by James Swain
His mouth went dry. “Who told you I was married?”
“Your Web site has your name, and your son’s.”
“My wife died of a heart attack two years ago.” He saw something in her face change. A chink in the armor. He said, “She used to buy my clothes, pick out the colors. I don’t think I own anything that she didn’t buy me.”
“Except those pants,” Lucy said. “You an odd size?” He nodded and she said, “So was my ex. Look, Tony, I don’t know where this conversation is headed, but all I really care about is getting my twenty-five thousand dollars back. If you can’t help me, then shove off.”
Her voice had turned harsh. This was Lucy the gambler, and he didn’t like it.
“That’s pretty inconsiderate,” he said.
“Just because you talked me off that balcony doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”
“I wasn’t helping Nick when I met you,” he replied.
She had to think about what that meant. His breakfast was getting cold, and he sat back down, picked up his fork, and resumed eating. To his surprise, so did she.
The best thing about getting old was you appreciated how precious time was. They decided to start over. Lucy went first.
She’d grown up in Cincinnati. At seventeen, she drove to Las Vegas with her belongings tied to her car, became a dental hygienist, got hitched, had two kids, got divorced, and lost custody to her ex. She’d played slot machines for relaxation. She called her current financial situation “a setback.”
Then it was his turn. His life was no movie—he’d been a doting husband, a good cop, and a so-so father, according to his son—and she stopped him when he’d said he was retired. “I know this is none of my business, but how old are you?”
“Sixty-three.”
“I would have guessed fifty-three. I’m fifty-two.”
He saw her smiling. It was starting to feel like a date, and he decided to put the conversation back on track. “After my wife died, I started consulting. Back when I was a cop in Atlantic City, I had this knack for catching cheaters. I could pick one off the floor, even if I didn’t know what he was doing. Hustlers call it grift sense.”
“How can you spot a cheater, if you don’t know what he’s doing?”
“Cheaters are actors. They know the outcome, so they have to fake their emotions. That’s the hardest part of the scam.”
“You can tell the difference between a realie and a phony?”
“That’s right.”
“So what am I?”
“A realie,” he said.
He saw her smile again, and motioned to the waitress for their check.
They left the coffee shop. Of all the joints in Vegas, he had a soft spot for Caesars. There was live entertainment everywhere you looked, plus beautiful statues, Olympian wall art, and a staff that made visitors feel special.
They stopped at the Forum Shops. A sign for the TALKING ROMAN GOD SHOW said the next performance was in ten minutes. He’d seen the show before. Animatronic statues of Roman gods narrated a wacky story to the accompaniment of lasers and booming sound effects. It was brainless, yet lots of fun.
They found an empty bench. Lucy sat sideways, her knee almost touching his. It was hard to believe she was the same woman he’d met yesterday. She’d bounced back quickly from the edge of despair.
“How can you tell I’m a realie?”
“I don’t think Sharon Stone could fake the emotion I saw on the tape of you winning at blackjack,” he replied.
For some reason, this made her laugh. “Okay. If you could tell by the tape that I’m not a cheater, then why did you want to talk to me?”
She was grinning like a cat, and he wondered if she was trying to trap him into admitting there was an ulterior motive in him inviting her to breakfast. There wasn’t, so he answered her honestly.
“Because there are two things bothering me.”
Her smile faded. “Oh. What are they?”
“The first is the simple fact that you started with ten thousand dollars, and you ended up with twenty-five thousand of the casino’s money.”
“So? Aren’t people allowed to win sometimes?”
“They are, but not like that.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated. Lucy was a gambler. Most gamblers thought they understood the games. They did, when it came to the rules and strategy. But few understood the math, especially when it came to winning and losing. In that department, just about everyone who gambled was a sucker. He stood up. “I’ll be right back.”
He bought stationery in the gift shop. When he returned to the bench, a guy with a bad dye job and lots of gold chains was putting the moves on Lucy. Seeing him approach, the guy shrugged and left. Valentine sat down and tore the plastic off the paper.
“All right,” Lucy said, “show me why I’m not supposed to win.”
He drew a chart on a piece of paper. It was the same chart he used when he gave talks at Gamblers Anonymous. Finished, he turned the paper upside down. Her eyes locked onto the page.
THE REAL ODDS Objective: Double your money before going broke. Player starts with $200 and makes single-dollar bets. Game is blackjack, with house holding 1.4% advantage. # of Hands Played The House Edge 1x 50.7% 5x 53.5% 10x 57% 20x 63.8% 50x 80% 100x 94% 200x 99.7%
She lifted her eyes from the page. “Is this for real?”
“Afraid so,” he said.
“But how can the casino’s edge increase? Doesn’t it always stay the same?”
“For each hand, yes.”
“So the edge doesn’t change.”
“No, but it eats into your bankroll. The edge gives the casino one-point-four cents of every bet you make. You lose gradually, which makes your objective of doubling your bankroll impossible. The more bets you make, the worse it gets. It’s what pays for this place, and every other place in town.”
“The edge,” she said.
“That’s right. Over the long haul, you can’t beat it.”
“Only I did. Did I get lucky?”
