by James Swain
“Here's what I want you to do,” Nick said. “You track this Fontaine character down and beat him to within two inches of his life. Redo his face, break his legs, whatever you want. Just make sure you hurt him.”
“That shouldn't be too hard,” Sammy said.
“Good. And make sure everyone in town hears about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nick watched Sammy grow small as he crossed the office.
“Hey,” he called after him.
Sammy stopped on a dime. “Yeah?”
“You sure I banged her?”
“Lola in Housekeeping confirmed it,” Sammy replied.
Nick winced as his head of surveillance left.
Catching hustlers was the toughest job in Las Vegas, as Sammy liked to tell anyone who cared to listen. They acted just like normal people, came in all shapes and sizes, and could talk their way out of just about any tight situation.
Take the little old lady playing blackjack down below. Using a portable camera with a zoom lens, Sammy had been spying on her from the catwalk for twenty minutes, waiting for her to make her move. She was a sweet old gal, with blue hair and bifocals, somebody's grandmother for sure. She had a nice way about her, too, with a consoling word for her fellow players when they busted, a smile and little burst of applause when they won. Unfortunately, she was a hustler, and it had taken Sammy a while to spot her.
The guy posing as her son was also a hustler, an athletic type in his early thirties with a hundred-dollar haircut and a Ralph Lauren wardrobe. Hanging on Mom's chair, he complemented the old gal perfectly.
His mother had been increasing her bets and now had three hundred dollars on the table. Through his camera Sammy saw the son's shoulders tense, and he zoomed in on his mother's hand. Unlike most casinos, the Acropolis let the players touch their cards. It was old school, but Nick wouldn't have it any other way.
Mom peeked at her hand. A king and a six—a stiff. Tucking the cards under her bet, she expertly copped the six in her left palm, her left thumb remaining motionless during the move's execution. A lot of practice had gone into that, Sammy thought.
Taking her left hand off the table, Mom dumped the six into the open purse in her lap. Her son, who'd been gripping the back of his mother's chair, removed his hand and scooped up the lone king. “But Mom,” he said loudly, “you've got blackjack!”
In one continuing action, he added the ace of spades palmed in his hand and turned over both cards. It was pure poetry, and Sammy caught it all in three quick pictures.
“Oh my,” Mom squealed with delight. “Would you look at that. Is there a special name for this?”
The dealer, a green kid who'd started the previous week, flashed her a dopey grin, oblivious to what had gone down.
“They call it a snapper,” he replied.
“A snapper! How cute!”
The dealer paid her two and a half to one. Pocketing her winnings, she flipped him a fifty-cent toke.
“Get them,” Sammy barked into a walkie-talkie.
Hoss and Tiny had been hiding in the emergency exit and came barreling through the door like a pair of hungry bears. Reaching the pit, they pinned the son to the table while knocking Mom out of her chair and onto the floor.
“For Christ's sake, take it easy,” Sammy shouted.
The son started yelling like a stuck pig and covered his head with his arms, a telltale sign that he'd been busted before. Mom was lying on the floor, screaming, and Sammy adjusted his earphone, wondering if the reception was off. Mom no longer sounded like a lady, and as Tiny pulled her up, Sammy saw why: Her wig had fallen off along with her bifocals, revealing the shaved head of a local hustler named Doovie Jones. Snatching his wig off the floor, Doovie stuck it back on his head.
“How dare you strike a woman,” he shouted indignantly.
More security appeared. Sammy ran up and down the catwalk, checking the other tables. More than one casino had been ripped off by a pair of hustlers creating a diversion while a third hustler switched a shoe or cleaned out a rack of chips.
The tables looked secure. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Joe Smith poking his big black head out of his alcove.
“Joe,” he yelled into his radio, “what the hell you doing?”
“Nothing,” Joe replied, his voice riddled with static.
“Get back to your goddamned chair,” Sammy ordered.
“Yes, suh.”
Wily came on the radio.
“I've got everything under control,” the pit boss said reassuringly. “Nothing to worry about.”
Sammy could hear him gloating. Nailing two teams of cheaters in the same day had given Wily a swelled head. Sammy knew better: For every pair they caught, ten more were lurking beneath the surface, sniffing the water for blood.
“Don't kid yourself,” Sammy told him.
“There are hustlers all over this town,” Sammy said ten minutes later when Wily entered his tiny office in the surveillance control room. “You gotta stay on your toes.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the pit boss said sarcastically.
“Keep that up, and Nick will can you.”
Sammy slid the report on Doovie across his desk for Wily to read. The report would be given to the Gaming Control Bureau along with a copy of the videotape to be used as evidence in court. Without the tape, the case would be thrown out, as there was no jury in Nevada that would convict a player solely on the basis of sworn testimony. The casinos were not liked, and the locals paid them back whenever they could.
“Looks good to me,” Wily said, scribbling his name on the last page next to Sammy's. A button on the phone on Sammy's desk lit up. Punching the button, Sammy took the call over the squawk box.
“Mann here.”
“Sammy, so nice to hear you still have a job. This is Victor over at the Mirage.”
