Jackpot tv-8

by James Swain

“Thanks, Pop.”

  They walked down the hall and disappeared. Picking up the remote, Valentine started to turn off the player, then saw something strange on the screen. A man was leaning over the craps table, his face exposed to the camera. It was Bronco.

  As the banker at the table paid Marie off, he was momentarily distracted. The banker turned his head, and Bronco added chips palmed in his hand to Marie’s bet. It was called past-posting, and Bronco did it as well as anyone Valentine had ever seen.

  Marie made a startled face. She’s not part of it, Valentine realized. The banker turned his attention back to Marie, and paid her off the higher amount. Marie hesitated, then picked up her winnings, and hurried away from the craps table.

  Moments later, the tape ended.

  Valentine shook his head in bewilderment. He’d seen a lot of strange things in casinos, but never anything like this. Bronco had added his chips to her bet, even though she wasn’t working with him.

  He was still thinking about it when he heard Gerry emit a blood-curdling yell from the other side of the house. Moments later, his son ran into the living room followed by two man-eating pit bulls.

  “I opened the wrong door,” he screamed.

  Chapter 9

  Karl Klinghoffer’s shift at the county jail ended at two P.M. Instead of driving home and eating lunch like he normally did, he drove straight into downtown Reno. The streets were practically deserted, and he guessed he could have driven around with his eyes closed and not hurt anybody.

  He drove beneath the famous Reno Arch on Virginia Street. Neon letters bragged against the clear blue sky, “The Biggest Little City in the World.” On a fine spring day in 1928, the arch had been raised to honor the paving of a two-lane highway over Donner Summit to California. As a band played brassy ragtime, the town’s casino operators and bankers had celebrated their good fortune. So had Klinghoffer’s grandfather, a local bootlegger. It had been a glorious time.

  A car’s horn snapped him out of his daydream. He was driving below the speed limit, and goosed the accelerator of his fading Tercel. He’d bought the car the same week he’d met Becky, a preacher’s daughter, at a party where he’d had too much to drink. Three months later they’d gotten married. Six months after that, Karl Jr. was born. The car was a constant reminder of how messed up his life had become since that night.

  He turned into the Gold Rush’s parking lot. As he parked, his conscience spoke to him. You can still walk away. He sat at the wheel and thought about it.

  There was no question in his mind that the slot machine Bronco Marchese had told him to play was rigged. How else could Bronco know that it was going to pay a jackpot? By Nevada law, Karl was supposed to report this information to the police, or risk becoming an accomplice. But was knowing this really wrong? Every casino in town ran promotions for slot machines that paid off 101%. The trick was finding out which machines they were. Why was knowing that any different than knowing which machine would pay a jackpot?

  It wasn’t, he told himself.

  He entered the casino. He was still in his uniform, and saw an armed security guard nod. Karl nodded back, then let his eyes slide across the glittering landscape.

  The slots were the first thing he saw. They called them one-armed bandits, but that had never stopped people from playing them. Every sound that came out of a slot machine was a variation of the musical note C. Karl knew a lot about slots, and other stuff as well. Because he talked slow, people thought he was stupid. But he wasn’t stupid. Just unlucky.

  He went to the cage and bought a plastic bucket filled with quarters. Then, he sat down in front of the third slot machine from the end. It was a Quarter Mania, just like Bronco had said. He realized his hands were trembling. What if the casino’s surveillance department was watching from the eye-in-the-sky? What if they knew the machine was rigged, and were just waiting to see who played it a certain way? There was still time to back out, go home, and eat his peanut butter sandwich.

  “Screw that,” he said aloud.

  A woman in a tracksuit at the next machine looked at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  He started feeding his quarters into the machine. He’d thought it over, and decided he should lose some money before he went for the kill. Otherwise, if would look funny if someone watched the tape later on.

