“You think that’s why he didn’t shoot you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. Gerry lit up another cigarette and Valentine broke another promise to himself and took a drag. His son broke the silence.

“I know this is going to sound strange…”

“What’s that?”

“I think Bronco regretted doing that to me. You know, terrorizing a kid.”

“You’re saying the guy’s human.”

“Yeah,” his son said.

“And that he has a heart.”

“Yeah.”

Valentine filled his lungs with the rich-tasting smoke. If he’d learned anything as a cop, it was that there was a fine line between sinners and saints. Even the best people went bad, and sometimes the worst people surprised you. When it came to human behavior, there was no real black and white. It was all a hazy shade of gray.

“I’m still going to nail his ass,” Valentine said.

Part 2

Cheats

Chapter 32

Not shooting Gerry Valentine had to be the stupidest thing Bronco had ever done. Gerry had seen the car in the storage facility, probably memorized the license plate. The fact that Bronco had spared him didn’t mean Gerry wasn’t going to tell the police what he’d seen once they rescued him. Bronco had killed plenty of men in his life, and had a feeling he was going to regret not killing this one.

He pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot and went through the side entrance into the Men’s Room. Standing before the mirror, he applied the nail polish Gerry had bought for him to his cheeks and forehead, then scrunched his face up while the nail polish dried. Within a few minutes he looked ten years older.

He bought himself a couple of burgers, and was surprised when the cashier handed him a Styrofoam cup. “Free coffee for older folks,” she said brightly.

He went outside with his coffee and his burgers. Opening the trunk of the Taurus, he inspected the items he’d put there years ago in case of an emergency. There was a high-powered hunting rifle with a long-range scope, a .25 Beretta, several boxes of ammo, two changes of clothes, and a cardboard box filled with disguises. From the box he removed a baseball cap that said ‘Reno, Biggest Little City in the World’ — and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Getting into the car, he put the cap and glasses on, then appraised himself in the mirror. He looked like a retiree, and fired up the car’s engine. If he drove real slow, he’d look like every other old geezer who tooled around Reno.

A police cruiser entered the parking lot. A pair of cops were checking out the cars, and Bronco unwrapped one of the burgers sitting on the seat, and shoved it into his mouth. He drove past the cruiser and rolled his window down.

“Good afternoon, officers,” he said through a mouthful of food.

The two cops nodded, their faces all business.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

The cops stared right through him. Bronco had been disguising himself as an old man for years, and it never failed to work. It was like being invisible, only he got discounts on food and better service in restaurants.

“Have a nice day,” he called as he drove away.

Bronco thought about his situation while driving into the city. He could last a day or two changing his appearance, but not much more. The police would eventually track him down, and he’d end up back in jail. Just two days behind bars had convinced him that he wouldn’t last very long being locked up. He’d heard about ex-cons who’d killed themselves rather than go back to the joint, and always thought the stories were crazy. Now, he didn’t think they were crazy at all.

He needed money, and lots of it. Money would buy him time, and time was freedom. It was as simple as that. He knew just how to get it.

The outskirts of Reno had more stores than the city itself, and he pulled into a strip shopping center, and parked by a neighborhood pub called Woody’s. Inside, he found a bunch of armchair quarterbacks sucking beer and watching the local news on a giant screen TV. A breathless newscaster was describing his escape from the police station that morning, and the resulting manhunt which was taking place across the state. He threw a ten dollar bill on the bar, and asked for a glass of tomato juice and quarters to use the pay phone.

“Phone’s in back,” the bartender said, sliding his drink and change across the bar.

The phone booth was next to the kitchen. Bronco slid onto the seat while staring at his enlarged mug shot on the TV. The newscaster said, “If there is a happy footnote to this story, it’s that the guard who was attacked at the jail, Karl Klinghoffer, was resuscitated by another guard, and is expected to make a full recovery.”

Bronco found himself nodding. He’d liked Karl. Like a lot of cops, Karl had larceny in his heart, and had been easy to manipulate. Placing the receiver into the crook of his neck, he dialed from memory the number of the cheating gaming agent at the Nevada Gaming Control Board. Moments later, an automated voice told him to put in three dollars and sixty-five cents. Bronco fed the coins in, and his call went through.

“Hello?” a man’s voice said.

“It’s me,” Bronco said. “Go outside, and call me back at this number.”

“You! How dare you—

“Just do as I say,” Bronco told him. He recited the number printed on the pay phone, then hung up. Two minutes later, the phone rang.

“How’s it going,” Bronco said.

“You crummy bastard,” the cheating agent screamed. “I heard what you did. You offered to sell me down the river if the police let you out of jail. How dare you call me!”

“Calm down,” Bronco said.

“Fuck you!”

“I broke out of jail this morning,” Bronco said. “I’m on the lam.”

There was a long silence. Then, “You didn’t give me up?”

“Of course not,” Bronco said, sipping his tomato juice. “That was a bullgarbage story put out by the police. They were trying to smoke you out.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Believe what you want.”

Another silence. “Why did you call me?”

“I need money.”

“Like I’m going to wire it to you? Get real.”

Bronco’s hand tightened around the receiver. The cheating gaming agent was a real head case. He’d gotten pissed off at his employer a few years ago, and decided to pay him back by taking dead aim at the casinos. A revenge thing.

“Listen to me,” Bronco said. “As long as I’m free, you’re free. Understand?”

Another silence. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good. I want you to go back to your office, and find me a slot machine in Reno that’s ready to be ripped off.”

“I already gave you one of those,” the agent said.

“It’s been used.”

“By who?”

“I gave it to a guard in the jail.”

“A guard? How stupid is that?”

Had they been in the same room, Bronco would have strangled him. Fucking civil servant who discovered that the people he worked for were scum and had developed a self-righteous attitude because of it.

“He helped me get out of jail,” Bronco said.

The agent let out an exasperated breath. “Give me five minutes.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bronco said.

Bronco drank his tomato juice and watched TV while he waited. The pub had several slot machines, and he had to force himself not to play them. Slots in bars were “tight” and rarely paid out, and he’d always enjoyed ripping them off.

But he didn’t do it. He needed to show restraint if he was going to stay out of jail. That was what tripped most criminals up. They followed certain behavior patterns that were recognizable and allowed the police to track them down. For him, it was playing the slots. If he could just stay away, he’d be okay.