Sucker Bet (14 page)

24

Saturday morning found Billy Tiger sitting on an upturned orange crate in Harry Smooth Stone’s cell. Smooth Stone, Tiger’s uncle on his mother’s side, sat on a metal cot, his back to the concrete wall. In the room’s muted light he looked a hundred years old, the bars’ shadows forming a checkerboard on his sunken chest.

“This isn’t good,” Smooth Stone said.

Tiger had just come from the employee lounge. Gladys Soft Wings had obtained the elders’ permission to clean out the lockers of the four dealers accused of cheating. Tiger had seen what was in the lockers, and didn’t think there was anything that could incriminate the dealers. Then again, he didn’t know how the men were cheating.

“It’s not?” he said.

“If Valentine sees what’s in the lockers, we’re screwed.”

Tiger cursed. He knew that Smooth Stone had been rigging the casino’s games for a long time. The slot machines shorted players on jackpots (“Who ever counts the coins?” Smooth Stone said), while others didn’t pay out at all, the EPROM chips that generated the machine’s random numbers having been gaffed. At bingo, when the jackpots got too large, stooges in the crowd sometimes won.

Tiger had known it all along, but he’d never said anything. Smooth Stone had a reason for what he did.

It had all started three years ago, when a group of Las Vegas gamblers had swindled the tribe. Somehow, these gamblers had learned that a particular make of video poker machine had an overlay in its computer. Anyone who played one of these machines continuously for an hour would win seventy-five dollars. It had been the Micanopys’ misfortune to have fifty of these machines in their casino.

The gamblers had hired retired people to work for them. For eight hours a day, the retired people would play these machines. One of the gamblers would sub whenever someone wanted to eat or hit the john.

The scam had lasted a month, then was spotted by the casino’s auditor. Smooth Stone had gone to the Broward County police, convinced the gamblers had ties to the game’s manufacturer in Nevada. When the cops had refused to help, he’d gone to the state’s attorney general, then the FBI. And gotten nowhere.

The injustice had eaten a hole in Smooth Stone. Had the gamblers ripped off a casino in Las Vegas or Atlantic City or Biloxi, the authorities would have thrown them in jail and let them explain their way out. That was how it worked in the white man’s casinos.

Smooth Stone slapped the cot with his hand.

“What?” Tiger said.

“Sit next to me,” Smooth Stone said.

Tiger made the cot sag. When Tiger was a child, Smooth Stone had bounced him on his knee and told him stories. Smooth Stone cupped his hand next to Tiger’s ear.

“I got something I want you to do,” Smooth Stone whispered.

Tiger stared at the scuffed concrete floor. He had come to Smooth Stone out of a sense of loyalty, but now suddenly felt afraid. “What’s that?”

“The key is Valentine. Without him, there isn’t a case.”

“Okay . . .”

“We need to scare him off.”

Tiger gave him a look that said
I don’t think so.
He’d been in the surveillance control room when Smooth Stone’s gang had stuffed the alligator into the trunk of Valentine’s car, and he’d seen Valentine take the alligator and smash it headfirst on the pavement.

“You’re crazy,” he whispered.

“He has an old woman who works for him,” Smooth Stone said. “We’ll do it through her.”

Tiger buried his head in his hands. Now they were going after old ladies. He wanted to argue, but it was too late for that. He was an accessory to everything that had happened, including murder. If Smooth Stone and the other dealers went to jail, so would he. He stared up into Smooth Stone’s face.

“I hate this,” the younger man said.

25

Saul Hyman did not want trouble.

He’d started the day with a luxurious hot shower, then fixed breakfast and gone onto his balcony. Munching on a bagel, he’d stared through the apartment buildings across the street at the sliver of blue that was the mighty Atlantic. It was a razor-sharp day, the kind that made all the nonsense of living in Miami worthwhile.

And now it had been spoiled by the car parked across the street.

The car was a navy Altima. What had caught his eye was that it was in a no-parking zone. A bicycle cop had pulled up and chatted with the driver. The bicycle cop had left, and the Altima had stayed. Had to be another cop, Saul decided.

Going inside, he found the binoculars Sadie had given him for girl-watching.
Whatever turns you on
, she’d been fond of saying. Back on the balcony, he quickly found the car. The driver was reading the paper. Saul got in tight on his profile. He looked just like a cigar-store Indian, and Saul’s blood pressure began to rise. The man in the car was Bill Higgins, director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, one of the most powerful law enforcement agents in the country. What was he doing here?

