AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Swordfish?” I volunteered.

  "Don't play with me."

  He must not have seen many Marx Brothers movies. Or perhaps he'd heard the line so many times he no longer found it humorous.

  "Sorry,” I said. “I'd like in, please."

  "This is a private club."

  "I was invited by a member. Perhaps you know him.” I juggled my cane a second, then flipped the latches on the briefcase and held it up so he and the camera could see. “His name is Cash."

  The eyes widened slightly in surprise.

  "Who's the real friend, wiseguy?” Jersey-boy demanded.

  "Well, if you must know, David Hunt."

  "He's not a member."

  I shrugged. “He was here a few days ago and spoke glowingly of the action."

  "He's not a member."

  "Then refer me to the sales department."

  "Membership is by invitation only.” He seemed determined to make things difficult.

  I said, “Bump me up a step on the food chain, and I'll get myself invited.” I gave him a smile. “Besides, won't you get in trouble if you let me walk away with all this money? I'm sure others are watching on your security cameras."

  The window slammed shut. For a moment, I wondered if I'd pissed him off. Finally, though, I heard a deadbolt slide over and the door swung out. My personal charms must have worked.

  Jersey-boy was about forty, of Mediterranean descent, and built like a brick wall. He wore his hair short and slicked back, and a thin white scar ran from his left ear to his chin. From the bulge under his suit jacket, I knew he sported a shoulder holster. I got the impression he could have torn me in half without really trying. This definitely wasn't the sort of person I wanted to tangle with.

  "In,” he said, with a jerk of his thumb.

  "Thanks."

  I shut the briefcase and strolled into a richly decorated antechamber perhaps ten feet deep and twenty feet wide. From plush red carpet to oak paneled walls to the crystal chandelier overhead, everything felt rich and inviting. Even the paintings on the walls were tasteful country landscapes. The atmosphere had the well-scrubbed feel of industrial air-conditioning.

  "Sit,” he said, indicating a low bench, its seat done in crushed red velvet the same shade as the carpet.

  I sat, briefcase beside me, cane across my knees. It hurt, but I kept my legs folded back. A small table held recent issues of Newsweek, Cosmopolitan, and Sports Illustrated. None looked like it had ever been read. I picked through them. The subscription address labels had been meticulously clipped out.

  After a couple of minutes, four people trooped through after me: two middle-aged men in tuxedos, two women in evening gowns. Jersey-boy greeted them warmly. I felt underdressed until I recalled the photos Davy had shown me. Most men in the club had been wearing suits. Gambling wasn't necessarily a black-tie event here.

  The newcomers passed through a doorway to my left, into a short windowless hallway. Jersey-boy resumed his post by the entrance.

  Then the door on the other end of the room opened, and an older man in a gray silk suit appeared. White hair, brushed straight back, dark Mediterranean complexion, trim and wiry looking—and I knew him. Somehow, somewhere, we had met before. But where? I began to search my memories.

  He gave a slight nod to the muscle on duty.

  "Mr. Smith will see you now,” Jersey-boy told me.

  "Thanks.” I used my cane and limped toward Smith. He turned to lead the way up another red-carpeted hall.

  As I passed through the doorway, I caught a whiff of Smith's lavender cologne. Then beefy men on either side grabbed my arms in vicelike grips. I gave a startled yelp and dropped both cane and briefcase. They half carried, half dragged me forward.

  I should have seen the trap. Davy's money made a very tempting target.

  When I glanced back, a fourth man was picking up my briefcase and cane. He trailed us.

  The two goons brought me to a small room with a chest-high wooden table pushed up against the back wall. Handheld metal detectors and other equipment sat there. Of course, they had to check me out to make sure I wasn't an FBI agent of some sort. I let myself relax a bit. Maybe this wouldn't take long and we could get down to business.

  The fourth man set my cane and briefcase down next to the table, then frisked me. He removed Davy's cell phone and my billfold, then turned to the table and selected one of the metal detectors. Switching it on with his thumb, he stepped forward and ran it over my body with practiced efficiency, starting at my head and working his way down. Each time the device beeped, one of the goons removed the offending bit of metal and tossed it onto the table: car keys, house keys, cufflinks. They even took my belt for its buckle.

