An hour later, everyone met up in a parking lot across the street, and cut up the jackpot. Red, whose real name was Glenn, handed Bronco five hundred dollars and said, “Kid, you’ve got a future in this business.”

Bronco had stared at the money. It was more than he’d ever seen in his life. He’d handed it back to Glenn, and saw surprise register in the older man’s face.

“You don’t want the money?” Glenn said.

“I want to learn,” Bronco said.

Glenn had taken him under his wing, and become his friend. According to Glenn, any idiot could rig a slot machine. All you needed was a skeleton key and a lot of nerve. The hard part was finding a claimer. They needed to be John Q. Citizens with squeaky-clean backgrounds. Otherwise, the casino would be suspicious when they ran a background check. The blonde at the Riviera was a perfect example. She was a first grade teacher, and had never broken a law in her life.

“But how do you convince claimers to work with you?” Bronco asked one night.

They were eating spaghetti and meatballs at a dump on Fremont Street, and Glenn put his fork down and stared him in the eye.

“You don’t,” his teacher said.

Bronco put his elbows on the table, and stared his teacher in the eye.

“You don’tconvince them,” Glenn said. “That’s the secret to this business, kid.”

Bronco looked at his plate of food. He knew everything about rigging slot machines but the important part, and felt defeated. After a moment he lifted his head, and saw a softening in his teacher’s face, and realized Glenn was going to tell him.

“They convince themselves,” his teacher said.

“Hey, punk. Wake up.”

Bronco’s eyes snapped open. A hulking guard stood outside his cell door.

“You the pizza guy?”

“Very funny,” the guard said. “Your lawyer’s here.”

Bronco rose from the cot and held his hands out. The guard entered and handcuffed him, then led Bronco down a hallway to the visitor’s room.

The room was small and stunk of sweat. Garrow stood behind a pocked table wearing a concerned look on his face. Bronco sat down behind the table, and was handcuffed to the leg of his chair, which was hex-bolted to the floor. Garrow remained standing, his hands clasped in front of his chest.

“How you doing?” his lawyer asked.

“Having the time of my fucking life.”

“You’ve opened up Pandora’s box, Bronco.”

“I don’t know any broad named Pandora,” Bronco said.

Garrow unclasped his hands and stepped closer. He was small and greasy and knew how to get under people’s skin. “It’s a figure of speech. You’ve created a shit storm, in case you didn’t know it.”

Bronco knew exactly what he’d created. He stared down at the pocked table. In blue ink someone had scratched the words NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE into the wood. No one but me, he thought.

“Good,” he said.

Garrow gave him a no-nonsense stare. “Listen to what I’m saying. Governor Smoltz has put half the cops in the state on the case. He’s also bringing in outside help. And, he’s putting heat on me.”

“He can’t do that, can he?” Bronco said.

“You’re threatening the state’s livelihood. Smoltz will do whatever he wants.”

Bronco used his free hand to scratch his chin. He enjoyed seeing Garrow sweat; it brought the relationship back to a normal level.

“What kind of outside help?”

“Some casino dick named Valentine.”

“Tony Valentine?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me you know the guy.”

Bronco dropped his head, and stared at the words written on the table. Not a joke, but a premonition. He wasn’t getting out of here alive if Valentine was involved. “Afraid so.”

Garrow gestured nervously with his hands. “Let me guess. He hates your guts.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do to him?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Then we’re sunk.”

Bronco stared up at him. “I can still go to the media. I’ll tell them the name of the crooked Gaming Control Board agent, and the casinos will be fucked.”

Garrow lowered his body so his chin was a few inches from Bronco’s face. “What if the police don’t letyou talk to the media? What if they keep you locked up in this stinking jail until they figure out who it is. What then?”

“But I’ve got rights,” Bronco said.

“You’re holding them hostage,” his lawyer said. “Smoltz will do whatever it takes to keep you muzzled. Think about it.”

“Then you talk to the media, and tell them the agent’s name,” Bronco said.

Garrow pulled back. “Me? Are you insane? I’ll be run out of the state. No thanks.”

“So you’re saying I’m on my own.”

“I’m saying give them the agent’s name, and we’ll ask the judge to go lenient on you for shooting Bo Farmer, claim it was self-defense.”

“What kind of sentence are you talking about?”

“Six to eight years, with time off for good behavior. I’ve already talked to the D.A. about it.”

Bronco glanced at the big clock hanging on the wall. The second hand was sweeping in twelve noon. Less than ten minutes had passed since he’d entered the visitor’s room, and his high-priced lawyer had already sold him down the river.

“Listen to me,” Bronco said in a whisper. “If you don’t help me get out of this fucking place, I’ll tell the D.A. about all the crooked shit you’ve done, like laundering money, and hiring hit men for clients. You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life.”

Garrow looked stricken. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“Do more. I need time so I can figure a way to get out of here.”

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it,” his attorney said.

Bronco stared at the pocked table. This whole conversation had started because Tony Valentine was involved in the case. That gave him an idea.

“Take Valentine out of the picture.”

“But he’s a cop.”

“Ex-cop. Nobody cares about them.”

“You want him whacked?”

“You’re a mind reader.”

Garrow understood what his client was saying, and nodded solemnly.

“Consider it done,” the lawyer said.

Walking back to his cell, Bronco glanced over his shoulder at the guard who was escorting him. His name was Karl Klinghoffer, and he was as big as a mule and half as smart. As they reached his cell, Bronco said, “You married?”

Klinghoffer lifted his bovine eyes. “What if I was?”

“Want to make your wife happy?”

“Don’t go there,” Klinghoffer warned.

Bronco dropped his voice. “I’m talking about buying her a fancy appliance, or a big diamond. Think she’d like that?”

Klinghoffer unlocked the cell door, and brusquely shoved him in. Then, he closed the door and started to walk away. It was a slow walk, and Bronco knew that he’d taken the bait.

“This isn’t a bribe,” he called after him.

Klinghoffer shuffled back to Bronco’s cell. His shoes were at least a size fourteen and he couldn’t walk without scuffing the floor.

“Then what is it?”

“Free money.”

“Ain’t no such thing.”

“Yes there is.” Bronco pressed his face against the bars. “There’s a casino in Reno called the Gold Rush. You know it?”

“Sure.”

“Go inside, and go to the first row of slot machines you see.”

“Front door or back?”

“Front. Third machine from the end is a Quarter Mania. Put three quarters into the machine, and pull the handle. Then put in two, and pull the handle. Then put in one, and pull the handle. Then you’re set. Make sure you bet the maximum amount of coins after that.”

Klinghoffer stared at him. There was a security camera watching them, and he was smart enough to answer while barely moving his lips.

“Why should I do that.”

“Because you’ll win a jackpot.”

“Machine rigged?”

“Never been touched.”

“Then how?”

Bronco pulled away from the bars and lay down on his cot. He propped his pillow against the wall, and lay on it with his arms behind his head. “It’s free money, my friend. I have the keys to the kingdom, and I’m willing to share them with you.”