He pointed at the top of the chart with his pen. “Luck is betting all your money on a single hand. The first bet, you’re playing nearly even with the house. If you win, that’s luck. You played for five hours, and won over fifty percent of your hands. Luck had nothing to do with it.”
She drew back into herself, not sure where the conversation was headed. “You said there were two things bothering you. What’s the second?”
He hesitated. Lucy caught it, put her hand on his knee and dug in her nails hard. Grimacing, he said, “Your story sounds like a fairy tale. You never played blackjack before. Well, why did you play? My guess is, someone talked you into it.”
A startled look spread across her face.
“I also think this same person staked you ten grand. He talked you into playing blackjack at the Acropolis. You had a deal with him.”
“Why do you think someone staked me?” she asked, growing angry. “Why couldn’t it have been with my money?”
Because you owe money all over town he would have said to anyone else sitting on that bench. Only he didn’t want to hurt this woman. She’d been through enough.
Her hand was still on his knee. He rested his hand on hers.
“Greasy guys with diamond pinkie rings bet five hundred a hand,” he said. “Or oil tycoons wearing Stetsons. But a novice playing her first time? A hundred a hand I could live with. Not five hundred. Someone told you to do that.”
He saw the flicker of understanding register on her face. He was on to her, and she knew it. “Lucy, please, level with me. Who staked you? What’s going on?”
“I . . . can’t tell you that.”
“Please.”
She shook her head. “I have to go.” She jerked her hand free of his grasp and abruptly stood up. She walked away quickly, purse clutched to her chest, eyes scared.
“Lucy—”
“No!”
He saw the guy who’d been hitting on her emerge fr
om one of the Forum Shops. Walking over, he tried to start up a conversation. Mister-Never-Give-Up. Lucy stopped long enough to slap him in the face, the harsh sound reverberating across the Forum’s domed ceiling like a gunshot.
16
Taking cabs in Las Vegas was a waste of time, so Valentine hiked back to the Acropolis. It was only three blocks, plus the long walk down Caesars entranceway. The casino had moving sidewalks to bring people in, but not out.
The air was brisk and clean, the sun a metallic sliver in the vivid sky. He walked quickly, wanting to burn off the bad feelings weighing him down. Lucy was somehow involved in this scam, and he didn’t want her to end up getting hurt. He normally didn’t feel that way about cheaters, and found himself trying to rationalize his feelings. She didn’t seem to be a part of a gang, and was probably just a patsy. She was being taken advantage of, he decided.
He strode past the entrance, the sun’s harsh rays showing every crack and paint chip. Behind the dreams there was always a harsh reality. Lucy’s reality was that someone had staked her to play blackjack and pointed to a specific table. That same someone gave her a Basic Strategy card and told her to follow it. Wily had polygraphed the dealers who’d worked Lucy’s table. But that didn’t mean someone else wasn’t involved in the scam. Perhaps it was one of the other players. Or someone standing behind the table, out of the surveillance camera’s range. That person had engineered the scam and later stolen Lucy’s winnings from the safe in her room. It was the only possible explanation for what had happened.
He walked up the Acropolis’s winding entrance. A workman was scrubbing Nick’s ex-wives with a soggy mop, the soapsuds clinging to all the wrong places. Nowhere else in America could someone get away with this, he thought.
Going inside, Big Joe Smith pulled him into One-Armed Billy’s alcove, and he got his picture taken with a gang of tourists, autographed their visors and T-shirts, then left.
“Hey, Mister Celebrity,” Wily said when he entered the surveillance control room a minute later. He’d been watching on the monitors, and was laughing.
“I need to ask you some questions,” Valentine said.
“Your wish is my command.”
“The night you taped Lucy Price, did you film her from any other angles?”
“We filmed her from every angle but up her skirt,” Wily said.
“Was anyone standing around the table, watching her play?”
“There were a couple of people watching her, now that you mention it,” Wily said. “Think they might be involved?”
Valentine wanted to smack Wily in the head. Fifteen years working for Nick, and Wily was lucky he found his way to work every day. Lucy Price was an amateur. Other players never watched amateurs play.
“Yeah, I think they’re involved. Let me see the tapes.”
“No problem, Kemosabe.”
Wily went to the raised console that sat in the room’s center. The console was the casino’s version of central command. Sitting in front of a computer, he pecked a command into the console’s keyboard, then leaned back in his chair and waited for a response.
Since nearly being ripped off by Frank Fontaine, Nick had bought an advanced surveillance system called Loronix. Loronix recorded digitally and could hold seven days’ worth of film. The picture had a special watermark that showed any foul play or image altering after the fact. That way, the tapes would always stand up in court.
Wily pointed at the wall of video monitors. “Lucy’s on monitors one through four.”
Valentine crossed the room and stared. On the monitors, he saw two spectators watching Lucy play. A plump woman clutching a plastic coin bucket, and a skinny guy wearing a baseball cap and cheap shades. Wily edged up beside him.
“Recognize either of them?” Valentine asked.
“The woman’s a local,” Wily said. “She comes in and blows her Social Security check playing video poker.”
“Ever have any problems with her?”
