by James Swain
“Send them home.”
“Right now?”
“Right now. And get their personnel folders while you’re at it.”
Wily went into the next room and sent the five employees home. He left the door ajar, and Valentine saw Nick enter the surveillance control room. The purple suit was gone, replaced by a black silk shirt, black silk trousers, and layers of thick gold chains. Nick was a retro man and proud of it. He found Valentine in the office.
“Let’s kick some ass,” the little Greek said.
Wily got his nine trusted employees to leave their stations and assemble in front of the video wall. All had been in Nick’s employ for ten years or more and had gray or white hair. At one time or another, Valentine had spoken with each of them. Their jobs didn’t pay great, but Nick gave them health insurance and a pension plan, so they hung around and kept things honest downstairs.
“I’ve been doing work for this casino for a while,” Valentine said. “I’ve made good money off Nick, so I think it’s time I give something back. I’m going to teach you how I catch crossroaders. It’s based on a system I developed in Atlantic City. I call it Logical Backward Progression, or LBP. It uses memory, and common sense. Everybody ready?”
Several faces in the group lit up. Others simply nodded.
“A few days ago, a blackjack player named Lucy Price won twenty-five grand at one of your tables. Based upon the astronomical odds against what happened, I’m convinced it was a scam. However, I don’t know how the scam worked. So I’m going to use LBP and examine what I do know.”
He picked up a legal pad from a desk, and a Sharpie, and began to write.
1. Lucy Price/beginner
2. Bets $500 a hand
3. Plays with a Basic Strategy card
4. Plays 5 hours straight
5. One other player at table
6. Also played 5 hours
7. Lost
8. Didn’t play Basic Strategy
Valentine put his pen down and handed the legal pad to the technician to his right. She read the page, then passed it to the next person. He waited until everyone was done, then said, “Based on these facts, what do we know?”
A technician named Nadine cleared her throat. She was from a former Soviet bloc country and had come to Las Vegas right after the Berlin Wall had fallen. Nadine had a knack for spotting improprieties in players. Not grift sense, but damn close.
“Her play is entirely predictable,” Nadine said.
“Because she’s playing Basic Strategy?”
“That’s right. In fact, Lucy Price really wasn’t playing her hands at all. The Basic Strategy card was playing her hands. She was just doing what the card told her to.”
“Why is this important?”
Nadine smiled. “The other player knew exactly what she was doing.”
Valentine wanted to hug her. It was so simple that it had flown right by him. The information was letting the other player at the table play Lucy’s hand. Cheaters called it playing early anchor. Valentine explained, and everyone smiled. Except Nick.
“What do you mean, the other guy’s playing her hand?” Nick said.
“I’ll show you, “ Valentine said.
The nine technicians crowded around the wall of video monitors. Wily brought up the tape of Lucy on the master console and beamed it onto every screen.
The tape showed the end of Lucy’s streak. Valentine watched the other man at the table. He sat to Lucy’s right and drew his cards before Lucy did. He was controlling the play.
Valentine waited for someone else to pick it up. Nadine again came to the rescue. She pointed at the same player.
“He’s playing Lucy’s hand,” she declared. “He knows which cards are coming out of the shoe. If Lucy has eleven, and the next card in the shoe is a ten, he won’t take it, giving Lucy the card so she wins her hand. Conversely, if he sees a scare card on top, say a four or a five, he’ll draw it, so Lucy won’t get it. He’s either helping her, or he’s protecting her. It gives Lucy an unbeatable edge.”
Nick was acting like his pants were on fire. “What the hell are you talking about? How the hell does he know which cards are coming out of the shoe?”
Nadine glanced at Valentine. She had an understated way about her that he’d always admired. Smart, but not a show-off.
“Be my guest,” Valentine said.
“The cards are marked,” Nadine explained. “The player sitting to Lucy’s right is controlling Lucy’s hand by drawing cards that will hurt Lucy, or standing pat when there’s a card that will help Lucy.”
Nick looked at Valentine. “How does Fontaine play into this?”
“He’s standing behind the table out of the camera’s range, directing the action.”
Nick looked at Wily. “Read my mind.”
Wily scratched his chin. “You want to know who delivers the cards to the table.”
“Boy, are you smart,” Nick said.
Going to the master console, Wily accessed the casino’s database, bringing the man’s name up within a matter of seconds. He whistled through his teeth. For a clue to jump out and bite Wily meant it was the size of an elephant, and everyone in the room waited expectantly.
“The guy’s new, too,” Wily said.
Within a matter of seconds, Wily pulled up the name of every new hire the Acropolis had made in the past three months. There were thirty names.
“Is that a lot?” Valentine asked Nick.
“Yeah, it’s a lot,” Nick said. “I should have seen it sooner.”
“Seen what?”
Nick was scanning the new hires’ employment profiles on the computer, and he pointed at the screen. “Everyone of them used to work at Sin. The place has only been open six months. Why are they leaving to come to work for me?”
Nick paused, as if expecting one of the technicians to suggest what a swell boss he was. When no one volunteered, he said, “It’s an invasion, that’s why. Chance Newman and Shelly Michael and Rags Richardson want to tear the Acropolis down and build a moving walkway that will connect their casinos to each other. My spies have told me. I know.” He shifted his gaze to Valentine. “So they hired Fontaine to put me out of business. I just don’t understand one thing.”
