by James Swain
“I was never good at chess, and neither were you.”
“Then we’ll learn.”
Doyle got his crutches from the floor and stood up. He took a few uncertain steps toward the door before glancing over his shoulder. “Let me think about it,” he said.
They took the elevator to Doyle’s room. On the bedside table in his room was a photo of him as a child in a baby carriage. Doyle’s father had run a bingo parlor on the Boardwalk, and at closing time stuffed the day’s receipts into Doyle’s carriage, and wheeled him to the Marlborough-Blenheim Hotel, where the money was put in a vault.
“Who’d think to rip off a baby?” his father was fond of saying.
Doyle changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. Valentine pulled up a chair and leaned on the metal arm. “I ran the names in the Prince’s address book through the system. They’re all soldiers in the New York mafia.”
Doyle played with the motor on his bed until he was comfortable. “You said the dates in the address book went back eighteen months. It occurred to me that Resorts opened eighteen months ago. These mobsters are working the casino, aren’t they?”
“That would be my guess.”
“And Crowe and Brown were on their payroll.”
Valentine glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway. The doctors and nurses wore rubber sole shoes, and he didn’t want anyone walking in, and hearing what he was about to say. “This is what I think happened. One the Prince’s girls slept with a mobster, got her hands on the address book, and gave it to the Prince. When the Prince wouldn’t give it back, Crowe and Brown were sent to get it.”
“How were Mink and Freed involved?”
“I think they’re also dirty. We responded to the call in two minutes, and they were already there with their vests on.”
Drops of rain appeared on the window beside Doyle’s bed. His partner stared at them for a long moment, then replied. “How is the mob stealing a million bucks a day?”
Valentine had turned that one inside out. To steal that much money, the mafia would have to be putting their hands in the till. Out in Nevada, that stuff still went on, but this wasn’t Nevada. The New Jersey Casino Control Act required the presence of state agents in the casino’s “count” room at all times, making skimming out of the question.
“I wish I knew,” Valentine said.
Doyle said, “I think we should ask Banko to start an investigation.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Those guys were dirty.”
Outside it had started to storm, and they listened to the wind howl off the Atlantic Ocean. By tomorrow morning, several hundred tons of sand would have moved from one end of the island to the other.
“We don’t have any proof,” Valentine said.
“Investigations have been started with less.”
“We’re talking about three dead cops.”
“So what?”
Doyle hadn’t attended the memorial service for Crowe, Brown and Freed at St. Michael’s. Valentine had been there, packed into the church along with four hundred cops from around the state. Governor Brendan Byrne had given the eulogy, and made it clear how he viewed the three detectives’ passing. “Let it be known, that I know of no braver crime-fighters than these three men,’ Byrne had told the packed cathedral.
“They’re heroes,” Valentine said. “We can’t smear their names without proof.”
Doyle fell silent and resumed staring out the window. Valentine could tell his partner was wrestling with his conscience. Doyle went to Mass every Sunday, had a brother who was a priest. He believed that God watched over him, every day.
“So you want to sit on the address book,” his partner said.
“For now. We need to dig up more evidence to make our case, and tie everything together. Then we’ll go to Banko.”
His partner thought about it some more.
“Okay,” he finally said.
Valentine put his chair against the wall. Lois was at home, holding dinner until he arrived. They tried to eat together whenever they could. He tapped Doyle on the arm.
“I’ll come around tomorrow. Maybe we can get Hilda to smile.”
“You really think working in Resorts won’t suck?”
He didn’t know if policing a casino would suck or not. But it would be better than sitting at a desk sharpening pencils, which was where they were headed if they refused the assignment. His late mother liked to say that life sometimes dealt you bad cards. How you played them was up to you.
“Like I told you. We’ll make it fun,” Valentine said.
Chapter 4
Israel “Izzie” Hirsch had a problem.
Izzie was the captain of a team of card hustlers. As the captain, he maintained the bankroll, scouted out strong games, and after their work was done, cooled out the suckers. Those were his duties, and he did them well.
Izzie’s problem was a woman named Betty Horn. Izzie was not handsome, and women had never been receptive to his advances. Then Betty had come along. She was about forty, and not hard on the eyes. Izzie had picked her up one night in a sleazy bar. Betty was just out of prison for kiting checks, and needed to make some money.
Normally, women didn’t get involved with cheaters. Not even bad women. But Betty was different. She loved to hear Izzie tell road stories, and watch him manipulate playing cards and switch dice. She loved Izzie, or so she said.
Izzie didn’t see the problem, but the other members of the team did. Their names were Josh and Seymour, and they were Izzie’s brothers. Seeing Izzie swoon whenever Betty was around, the brothers knew they had a disaster on their hands. They had tried to talk to Izzie, but getting through to a man who was getting laid wasn’t easy. In the end, they decided to go along with their older brother. It was a decision they’d later regret.