“Naw. Wait. There was one time . . . she found a gold coin on the casino floor, thought it was Nick’s lost treasure. Got real upset when she discovered it was a piece of candy wrapped in tinfoil.”
Nick’s lost treasure was a part of Vegas lore. During one of his divorces, Nick had told a trusted employee to hide a cache of gold coins he’d bought from a treasure hunter. The coins were from a sunken Spanish ship called the Atocha, and worth a fortune. Nick’s employee had hidden the coins, then dropped dead from a heart attack. No map had been left, nor any clues leading to the coins’ whereabouts.
Valentine resumed staring at the monitors. The woman with the coin bucket left, leaving the man with the baseball cap. He was scruffy and hadn’t shaved in several days.
“Recognize him?”
Wily brought his face next to the screen. “No. Hard to see his face beneath the cap and the whiskers and the shades.”
“No kidding.”
“Think he has something to do with it?”
“Yes.”
They watched the scruffy guy for ten minutes. The man shifted his position and once walked away, but then came back. He was definitely watching Lucy play.
“See anything that doesn’t look right?” Valentine asked.
Wily was smart enough to know when he was being baited. He stared for another minute, then said, “I give up.”
“Take a look at his shoes.”
Wily did, and spotted the discrepancy immediately. “Cowboy boots made out of alligator or snake. Doesn’t go with the cheap sunglasses, does it?”
“No, sir.”
Wily trotted over to the master console and began typing. The picture on the monitor froze, and the man’s reptilian cowboy boots became enlarged. Valentine walked behind Wily, trying to figure out what the head of security was doing.
“What are you doing?” Valentine asked him.
A surprised look crossed Wily’s face. In a loud voice, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please. Something historic has just happened.” Ten technicians in the room collectively lifted their heads. “I just did something that Tony Valentine—the Tony Valentine—hasn’t seen before. Please mark down the date and time for future reference. Thank you.” Turning to his guest, he said, “Hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Loronix has this great feature. I can freeze an image—like this guy’s cowboy boots—and compare it to the last seven days’ worth of film on the computer’s hard drive. Loronix will find all the matches and pull them up. It’s a great way to gather evidence on someone.”
Valentine was stunned. He’d been given a demonstration of Loronix, and this feature had never been mentioned. He patted Wily on the shoulder and saw him smile.
“Good work,” he said.
A yellow light on the console began to flash. Wily punched in a command. The console had a small screen, and a bunch of gibberish appeared. Wily spent a moment deciphering it, then said, “Looks like our friend with the cowboy boots was in the casino twelve times in the last week. Want to look at him some more?”
“I sure do.”
Valentine returned to the wall of monitors. The retrieved films of the guy with the cowboy boots appeared on twelve separate screens. The guy was a stroller, and the films showed him walking around the casino, pausing occasionally to watch the action at roulette, blackjack, the craps table, and the Asian domino game called Pai Gow. Not once did he stop and actually play.
On one screen, he was standing at a pay phone. As he brought the receiver to his mouth, he lifted his face. The surveillance camera caught his profile, and Valentine felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
“For the love of Christ,” he said under his breath.
He stared across the room at Wily. Wily had been there the night the Acropolis had nearly gone down. “It’s Frank Fontaine,” he said.
“Fontaine’s in the slammer, doing thirty,” Wily replied.
“Look at him.”
Wi
ly came over and put his face up to the monitor. “There’s a resemblance, but that’s it. Besides, this guy has a scar on his face.”
Frank Fontaine was the greatest casino cheater of the past twenty-five years. His scams were works of art, and always involved employee collusion. There was no doubt in Valentine’s mind it was him.
“You think I’m wrong?” Wily said.
“Yes.”
“Tony, you’re getting old.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to tell Nick.”
A look of apprehension crossed Wily’s face. “You really think it’s him?”
“Yes.”
Wily went to the console, punched in a command, then crossed the room to the laser printer in the corner. A printed sheet came out. He held it up so Valentine could see it. It was the photograph of Fontaine talking on the phone.
Walking over to a technician, Wily handed him the photograph and said, “Make a few hundred copies and distribute them to every employee. If anyone sees this guy, tell them to send up a flare.”
Valentine watched the technician leave. Then he looked at Wily. He hadn’t liked the crack about getting old. That was the thing he hated the most about Las Vegas. People didn’t stay your friend for very long.
Walking over to the printer, he removed Fontaine’s photograph and left without saying a word.
17
Mabel got up Saturday morning, fixed herself a fruit smoothie, and walked down the street to Tony’s house. She drank her breakfast while sitting at Tony’s desk, fielding e-mails and phone calls from panicked casino bosses that had come in the night before. In a business that never went to sleep, Friday nights were particularly hectic, and she spent an hour going through Tony’s messages. At ten o’clock the phone rang. It was Tony’s private line, and she snatched it up. It was Yolanda.
“Can you come over here?”
“Of course. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Yolanda said. “It’s about Gerry.”
“Be there in five,” Mabel said. She exited Tony’s e-mail, then shut his computer down. They lived in the lightning capital of the country, and leaving the computer on was an invitation for disaster. As she rose from her chair, the business line rang. She stared at the caller ID, then brought her hand to her mouth.