was extremely loud, and jabbered away like he’d already won the bet. With him were a pair of tanned guys sporting expensive clothes and nice haircuts. Valentine guessed these were the hairy legs backing the sucker’s play.

Hairy legs were a big part of gambling. They were the money men, and often had more capital than common sense. In Valentine’s opinion, they were a major reason why high-stakes poker had exploded around the country. Most had gotten their wealth from the stock market or the high-tech boom, and frittered it away backing egotistical movie projects and professional poker players.