Grift Sense

by James Swain

  “You're losing me. Why do certain dealers want you to win and others not? Why should the dealer care?”

  “Tips,” he explained. “The ones who want you to win expect a tip when the night is over. The ones who don't are usually so jaded that no amount of money will make them happy. They want the players to lose because it makes them feel good.”

  “And the dealers give their feelings away by their body language?”

  Valentine sipped his coffee and nodded. “They're called tells. Poker players use them all the time. I've never seen them used at blackjack, but there's always a first time.”

  “He'd have to be very good, wouldn't he?”

  “Damn good.”

  “What's your second theory?”

  “The girl is signaling him.”

  “How?”

  “I have no earthly idea.”

  “How can that be a theory if you don't know how it's being done?”

  “Because it's logical,” he explained. “Experience says lean toward the simplest theory. Maybe she's doing it with her eyes or her lips or the way she flares her nostrils. I'd have to see her in person to know for sure.”

  “So the girl's guilty?”

  “It's a distinct possibility.”

  Mabel put her cup down, her eyes fixed on the blinking answering machine. Valentine fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “Not to change the subject,” she said, “but have you spoken to Gerry lately?”

  “He called over the weekend,” he mumbled.

  “Did you have a conversation, or did he have to leave a message on that horrible machine?”

  If Mabel had a flaw, it was her unwillingness to let sleeping dogs lie. Six months before, he'd lent his son fifty thousand dollars to buy a bar in Brooklyn, New York. His son had been in and out of trouble over the years, and Valentine had always begrudgingly bailed him out. The bar, Gerry had promised him, would be a new beginning. So when Valentine had gone to visit a few weeks ago, he'd been shocked to find Gerry sitting at a desk in the back room, running a bookmaking operation. “You're early,” his son had quipped, a phone pressed to his ear. Removing his belt, Valentine had whipped his son's butt good—and had not talked to him since.

  “What's so horrible about my machine?” he asked.

  “You need to change the message.”

  “I like the message. It's me.”

  “Are you going to answer the question or not?”

  “You know,” he said, “when you talk like that, you sound just like my dearly departed wife.”

  “I'm sorry. Would you please answer the question?”

  “I was out in the backyard.”

  “Did you call him back?”

  “I haven't gotten around to it.”

  “Tony, I'm ashamed of you.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “I'm ashamed I dislike my son as much as I do.”

  “Then why won't you call him?”

  “He's not worth it,” he said, ending the conversation.

  Valentine escorted Mabel down the front path to her car, an old Honda Accord with a vanity plate that said spoofs. She got in, and as he closed the door for her, she said, “At least listen to your machine.”

  “All right, all right,” he said.

  “And call your son.”

  “No,” he said as she drove away.

  Going inside the house, Valentine hit the Play button on his answering machine.

  “Hey, Tony—Wily here at the Acropolis. Love the message. I've got a big problem, buddy, and I need your help.”

  Valentine winced. He hated it when total strangers called him buddy. Pal was acceptable; Hey, friend, okay; Yo, chief, borderline; but never buddy.

  “Believe it or not,” the pit boss went on, “the guy on the tape showed up again. He started beating us, so we tossed him. Our head of surveillance watched the tape and decided our dealer was signaling him. We had her arrested this afternoon. We showed the tapes to Gaming Control, and they're not convinced. They think we should drop charges.” The pit boss coughed nervously. “It's a real fucking mess. I'd like you to fly out here and have a look. I know this is spur of the moment, but my ass is on the line.”

  “I'll bet it is,” Valentine said to the machine.

  “Money's no object. I'm begging you, Tony. I'm having an airline ticket couriered to you. Call me.”

  Valentine erased the message. Vegas in August? Who was this joker kidding? Besides, what could he do? The Gaming Control Bureau was the single most powerful entity in Las Vegas and was responsible for prosecuting any cheating taking place inside a licensed casino. They were the knights on the white horses who were entrusted to keep things honest. Without their support, Wily didn't have a pot to piss in.

