Jackpot tv-8

by James Swain

Valentine took a walk through the poker room with Suzie Brinkman glued to his side, stopping at each table to watch the dealer shuffle and deal. The track employed professional dealers who’d been trained in dealer schools. Their actions were uniform in every respect, and Valentine looked for any hesitation on the dealer’s part when they handled the cards. Before any sleight-of-hand move, there was always a tiny, pregnant pause. Hustler’s called these tells. Done, he walked back to the bar with Suzie still beside him.

  “So what do you think?” she asked.

  “Got him,” he said.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  A blush rose beneath her tan. “I mean, be serious. We weren’t in there five minutes.”

  “Yeah, but I know what I’m looking for.”

  She flashed him another smile. He found himself liking her, and pointed into the room at the dealer working Table #6. The man was built like a mailbox, with a thin body and large, square head, and had a way of handling himself that told Valentine he’d been in prison. Most gambling venues didn’t hire ex-cons, but Florida was an exception: The state had six hundred thousand ex-felons, and they needed to work.

  “That guy’s your cheater.”

  “Milo Kelly,” she said, shaking her head. “My dad caught him stealing chips, and gave him another chance. This is how he repays us. What’s he doing?”

  “He’s giving his partner at the table the best cards. It’s called a pick-up stack.”

  “I’ll have him pulled off the game immediately. Can you show me what he’s doing, in case I have to explain it to the police?”

  There was a real hunger in Suzie’s eyes. She knew she was green, and she wanted to learn the ropes. Valentine wished his son had half her enthusiasm.

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  They grabbed a table in the cocktail lounge, and Suzie pulled a deck of cards from her purse. She sat directly across from him, her knees knocking against his. As Valentine dealt seven hands of cards onto the table, he adroitly pulled back his chair.

  “Kelly deals Seven Card Stud, and has seven players at his table. Each player gets seven cards, with five coming faceup.” He pointed at the third, sixth and seven hands. In each hand, the third card showing was an ace. “Let’s say he wants to give these aces to his partner. He scoops the hands up when the game is over, and makes sure they go on the desk last. Then he false shuffles, and deals out seven cards. Voila — his agent, who’s sitting in the third seat, gets three aces.”

  “What’s a false shuffle?”

  “It’s a card-cheating move.”

  “Please show me.”

  The request was delivered with a twinkle in her eye, and he had a feeling that Suzie was enjoying herself. He separated the cards into reds and blacks, and gave the deck a false-shuffle. He’d learned to false-shuffle from a New Jersey wizard named Herb Zarrow, who’d revolutionized card handling with a shuffle which bore his name. Finished, he showed her that the cards were still separated by color. Suzie shook her head helplessly.

  “Is Kelly as good as you?”

  “No, but he doesn’t have to be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he’s the house dealer. Everyone trusts him.”

  Suzie put her elbows on the table and looked into his eyes. She was a hell of a nice woman, only he wasn’t going there right now. Dating at his age was never an easy proposition. “I was thinking of firing Kelly, but now I think he should be arrested,” Suzie said. “Do you agree?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Whose his agent?”

  “The fourth player at the table.”

  “The older woman with the wig? You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m always serious,” Valentine said.

  Gerry the prodigal son had entered the lounge, and was waving to him. There was a panicked look on his face, and Valentine wondered how much money his son had lost.

  “I’ll be happy to be an expert witness, if it comes to trial,” Valentine said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They simultaneously rose from the table and practically banged heads. Without warning, Suzie took his head with her hands and planted a kiss on his cheek. It was his turn to blush, and he caught her winking at him as she walked away.

  “Lose the rent yet?” Valentine asked as Gerry sat down. His son had just turned thirty-six, and with his salt-and-pepper hair, long Italian nose and dark coloring, bore more than a passing resemblance to his father.

  “You know I can’t come to the track and not place a bet,” Gerry said. “Besides, I saw someone I knew at the betting windows.”

  “Was it that stripper you once dated?”