“Hello, Victor over at the Mirage,” Sammy said, gritting his teeth. “What brings you out of your cave?”
“I heard you got whacked for fifty big ones by one of our guests. I called to give my condolences.”
There was not an ounce of sincerity in Victor's voice. Victor's boss had once tried to buy the Acropolis and turn it into a parking lot. The establishments had been at war ever since.
Sammy said, “You should screen your guests a little more thoroughly. This guy was a pro.”
“He was screened,” Victor replied. “Clean as a whistle. You shouldn't have let him keep coming back. Three times? What the hell were you thinking?”
“We were trying to catch the son of a bitch . . .”
“I heard you let him walk.”
“Up yours, Victor.”
The line went dead. Sammy had just been anointed chump of the month; he could see Victor on the other end, laughing himself sick.
“We need to find Fontaine,” he said. “I'm open to suggestions.”
Wily parked his rear end on Sammy's desk, which nearly tipped it. Righting a paperweight, he said, “I've got an idea. Once Nola posts bail, we pay her a visit and have a little chat.”
“You mean slap her around?”
“If it comes to that.”
“Are you serious?”
“Nothing rough—just enough to scare her.”
“That's illegal,” Sammy said.
“So?”
Sammy noticed that Wily had become preoccupied with something stuck to his necktie. It looked like a small chunk of steak smothered in yellow béarnaise sauce. The Acropolis served the best $4.99 buffet in town, and Wily never missed it. With a deft touch, the pit boss plucked the offending morsel off the garment.
“Don't,” Sammy said forcefully.
Wily hesitated, the piece of meat inches from his open mouth. With a shrug, he let it fall into the wastebasket.
“Any other ideas?” Sammy asked.
“You still think Fontaine's someone you know?” Wily said.
“I sure do.”
“Well, this consultant I hired keeps a database of ev
ery known hustler around. Maybe he can finger him.”
Sometimes Wily surprised Sammy with a smart idea. This was one of those special times. “Who is this guy, anyway?”
“Tony Valentine.”
Sammy had to smile. Before he'd gotten religion, he had run with a cooler mob; he had been switching decks on unsuspecting blackjack dealers in Atlantic City when Valentine had busted him one Christmas eve at the old Resorts International. As cops went, Valentine had been a real gentleman about the whole thing, no rough stuff or threats. A pro.
“Let's hope so,” he said. “I've got a bad feeling in my gut about Fontaine.”
“How so?” Wily asked.
“Think about it,” the head of surveillance said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Fontaine whacked us three nights in a row. A smart hustler wouldn't have been so blatant.”
The dull look on Wily's face indicated he wasn't connecting the dots. Sammy finished his thought. “He was trying to get caught.”
“But that's stupid,” Wily said, clearly perplexed. “He had to know we'd nab him or Nola.”
“Him, no; Nola, yes.”
“You think he used her as bait?”
Sammy scratched his chin reflectively. On the surface, it didn't add up, but who knew what Fontaine was really up to? “He was trying to create a diversion and it didn't work. He bolted, and Nola got left holding the bag.”
“What a lousy prick.”
Sammy nodded, hearing Frank Fontaine's taunting laugh ringing in his ears. Of the fifty-odd casinos in town, Fontaine had chosen theirs, and Sammy wasn't going to sleep soundly until he knew why.
“He's a shark,” Sammy said, “and we'd better find him before he bites us again.”
5
Vegas's McCarran International Airport had grown up since Valentine's last visit. Movable sidewalks, celebrity voice-overs on the PA system, upscale boutiques and jewelry stores, splashy promo films for the casinos on digital screens at the baggage claim. It was a regular amusement park, complete with video poker and banks of gleaming one-armed bandits.
“They say the casinos cheat their customers,” a fiftyish woman wearing an I LOVE LEONARDO DICAPRIO T-shirt and support hose remarked as they waited for their bags. “You think that's true?”
“Absolutely not,” Valentine replied, noting the plastic bucket filled with silver dollars clutched to her bosom. No luggage, and she was already betting the rent. “The state of Nevada wouldn't permit it. The casinos are the single biggest source of revenue the state has. They make sure everything's on the square.”
“On the what?”
“On the square. As in legit.”
“Oh. You some big-time gambler or something?”
“I don't play,” he admitted. “It's a poor man's tax.”
A flashing red light on the baggage carousel went off. The woman's eyes brimmed with hatred and Valentine got the feeling he'd ruined her vacation before it had started. Their bags came off the carousel together, dead last.
Valentine lugged his suitcase outside and stepped into an oven. High noon, and the desert was burning up. Standing on line at the taxi stand, he heard a man call his name. Without his glasses, Valentine wasn't very good at recognizing people anymore, and he watched a tall, well-tanned individual approach, his cigar-store-Indian face gradually coming into focus. The off-the-rack suit had law enforcement written all over it.
“Bill Higgins. Fancy meeting you here.”
The two men warmly shook hands. It had been years, but Higgins hadn't changed. As head of Nevada's Gaming Control Bureau, he had forged a brave new world by joining forces with the New Jersey Division of Gaming Enforcement in the prosecution of a team of suspected hustlers. The alliance had worked, and the two bodies had been talking ever since.