Looking for me,
Saul thought.

He paced the condo, looking out his window at Higgins every few minutes. Saul hadn’t worked Las Vegas in ten years. The last time he’d tried, Higgins had intercepted him at McCarran airport, and Saul had flown out the same day.

So why was he here?

Only one reason came to mind. This Victor Marks thing.

Saul kicked the furniture. Upon retiring, he’d promised Sadie he would never get involved with Victor again. Now he’d broken that promise, and look what had happened.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he said aloud.

He needed to get out of the condo, to take a walk and think things out. Going into the bedroom, he turned on the light in Sadie’s closet. He’d kept all of her things, and he pulled out a floral dress he’d always liked. Stripping, he slipped it on, then opened a drawer and rummaged through her wigs. He’d always been partial to Sadie as a blond.

He made his mustache invisible with pancake, then appraised himself in the vanity. Saul Hyman, ancient drag queen. A straw hat and a pair of sunglasses lessened the pain, but only a little.

He didn’t want to risk seeing a neighbor, so he took the stairwell to the lobby. At the bottom he opened the fire exit and stuck his head out. Empty. He walked to the front doors and ventured outside.

The fresh salt air invigorated him. He walked down the condo’s driveway toward the sidewalk. Plenty of people were out. He’d blend right in.

He glanced across the street at Higgins in his car. The bastard was staring at him. Higgins’s face, normally as animated as granite, had broken into a sickening sneer.

Saul started to sweat. Known cheaters put on elaborate disguises and tried to steal money from casinos every day. And guys like Bill Higgins saw right through them.

“Oh, no,” he groaned.

Higgins got out of the car and started to cross the street. Did he want to talk about the good old days, or did he want to talk about Victor? Saul beat a trail back to his building and spied Stan and Lizzie, his neighbors, sidling down the drive.

“Saul?” Lizzie asked.

Damn, damn, damn. Saul walked with his eyes downcast.

“Saul, is that you?”

“Morning,” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh, my,” Stan said. They were regulars at the Wednesday night poolside barbecue, and Saul could imagine next week’s banter.
Guess what. What? Hyman on four is a little light in the loafers. You don’t say?

The lobby’s crisp air-conditioning hit him like a slap in the face. Sadie’s dress was clinging to his legs. He tried to disengage himself and felt the fabric tear. It had been one of his late wife’s favorites.

The elevator came. He started to board it, then glanced outside. Higgins was gone. So was the Altima. A stupid cop trick, designed to scare the daylights out of him.

It had worked.

Pretending to be asleep, Gerry watched his father do his morning exercises. Jumping jacks, push-ups, deep knee bends, and a crazy judo exercise where he stood on his head in the corner. He did twenty minutes every day, no matter how he felt. Gerry had tried it for a week, and decided he liked being out of shape.

Finished, his father sat on the edge of the sofa bed, and said, “Hey.”

Gerry opened his eyes. “How did you know I wasn’t sleeping?”

“You stopped snoring. You hungry?”

Gerry sat up. “Yeah. You mind my asking you something?”

“Depends what it is.”

“It’s about Kat.” He followed his father to the bathroom and stood in the doorway as his father lathered up to shave. “I realize it’s none of my business, but how come you busted up with her? She seems okay.”

“She is okay,” his father said, running the razor beneath the hot water. “I just couldn’t be the person she wanted me to be.”

“I thought you liked the wrestling.”

“I did. I also like Halloween. But not all the time.”

“You told me yourself, the change was doing you good.”

Valentine shaved, then wiped his face with a washcloth. “I had this case once, a guy who disappeared. He lived in New Jersey, ran an accounting firm. He was a heavy gambler, and he had lines of credit at every casino. One day, he cleaned out his bank accounts and bolted. Left his wife, his kids, even his dog. Boom, gone.

“I got handed the case. I put a professional skip tracer on him, then went on to other things. There were so many places he could have gone, I didn’t see the point of killing myself trying to find him.

“Two years later, the skip tracer calls me, says, ‘You won’t believe this.’ Turns out the guy has reappeared. He’s living in New Jersey, about fifty miles from where he lived before. He belongs to a country club and is married to a woman a lot like his first wife. His life is almost identical to the one he had before. The local cops arrest him, and I arrange to meet with the guy. I was curious, you know?”