  He lost thirty dollars in the time it took for a cocktail waitress to bring him a beer. She was dressed like a cowgirl and sneered at his fifty cent tip. The bottle was cold in his hand, and he took a long swallow of beer. It made him relax, and soon his hands stopped trembling.

  Karl did not remember feeding the coins into the Quarter Mania machine in the three, two, one order, but he guess he had, because soon the machine was ringing, and he was staring at the flashing number in the payout bar. He’d won $9980.45.

  He’d never won anything in his life. It made him want to run around the casino and pound his chest. After a minute, the floor manager appeared, and congratulated him on the casino’s behalf. Her name was McDowell, and she wore glasses and a sharp-looking suit. She asked him if he’d like another beverage.

  “Actually, I’d like to collect my money,” Klinghoffer said. “I need to be getting home to my family.”

  “We have to inspect the machine first,” McDowell said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Governor Smoltz has ordered us to check slot machines that pay out any jackpots. It’s a new rule.”

  Karl brought the bottle to his lips, trying to act nonchalant. To his surprise, it was empty. “What are you looking for?”

  “Tampering,” she said.

  McDowell escorted him away from the machine. The same cocktail waitress returned and stuck a fresh beer in his hand. This time Klinghoffer tipped her two dollars, and she gave him a wink.

  Soon a team of casino employees in work clothes appeared on the casino floor. They opened the Quarter Mania machine, and, using a laptop computer, began running a diagnostic test on the machine’s RNG chip. Klinghoffer felt the beer rise in his stomach as waves of numbers rapidly appeared on the laptop’s screen. When it came to cheating, there was no way to fool a computer. He was doomed.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Klinghoffer?” McDowell asked.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” he mumbled.

  She pointed the way, and he went into the men’s room and puked in a stall. What a god damn fool he was. The last guy to know about a scam was always the sucker who got caught. Washing his face in the sink, he thought about Becky, and how disappointed she was going to be in him. When he emerged from the men’s room, McDowell was waiting with a smile on her face.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said cheerfully.

  Klinghoffer thought it was a ruse, and looked around for the police. “It is?”

  “Yes. The machine hadn’t been touched. Are you all right?”

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I guess all this excitement’s gotten to me.”

  “Well, hopefully this will make you feel better.”

  She removed a certified check from her pocket, and handed it to him. He could tell that she was genuinely excited, and it made all the bad things he’d been feeling disappear. As far as the casino was concerned, he’d won the jackpot fair and square. And that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

  McDowell handed him his driver’s license. Klinghoffer didn’t remember giving it to her, and slipped it into his wallet along with his newfound wealth.

  “Much obliged,” he said.

  Chapter 10

  The pit bulls had Gerry pinned in the corner of the living room. Gerry held a cushion he’d grabbed off the couch for protection, and the dogs were ripping it apart with their teeth, the stuffing littering the floor like cotton candy.

  Valentine stood fifteen feet away, looking for something to knock the dogs away. Bill came into the living room with his gun drawn, trying to get a bead on one of the dogs, but afraid of hitting Gerry.

  “Pop, do som
ething,” his son cried.

  Valentine grabbed the gun out of Bill’s hand. He inched closer to his son, while remembering a pair of attack dogs he’d dealt with during a botched jewelry store heist in Atlantic City. Raising his arm, he aimed the gun at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger. The blast was louder than he’d expected, and the side of his head went numb. The dogs hit the floor, their legs splaying out spastically. He let off another round, and they hightailed it back into the other part of the house. He tossed the gun back to Bill.

  “Lock them up, will you?”

  “How did you do that?”

  “It’s the way they’re trained. At least some of them.”

  Bill went down the hall to deal with the dogs. Valentine went to Gerry, took the tattered cushion out of his hands, and stood waiting for an explanation.

  “Bill told me not to touch the door,” Gerry said.

  “So what happened?”

  “I opened it anyway,” his son said.

  Bill went outside, and found the pair of local cops sitting in their car by the curb. They hadn’t heard the dogs, or Gerry screaming, or the gun being fired. Bill explained what had happened, and asked them to call Animal Control.