“How's life treating you?” Higgins asked.
“Can't complain,” Valentine said. “Nobody listens.”
“Let me give you a ride.”
“You don't know where I'm going,” Valentine said as Higgins dragged his suitcase over to the curb. Then added, “Or do you?”
“The Acropolis, right?”
“Yeah,” Valentine said, unable to hide his annoyance. “Who told you?”
A white Volvo was parked in the fire zone, a bored-looking guy with a buzz cut at the wheel. Higgins tossed the suitcase into the trunk. Valentine slid into the backseat and Higgins got in beside him. The car edged into bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“To the Acropolis,” Higgins told the driver.
“The back way?” the driver asked.
“That's probably a good idea.” To Valentine, he said, “Traffic's gotten so bad you have to drive five miles out of your way just to get anywhere.”
“Who told you I was coming to town?” Valentine said.
“One of my sources,” Higgins replied. “It's funny, because I was going to give you a call.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. I need your help.”
The Volvo took the entrance ramp and edged into traffic on the Maryland Parkway. Bill wasn't the type to ask for help unless he was drowning; so much for the fun weekend away from home. Yet at the same time, it felt good to hear someone say he was needed.
“Help's my middle name,” Valentine said.
“Retirement treating you well?” Higgins asked as the Strip's gaudy casinos came into view.
“Depends on your definition of well,” Valentine replied. “Lois died nine months ago, my son and I don't talk, and I seem to be clocking more hours than when I was a cop. Otherwise, it's not so bad.”
“I'm sorry about your wife,” Higgins said after a pause. “At least you haven't lost your sense of humor.”
“I'm told it's the last thing to go.”
The driver circled the Strip. It had grown into a real city, the old stalwarts like Caesars Palace and the Trop dwarfed by silly-looking pyramids and medieval castles, each new property standing belly to butt with an established hotel, the new kids pushing out the old. Sin City was morphing into Disney World.
“How'd you get into the consulting racket?” Higgins asked.
“After Lois died, I had nothing to do. One day the phone rings. Head of security for Trump Casinos in Atlantic City asks if I'd be interested in viewing some surveillance tapes. I explain to said gentleman that I'm retired and no longer among the living. Said gentleman offers me a hundred bucks an hour, minimum thirty hours a month, and my business was born.”
Higgins whistled through his teeth. “They're paying you three grand a month to watch surveillance videos?”
“They sure are.”
“You working for other casinos?”
Valentine nodded. His uncanny ability to sniff out hustlers had saved Atlantic City's casinos millions over the years, and his opinion was eagerly sought. Along with Social Security and his pension, he now made the kind of living he'd always dreamed about. If only Lois were here to show him how to spend it.
“How's things by you?” Valentine asked.
“Crazy,” Higgins replied. “I always envied you guys in Atlantic City. Protecting twelve casinos is nothing compared to the sixty-two I've got out here.”
“Running a skeleton crew sure doesn't help,” Valentine said.
The driver let out a laugh. Higgins didn't see the humor; a scowl twisted his face. When it came to gambling, Las Vegas bested Atlantic City in every department but one—gaming control. Higgins's bureau employed a measly three hundred agents to do everything from collect taxes to prosecute cheats, while Atlantic City employed twelve hundred strong. Compared to the Garden State bureau, Higgins's operation was Third World at best.
“What's gotten into you?” Higgins wanted to know.
“I want to know who told you I was coming to town.”
“A snitch on my payroll told me,” he said icily.
“Someone I know?”
“I don't think so.”
The Acropolis's legendary fountains came into view. Nick Nicocropolis's voluptuous harem of
ex-wives looked as unappetizing as Valentine last remembered. Making one mistake in your lifetime was acceptable, but six was a crime.
“I want to warn you,” Higgins said. “Nick Nicocropolis is running a shaky operation. He's not filing CTRs with the IRS on high rollers, which can only mean he's skimming money to stay afloat. If we decide to nail him, I'll give you a heads-up so you can get out of town.”
“I really appreciate that, Bill.”
“No problem. Now, let me ask you a question. I'm sure you've seen the tapes of this guy who beat them. Any idea what he's doing?”
“Either he's reading the dealer's body language,” Valentine said, “or she's signaling him.”
“You don't think he might be doing something else?”
“Like what?”
“I don't know. Maybe he's come up with a new way of beating the house. Like card counting.”
It had not occurred to Valentine that Slick might be doing something new. No wonder Bill was biting his nails. A third of the people who gambled in Las Vegas did so at the blackjack tables. If Slick had developed a method to beat the house, the game of blackjack would have to be drastically changed, or worse, discontinued altogether.
“I don't think so,” Valentine said. “If this guy had a new system, he wouldn't have come back three times. My instincts tell me the girl's involved.”
“You think they're a team?” Higgins asked.
“It crossed my mind.”
His friend breathed a sigh of relief and looked straight ahead. He was part Navajo and rarely made eye contact while speaking. “Well, that certainly puts a whole new light on the situation.”
“Why? You weren't thinking of dropping charges, were you?”
“I was until now.”
“Did you grill her?”