by Paul W Papa
“Of course,” Bobby said.
I made my way to a table with three other players and bought in for half a C-Note. Just regular poker this time—I only played Hold ‘em with guys I don’t like. I was two hands in when my meal arrived, accompanied by a manhattan. Good ‘ol Bobby.
The players at the table eyeballed me and my sandwich. I ate slowly just for fun. It was about halfway gone when Bobby came over to check on me.
“How’d we do?” he asked.
“Cooking with gas,” I assured him. He smiled, but it was that same distant one he had given me before. “Spill the beans,” I said. “Something’s got you in a twist.”
Bobby moved closer. “See that mook over there on table three?” he said. “The one with the red knit shirt.” It was harsh language for Bobby, so I took a gander in the direction he nodded.
The mook was somewhere in his late twenties. He wore a two-button, red knit, pocketless top, partially covered by a white, low-button cardigan. His brown mop of hair would have made Burton jealous. He looked harmless, but maybe that was the point.
“He’s cheating,” Bobby whispered.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“That’s just it,” Bobby said. “I can’t.”
“Then how do you know he’s doing it?”
Bobby looked at me matter-of-factly. “He’s playing blackjack,” he said. “And winning. He’s been doing so for three days now, coming in at various times.”
“Maybe he’s just lucky,” I offered.
“No one’s that lucky,” Bobby said. “The odds are all with the house.”
“You pull the decks?”
“Of course,” Bobby said. “Nothing. No bent cards, no grease, nothing.”
“You want me to slip over there and see what I can make out?” I asked.
“Oh Mr. Rossi, I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Nuts. You just brought me the best meal I’ve had all day. Spot me a rack of ones and I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll bring you back my winnings.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Bobby said. “We’ll just call them expenses.”
Good ol’ Bobby.
Nine
I TOOK THE chips Bobby gave me and headed for table three. I wanted to take the third position, but it was occupied, so I settled for forth, three seats to the right of the mook in the red knit shirt. I put some chips in the circle in front of me and waited to be dealt into the next hand. Blackjack is a simple counting game. The goal is to add up the numbers on all your cards and get as close to twenty-one as possible without going over. Kings, Queens, and Jacks are counted as tens and aces can be either one or eleven; you choose. Each player is playing against the dealer. Whoever has the higher hand count wins. Unless you get a twenty-one, then it’s an automatic win.
I wasn’t dealt a twenty-one. Neither was the mook. He had a seven and a ten—seventeen. The dealer had a seven and a three—ten. The house held on sixteen or above. This meant the dealer would continue to take cards until he reached a sixteen or higher. Of course, the dealer wouldn’t take those cards until all dealing with the players was complete.
The dealer turned to each player one at a time. There were two choices. “Hit,” meaning take another card, or “stay,” meaning the player played the cards dealt. Some players hit, some stayed, one hit too many times and went over twenty-one. I had eighteen and decided to stay.
While it looked like the mook had a low hand, that wasn’t the case. The odds at this point were actually in favor of the player. I studied the mook as the dealer waited. He took the hit. The dealer pulled the top card from the deck and laid it in front of him. It was a four—twenty-one. What were the odds? The dealer paid the bet and took the cards from the table.
The dealer laid a ten down, going over twenty-one. I won as well. We played three more hands. I won one and lost two. The mook won all three. I began to understand Bobby’s concern. I tried a different strategy, hitting when I shouldn’t, splitting when I had tens. All the wrong things, just to throw off the hands. Mostly I lost. Mostly he won. I thought he was counting cards at first, but with all the players at the table, he’d have to have a brain that would put Voltaire to shame.
With every hand I studied the mook, and I began to see a pattern. Just before he bet every time, he glanced, ever so slightly, at the ceiling. The area above pits in casinos were constructed of mirrored tiles—except for the poker areas. This allowed the pit bosses to see multiple games much easier. With games like twenty-one, there was no reason for the player to hide the cards, so all cards were dealt face up on the table. Since you only played the house, it didn’t matter if you saw the other player’s hands. So why was the mook looking up?