  He stuck Mabel's lasagna in the microwave while thinking about the young woman on the tape. She was a sweet-looking kid and not the type he'd normally suspect of cheating. Now that she'd been arrested, her career dealing blackjack was over. It would be a crying shame if she was innocent.

  The kitchen phone rang. Dinnertime was the witching hour for solicitors, and he let his machine pick up.

  “This is Tony Valentine. I don't answer my phone because too many jerks call. Leave a message or a fax. Or you can go away. It's up to you.”

  “Hey, Pop, it's Gerry,” his son's voice sang out. “Guess I missed you again. Glad you're leading an active social life down there.”

  “Get on with it,” Valentine said to the machine.

  “. . . anyway, it looks like I'm coming down to your neck of the woods. I scored some tickets to the Devil Rays and Yankees game tomorrow, and I figured we might catch a game. Whaddaya say? It would be fun, like old times. I'm flying down in the a.m. on Delta. Call me at the bar, okay?”

  Valentine took the lasagna out of the microwave and stuck a fork in it. A baseball game sounded great, only not with Gerry. His son had been making his life miserable for years, and he wanted him to suffer and do a little penance. He did not think that was so much to ask.

  His doorbell rang. His place was turning into Grand Central Station. Valentine went to the door; through the window, he saw a Tampa Express van parked in his driveway.

  He opened the door, and the strangest-looking courier he'd ever seen waltzed in. Shaved head, with a dozen silver pins connected by silver chains adorning the side of his face. The name tag above his pocket said Atom. Had his folks actually christened him that?

  Atom handed him a thin envelope, then produced a pen from behind a pierced ear. “Sign on the label.”

  Valentine scribbled his name, and Atom tore off the receipt.

  “Atom, mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Not at all.”

  “How much did it cost to have those pins put in your face?”

  Atom smiled, thinking he was being paid a compliment. “I got it done in Ybor City at Pin & Pierce. Three hundred for all twelve. The chains were extra.”

  “Atom, if a man came up to you in the street, knocked you down, and pierced your cheek with a hat pin, they'd put him away for ten years.”

  Atom looked puzzled. Then his face reddened; Valentine almost could've sworn that the pins also changed color. “This is different,” he spouted defensively.

  “I'm glad one of us thinks so,” Valentine said.

  Atom refused a tip. Valentine shut the door and tore open the envelope. Inside was a ticket to Las Vegas on Delta, the departure the next morning. He checked the seat assignment. Wily had sprung for first class.

  The phone rang and he let the machine pick up.

  “Hey, Pop, it's Gerry. I just spoke to Mabel Struck on her cell phone. She says you're home and that you're probably standing in the kitchen sticking your tongue out at the phone. Look, Pop, enough is enough. I'm coming down to Florida whether you like it or not. We need to hash this out. Like men.”

  Like men? What were they going to do, Greco-Roman wrestling on the floor? Gerry didn't k
now how to act like a real man; that was the fundamental problem. “Get serious,” he shouted at the phone.

  “I mean it, Pop. I'm coming down.”

  The line went dead. His son sounded hurt. Good. Their rift was finally getting to him. His mother had coddled him, and now that she was gone, he was finally faced with having to grow up, whatever that meant these days.

  Valentine checked the ticket again. The return had been left open. Neat—he could fly home once Gerry was safely back in New York. All of a sudden Las Vegas in the middle of August sounded like a nice weekend getaway.

  He went to the bedroom and pulled a suitcase from the closet and started tossing clothes into it.

  4

  Nick Nicocropolis's father had been a sponge diver in Tarpon Springs, Florida, as had his father before him. It was dangerous work, perhaps the most dangerous profession in the world, and both men had died a few months apart while plying their trade, his father from the bends, his grandfather from a hammerhead's bite. Neither had carried insurance, leaving Nick to support his mother, three sisters, and an elderly grandmother at the tender age of sixteen.