  As his men worked, Smith picked up my billfold and went through it item by item. Where had I seen him before? Strangely, the fact that I couldn't identify him bothered me more than the search. I could usually place any name or face in a few seconds.

  Several times Smith murmured, “Hmm.” Once was when he held my driver's license—probably in reaction to my address. No one with money lived where I lived. He pulled a small notepad from his back pocket and jotted something down.

  Then the metal detector hit my legs and went wild. Everyone jumped. The goons’ grip on my arms became painful.

  "I have pins in my bones,” I gasped. “That's why I need a cane."

  "Kick off your shoes and drop your pants,” the man with the metal detector said in a not-to-be-argued-with voice.

  I did so. I could feel the tension go out of the room as their gazes dropped from my gray briefs to the hideously scarred, vaguely fleshy mess of my legs. I looked like something out of a freak show. Pity—oh, how well I knew pity. And revulsion. I saw it now in their faces. It had taken six operations to make my lower limbs at all usable after the accident. For a while, every doctor I saw told me I'd need the right one amputated. Stubbornly, I had refused. They had also told me I'd never walk again.

  "There are,” I continued, to break the sudden and uncomfortable silence, “seventeen steel pins in my right leg and eight in my left. I can point them all out, if it's helpful."

  "Not necessary.” The man with the metal detector ran it over my shoes. Apparently the nails were too small to register, or he had adjusted his equipment for them. Then he took my pants and searched them before giving them back.

  "He's clean,” he told Smith.

  "Check the bag and the cane,” Smith said. He nodded to the goons, who released me. I had to lean against the wall to get my pants up. It hurt enough to make my eyes swim, but I kept my face calm and impassive.

  "Mr. Geller,” said Smith. He tossed my billfold to me. “You have a most unusual way of making an entrance."

  "I realize that, sir."

  "You understand, we have to be careful about who we let in."

  "Of course.” I shuffled to the table, leaned on it heavily, and recovered my keys, cufflinks, and belt. Slowly I put everything back.

  "His cane is fine,” said the man examining it. “So is his bag. Lots of money in it."

  "How much?” Smith asked.

  "Want me to count it, sir?"

  "Don't bother,” I said. “It's two hundred thousand even."

  Smith raised his eyebrows. “That's quite a lot to carry around. Not that I'm complaining, of course. Games always work in the house's favor."

  "I didn't come to gamble,” I said. “I came to meet with the person in charge. I assume that's you."

  He inclined his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Yes."

  "So—” I smiled. Hopefully he would go for it. “How about a meeting?"

  He studied me for a moment, undoubtedly trying to figure out my angle. Apparently he didn't find me the least bit intimidating. I just wished I could remember where we had met.

  Then, suddenly, it came back to me. At the Golden Nugget Casino in Atlantic City, right after they released me from rehab. I had braces on both legs and had to be helped onto my stool at the blackjack
table by casino attendants. I was on pain killers, heavy ones, and I seemed to be viewing the world through a haze.

  Smith had watched me play for half an hour, winning steadily. I had about forty thousand in chips in front of me when he approached, leaned forward, and whispered in my ear, “The house doesn't mind regulars who win small amounts. It's card counters who try to take them for a fortune that gets the house upset."

  I had glanced at his nametag—"C. Tortelli"—as I nodded. “Thanks,” I said. Even through my painkiller haze, I understood.

  Maybe it had been charity for a cripple. Maybe he had just been a good guy. But I took his suggestion.

  The hospitals and doctors had sucked my insurance, then my savings, dry at that point, and I needed money. A lot of it. And I needed a consistent source for more too. If the casinos blacklisted me, I realized, I would never get back inside them.

  I spent the next ten minutes losing steadily, like I'd had a run of luck that went sour. I left with twenty thousand instead of forty or fifty. And ever since, I kept my winnings to two thousand dollars, more or less, per casino per monthly visit. And so I managed to keep myself both afloat and under their radar.