  Twenty minutes later, a pair of dog catchers appeared. Gerry sat on the couch with a cold beer, and watched the dogs being marched past. Valentine sat down beside him, took the beer, and poured it into a potted plant.

  “No drinking on the job,” he said.

  “They nearly ripped me apart, Pop.”

  “People get hurt at work all the time,” Valentine said. “You think they all stop what they’re doing, and slug down a beer?”

  They resumed searching Bronco’s house. The dogs had been living in a spare bedroom with an open bag of dog food, and a water bowl that refilled itself. The room didn’t smell, leaving Valentine to guess that a neighbor had been letting them out. The room was otherwise empty, save for a metal table. On it were dozens of coin holders filled with silver-dollar sized coins. They were slugs, and designed to fool a device in a slot machine called a comparitor. Valentine flipped one to his son.

  “I thought only amateurs used these,” Gerry said.

  “Slugs cost casinos ten million dollars a year in lost revenue,” Valentine said.

  “Can’t the machines detect them?

  “Not if they’re well made. That’s why casino personnel are trained to watch slot players. If they see someone feed a coin into a machine that isn’t shiny, they arrest the player on the spot.”

  “Tony, come here for a minute,” Bill called out.

  He found Bill in the master bedroom. It had nice furniture, with drapes that matched the bedspread, and felt like a room in a model home compared to the rest of the house. Bill stood by an open closet, staring at the collection of women’s clothes hanging from the racks, the dresses and outfits still in their dry-clean bags.

  “Strange, don’t you think?” Bill said.

  “Looks like she lives here,” Valentine said. “Any makeup in the bathroom?”

  “Just a razor and some shampoo.”

  Valentine examined one of the outfits. It reminded him of clothes his late wife used to wear. “These clothes are old,” he said.

  “Maybe she split on him,” Bill said.

  Valentine searched the room. On the dresser he found a framed photograph of a couple taken on a beach. It was Bronco and the woman Valentine had seen on the surveillance tape. Marie.

  He stared at the photograph. What he’d seen on the surveillance tape hadn’t been staged. Bronco had cheated at the craps table, and Marie had reacted in shock. She hadn’t known him. But now here was evidence that she had known him. He put the picture down and looked at Bill. His friend was staring at him.

  “Does this make any sense to you?” Bill asked.

  “None whatsoever,” he said.

  Valentine went outside the house to the backyard. It backed up onto the desert, the baked earth flat and unforgiving. He found Gerry by the pool, torturing his lungs with a cigarette. His son started to throw the butt away, and Valentine stopped him.

  “Let me have a hit.”

  “I thought you were trying to quit.”

  “One hit won’t kill me.”

  His son passed the butt with a grin on his face. “Thanks for saving my ass.”

  “And your testicles.”

  “Those, too.”

  Valentine took a drag off his son’s cigarette. It was a Marlboro, the same brand he’d smoked and his father had smoked. He handed it back, and Gerry flicked the butt into the pool’s sickly green water. It floated lazily across the surface, trailing a thin line of smoke.

  “Give me your impressions of what you saw in there,” Valentine said.

  “My impressions?”

  “Yeah. What do you think is going on?”

  Gerry fired up another cigarette. The dogs had scared the daylights out of him, but his father asking his opinion scared him even more. When he answered, his voice was subdued. “Based on the condition of the house, I’d say Bronco is on a downward slide. He sits at home at night, chain-smokes and gets blistered. Except for cheating slot machines, he doesn’t have a life.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One thing did surprise me. Based upon what you told me about him, I expected his place to be filled with high-tech computers and stuff. He doesn’t even own a computer.”

  “So?”

  Gerry faced him. “Think about it, Pop. Bronco is claiming that a Nevada Gaming Control Board agent is stealing jackpots from new machines, right? Well, there’s no way to corrupt those machines unless you use computers. You agree?”