“What’s that?” Valentine asked.
“How the hell did they spring Fontaine out of the federal pen?”
The same question had been bothering Valentine. Chance and Rags and Shelly were powerful men, but that power didn’t extend to freeing murderers from prison. There was something else going on here, and he was determined to find out what.
“Let me see the files of those thirty new hires,” he said.
21
Mabel had always believed that the majority of the world’s problems could be solved with a good meal. So she took Yolanda to the Bon Appétit restaurant in nearby Dunedin, and they spent the afternoon watching the sailboats in Clearwater Harbor while sampling wonderful seafood appetizers. By the time the waiter brought the check, Yolanda was acting like her old self, and smiling again.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything that’s happened,” Mabel said during the drive back to Palm Harbor. She saw Yolanda shift uncomfortably and couldn’t tell if it was the baby, or her fears about Gerry. “By the way, how would you like to sample the world’s best pound cake?”
“Only if you made it,” Yolanda said.
A few minutes later, Mabel pulled into Tony’s driveway. She baked several pound cakes every month, and always put one in Tony’s refrigerator. They were good warm, better cold, and Yolanda was smiling again when they sat down in Tony’s kitchen.
“I love eating for two,” she said, cutting herself a thick piece.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Mabel said.
The doorbell rang. Mabel found her shoes and walked through the house to the front door. The door had a glass cutout, and she spied an attractive male in a suit and tie on the stoop. Most of their visitors were delivery people who resembled rejects from a host
ile alien planet. She unchained the door and pulled it open.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
“Special Agent Timothy Reynolds of the FBI,” he said, holding up a laminated ID. He was about six-one and athletically built, with a cleft in his chin and eyes too small for his face. Mabel squinted at the ID, and he flipped his wallet shut.
“I’m looking for Tony Valentine. May I come in?”
The two statements did not go together, and Mabel felt herself stiffen.
“Tony is out of town, and no, you cannot come in.”
“I was being polite, ma’am,” he said.
He opened the screen door and put his foot deliberately inside the house. Mabel didn’t budge. Two months ago, a man from the swamps had entered the house and abducted her. She’d made it easy for him by turning her back. Never again.
“No,” she said firmly.
“Ma’am, by the powers vested in me—”
“My name is Mabel. Mabel Struck.”
“Ms. Struck, by the powers vested in me by the United States government, I’m asking you to please stand aside so that I may enter this house.”
“Where’s your subpoena?”
Reynolds paused, studying her. “Homeland Security Act. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”
“Yes,” she said coolly. “I didn’t know that it meant that you could come to a private residence and, without stating what you wanted, barge unannounced into someone’s home. There happen to be other people here.”
“I told you what I wanted,” Reynolds said.
“And I told you, Tony isn’t here. Do you want to search the place?”
“I want you to step aside so that I may enter the house. Otherwise . . .”
Reynolds didn’t want to say it. Otherwise, he’d have to cite her for obstructing justice. Up close, he wasn’t a bad-looking young fellow. Nice teeth, strong jawline. His breath smelled like a mint, and she guessed he’d popped one into his mouth in the driveway. Not a beast, she decided.
She let him enter, then locked the door behind him. “I thought the FBI always worked in pairs,” she said.
“We do,” Reynolds replied.
Reynolds’s partner had come in through the back door. As Mabel entered the kitchen he introduced himself. Special Agent Scott Fisher. Another handsome, clean-shaven fellow in a suit and tie.
Reynolds pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. “Please, make yourself comfortable, Ms. Struck.”
Mabel remained standing. She glanced at Yolanda, who still sat at the table, and saw the frightened look on her face. Yolanda was equating the FBI’s appearance with something Gerry had done.
“These men are looking for Tony,” Mabel explained.
“Oh,” Yolanda said.
“Please sit down,” Reynolds said.
Mabel felt herself growing angry. Two men imposing themselves on two women, that’s what was going on here. Her rear end made a loud rhump! as she hit the chair.
Reynolds crossed the kitchen so he was standing beside his partner. He pulled a spiral-bound notebook out of his back pocket, flipped it open, and stared at his notes. “Here’s the deal, ladies. We need to talk to Tony Valentine, and we need to talk to him right now.”
“Good luck,” Mabel said.
When neither man said a word, she explained. “Tony considers cell phones one of life’s great nuisances. He rarely leaves his on, even when someone says they’ll call him.”
“Have you spoken to him recently?”
“Yes. A few hours ago.”
“Where was he calling from?”
“Las Vegas.”
“We know that. Where in Las Vegas? The FBI has been looking for him since yesterday. He’s not registered in any hotel.”
Mabel stiffened again. How did they know that? “He’s on a job. If you want to talk to him, leave a message on his cell phone. I’m sure he’ll get right back to you.”
Reynolds flipped his notebook shut. The nice-guy look had vanished from his face. “Are you his wife?”
“Office manager,” she replied.