I watched a few more hands and tried to see what he was looking at, but he did it so quickly, I couldn’t tell. This kid was smooth. Then it hit me like dry rye, the mook wasn’t looking at the player’s cards, he was looking at something else. I began studying the room. Men and women occupied with table games or slot machines. Throwing in coins and pulling handles. All except for one. Just at the edge of a row of slot machines sat a nondescript man in a nondescript suit. He wasn’t playing the machine in front of him. Instead, he was looking up at the ceiling.
I watched him when it was time for the mook to bet. The guy waved his hand over his knee. The mook took no cards, holding on a twelve. Who holds on a twelve? The dealer had already beat him with a thirteen. The dealer pulled the top card and laid it next to his ten and three. It was a Queen—twenty-three. On the next hand the signal man tapped his knee. The mook took the hit then glanced up again. The signal man tapped his knee a second time. The mook took another hit. Now he had twenty. The dealer had seventeen. Another win.
“Where’s the closest restroom?” I asked the dealer.
“Just to the left of the first bank of slot machines on your right,” the dealer said.
“Can I leave these here?” I asked, pointing to my chips.
“Of course,” the dealer said.
I stood up and headed for the restroom. As I had hoped, Bobby was watching me. I gave him a quick nod and moved away from the pit. After a minute he joined me.
“Anything?” he asked.
“He’s cheating all right,” I said. “But he’s not alone.”
A polite man would have lifted Bobby’s chin off the floor. I let it hang. “But he always comes in by himself,” Bobby said.
“I’m sure he does. He’s the player, but he’s looking at a signal man. The guy in the grey suit sitting at the end of the bank of slot machines is sending him signals. A tap on the knee is a hit. A swipe is stay.”
“Is he counting cards?”
“The signal man? I’m not sure what he’s doing, but I guarantee if you pinch him without the player knowing, your mook’ll start losing and losing fast?”
“Won’t he just leave?”
“I think I can keep him for a while. Maybe get some of your money back. Put the fear of God into him. Unless you want to take them both right now.”
“What’s your plan Mr. Rossi?”
“Let them go a few more hands while you notify security. Then come to the table and check on me, see if I need anything, to stop the game while security picks up the signal man. The player won’t see, he’ll be watching us. When the game starts again, his signal man will be gone like the wind. I’ll take it from there.”
Bobby agreed and I headed back to the table. We played three more hands and I paid the mook no mind. Then Bobby came over.
“How are you doing Mr. Rossi?” Bobby asked. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“I wouldn’t mind a manhattan,” I said, “and the luck this guy is having.”
Bobby flashed his patented grin. He signaled to a cocktail waitress to bring the drink, then turned to the mook. “Are you enjoying yourself, sir?”
“Yes,” the mook said. “I’ve never gambled before. I seem to be having a good run of luck.”
“Beginner’s luck they
call it,” I offered.
“Well, we’re certainly glad you are having fun,” Bobby said. He pulled a piece of paper off a pad and placed it by the mook. “Why don’t you have dinner on me this evening.”
“Wow! Thanks!” the mook said.
The cocktail waitress brought me a manhattan and I flipped her a chip. Bobby excused himself and the deal began anew. Only this time when the mook looked up, the signal man wasn’t there. The poor kid looked like someone had salted his coffee. He searched the area, trying to be discreet, but failing. Not knowing what to do, he hit on a seventeen. It was a bad move and the five he received confirmed it.
“I think that’s the first hand you’ve lost,” I said. “I guess beginner’s luck just ran out.”
The mook looked at me with glossed eyes.
“If you’re thinking of taking your chips and leaving,” I said, “I’d think again.”
“What’s it to you?” he said, screwing up his courage.
