“What’s that supposed to mean?” his uncle said.

“I’m blind. I don’t see this shit coming. It’s like running into a tree. I did that when I was little, hit the tree as fast as I could. I was on the ground for ten minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Skipper.”

“You’re always sorry, Uncle George, but you never do anything different.”

“I don’t like the way this conversation is going,” his uncle said.

“You don’t? You know what I think, Uncle George?”

“I never know what you’re thinking, Skipper.”

“I think this is another of your deals.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. This is just another deal. You figured out a way to make a killing on this tournament, and sweet-talked me into being your shill. Only you didn’t bother to tell me that I was going to get the shit kicked out of me in the process. Thanks, Uncle George, thanks—”

There was only so much lip that his uncle George would take and he slapped his nephew’s face. DeMarco grabbed his uncle’s wrist, and twisted it. His uncle tried to resist. DeMarco twisted harder.

“How does it feel, Uncle George? How does being helpless feel?”

“Skipper!”

“These are my shoes, Uncle George. Try them on.”

“Let me go!”

“It really stinks, doesn’t it, Uncle George?”

“Guido! Help me!”

DeMarco heard a door bang open and Guido’s patent leather shoes come plodding across the suite’s inch-thick carpet. As Guido’s hands came down on his arms, DeMarco shoved his uncle aside, and found Guido with his hands. He had enrolled in self-defense classes when he was a teenager and been a disciple of the martial arts ever since. If he managed to get his hands on someone, he could beat anyone.

Guido had hands shaped like cow udders. DeMarco got one of his thumbs and bent it back, paralyzing him. Guido groaned, and DeMarco pulled him close. “You know something, Guido? You were the first person to cheat me in cards. We were playing for nickels at the kitchen table and I felt the bends you were putting in them. Can you believe that, Uncle George? Guido picked the one way to cheat me that I’d catch on to. He bent the cards.”

“Let him go,” his uncle declared.

“Took a couple of steps back, didn’t you, Uncle George?” DeMarco said. “Not used to this dynamic, are you?”

“Please, Skipper.”

His uncle was using his nice voice. He didn’t do that very often. Like maybe five times since the turn of the century. DeMarco obliged him, and released the bodyguard. Guido stalked away, muttering under his breath.

“I did this for you, Skipper,” his uncle said. “This isn’t just another deal. I did it for you.”

“For me? That’s a new one.”

His uncle stepped very close. He was shaking his head emphatically, and wanted DeMarco so see it. He did this sometimes when he was desperate to make a point.

“For you, Skipper. As payback. How many times did you get cheated in those poker tournaments you entered in Atlantic City? Every time! You said the other players saw the injured animal, and took you out. You said they whipsawed you, by raising the bets so early that you couldn’t afford to stay in. Am I right?”

DeMarco nodded reluctantly. Whipsawing was a form of collusion between two players. The pair would raise and reraise early in the hand, convincing the other players to fold. Usually, the players had nothing, and would later split the pot between them.

“You also told me that your opponents played cousins, and signaled their hands when they thought you were weak. They used hand signals that you couldn’t see.”

DeMarco nodded again. It was becoming a night of painful memories.

“So this is payback, Skipper. You’re the best poker player in the world; you told me so yourself.”

DeMarco found himself nodding. He wasthe best poker player in the world, at least on the Internet. He’d won over twenty online tournaments and nearly a half a million dollars in prize money. Several poker Web sites had banned him, forcing DeMarco to play under pseudonyms. He was a blind guy playing under a fake name and he was beating everyone out there. Sure, it wasn’t the same as playing in live events, but in time, he was certain he would win all of those as well.

His uncle pinched DeMarco’s arm. He’d been doing that since DeMarco had gone to live with him. It was his way of being affectionate.

“Yes, Uncle George.”

“I’m sorry,” his uncle said. “You’ll be included in all decisions from now on.”

“No more keeping me in the dark?”

His uncle laughed under his breath. “That’s a good one.”

His uncle led him across the room, and parted a curtain. The suite looked down upon the casino, the neon lighting the glass so brilliantly that DeMarco could see it a foot from his face. It made him feel normal, even if just for a little while, and he continued to stand there long after his uncle had said good night.

36

Nothing worked quickly in law enforcement, and it was nearly three A.M. before Gerry was given a sworn statement by Detective Longo regarding the discovery of Russell John Watson’s body in Gerry’s motel room. The statement was three pages long, and typed on legal paper. Gerry read it twice, just to make sure the details were right, then scribbled his signature across the bottom and slid the statement across the desk to the detective. Longo stood up, and the two men shook hands.

“How long you planning to stay in Las Vegas?”

“A couple more days,” Gerry said.

“Try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

Longo led him to the reception area in the front of the station house, which was filled with angry-looking people and several mothers with screaming babies. The area had plastic benches molded to the walls and steel chairs hex-bolted to the floor, and Gerry felt like he’d been dropped into an asylum. The detective shook his hand again.

“Your friends should be out in another ten minutes or so,” Longo said.

Gerry thanked him again, then found an empty seat on a bench, and watched Longo be buzzed back into the station house. Then he spent a few minutes unwinding. He’d been in plenty of tight spots in his life, but today took the cake. He needed to call his father and tell him he was okay, and also to thank him. Mr. Black and White had pulled through again.

He took out his cell phone and powered it up. Several bars of music came out of the phone, indicating it was ready to be used. The large African American sitting beside him emitted a menacing growl. Gerry glanced at him.

“What’s up?”

“Make a cell call in here, and I’ll make you eat that thing,” the man said loudly.

The reception area got still, with even the babies quieting down. Gerry looked around the room, and noticed that he was the only person with a cell phone. Leave it to him to find the one place in the country where people were gathered, and weren’t talking on cell phones. He snapped his phone shut, then rose and went to the front doors. Pushing them open, he glanced back at the man who’d threatened him.

“Save my seat?”

No one in the reception area laughed. Tough crowd,Gerry thought.

He stood on the edge of the parking lot and made the call. His father’s cell phone was turned off, and he left a rambling message on voice mail, thanking his father more times than was necessary, which he guessed was his way of compensating for not thanking him enough for saving his neck when he’d been a kid. Someday it would all balance out, although Gerry knew that day was a long ways off.

He heard the front doors open and someone come out. There was a breeze in the air, and he smelled perfume, then felt a hand touch his sleeve.