The poker game they had decided to fleece was played in the back room of a bar in Nyack, New York. Each month, five traveling salesman got together and gambled away their commission checks. Izzie, posing as a greeting card salesman, had gotten himself invited to the game, then convinced the others to invite Josh.
For the first two hours of the game, nothing happened. First one player was ahead, then another. At the halfway point they decided to take a break, and Josh offered to get sandwiches from the all-night deli across the street. Taking everyone’s order, he headed outside. The Hirsch’s car was parked across the street. Josh slipped into the passenger seat. Seymour was at the wheel, while Betty sat in the back, smoking a cigarette.
“How’s it looking?”Seymour asked.
“They’re a bunch of real chumps,” Josh said. “They’re using two decks. Red Bicycles, and a deck of blue Squeezers.”
Seymour opened a briefcase sitting on seat. Inside were a hundred decks of playing cards. The brothers worked poker games from the Catskills to New York City, and had collected every deck of cards sold in those markets, including promotional and souvenir decks. Seymour removed a deck of red Bicycles and blue Squeezers, and handed them to his brother. Josh stacked the decks so the players in the first and third spots would take the fall. Turning in his seat, he passed Betty the stacked decks and the sandwich order.
“Just so we’re straight, which pocket of your apron are the decks are going in?”
“You think I’m going to screw up?” Her tone was nasty.
“Just tell me.”
“Red deck in my left pocket, blue deck in my right. Happy now?”
Betty gave him a wink. Josh hated when she flirted with him. He got out of the car, and slammed the door.
Josh returned to a table of roaring men. Izzie was telling jokes. They had grown up in the Catskill Mountains, and Izzie had learned from the best. Josh clenched his right hand into a fist, signaling to his brother that the scam was on.
“Oh man, that was rich,” a lightbulb salesman named Hicks said. “Tell us another.”
“Okay,” Izzie said. “An Iranian living in the United States goes to the doctor, says he doesn’t feel
well. The doctor examines him and says, ‘I want you to go home, shit in a paper bag, and leave it out in the hot sun for a week. Then I want you to stick your head in the bag, and take a deep breath. I guarantee you’ll feel better. The Iranian comes back a week later, tells the doctor he feels great. Then he says, ‘But doctor, what was wrong with me?’ And the doctor says, ‘You were homesick.’”
The five salesmen slapped the card table and roared some more.
“I think we should bomb Iran,” Hicks suddenly said.
“Nuke ‘em,” another of the salesmen piped in.
One hundred and twenty-eight Americans were being held hostage in the U.S. embassy in Tehran, and sentiments were running high toward retaliation.
The room grew quiet. Betty stood in the doorway holding a cardboard tray with their sandwiches. She wore tight-fitting jeans, an I LOVE NY sweatshirt, and had a cook’s apron tied around her waist. Even in those drab clothes she was a looker.
“Here’s the grub,” Josh said.
Betty crossed the room. Josh leaned back in his chair, watching.
“Give me a deck.” Izzie said, pointing at the two decks on the table.
Hicks slid the blue Squeezers toward him. Izzie picked the Squeezers up with his left hand, then slid his chair sideways, allowing Betty to come in, and put the cardboard tray on the table edge.
“I got the corn beef,” Izzie said.
Betty passed the sandwiches around the table. She was the perfect shade, and Izzie stuck his hand into the pocket of her apron, and switched the cards for the stacked deck.
Betty flirted with the salesmen and left. Izzie began to deal. Josh stared in disbelief as the cards sailed around the table. His brother was holding a deck of red Bicycles. Betty had put the wrong decks into the pockets of her apron.
Josh knew he had to do something to save his brother. S.W. Erdnase, a famous card cheater, once wrote, ‘The resourceful professional, failing to improve the method changes the moment.’ Picking up his cup of coffee, he poured the hot drink onto his lap.
“My balls, my balls!” Josh screamed.
It didn’t work. Hicks rose from his chair and pointed an accusing finger at Izzie.
“Hey! Those cards changed color,” Hicks said.
The other salesmen stared as well. Then, all hell broke loose.
Even nice guys turned into monsters when they thought they’d been swindled. The salesmen beat the living daylights out of Izzie and Josh, took their money, then dragged them outside, and tossed them into a garbage-filled Dumpster behind the bar.
“You’re lucky they didn’t kill you,” Seymour said a half hour later. They were driving on the outskirts of Nyack, the windshield wipers beating back the rain.
Josh sat beside Seymour. He’d lost a tooth and several of his ribs were bruised from where Hicks had kicked him. Izzie sat in backseat with Betty. His older brother had two black eyes and his swollen lips looked like blood sausages.
“I’m sorry I messed up,” Betty said.