  “Cut it out, Pop, will you? The guy I saw was a crook.”

  “Did you have a nice conversation?”

  Gerry leaned forward. There was a look on his face that Valentine hadn’t seen very many times: His serious look. Lowering his voice, Gerry said, “I think the next race might be fixed.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  With his head, Gerry indicated a couple seated on the opposite side of the lounge. They were straight out of a 1930's gangster movie; the mustachioed man wore a shiny, sharkskin suit, his moll a baby-doll red dress with her face painted like a Kewpie doll. “That guy came into my bar two years ago, tried to place a huge bet on a horse race at Hialeah. I refused. Later, I heard the race was fixed, and he took another bookie for a huge score. Well, I just saw that guy make a huge bet on a loser named Corky’s Boy. Sound suspicious to you?”

  “Fixed the race how?”

  “Silking,” his son said.

  Valentine leaned back in his chair, surprised that his son was willing to rat out another crook. Gerry had been on the wrong side of the law since he was a teenager, and dishonesty was a hard thing to change.

  “What’s silking?” Valentine asked.

  “You’ve never heard of it?”

  Valentine had policed Atlantic City’s casinos for twenty-five years, and knew every casino scam and greasy hustle ever invented. The ponies were a different story, his knowledge limited to things he’d heard about, and not experienced firsthand.

  “No.”

  “The bookie I apprenticed with was named Fred Flammer. The first scam Flam taught me was silking. Said it was invented in England, where it was considered an art among cheaters. Look pop, we need to hurry. Corky’s Boy is in the next race.”

  Valentine rose from his chair. “Did you see the woman I was just talking to?”

  “How could I miss her? She was hot.”

  “She’s the owner’s daughter. You need to tell her what’s going on.”

  “Sure.”

  As Gerry rose, he took a cocktail napkin from a dispenser on the table, and handed it to his father.

  “You’ve got lipstick all over your face,” his son said.

  Suzie Brinkman’s office was located on the top floor of the track’s club house. Valentine rapped on the door and moments later it opened, and a track steward stuck his head out. He wore a blue blazer and a yellow tie, and was as chummy as a marine drill sergeant. Valentine looked over his shoulder, and saw Suzie Brinkman standing by a picture window that overlooked the track, a pair of binoculars in hand.

  “What do you want?” the steward growled.

  “Tony and Gerry Valentine to see Ms. Brinkman.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  Valentine handed him a business card.

  “Grift Sense? What the hell is that?”

  “My company,” Valentine said.

  Hearing his voice, Suzie spun around and smiled. He had become eligible for Social Security a few months ago, and something about that smile told him getting old wasn’t as bad as people thought. Suzie ushered them past the pit bull, and Valentine introduced his son, then asked if there was someplace they could speak in private. Suzie glanced at the steward, who had not taken his eyes off Valentine. “Bern is my father’s right hand. Yo
u can say anything you wish around him.”

  “My son spotted a known horse-cheater placing a large bet at one of your cages,” Valentine said. “We think the next race is fixed.”

  Suzie looked startled. “Do you know which horse?”

  “Corky’s Boy in the sixth.”

  “Corky’s Boy?”

  “That’s right. He’s running at 30 to 1 odds —

  “I know which horse he is,” Suzie said, dropping herself in a chair. “That’s Randall’s horse, isn’t it?” she said to her steward.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bern replied. “Came in this morning from Miami.”

  “You know the owner?” Valentine asked.

  Suzie nodded. “Randall is a business associate of my father’s, and owes him a great deal of money. Randall called yesterday, and asked that I let his horse run. He said it would be his final race before he put it out to pasture. And I fell for it.”

  “Where is your father?” Valentine asked.

  “He’s out of the country on business.”

  Some of the greatest scams had occurred when the person in charge was gone, and someone inexperienced was handed the reins. Cheaters called these opportunities magic moments, and there was no doubt in Valentine’s mind that Randall had seen a magic moment in Suzie’s father’s absence, and seized the chance to fleece his partner. Gerry cleared his throat. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “By all means,” Suzie said.