“Sure,” Gerry said.

“His name was Stanley. So I say, ‘Stanley, why didn’t you run?’ And Stanley gives me a funny smile, and says, ‘There was nothing to run to.’

“I thought about that remark for a while. And what I figured out was this. Once you reach a certain age, the patterns of your life are set. You may think otherwise, but you’re just lying to yourself. Stanley came back to New Jersey because it was the only life he had. There was nowhere else for him to go.

“I got involved with Kat because I thought I could change who I was. My life was like a suit of clothes that I’d gotten sick of wearing. So I started wearing a different suit. Turns out, it didn’t fit.”

“Can’t stop being a cop, huh?” his son asked.

Valentine shook his head. “Not if my life depended on it.”

26

Saturday mornings were meant for tending to the garden or sleeping in, not for coming to Tony’s house and picking up messages left by panicked casino bosses. Mabel did it for only one reason, and that was because Tony asked her to.

Tony’s voice mail was empty. Booting up his PC, she checked for E-mail. He had one message, the sender someone named mathwizard, its subject matter “Your Problem.” She clicked the mouse on it, and the message filled the screen.

Hey Griftsense,

Interesting BJ problem.

There is no difference between which card is turned over by the dealer, provided the dealer does not know the identity of his cards before he turns them over.

But if the dealer did know the cards’ identities, he could alter the game’s outcome by choosing one card over another. Here is how the players’ odds would be
affected.

Card Shown by Dealer Player’s Advantage (+)
or Disadvantage (-)

The strategy, which I call Big Rock/Little Rock, has an enormous impact on the game’s outcome. When a dealer chooses to expose a Big Rock (any ten, jack, queen, king, or ace), instead of a Little Rock (deuce through seven), he’ll win most of the time.

Off to Geneva for a lecture. Take it easy.

Mabel printed the message on the laser printer. Tony corresponded with many world-class blackjack hustlers who held down legitimate jobs, like movie producers and college professors. They cheated for the thrill more than the money itself, and she guessed mathwizard belonged to this strange group.

She called the Fontainebleau, asked for the front desk, and got the hotel’s fax number. Then she made up a cover page with Tony’s name on it. She was glad she’d talked him into going to south Florida and taking the job. He sounded so much more alive when he was working on a case.

Moments later, the fax went through the machine.

Growing up, there were a lot of things that Gerry hadn’t done with his father. Like going to baseball games or the movies, or just hanging out and doing father-and-son stuff. It had a lot to do with his father’s long hours as a cop, and also Gerry’s unhappiness at his father
being
a cop. They didn’t know each other very well, which was why taking his father to Club Hedo on Saturday morning was no treat.

Disco music rocked the club. Up on the stage, three girls in G-strings were playing with hula hoops. One of them was a cutie, and Gerry could not help but stare. Knowing a sucker when she saw one, the girl motioned him over. Embarrassed, Gerry bellied up to the bar.

“Tell Rico the Valentines are here to see him,” he told the bartender, then ordered a couple of sodas.

“You dated a topless dancer, didn’t you?” his father said.

“A couple of them. Why?”

“I was wondering what you saw in them.”

“They were fun in bed,” he admitted.

“I bet you had an exit line before you started taking them out,” his father said.

Gerry felt his neck burn. It was the truth, although why it shamed him now, he had no idea. In the back bar mirror he saw the cute dancer standing on the edge of the stage, waiting for him to come over.
That’s it,
he thought.
Shame me in front of my old man.
The bartender returned with their drinks.

“Rico will be right out,” he said.

Gerry sipped his drink. In the mirror he saw the stripper sticking her tongue out at him. “So how do you want me to handle this?” he asked his father.

“Handle what?”

“What should I do when Rico comes out?”

“Introduce us.”

His neck burned some more. “And then what?”

“Watch the fun.”

Rico strolled out of his office. He’d replaced his New York hoodlum attire with a pair of pleated pants, a silk shirt, and a thick gold chain. A million-dollar suntan rounded out the reformation. He came over and slapped Gerry’s shoulder.

“Gerry-o, how’s it hanging?”

“Same as you left it,” Gerry said.