“It’s okay, baby,” Izzie said.
“You sure?”
“Positive. Mistakes happen. It’s part of the business.”
Josh glanced at Seymour and saw his younger brother roll his eyes. If Betty kept screwing up, they’d all end up in the hospital, or a graveyard.
“I love you, Izzie,” Betty whispered.
“I love you, too,” Izzie whispered back.
The unmistakable sound of Izzie’s fly being yanked open shattered the silence. Josh shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Betty was like one of those sirens in the ancient Greek stories. Izzie was her slave, and she wasn’t going to let go of him.
An convenience store materialized on the road side. Josh said, “I need some smokes,” and Seymour pulled into the lot and the two brothers went inside. They nosed around the potato chip aisle, killing time while the lovebirds got it on.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Josh asked.
“I sure am,” Seymour replied.
“I make a motion that we lose her.”
“I second the motion.”
“All those in favor, say I.”
“I.”
“Done.”
Five minutes later, Josh and Seymour were back in the car. Izzie had his arm slung over Betty’s shoulder and was breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Seymour started to drive away, then slammed on the brakes. “Damn. I left my wallet on the counter.”
The tires spun on the gravel as Seymour backed up. Josh turned in his seat, and looked Betty in the eye. “Would you do my moronic brother a favor, and get his wallet?”
Betty giggled. It was no secret that she thought Seymour was a putz.
“Sure,” she said.
She hopped out of the car, and went into the convenience store. When Betty was happy, she walked with a little skip. It was the only thing remotely child-like about her.
Josh grabbed her purse off the back seat. Rolling down his window, he flung the purse with all his might, and it hit the convenience store’s front door with a loud Wham! Seymour threw the car into drive and punched the accelerator.
“Hey!” Izzie exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
“We’re leaving,” Josh said.
“What about Betty?”
“She’s not coming.”
“Who said she’s not coming?”
“We took a vote, and you lost.”
Izzie made a strangled sound, then fell silent. For a while they drove in silence. The highway was dark and unforgiving. Road hustling was tough work, and the brothers knew that it was time to change locales. Miami Beach was nice, and the money was always good in Chicago. But Josh wanted to branch out, and from the glove compartment he removed a glossy brochure from Resorts in Atlantic City, and passed it around the car.
Josh and Seymour took turns reading the brochure. The brothers had often fantasized about pulling an Ocean’s Eleven-type caper, and taking down a casino for a huge score. It was every hustler’s dream, yet only a handful had ever tried it. The risks far outweighed the rewards.
“I thought the mob was running Atlantic City,” Izzie said skeptically. “If those guys catch us cheating, they’ll kill us.”
“Screw the mob,” Josh said. “I’ve got this plan that will let us steal five grand a week from Resorts, and the mob will never have a clue. On top of that, we’ll get to stay in one place, and not have to move around. No more crummy motel rooms and shitty food.”
“Five grand a week? That’s huge,” Seymour said.
“You thought this out?” Izzie asked.
Josh tapped his forehead with his finger. “Every last detail.”
“Count me in,” Seymour said.
“Me, too,” Izzie chorused.
An exit sign loomed ahead. They’d been driving around aimlessly for over an hour. Seymour flipped on his indicator. Soon, they were heading south on I-95 toward New Jersey, ready to take on the mob without hearing the details of Josh’s plan, or fully understanding the dangerous risks they were about to assume.
It was another decision the brothers would later regret.
Chapter 5
Valentine’s Sicilian grandmother had a favorite expression. He doesn’t know that he doesn’t know that he doesn’t know. She liked to use it when describing really stupid people. Valentine had never thought it applied to him. But it did apply to Mickey Wright. Mickey was a fixture in Atlantic City, and for years had worked as a concierge at hotels around the island. When Resorts opened, Mickey had pulled some strings, and wound up running the casino’s surveillance department. The fact that Mickey had no casino experience hadn’t fazed the people running Resorts. Mickey was their man.
Mickey had shown Doyle and Valentine the basics of casino surveillance. He taught them how to operate a VCR, how to start the Time/Generator machine so each video tape was properly certified, and how to fill out Incident Activity Reports.
Mickey also liked to play on the job. He used surveillance cameras to pick up hair
pieces and patchwork suits, and watch pretty girls wearing red clothes, which became invisible under the camera’s invasive eye. And, he was into games. Find the prettiest girl in the casino was one. Find the ugliest guy another. Mickey loved to have fun.
One afternoon, Mickey got a call from Sergeant Banko. The chief was bringing Bill Higgins, the Nevada Gaming Control Board special agent, to the casino, and wanted Mickey, Doyle and Valentine to meet him. Mickey hung up the phone shaking his head.
“What the hell am I gonna learn from this guy?” Mickey said aloud.