  “I know how to catch these guys red-handed,” Gerry said. “But, it’s going to mean letting the race run, then withholding the purses. You’re also going to have to keep Corky’s Boy in the winning circle so we can expose him.”

  “That sounds risky,” Suzie said.

  “Trust me, it’s the best way to handle it,” Gerry said.

  Suzie put her hand on Gerry’s arm. “You sound like you know what you’re doing. We’ll let the race run.”

  Valentine was so impressed he didn’t know what to say. His son was taking charge, and sounding like a responsible grown-up. Pigs can fly, he thought.

  “Expose him how?” Bern asked. In his hand was a lab report which the track ran on all horses. “We tested Corky’s Boy two hours ago; his blood came up negative for steroids and amphetamines. That horse is one-hundred percent clean.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Gerry said.

  “Then how you going to expose him?”

  “With a garden hose,” Gerry said.

  Chapter 3

  Mabel Struck was in her boss’s study sorting the mail when the phone rang. Tony got a lot of mail, mostly from panicked casino bosses, and as she reached for the phone, a handwritten envelope in the stack caught her eye. It was from an inmate in the Jean Correctional Facility for Women in Las Vegas named Lucy Price.

  “Grift Sense,” she answered cheerfully.

  “Do you sell wrapping paper?”

  “Hi, there. Having fun at the track?”

  “More fun than a barrel of monkeys,” Tony said. “I want you to turn on the TV to the horse-racing channel on cable, and tape the sixth race at Tampa Bay Downs.”

  “Is something special going to happen?”

  “The race is fixed, and Gerry figured it out. My son is going to be a star.”

  Mabel smiled into the receiver. Tony and Gerry fought more than they played, but the relationship was slowly coming around. This was definitely a promising sign.

  “Should I alert Yolanda?”

  “Please. I’ve got to run. The horses are being led around the track.”

  As Mabel dialed Yolanda’s number, she glanced at Lucy Price’s letter. She had never met Lucy Price, and hoped she never would. Lucy was a degenerate gambler, and was in prison going through treatment for her addiction while serving time for vehicular homicide. Tony was a magnet for women like this, and they always ended up hurting him. She stuck the letter with the junk mail.

  “Hello?” Yolanda answered.

  “You need to come over,” Mabel said. “Gerry and Tony are going to be on TV.”

  Gerry’s wife appeared at the door a minute later, her baby in her arms. Yolanda wore ragged cut-offs and a tee-shirt smeared with baby spit, yet somehow remained a ravishing young woman. Mabel ushered her inside.

  “What did Gerry do?” Yolanda asked, sounding worried.

  “No, no,” Mabel said. “Tony said he’s going to be a star.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a change.”

  The living room of Tony’s house had newspapers on the floor, and lots of comfortable furniture. Turning on the TV, Mabel found the horse-race channel with the remote, hit record on the TIVO, then joined Yolanda on the couch.

  “Gerry’s been on his best behavior lately,” Mabel said.

  “But it’s just not his normal behavior,” Yolanda said. She looked into Mabel’s face and grinned. “That’s a joke.”

  “Is everything between you two okay?”

  “Just the usual pressures.”

  “Which are?”

  “Bills, bills and more bills. I’m a doctor, but somehow I never comprehended how expensive having a baby is.”

  Mabel put a reassuring hand on Yolanda’s knee. “How’s Gerry taking this?

  “He lies in bed at night, dreaming up get rich quick schemes, some of which probably aren’t legal, and I tell him, ‘Banish those thoughts from your head.’”

  “Does he listen?”

  “Most of the time. But it’s tough.”

  “Oh, look. The race is starting.”

  They directed their attention to the screen. There were eleven horses in the gate, and when the starting bell sounded, they exploded forward in a mad rush of muscle and controlled fury. The resolution of the TV’s picture was breathtakingly real, and the dirt on the track flew up before their eyes.