  All thanks to Mr. Smith here. Or “C. Tortelli,” as his nametag once said.

  Now Smith-Tortelli said, “Very well. I'm intrigued, Mr. Geller. This way, please."

  * * * *

  Two minutes later we sat in an office that might have belonged to any mid-level executive at any big corporation: heavy walnut desk, computer, pictures of wife and kids in silver frames, signed baseball on a little wooden stand. He even had an inbox and an outbox. Who knew organized crime had such amenities.

  "Drink?” he asked.

  "Water, please."

  He handed me a bottle of Poland Spring water from a tiny refrigerator in the corner, next to a small wet bar. I peeled the plastic wrapper off the spout and took a sip, spilling a little. My hands were shaking again.

  "So,” he prompted, settling down behind his desk, “you say you're not here to gamble."

  "That's right.” Without preamble, I told him Davy Hunt's blackmail story. “It occurred to me,” I said in conclusion, “that there are only three possibilities. One is that your little operation here is behind the blackmail scheme, and that you're using the casino to set up unsuspecting men like David Hunt. In which case, I'll just cut out the middleman and leave you the money now. Payment in full. Destroy the pictures and we're done."

  He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “What's the second possibility?” he asked.

  "That rogue members of your staff are doing it on the sly. In which case, you need to be informed so you can act to stop it. Or, if you prefer, cut yourself in on the action. Once you remove David Hunt, of course, from the target list."

  He nodded slowly. “And the third?"

  "That you and your staff are unwitting victims. After all, your club's reputation will be severely damaged if word gets out that members are being photographed and blackmailed. This is my personal suspicion, of course."

  "Of course.” He looked off into the distance thoughtfully. “I don't suppose you know who's behind this blackmail plot."

  "Possibly.” I reached into my jacket pocket and fished out the clipped picture of mustache-man. “There are at least two people working the setup. One arranges the shots, the other snaps photos with one of those micro spy cameras."

  Smith took the picture. From the way his eyes widened slightly, I knew he recognized mustache-man. And he was trying hard not to show it.

  "I've seen him,” he said slowly. “He comes in once or twice a week, and he drops a couple hundred each time. Not a big spender, but the sort of solid repeat customer we like."

  He put the clipped picture into his vest pocket instead of returning it. Then he rose.

  "Thank you for coming to me,” he said. “I'll handle things. You can tell Mr. Hunt that he won't be bothered again."

  I nodded and rose. He did not offer to shake hands, nor did he offer to return Davy's money. Quid pro quo; he could keep it with my blessing if it got Davy safely off the hook. Davy didn't need the cash as much as he needed security.

  "Do you gamble, Mr. Geller?” he asked unexpectedly.

  "Now and again, Mr. Tortelli."

  He didn't react to my using his real name. Instead, he handed me a small piece of paper.

  "What's this?” I asked. It had “10K-S” written on it.

  Instead of answering, he pressed a hidden button under his desktop. A second later, the door opened. Goon Number Two stood there.

  "Sir?"

  "Mr. Geller has a chit for ten thousand dollars. Make sure he has a good time. He's going to be my guest tonight.” Then he turned back to me. “I suggest you play at table number five. Find a comfortable seat and relax."

  * * * *

  Smith's personal invitation opened all the right doors. The goon smiled a perfect shark's smile as he escorted me through several hallways to a cavernous casino done all in reds and golds. Roulette, baccarat, blackjack, poker, craps, and other table games occupied the center of the room. Jangling slot machines lined the walls. Cashiers’ stations at both ends of the room doled out a steady supply of chips, while scantily clad women circulated with trays of drinks. Keep the alcohol flowing and the money will follow: it seemed like a sound business plan. A hundred or so people were already inside, moving from game to game.

  "This is table five,” said the goon, halting at a low-rent blackjack table. The dealer, a middle-aged woman, was shuffling eight fresh decks in preparation for filling a card shoe. Three of the five seats were already taken.

