“I think it has something to do with Rufus’s unique powers of persuasion,” he said. “I’d normally never do anything like that.”

“I sensed that,” she said. “You old guys really stick together.”

“Is that what I am? An old guy?”

She put her hand on his wrist and gave it a squeeze. “A good old guy.”

Gloria had innocently touched him several times in the past two days, and he found himself liking it. Each time they had a conversation, he felt the need to continue it, and he said, “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

She smiled at him with her eyes. “Sure. I have to cover the tournament this morning. Is twelve thirty all right?”

“That’s my nap time.”

“Stop that.”

He felt a smile coming on. “Twelve thirty it is. I’ll meet you in the lobby restaurant.”

“See you then.”

She gave his wrist another squeeze and left with her cameraman. When they were gone, Valentine asked himself where this was going. She was part of the case. Even if this relationship went no further than the platonic stages, it was the wrong thing to be doing. Business was business, pleasure was pleasure, and they weren’t supposed to mix.

He felt his cell phone vibrate, and pulled it from his pocket. The Caller ID said BILL HIGGINS. As he flipped the phone open, he realized he didn’t care. Gloria was smart and pretty and he liked talking to her. His partner in Atlantic City had liked to say that it was easy to find a woman to have sex with, but finding one whom you wanted to talk to, that was tough.

“Hey, Bill, what’s up?” he said into his phone.

“I need to talk to you,” his friend said. “It’s urgent.”

“Just say where.”

“Meet me at Gardunos in twenty minutes.”

Gardunos was a local Mexican restaurant they sometimes frequented. It was away from the casinos, and the food was homemade and exceptionally good.

“I’ll see you in twenty,” Valentine said.

Going outside, he handed the valet his stub, then went to the curb and waited for his rental to come up. Celebrity’s valet stand was decorated with African flora and fauna, and had Congo music playing over a loudspeaker. It was like walking onto a movie set, and at any moment he expected to see Tarzan come swinging through the trees.

While he waited, Valentine found himself staring at a man standing at the end of the curb. The man wore tailored slacks and a white dress shirt that clashed with a floppy tennis hat and Ray-Bans. He sensed the guy was trying to keep a low profile, and guessed he was a celebrity visiting the hotel incognito. The man looked impatiently at his watch, and Valentine got a good look at his face. It was Dr. Robinson, the house physician.

A decrepit Toyota Corolla pulled up to the curb. Robinson picked up a gym bag lying at his feet, and went to the car. He gave the valet his stub and climbed in behind the wheel.

Valentine felt his radar go up. Robinson was driving a junker and hadn’t tipped the valet. Valentine had known plenty of house physicians at hotels, and they all made a decent buck. Something wasn’t adding up here. He walked down the curb, and glanced into the Toyota just as Robinson pulled away. A tattered black suitcase occupied one of the backseats. Stenciled across its front were the words RENFO & COMPANY in bold white letters. It looked like something an entertainer might use, and he went to the valet stand, and found the kid who’d brought up the car.

“Let me see that guy’s stub,” Valentine said.

The kid wore his hair in his face and shot him a defiant sneer. “No way. It’s against hotel rules.”

“I’m a dick doing a job for the hotel.”

“You’re a dick?” the kid said, hiding a laugh.

“It’s short for detective. Let me see it.”

The kid stared at his clothes. Sometimes, looking like a cop had its advantages. The kid produced the stub from his pocket, and Valentine read the name printed across the top: Renfo.He stuck ten bucks in the kid’s hand, then returned to the curb and waited for his rental to come up.

He waited until he was on the highway driving toward Garduno’s before pulling out his cell phone and dialing Las Vegas information. A chatty female operator came on, and he asked for any listings in Clark County for Renfo. Within seconds she had found four. Two were businesses, the other two residential.

“The residential, please,” he said.

She gave him the numbers and he memorized them, then called them while driving one-handed. Both were disconnected. He called information again, and this time got the two business listings. The first number led him to a long-haul trucking company and a friendly guy named Jack. The second number was answered by a middle-aged woman with a smoker’s raspy voice. She was not nearly as friendly.

“Good morning, Renfo and Company,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi,” Valentine said. “I met Mr. Renfo this morning, and he gave me his business card. I’d like to talk to him about some work.”

“You’d like to hire Renfo?” the women asked, sounding skeptical.

“That’s right.”

“What kind of engagement do you have in mind?”

The woman had a cutting edge to her voice, and Valentine felt himself feeling sorry for Renfo. Whatever he did for a living, she sure wasn’t helping.

“Engagement?”

“Yeah, as in work. Are you hiring Renfo for a birthday party, a corporate event, a bar mitzvah, or what? How big is the group? How long do you want him to work? The standard questions, you know?”

She sounded ready to slam down the phone, and Valentine quickly improvised.

“It’s my son’s birthday party next Saturday. There will be about thirty children and ten adults. I’d like Renfo to work for half an hour.”

“How old are the kids?” the woman asked.

“Ten- to twelve-year-olds.”

“That’s good to know. I’ll tell Renfo to leave out the blue stuff.”

“Blue stuff?”

“Yeah, the dirty jokes.”

Renfo was a comedian? That didn’t make sense, and he started wondering if this was another dead end.

“Some of them are actually pretty funny,” the woman added.

“You don’t say.”

“Really, they are,” the woman said. “Renfo’s got one where he says, ‘What’s your favorite bird?’ And Freddy, his dummy, says, ‘A wood pecker.’ And Renfo says, ‘I bet you’ve always wanted one of those.’ Ha, you get it?”

Valentine stared at the bluish bank of mountains rimming the horizon, thinking back to everything that had happened in the poker room that morning. Now he understood why Rufus had wanted a leather bag put over his head. It had muffled his voice, and made it impossible to tell if he was actually doing the talking. Dr. Robinson, aka Renfo, wasn’t a doctor at all. He was a professional ventriloquist.

“Got it,” he said.

Part III

Shoot the Pickle

41

Mabel Struck was about to leave for a late lunch when the phone rang. She’d spent the morning soothing the nerves of several panicked casino bosses, and had worked up an appetite. She looked at the phone, and saw that it was Tony’s private line. Only a few people had the number, and she stared at the Caller ID. It was the boss himself.

“Grift Sense,” she answered cheerfully.

“Is this a money-laundering operation?”

“There you are. How’s sunny Las Vegas?”