“Nothing to me. It’s just that places like this don’t like to lose. They like it even less when they feel the odds have switched against them. Their partners,” I paused to emphasize the word, “feel the same way.
“You’ve got a nice stack there,” I continued. The mook looked down at his chips. “You could take that comp and enjoy a meal. Of course, it might be the last one you’re able to eat without a straw. Or you could continue playing and see if that beginner’s luck of yours holds. If it doesn’t, if the odds suddenly fall back with the house, who’s the wiser? All’s well that ends well, I say.”
The mook looked around. Bobby had stationed a security officer at each end of the pit. The dealer began the next hand. The mook moved chips to the circle in front of him, trying hard not to spill the entire stack. He lost the next six hands in a row, not because he wanted to, but because he enjoyed breathing. When he got down to his last two chips, he thanked the dealer and passed him the chips as a toke. He looked over at me.
“Don’t look back kid,” I said. “If they decide to let you leave, walk out those front doors and don’t look back. And don’t ever come back. If you think they’ll forget you, they won’t. If you think they’ll forgive you, they won’t. Just be happy you’re leaving with all your own parts attached.”
The kid nodded so hard I was sure his head would come off his shoulders. He got off his chair, pulled down his cardigan, and headed for the front door. Security fell in behind him. I was pretty sure they’d let him leave. Pretty sure.
Ten
THE MOOK HAD no sooner left the table when Bobby showed up all smiles, only this time they were real.
“You saved me Mr. Rossi,” he said. “I owe you big.”
I understood Bobby’s reaction. While the mob certainly didn’t take well to cheaters, they’d be equally disappointed in a pit boss who couldn’t spot the cheat. That pit boss might just be seen as being in on it. That would not bode well for him. It’s hard to breathe with dirt in your lungs.
“You don’t owe me a thing Bobby,” I said. “I’m more than happy to help.” I wanted to ask him if the mook made it out the front door in one piece, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
“If there’s anything I can do,” Bobby continued.
I was about to shut him down when a thought struck me. “Well Bobby,” I said. “There is one thing you can do for me. It’s a little thing, hardly worth asking.”
“Whatever it is Mr. Rossi, if it is within my power, all you need to do is ask.”
“I was wondering if you knew where Fingers might be.”
Bobby thought for a moment. “It might be a little early yet,” he said. “But you should be able to find Mr. Abbandandolo at the Golden Steer.”
I took the few chips I had left, split them with the dealer, and shoved the rest into the pocket of my jacket. I thanked Bobby, then headed for my Roadmaster.
The Golden Steer was just down highway 91, a bit north of the Sands and across the street from the El Rancho. It was easy to find. The life-size steer covered in gold paint, standing on a platform ten feet above the ground took care of that. I told the maître d’ I was meeting a friend and he let me right in.
I made my way past the bar into the main restaurant. The Golden Steer was a classy joint. Half-moon booths upholstered in red leather rested against the walls, while tables covered in white linens occupied the center of the room. Wallpaper, embossed with golden strands, coated the area above the booths. Fancy chandeliers dotted the ceiling.
Fingers was exactly where Bobby said he would be, sitting in a booth, his back to the wall, filling his oversized mouth with dead steer, potatoes, and red wine—not exactly in that order.
“Mind if I sit?” I asked.
Fingers motioned with his fork. I slid into the end of the booth and removed my lid.
“I heard you got pinched this morning,” he said between chews.
“News travels fast,” I admitted.
Fingers raised both eyebrows.
“I wanted to thank you,” I continued.
“For what?” he asked.
“For being a standup guy.”
“Bilotti deserved a rap on his beak. I was just happy someone was fancy enough to do it.” He paused, then took a gulp of wine. “There were too many witnesses not to put you at the scene Rossi,” he said.
“I understand,” I said. “I still appreciate what you did.”
“You want a steak?” Fingers asked.
“I could eat.”
Fingers motioned to the waiter; he came right to the table. “Yes, Mr. Abbandandolo?”
