Deadman's Bluff Read Online Free Page B

he believed in the Old Testament’s advice: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” He went into the stairwell, and listened some more.
     
    When Valentine returned to the suite a minute later, Rufus handed him a towel wrapped around some ice cubes. Sitting on the couch, he pressed the towel to his nose.
    “I called hotel security,” Rufus said. “They’re dealing with a problem in the casino, and will be up in a few. Hey, Tony, you’ve got blood on your shirt. You okay?”
    Valentine looked down at his shirt. The lower half was soaked in red.
    “I’m fine,” he said.
    “Well, you don’t look fine,” Rufus said.
    “Okay, so I’m lousy.”
    Rufus pulled a suitcase from the closet. He unzipped a pocket, removed a glass pint of bourbon, and offered it to him. “This is the finest bourbon known to man, brewed in a Mississippi bathtub by the great-grandson of Jack Daniels himself.”
    “No thanks,” Valentine said. “But go ahead yourself.”
    Rufus unscrewed the top and took a long pull, smacking his lips when done. Some men, like Valentine’s father, could not drink without turning into monsters. Others, like Rufus, seemed better for the experience.
    Rufus retrieved the coiled bullwhip from the floor. It looked like a thick black snake whose head was hidden within its coils, and he tucked it beneath the couch.
    “You always carry that around?” Valentine asked.
    “Used to carry a gun,” Rufus said. “After 9/11, I started carrying the whip. In some ways, it’s better than a gun. You should learn how to use one.”
    “You think so?”
    “It’s like fly casting a fishing rod. Ever try that?”
    “I fly-fished once on vacation,” Valentine said. “I caught the hook on my earlobe. Had to go to the emergency room at the hospital to have it removed.”
    “Maybe you should stick with beating people up.”
    “Thanks.”
    Rufus returned his pint to the suitcase, then consulted his wristwatch. It was an old silver dollar that had been turned into a timepiece. The coin needed polishing, but probably wouldn’t see any in Rufus’s lifetime.
    “Those hotel guards are mighty damn slow,” he said.
    Valentine shifted the icepack on his face. A five-minute response time in a Vegas hotel was normal. Although their casinos had state-of-the-art surveillance systems, they were largely ineffective when it came to crimes against guests. There were simply too many rooms.
    “They’ll show up eventually,” he said. “Since neither of us were killed, they’re not hurrying. It’s how things work. Everything gets prioritized. Especially guests.”
    “And since you and I aren’t whales, we get the pooch treatment.”
    “Exactly.”
    Rufus removed his Stetson and patted down his hair like he was expecting company. He fitted his hat back on, and looked Valentine in the eye.
    “I’d hate this crummy town if I didn’t like to gamble so much,” Rufus said.
    In the bathroom, Valentine changed shirts, downed four ibuprofens, then appraised his profile in the mirror. He’d gotten his nose broken twice as a cop, plus a couple times in judo competition, yet it had never flattened. Good genes, he guessed. He returned to the suite, sat on the couch with Rufus.
    “Come straight with me about something,” Rufus said.
    “Sure.”
    “When that guy was threatening me with the pipe, you thought I was selling you out, didn’t you?”
    Valentine considered denying it, then decided not to lie. “Afraid I did.”
    “Sorry. It was the only ruse I could think of.”
    There was a commotion in the hallway. Four uniformed cops entered the suite, followed by Pete Longo, chief detective with the Metro Las Vegas Police Department’s Homicide Division. As Valentine rose from the couch, the cops drew their weapons.
    “Stay seated,” a cop ordered him.
    Valentine dropped back into his seat.
    “Where are your guns?” the cop asked.
    “We don’t have any,” Valentine said.
    The cops searched the suite anyway. Valentine