“Are you aware that Tony Valentine wrote a letter right after 9/11, claiming the FBI was harassing Arab Americans living in the United States?”
Mabel nearly choked. “What?”
“And that he’s a suspect in the murder of a woman suspected of laundering casino chips for an Arab gambler, who’s also wanted by the FBI?”
Mabel shook her head, stunned.
“My partner and I are going to search the house,” Reynolds said. “We are looking for any correspondence between your boss and any Arab gamblers. We’re also looking for these.” From his pocket, he removed a casino chip and held it in front of Mabel’s face. It was brown, or what gamblers called a chocolate chip. “If you can help us in any way, please do so right now. Otherwise, I advise you to remain seated.”
“And if we don’t,” Mabel said.
“Then we’ll be forced to arrest you.”
He stared at Mabel with murderous intensity, then shifted his gaze to Yolanda. The younger woman looked petrified, and an alarm went off in Mabel’s head. Yolanda was as big as a house, yet neither man had mentioned it. Men always said something around a pregnant woman. Tony was always telling her to look for the little incongruities, and Mabel realized this was one. These men weren’t FBI agents. They were imposters.
“Do you understand?” Reynolds asked them.
The two women nodded their heads.
“Good,” he said.
Mabel knew who they were. They worked for a competitor of Grift Sense. The same competitor who’d tried to hack Creep File from Tony’s computer a month ago. Tony’s firewall had stopped them, so the competitor had sent these thugs.
“I’d like to see your credentials again,” Mabel said.
Reynolds glared at her.
“I didn’t have my glasses when you came to the door.” She picked them up off the kitchen table and put them on. “If you don’t mind.”
Reynolds shook his head. “No,” he added for emphasis.
“A real FBI agent wouldn’t refuse my request,” she said.
“Don’t push it,” Reynolds said.
It was all the proof Mabel needed. To Yolanda, she said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m parched. Want a cold drink?”
Yolanda said “sure” under her breath, her eyes glued to Reynolds’s face. Mabel thought of the burden of carrying the unborn, and what had to be going through her head. She rose from the table, looked casually at Reynolds and Fisher and repeated the question. She touched the refrigerator door, waited.
“Nothing for me,” Fisher said.
Reynolds grunted, “No thank you.”
Opening the refrigerator, Mabel removed the loaded Sig Sauer keeping the cottage cheese company. It had been Tony’s idea to put the gun there, instead of the hollow book in his study. It was the same gun she’d used two months ago to shoot her abductor through the heart. The therapist she’d gone to see had asked her if she felt revulsion toward the weapon. On the contrary, she’d told him. She kissed its barrel every day.
Pivoting on the balls of her feet, she aimed the gun at the two men and saw the life drain from their faces.
22
Valentine sat behind the desk in Wily’s office in the surveillance control room. The office was windowless and as dreary as a cave. Wily materialized in the doorway, clutching a stack of file folders to his chest.
“These are the personnel files of the new hires,” he said, placing the folders on the desk. “Nick’s right. It is as suspicious as hell they all flocked over here at once. I should have suspected something.”
Valentine started examining the files and saw that Wily had done a smart thing. He’d separated the employees by the games they worked. Of the new hires, four dealt blackjack, one was a pit boss, six dealt craps, six worked roulette, four dealt poker, six emptied slot and video poker machines, two worked the cage, and one was in finance.
Valentine closed his e
yes. He was working with a big puzzle, and there were a lot of pieces here. He spent a minute sorting through them in his head. Then he opened his eyes. Wily was standing in front of the desk, waiting expectantly.
“What you got?” he asked.
“Nick said something interesting before,” Valentine said. “He said he knew that Chance Newman wanted to tear down the Acropolis and run a road through the property. That’s why Fontaine was brought in.”
“So?” Wily said.
“The Acropolis makes money, right?”
Wily smiled brightly. “Nick cleared six million last year.”
“Okay. Fontaine isn’t going to close Nick down by stealing twenty-five grand at blackjack. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
Wily cast his eyes downward. Then, like a comic strip character, the proverbial lightbulb went off above his head, and he said, “What you’re saying is, we’re getting scammed at all our games.”
“That would be my guess.”
“But that would be obvious, wouldn’t it?”
“Not if it’s being hidden.”
Wily took a deep breath. The look of a man about to lose his job was no longer on his face. Now it was one of anger. He drew a file from the pile and held it beneath Valentine’s nose. It was the file for their new guy in finance.
“This joker’s hiding all the losses, isn’t he?”
“I think so,” Valentine said.
“So we’re getting bled to death.”
“Yes.”
Wily bit his lower lip. There was no way of knowing how bad the damages were until they started digging. Judging by the amount of time the thirty new hires had been employed by Nick, the chances were the losses were heavy. Nick might very well be ruined, and Wily knew it.
Valentine got up and patted the head of security on the shoulder. He saw the life come back to Wily’s face, but not much of it, and said, “Where is Nick, anyway?”
“Upstairs with Wanda.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nick’s a creature of habit. Time for his afternoon screw.”
Valentine had to give Nick credit. He knew things were bad, but he didn’t let it spoil his day. Pointing at the files, he said, “How many of these folks are working right now?”