  Think about it. It was the kind of language Valentine had been using with Gerry since he was a kid.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Bronco doesn’t have a computer in his house. Which tells me that either Bronco doesn’t know what this agent is doing, or the information is worthless to him.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because he’d be trying to duplicate it, Pop,” his son said. “There’s no honor among thieves. Whatever the secret is, Bronco isn’t using it.”

  “Otherwise, we’d have found it.”

  “You got it.”

  Valentine took the cigarette from his son’s hand. Gerry had nailed the incongruity on the head. He took a drag, this one deeper than the first, and knew he was hooked again. He handed the cigarette back to his son.

  “Sure you don’t want one of your own?” Gerry asked him.

  “I’d rather smoke yours,” Valentine said.

  Chapter 11

  Mabel was eating a tuna fish sandwich while trying to catch a cheater.

  Sitting at Tony’s computer, she was watching a live feed from the poker room at the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. The Micanopys ran a casino in Tampa where the highway interchanges met. State law let them offer poker, 21, and slot machines. There wasn’t much cheating, and Tony had turned the account over to her. Mabel regularly watched live feeds from the casino’s surveillance cameras.

  She bit into her sandwich while staring at the screen. To help her learn about poker cheating, Tony had video-taped himself doing the moves, like dealing seconds and bottoms, doing the hop, and ringing in a cooler. On the tape, Tony had explained the various “tells” Mabel needed to look for. By watching the tape every day, her eyes had become trained.

  On the screen, the dealer was starting to deal. He was a native American and heavyset. As he sailed cards around the table, Mabel began to record him. On the third round, he snapped a card off the bottom, and dealt it to the player on his right.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  He dealt a bottom on the fourth round as well. Then, Mabel noticed something strange. On the back of his hand was a tattoo. She brought her nose up close to the screen. It looked like a small bird.

  “Huh,” she said.

  Mabel leaned back in her chair. Normally, she would copy the tape, and e-mail it to the Micanopys. What t
hey did to the dealer was their business. Only she had no way of knowing who at the casino might open the e-mail. What if it was a friend of the dealer, or a relative? That could be trouble. She supposed she could ask Tony, only that seemed like a cop-out. It was her account, and she needed to come up with a solution. She was still thinking about it when the phone rang. She minimalized the computer screen, then picked up the receiver.

  “Grift Sense. Can I help you?”

  “Is Tony there?” a man with a deep voice asked.

  The caller sounded familiar, and Mabel glanced at caller ID. It was Darren Crawford, a likeable FBI agent out of the bureau’s Reno office.

  “I’m afraid not. Can I help you?”

  “Will you be speaking to him, soon?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “This is urgent. Please tell him to check his e-mail. I’ve just sent him something that’s for his eyes only.”

  “Tony’s out of town, and won’t be checking his e-mail right way,” she said. “Would you please tell me what this is about, so I may relay a message?”

  “Do you work for him?”

  “Yes. This is Mabel. We’ve spoken before.”

  “Hello, Mabel. Can you tell me where Tony is?”

  “He’s in Nevada on a case.”

  She heard the sharp intake of Crawford’s breath. “What’s wrong?”

  “You need to get a hold of him, and tell him to open my email. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Life and death?’

  “Yes. Please tell him. Goodbye.”

  The line went dead, and Mabel dropped the receiver in its cradle, then typed a command into Tony’s computer and went into his email account. Within moments, she was staring at several dozen email messages. She scrolled through them and found Crawford’s, which was marked with a red flag. She opened it.

  Tony,

  You are in danger. The FBI is tapping the phones of Bronco Marchese’s lawyer, Kyle Garrow. Garrow is calling around Reno, trying to get someone to take a contract on your life. So far, no takers, but you know how things work out here. Someone will take the job, and come gunning for you. Please keep this to yourself. The tap is illegal, and could land us all in hot water. I will let you know when I learn more. Be careful, my friend.