  “So what’s going on?” Yolanda asked.

  “The race is fixed.”

  “How?”

  “We’re about to find out.” Mabel increased the volume with the remote. She supposed that if something unusual was going on, the TV announcer would pick it up. Sure enough, as the horses came around the final bend, the announcer began to yell .

  “Here comes Buster and Little Sheba around the turn, with Corky’s Boy glued to their tails. What a race this is, folks! They’re in the final stretch, and Corky’s Boy is even with the two favorites. Now, Corky’s Boy is pulling away. We’re coming up to the finish line, and it’s Corky’s Boy by three lengths for the win.”

  The picture showed the jockey for Corky’s Boy’s waving to the crowd, and directing his mount to the winner’s circle. As he climbed down, an announcement came over the track’s public address system that the race was under review. The jockey made a face and glanced nervously in both directions. Moments later, the winner’s circle was swarming with people. One of them was Gerry, and he was holding a green garden hose. As he walked over to Corky’s Boy, an older man appeared by his side. His father.

  “Why’s Gerry giving that horse a bath?” Yolanda asked.

  “Beats me,” Mabel confessed.

  Gerry sprayed Corky’s Boy with the hose. Before their eyes, the horse’s color changed from burnt orange to dark black, the dye running off its body to the ground. In the corner of the screen, they saw the jockey being forcibly held by a steward.

  “It’s a different horse,” Yolanda said. “How did Gerry know that?”

  Mabel shook her head. She’d come to the conclusion that there was a lot about Gerry that they probably didn’t know about it.

  “I guess we’ll have to ask him,” she said.

  Chapter 4

  “Are you serious?” Gerry said an hour later when they were on the road. “It’s really all mine?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?” his father replied.

  “That’s awfully generous, Pop.”

  Valentine heard skepticism in his son’s voice. Taking Suzie Brinkman’s check for three thousand bucks out of his shirt pocket, he endorsed it to Gerry while driving one-handed. Normall
y, the split was sixty-forty, with Valentine getting the lion’s share because his name was on the shingle. But this job was different. Gerry had handled himself like a pro, and deserved a reward.

  “Thanks, Pop,” his son said.

  Valentine heard a crack of late-afternoon thunder as he drove into Palm Harbor. It was late September, and hot as blazes. In a few weeks, the temperatures would drop, and millions of northerners would descend upon the state like migratory birds. Up north, the leaves changed in the autumn; in Florida, it was the color of the license plates. Soon the skies opened up, and rain began to fall in solid, vertical lines. By the time he reached his house, the street resembled a canal.

  “What are you going to do with the money?” he asked, pulling into the driveway.

  “Bet it on the ponies,” Gerry replied.

  He killed the engine and stared at his son.

  “Buy early college tuition for the baby,” Gerry said.

  Florida had a great program for purchasing college tuition for kids while they were young. Even though Lois was only a few months old, the price was too cheap to pass by. “You’re starting to sound like a father,” he said.

  “Scary, isn’t it?” Gerry popped the glove compartment and pulled out Kleenex which he handed it to his father. “Left cheek.”

  Valentine looked in the mirror and saw red lipstick smeared on his face. Suzie Brinkman had planted another kiss on him right after Corky’s Boy’s jockey was hauled away by the police, that same wonderful smile lighting up her face. “How old do you think she is?” he asked, wiping away the evidence.

  “You thinking of asking her out?”

  He shook his head. After he’d lost his wife, he’d become curious about the age of women who still found him attractive. He’d figured that his son, who’d had more than his share of girlfriends, would know the answer.

  “Mid-forties,” Gerry replied.

  “Think that’s a good age for me?”

  “Perfect.”

  The storm soon passed. Going inside, they found Mabel glued to the computer in Valentine’s study.

  “Where’s my wife?” Gerry asked.

  “She went home to feed the baby.”

  “Did you see me on TV?”