  "Thanks.” When I settled onto one of the empty stools, I found I had a nice view of the whole room. I put Tortelli's chit in front of me, and without batting an eye the dealer slid over several tall stacks of red, blue, and black chips. They had values stamped in gold from $5 to $100. I didn't bother to count them.

  For the next few hours, I played slowly and conservatively, adding more chips than I lost to my stacks. I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut. This was business, I told myself. Tortelli wouldn't have put me here without cause. With half my attention on the game, I surveyed the crowds and began picking out plainclothes security. I found six of them. And a couple I suspected, but couldn't quite confirm.

  Then I saw him—mustache-man. He strutted in with a middle-aged woman on his arm. Both of them dressed conservatively, with bland haircuts and dull watches, rings, and jewelry. No one would have looked at them twice.

  The dealer placed a king and a five in front of me.

  "Hit,” I said, tapping the table.

  She dealt me an eight—busted. While she finished out the other players’ hands, I leaned back and watched as a subtle change came over the movements of the crowd. Three people converged on my blackmail suspects.

  A passing woman deliberately spilled her drink on mustache-man and—though I couldn't hear her voice over the noise of the room—began to apologize profusely, brushing him off with a cocktail napkin. A couple of security guards appeared and, with sympathy, escorted the pair off, I assumed under the pretense of getting the man dried off. Perhaps even promises of free chips to help ease the distress ... anything to keep a regular happy.

  I rose and tossed the blackjack dealer a fifty dollar chip. “Thanks,” I said. “Cashing out now."

  "Thank you!” she replied, smiling for the first time since I'd sat down. She handed me a small dish, and I scooped my winnings into it.

  Then I headed after mustache-man and his date. But Goon One and Goon Two cut me off before I reached the door. They simply blocked my way, folded their arms, and smiled their sharky smiles.

  "Hello again, boys,” I said, smiling back. I could play the polite game too.

  "Mr. Smith says you should go back and gamble,” Two said, tapping the little brown earplug he now wore.

  "And miss the fun?” I leaned forward and spoke into Two's lapel. He had to have a microphone in there somewhere. “I
have a vindictive streak, Mr. Tortelli. I like to see things properly finished. No loose ends."

  Goon Two said, “Mr. Smith doesn't think you should be an accessory to what's happening. Play cards or go home. This isn't a game now."

  That's what I needed to hear. I nodded and spoke again to his lapel.

  "Very well. I'm done, and thanks."

  Tortelli had it wrong. It was a game. Mustache-man was one player, and Davy was the other. All the rest of us ... we were merely pawns on the board.

  I handed Two my tray of chips. Turning, I limped toward the door. It was one thing to orchestrate Davy's victory, but quite another to actually execute it. Or see it executed.

  I did not want to know the details.

  * * * *

  I had thought to simply return to my old life after that, but—as they say—events conspired against me. The next morning Davy phoned, and I assured him that his problem had been taken care of.

  "Thanks,” he said, sounding relieved. “Then it went well?"

  "Better than I had hoped. I don't think we'll be hearing from the blackmailers again."

  "How did you like the car?"

  I laughed. “Nice. Took me a few minutes to get back into driving stick, but don't worry, the transmission's fine."

  He chuckled. “Good. Stop by my office. I have some paperwork for you."

  "What sort?” I couldn't imagine needing paperwork for eliminating a blackmail threat.

  "Sometimes, Pit, you're pretty dense for a genius. I told you I'd take care of you. I'm giving you the car, with my thanks. Just a matter of signing the registration over."

  My heart skipped. That had to be a forty-thousand-dollar vehicle.

  "I can't accept,” I said. “It's too much, and I'm a public transit sort of guy. Buy me lunch sometime instead, okay?"

  "Pit..."

  "I mean it,” I said firmly. “I enjoyed helping, Davy. I don't get out enough. Give me your address, and I'll drop the car off this afternoon."

  * * * *

  That should have ended matters. I dropped off the car at the Center City office building where Davy had his office, accepted his invitation for dinner that Sunday (Cree apparently liked to cook; she didn't eat, but she was a master of Cajun cuisine).