“Bring my friend a ribeye, with the works.”
I liked how Fingers didn’t ask me what I wanted, he just ordered. He was thanking me and sending a message at the same time. I may have earned some points, but New York was still in charge and he wanted me to know it. Honestly, I didn’t care who was in charge, so long as I was left out of it.
“You got some sand kid,” Fingers said after the waiter left. “I’ll give you that.”
“For all the good it does me.”
“So, did you do it? Did you finish the job you started?”
I wondered when he would get to that question. “What do you think?” I asked.
“I think it would be pretty stupid to take out a made guy without permission. Even stupider to do so over a dame. You don’t seem stupid to me.”
I wanted to agree, but I was in no position to do so.
“But it doesn’t matter what I think,” Fingers said. “What matters is what Chicago thinks.”
“What do they think?” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer, but I asked the question anyhow.
“Well, If I was them,” he paused. “I’d look to you.”
“Swell,” I said.
The waiter showed with my steak, medium rare, I got lucky.
“Would you like some wine?” the waiter asked, presenting a bottle.
“I’d rather have a manhattan,” I said.
“You guys from Boston don’t know how to eat,” Fingers interjected. “Red meat deserves red wine.”
“I’m not really a wine guy,” I admitted.
“You sure you’re Italian?” Fingers asked. “Maybe you shouldn’t say that too loud.”
He was probably right.
We ate in peace for a few minutes. I didn’t mind; it was the best steak I’d ever eaten. Seasoned with the right amount of spices; pepper, salt, and just a hint of sage. Grilled over an open flame to crust the outside and a nice dab of butter on top. My taste buds were as happy as a fat Italian in a cannoli factory.
“I’m beginning to think Sal is right,” I finally said.
“Sal?” Fingers asked.
“Manella,” I said. “He visited me yesterday morning. Told me I should leave town. Said it would improve my health.”
Fingers chuckled. I was glad he found humor in my misery. “He bring his goons with him?” Fingers asked.
“I couldn’t tell,” I said. “Something was blocking the sun.�
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That gave Fingers another reason to laugh. “Manella’s an idiot,” he said.
I couldn’t disagree. Still, I needed to know. “New York trying to get rid of me?” I asked.
Fingers took his time before answering. “Everyone’s trying for a piece of the same pie,” he said. “There’s only so many pieces to go around. Nobody wants to share.”
It wasn’t really an answer, but then again, it wasn’t really a denial either. I was beginning to smell a rat. Now all I needed was a good exterminator.
Eleven
I FINISHED MY meal, tipped the waiter, and headed back to the Sands. Fingers was right about one thing. If the police were looking my way, it was a safe bet Chicago would do the same. I needed to find Jeannie, and I needed to do it sooner than later. I pulled into the Sands, tossed a chip from my pocket to the attendant, and headed straight for the Copa Room.
The room was being set up for the night. Waiters dressing tables, attendants vacuuming floors, stagehands adjusting lights. I walked up to a waiter. “I need to speak to one of the dancers,” I said. He pointed to a man dressed in pressed black slacks and a tight turtleneck of the same color.
The man was shouting instructions to stagehands up in the rafters. I waited till he finished. “Doors don’t open for another hour,” he said without looking at me.
“I’m not here for the show,” I said.
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m looking for a dancer, Jeannie Gardner.”
He stopped what he was doing and turned his attention right to me. “You looking for Jeannie?” he asked. “Stand in line, buddy. She didn’t show for practice and she isn’t here now. I’ve got a show to do and I’m one dancer short, so unless you’re here to put on a dress and heels, shove off.”
A pleasant man, I thought.
I should’ve been surprised that Jeannie didn’t show for work, but I wasn’t. She was probably on the lam, hiding from the wrath of Bilotti. It was doubtful she knew her ex was dancing with the devil this very minute. At least that’s what I assumed he was doing. After all, if mobsters made it to heaven, who could afford the cover charge?