“So this must be your famous father. I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Valentine.”

“Same here,” Valentine said.

Rico pointed to a corner table in the back, and they crossed the room in a blinding snowstorm of strobe lights. Rico pulled back two chairs, showing some manners. Valentine cased the room, then sat down. Rico sat next to him, then got in his face.

“So, Mr. Valentine, or should I call you Tony?”

“Call me Mr. Valentine,” Valentine said.

Rico cleared his throat. “Okay, Mr. Valentine. You and I have a little bit of a history, but I’m willing to consider that water under the bridge.”

“Same here.”

“Gerry tells me you’re connected in Atlantic City.”

Valentine felt his son kick him beneath the table.

“That’s right,” he said.

“Matter of fact, Gerry says you’re
the
most connected guy in AC.”

Another kick.

“So what if I am?” Valentine said.

Rico leaned back in his chair and gave him a hard look. From his jacket he removed a deck of playing cards. They hit Valentine squarely in the chest.

“Prove it,” Rico said.

Valentine squinted at the cards in the crummy bar light. They were from the Riverboat Casino in Atlantic City. Every hood from Maine to Miami had heard about the scam going on there. A gang of Riverboat employees was getting marked decks onto the blackjack tables. They weren’t stealing a lot of money, but a computer analysis done by the casino had picked up the fluctuation. The problem was, no one could figure out how the scam was working. Valentine had a theory, which was that someone with juice—maybe a pit boss—had found a weak link in the system.

Because the scam had been going on for so long, it had grown into the stuff of legend, with the Riverboat’s losses reputed to be in the millions, and the thieves actually a group of well-connected insiders that included local politicians, the police, and the casino’s flamboyant owner.

The cute stripper appeared and sat in Gerry’s lap. Her blond dye job, fake tits, and rhinestone G-string clashed with her schoolgirl innocence. Nibbling on Gerry’s ear, she said, “Give me some money.”

Stone-faced, Gerry shook his head. “We’re here on business.”

Valentine tossed the Riverboat’s cards back to Rico. “How long you had these?”

“About a year,” Rico replied.

“And you couldn’t find the marks?”

Rico shook his head.

“Shuffle them.”

Rico took the deck out of the box. He gave the cards a riffle shuffle. Valentine took them, shuffled, then held the top card away from the deck with his forefinger and thumb.

“Nine of clubs,” he said.

Rico snatched the card out of his hand and turned it over. “Do it again.”

Valentine did it three more times. The playing card’s logo was the paddlewheel to a riverboat, and he pointed at the spokes on the wheel, and said, “It’s called juice. It’s a combination of clear nail polish and ink. When it dries, it’s invisible to the naked eye. But if you train yourself to throw your eye out, you can just see it.”

“That’s how it works?” Rico said.

No, it wasn’t, but Valentine took pleasure in imagining Rico giving himself headaches for a while. He handed the cards back, then spoke to the stripper.

“Get lost,” he said.

Rico put the cards away. He had lost his bluster, and Valentine leaned over and gave him a hard poke in the chest. A big guy, but totally out of shape.

“You’re stepping on my toes,” Valentine said.

“I am?”

“This is my turf.”

“Hey, I didn’t—”

“How long you been down here?” Valentine said. “A couple months? And already you’ve scammed the Micanopy Indians and put a bullet in one of their dealers. Now I hear you’re planning to take a bookie for a few million. You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, son.”

The bartender came over. Valentine ordered a round of sodas. Once the bartender was gone, Valentine continued. “Normally, I’d toss you in the ocean, only my son says you’re someone who can be talked to. So, here’s the deal. You take us on as partners, or you get lost.”

“Partners?” Rico said.

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Valentine gave an exaggerated shake of the head. “You don’t?”

“No,” Rico said.

Valentine leaned over and lowered his voice. “Nigel Moon, asshole.”

Rico acted like he’d been kicked. He drew back in his chair and stared at the floor. Valentine would have given anything to know what Rico’s pulse was at that moment. A hundred fifty? Two hundred? He loved making punks sweat, especially lowlifes like this who gave Italians a bad name.

Their sodas came. The bartender could sense the tension, and placed the glasses on the table without a word. Rico picked up his glass and held it a few inches off the table. Valentine and his son did the same. Rico clinked their glasses with his.

“Partners it is,” he said.