“I can’t?”

“No. I don’t work for you.”

Valentine leaned forward. “Your job is being paid for by casino dollars, just like every other employee in this prison. Think about it.”

Smith blinked as Valentine’s words registered in his brain. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. If I don’t cooperate, and get Lucy to look at these photographs, you’ll have me fired.”

“Not me. But maybe the people I’m working for.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“You realize Lucy will hate you for this.”

“That’s my cross to bear, not yours.”

Smith scooped the five photographs off the table and left the cafeteria. Valentine rose from the table, and bought a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine in the corner, pausing to read the Surgeon General’s warning stamped on the glass. Printed in bold letters, it said that smoking would eventually kill him.

He ripped open the pack and banged out a smoke. Sometimes, a person didn’t want to live forever. For those times, a cigarette was the perfect thing to stick in your mouth.

Smith returned fifteen minutes later. His face was flush. He angrily tossed the photographs into Valentine’s hands.

“It’s the guy on top,” the doctor said.

Valentine took another drag on his cigarette. An investigation was like running a race. Some were sprints, others marathons. The only thing they had in common was the finish line.

He stared down at the photo. It was Fred Friendly, the head of ESD.

Chapter 49

Gerry stood inside the lobby of the Acropolis feeling like he’d entered a 1970's sitcom. The carpeting was an ugly burnt orange color that he hadn’t seen since his grandparent’s house, the walls covered in dark smokey mirrors. Statues of half-dressed women with huge breasts were stuck in every corner, and appeared to be someone’s idea of art. It reminded him of the movie Casinowithout the beautiful people.

He entered the casino. It was also a time warp, and was designed like a wheel. A person could not walk through the main floor without passing through that wheel, and hopefully, stopping at a table and wagering a few dollars.

He went searching for the house phones. Before he could find them, a hulking security guard approached him.

“Your name Valentine?”

“That’s me.”

The guard pointed to the elevators. “You have a phone call.”

It had to be his father. Who else knew he was here? He thanked the guard, and went to the elevators where the house phones were located. He picked up a phone.

“Hey.”

“Hey?” an unfamiliar voice replied. “What kind of greeting is that?”

Not his father, but someone with the same attitude.

“Okay,” Gerry said, “Hey, you.”

The man snorted at him. “Where’d you go to charm school?”

“Sing-Sing prison.”

“You’re hysterical. You come into my casino and don’t say hello?”

“Who is this?” Gerry asked.

“Nick Nicocropolis, you pin head. I’m in the penthouse. Come on up.”

Gerry hung up with a grin on his face. Nick was the hard-headed little Greek who owned the Acropolis. Gerry guessed Nick had seen him in the casino, and mistaken him for his father. He’d heard stories about Nick for years — Nick had been married eight glorious times, all to Vegas knockouts — and had always wanted to meet him. He stepped into an elevator, and pressed the penthouse button. The buttons were made of see-through plastic, and featured silhouettes of naked women in provocative poses.

“That’s just beautiful,” Gerry said.

The penthouse was a major disappointment. Nick’s sexual prowess was legendary, and Gerry had expected Nick’s digs to be a living testimonial to his conquests. Instead, his office was a clone of Fortune 500 CEO’s digs, and as sterile as a hospital emergency room. Gerry was bummed.

Nick was something of a disappointment as well. He was a smallish Greek with a perfectly round pot-belly, bushy eyebrows, bushy hair, and other small bushes of hair sprouting from different parts of his body. As Gerry entered the office, Nick jumped out of his chair, and came around the desk to greet him.

“Holy shit, you’re not Tony,” the little Greek said.

“Gerry Valentine. I’m Tony’s son. Nice to meet you.”

“ Nicky!”a woman’s voice crackled over the intercom on the desk.

Nick froze in his spot and hunched his shoulders. “Yes, honey.”

“Promise me you won’t swear again,” she purred.

“I promise, dear.” Smiling sheepishly, Nick lowered his voice. “That’s my wife Wanda. She works in the adjacent office.”

Gerry grinned. Talk about a short leash,he thought. As if reading his thoughts, Nick said, “It’s not what you think.”

“What’s not what I think?” Gerry asked.

“The office isn’t bugged.”

Nick was a client, and one of the few casino owners in the world who his father implicitly trusted. Gerry couldn’t make fun of him, only he couldn’t stop grinning.

“Stop laughing,” the little Greek scolded.

“Sorry.”

“Wanda’s developed a sixth sense to my swearing. It started right after she got pregnant. Every time I swear, she breaks out in hives, and chews me out.”

“Wow.”

“Shut up,” Nick told him.

Nick offered Gerry a seat, then settled into a leather chair behind the desk that made him look several inches taller than he really was.

“Your dad in town with you?” Nick asked.

“Yeah. He’s on a case.”

“I like your old man, even if he is from New Jersey.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell him to call me when he’s done. I’ll treat you boys to dinner in The Wanda Room. It’s our new steakhouse. You should see the waitresses.”

“Something else, huh?”

“They’ll poke your eyes out.”

Gerry smiled to himself. Nick was a dinosaur. Yet he’d managed to survive longer than any other casino boss in Las Vegas. There was a reason for that.

“I need to ask you a question,” Gerry said. “My father says that you know everything that’s going on in this town.”

Nick kissed the end of an unlit cigar. “Correct.”

“This in confidence.”

“Won’t leave this room.”

“What happened in the past three years that would make seven Nevada Gaming Control Board’s top agents turn into thieves?”

Nick’s eyes narrowed, and Gerry almost thought he heard the gears shifting in the little Greek’s head. He tossed his cigar down, made a face that said he wasn’t happy.

“That’s a loaded question, kid.”

“Something didhappen,” Gerry said.

“Lots of crap happens in this town. Most of it gets buried in the desert.”

“My father would be indebted to you if you’d tell me what it is,” Gerry said. Then added, “And, so would I.”

Nick pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to the mini bar. He fixed two Scotches on the rocks and gave one to his guest. Gerry hadn’t had a drink before noon in forever, but this was Vegas, and the rules were different here.

They clinked glasses, and then Nick told him a story.

According to Nick, only two things mattered in Las Vegas. Sex, and money. Everything else was just camouflage.

The story Nick told him was about money. Lots of it. And it did not have a happy ending. It had started three years ago in a casino called Diamond Dave’s.

Diamond Dave’s was what locals called a sawdust joint, its clientele consisting of tour bus gamblers and locals. Dave’s shouldn’t have been making much money, yet it was. In fact, it was making more than many of its bigger rivals in town.

A routine audit by the Gaming Commission had uncovered a serious problem. The games at Diamond Dave’s were raking in the cash. The hold, which was the amount of money the casino kept, was double what it was supposed to be. The Gaming Commission had smelled a rat, and asked the Gaming Control Board to investigate.