  Quitting high school had been much easier than finding gainful employment. He was small, five-six and one-forty, and because most Greeks were inherently superstitious, no one on the sponge docks would employ him as a diver, which happened to be the only decent-paying work around. So he'd taken to hustling pool in tourist bars and cheating at cards and loan-sharking and running a sleazy escort service and stealing rental cars at Tampa International Airport just to make ends meet. It was nickel-and-dime crap, and he'd humped it until his mother and grandmother were pushing up daisies and his sisters were in school or hitched. Then he'd packed his bags and headed west. The year was 1965.

  Thirty-four years later, Nick Nicocropolis could look back and be proud. His childhood had been hardscrabble, but so what? Losing Gramps and his old man in the same year had been rough, but their losses had also taught him lessons that he might otherwise never have learned. It had hardened him, and in that hardness Nick found a strength he had not known he possessed. A callous had formed over the aching hole in his heart, and from that he had grown strong.

  “Fontaine disappeared,” Nick said, repeating Sammy Mann's words. “In broad daylight, he walked into the parking lot and vanished. How does that work? Trapdoor?”

  “I think they use mirrors,” Sammy said.

  “Who?” Nick said.

  “Siegfried and Roy. You know, the elephant.”

  “Sigmund Freud? Why the hell are you bringing them up?”

  “I thought that's what you meant.”

  In anger, Nick slapped the expansive granite desk in his penthouse office. Biting off the end of a cigar, he spit it into the trash. “Every day, I look out my window at those two Krauts stealing the crowds from my casino. You think I give a rat's ass how they make the elephant vanish? What I'm asking you, numb nuts, is how Fontaine managed to shake the tail you had on him.”

  Sammy shrugged his shoulders, wishing he knew. Fontaine had sauntered around the casino into the covered parking lot, ducked behind a concrete pillar, and vanished into thin air. The tail never saw him again.

  “We think he changed clothes and ducked into another car,” Sammy explained. “That's all we can figure. He left his rental with the keys in the ignition.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nick said sarcastically, “changed his britches and ran. What am I paying you for, anyway? I spend thirty years working my balls off trying to do someone a favor and you let a guy who's ripping me off take a walk. Jesus Christ.”

  Sammy hung his head in shame. His employer was the last of a dying breed, a hard headed little jerk who'd refused to sell out to the big hotel chains and was now paying the price for his hubris. The Acropolis could not afford to be ripped off on a regular basis without Nick's getting a distress call from the bank.

  “Sorry, boss,” he said.

  “What about the girl?” Nick said.

  “We had her arrested this afternoon.”

  “She post bail?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You sure she was in on it?”

  “Sure, I'm sure,” Sammy said. “I've got the whole thing on video.”

  “I saw it,” Nick reminded him, sticking the unlit cigar between his teeth, “and I didn't see her doing a frigging thing.”

  “She was signaling him,” Sammy said defensively.

  “You're sure?”

  “Of course I'm sure.”

  “Then why didn't you bust Fontaine when you had the chance?”

  “Because I wanted to watch the video a few times. I didn't want to accuse either of them before I was sure.”

  “But now you're sure.”

  “Now I'm sure.”

  “One-hundred-percent-positive sure?”

  Sammy grunted. There were times when he'd prefer starving on Social Security than listening to Nick's line of crap.

  Nick sensed Sammy's displeasure. His unlit cigar took on the appearance of a living thing as it wiggled in his mouth. “What about Gaming Control?” he asked.

  “They're not on our side on this one,” Sammy said.

  “You're shitting me.”

  “Look,” Sammy said, “I can prove Nola was cheating. Every time she checked her hole card, she signaled its identity to Fontaine.”

  “How?”

  “When she was pat, she leaned on the table with her nondeck hand. When she was stiff, she pulled back.”

  “Will it hold up in court?”

  “Wily hired a consultant to back me up. Some retired dick from New Jersey.”

  “From Jersey? You're shitting me.”

  “He's supposed to be the best.”

  Nick chewed away, not liking it. Without Gaming Control on their side, he'd probably lose in court. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to press charges. If word got out he was going soft on hustlers, his joint would be labeled a candy store, and he'd have more cheats at his tables than an outhouse has flies.

