Part 19 (1/2)

”In the meantime, I can throw a few crumbs your way,” I offered.

”How's that?” said Zapata, slurping his coffee.

I decided to try Charlie One Ear out, to see if he was as good as everybody said he was.

”I spotted Spanish Eddie Fuereco on the way in,” I said.

”At the airport, no doubt,” Charlie One Ear piped up immediately.

Zapata stared over at him, obviously impressed.

”Right,” I said.

”How'd you know that, Charlie?” asked Zapata, who appeared to be genuinely in awe of the one-eared detective.

”And in the bar,” Charlie One Ear added.

”Right again,” I said.

”Geez,” Zapata said.

”The old coin trick,” Charlie One Ear said. ”Was he spinning heads and tails?”

”You got it,” I said.

”What's the coin trick?” Zapata asked.

”He marks the top of a quarter, say on the heads side but along the ridges so you can't see it unless you're looking for it,” said Charlie One Ear. ”He lets the mark spin the coin. Spanish Eddie never touches it. The mark doesn't suspect anything, y'see, because he's controlling the spin and Eddie's calling whether it'll fall heads or tails. He can tell by the mark on the coin. He's also a sleight-of-hand artist. If the mark wants to switch coins, he always has another one ready.”

”Geez,” Zapata said again, his wonder still growing.

”He's very good,” Charlie One Ear said. ”On a real good night he can score enough to buy a new car.”

”So how come you knew he was at the airport?”

”If the mark starts getting pushy,” Charlie One Ear said, ”Fuereco switches to a regular coin, plays on the mark's money for a few rounds, then has to catch a plane. That's why he does airports. Gives him an excuse to end the game.”

”I'll be d.a.m.ned,” Zapata said. He looked over at me. ”Charlie knows every sc.u.mbag in the business,” he said with great pride.

”Only the cream of the crop,” Charlie One Ear threw in. ”And Spanish Eddie Fuereco only by reputation. I'd love to go a few rounds with him, before I put the arm on him.”

”He'll beatcha,” Zapata said. ”He can read the coin.”

”I'm not too bad at sleight of hand myself,” Charlie One Ear said proudly. ”I'll mark two coins and switch them back and forth so he keeps reading them wrong. What a coup, beating Fuereco at his own game!”

”He's all yours,” I said.

”I love con games,” Zapata said. ”Did you ever wonder who dreams them up?”

Charlie One Ear stared at Zapata for a moment or two, then said, ”No, I never really thought about it before.”

”I also saw Digit Dan out there,” I said.

”Ah, now there's a man with talent,” said Charlie One Ear. ”Fastest hands I've ever seen. n.o.body works the shoulder b.u.mp like Dan.”

”The shoulder b.u.mp?” Zapata said, his sense of wonderment continuing to grow as Charlie One Ear showed off.

”He works crowds, b.u.mps the shoulder of the mark. Usually the mark will touch his wallet to make sure he hasn't been boosted. That does two things for Digit. One, it tells him where the mark's wallet is. Two, the next time he b.u.mps him, the mark is too embarra.s.sed to check his belongings. Bingo! The wallet's gone and so is Dan.”

”You don't miss a trick, there, Charlie,” Zapata said, shaking his head.

”The thing about Digit Dan that's remarkable,” said Charlie One Ear, ”is that he always. .h.i.ts somebody who's well heeled. He has that talent. He can look at a mark and tell how much money he's got in his kick.”

”Amazing,” Zapata said, shaking his head.

”He'll be working the track tomorrow,” Charlie One Ear said. ”We'll nail him. Now, about your problem. Perhaps we can give you something there.”

That didn't surprise me.

”A pimp named Mortimer Flitch, alias Mort Tanner,” he continued. ”A wimpy sort and not too flashy. Handles high-cla.s.s clientele, usually four or five girls at most. He calls Saint Louis home. He also has a thing for ladies of means.”

”Rich broads, you mean,” Zapata said.

”Yes, Chino, rich broads.”

”A gigolo, eh?” said Stick.

”I hate to give him that distinction,” said Charlie One Ear.

”Where'd you see him at?” Zapata asked.

”Out on the Strip, a week or two ago. This Turner thing came up and I never followed through.”

”It's Tagliani,” said Salvatore.

”What's he look like?” Zapata asked.

”Tallish, a little under six feet. Slender. I'd say one forty, one forty-two. Wears three-piece suits. Lightweight for the climate. Goes in for colored s.h.i.+rts and has atrocious taste in ties. Flowers, lots of bad colors, that kind of thing. Brown hair and not a lot of it. Combs if over his forehead to stretch it out. Brown eyes. Always wears black boots.”

”Quirks?” Zapata asked.

”Bites his fingernails.”

Zapata turned to me. ”You want this guy?”

I wasn't sure what I'd do with him, but I said, ”Sure, it's a start. ”