  “How long she been working for us?” Nick asked.

  “Almost ten years,” Sammy replied.

  “Any trouble before?”

  “No, sir. She's been faithful.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nick yammered like an old Beatles song. “Quit blowing me. Dealers don't turn rotten overnight. She's probably screwed us before.”

  Sammy's eyes had gotten sore looking through Nola Briggs's evaluation reports. A sheet was filled out by the pit bosses each week that served as the dealers' report card, with marks for attitude, appearance, customer comments, and most important, the dealers' win and loss percentages. Nothing in Nola's records suggested that she'd been anything but a model employee until now.

  “I don't think so,” Sammy replied.

  “You contradicting me?” Nick asked sharply.

  “You pay me to tell you the truth,” Sammy said. “I'm just earning my money, that's all.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Standing, Nick turned his back on Sammy and looked out the picture window behind his desk. Two weeks ago, he'd had to fire the grounds crew; now the lawns were the color of cinnamon. Once upon a time he'd owned the swankiest club in town, the house of the highest high rollers; then he'd blinked and found himself running a dump that catered to losers and tour groups.

  “Why you think she did it?” Nick wondered. “Money?”

  “We checked her bank records. She was making ends meet.”

  “You think it was greed?”

  “No,” Sammy said. “Spite.”

  “Toward who? That pinhead Wily?”

  “No. Toward you.”

  Nick stared at Sammy's ghostly reflection in the window. His head of surveillance looked ready for a rest home.

  “Come again?”

  “Toward you,” Sammy repeated. “You fucked her.”

  Nick did a snappy one-eighty and tossed the unlit cigar, which hit Sammy square in the chest. “Watch your fucking language.”

  “Yes, sir.�
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  “In what way did I fuck her?”

  “You fucked her,” Sammy said, “as in sticking your male part into her female part.”

  “I don't need a fucking anatomy lesson,” Nick roared. “Who the hell told you I fucked her?”

  “Wily,” Sammy said.

  “Did he say when this alleged fucking took place?”

  “Wily said she showed up on your doorstep about ten years ago. Drove out to Vegas from the East Coast and her car broke down in our parking lot. You happened on her and invited her up to your suite. Next thing you know, wazoom.”

  “Wazoom?”

  “As in you fucked her.”

  Nick put his hand on his forehead, struggling to find a memory. “Let me guess. This was before I stopped drinking.”

  “Wily said it happened right before.”

  “Another ghost in the closet, huh?”

  “Afraid so, boss.”

  Nick shook his head sadly. He had quit the sauce a decade ago and was still paying for it. A drinker of legendary proportions, he'd effectively erased whole portions of his memory, including most of his first two marriages and several torrid affairs, forcing him to rely on Wily and several other longtime employees to remember the wrongs he could not. “You said this girl's worked for me for ten years. How come her face isn't familiar?”

  “She works the graveyard shift. She was subbing for another girl when this happened.”

  “She's worked the graveyard shift for ten years?”

  “By choice, according to Wily.”

  “This is some strange chickie. You sure I screwed her?”

  “Wily said it wasn't a big deal,” Sammy explained. “It lasted a week. Then something happened and you split up. But Wily said it ended friendly; you gave her a job dealing blackjack and she's been a model employee ever since.”

  “Until now,” Nick said.

  “Yeah, until now.”

  “Let me see the little lady's file.”

  Nola's file was as thick as Nick's thumb, filled with vacation forms and work evaluation sheets. A recent photo was stapled to the inside page, and he stared at a tasty-looking blonde with high cheekbones and capped teeth. Nothing about her looked familiar, and he found himself wondering if it had been anything more than a one-night stand. An orange GoGo tour bus pulled up in front of his casino and he watched a mob of white-haired geezers pile out and form a conga line, itching to get inside and take a shot at One-Armed Billy. Then it would be off to the Liberace Museum and a box lunch at the Hoover Dam. Across the street at the Mirage, a dozen stretch limos filled the entrance, the high rollers lining up to squander their dough.