by T C Miller
Cool. . .He’s acting like I’m somebody. He smiled and shook hands. “Pleased to meet you. . .My name’s Jason Pressley.”
The group discussed whether or not he should use his real name and decided it was a necessary risk. There would be tax forms to fill out when he cashed in his chips and some form of valid identification would be required. It hadn’t been a problem at the other casinos and he didn’t see why it would be one here.
“I do have a nice little winning streak going. . .guess the cards are running in my favor. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“Actually, I was hoping I could do something for you. After all, you’re our guest and you seem to be much better than the average player. I’m sure you must be bored with the slow, limited action at these tables. A player of your caliber usually likes a bigger challenge than what the public casino offers. What would you say to a game with a higher level of action. . .Would you be interested?”
Keep your cool. “Would I?” Jason was trying hard not to appear too eager. “Let me think about that. . .Yes, it sounds like it might be fun. You are talking about the high-roller casino, aren’t you?”
“Yes, although we call it the Preferred Players’ Lounge.”
He chuckled. “Oh, sure, of course. Yes, I’d like to give it a shot. . .that is, if I have enough to get into the game.”
“Blackjack seems to be your favorite and the minimum bet is a thousand. . .Is that a problem?”
Jason had over thirty thousand dollars in his pocket from the last casino, but still pretended to do some quick calculations.
“No, not at all. . .I mean, what the hey, I already have enough of the house’s money to stake me. So how and when do I get started?”
“Right now, if you’re ready.” Nick stood and motioned for him to follow.
Jason scooped up the pile of hundred dollar chips and stuffed them into his pockets as he followed Nick to an elevator that could only be operated with a key.
A short-skirted hostess opened the door for him and stepped inside as the door closed. She smiled after a perfunctory greeting and stared straight ahead. He softly hummed to an instrumental version of I Shot the Sheriff as the elevator rose skyward.
Eleven floors later they stepped out into a richly decorated lobby that led to a smaller casino lavishly furnished in a decor more likely to be found on the European Continent or Singapore. The elevator hostess provided a summary introduction to the amenities and stepped back into the elevator. She smiled at him as the doors closed and he couldn’t tell if it was friendly or smug. Dozens of gamblers rode with her each week and most left on the losing side. No matter. . .he had his buddies watching his back. What could go wrong?
There were no annoying clanging bells from one-arm bandits in this refuge for the rich. The only discordant sounds came from a prize-wheel in the corner. A bored-looking man of Middle Eastern origin was laying ten-thousand-dollar chips down in piles and watching the wheel take one clacking turn after another.
Jason felt like he had come home to a place he had never before been allowed to enter. The casino hostess led him to a glass-partitioned corner of the room where she held a set of double doors open for him to enter. The three tables inside were mostly empty and requests to hit me or stay were muffled by the plush carpet and heavy drapes over the windows.
Their plan called for him to gain access to the high-roller’s casino, but now that he had, a knot of tension settled into his stomach like day-old chili.
This was the big time and the scrutiny would be ten times more intense than ten floors below. He knew he had been watched in one way or another from the moment he sat down and even more closely when he started winning.
His play had indeed drawn the attention of security people firmly ensconced in a windowless control center in the middle of the building. Nick Boretti walked into the secure room and called for a summary of Jason’s activity.
“I’ll tell you what, Boss, this guy’s slick,” reported Stan, one of the technical specialists. “We recorded every hand he’s played with both overhead and close-up cameras and then went over them a frame at a time. . .Looked for any way at all he might be recording the action. Close-ups of the fabric in the sleeve of his jacket don’t show any divisions that can be used like an abacus. Hasn’t touched any pockets, either, so it don’t look like he’s using a hidden calculator.”
“What about accomplices?”
“Now that’s where we maybe got him,” answered Brian, another technical specialist. “I called a buddy of mine over at the Gold Mine, Nat Lucchese. He’s bringing over a frequency scanner to check for stray signals.”
“Why?. . .And what’s this frequency scanner thing?”
“He seems to mumble to himself a lot and that hearing aid he’s wearing could be a two-way radio. Frequency scanners check for signals they give off and track them.”
“Okay, so why don’t we got one of those things?”
“Not sure, Boss. . .They’re kinda pricey and besides, I think they’re sorta restricted.”
“Restricted?”
“You know, as in classified. . .I think you gotta be government or law enforcement to get one.”
“But you’re telling me the Gold Mine’s got one?”
“Well, I, umm. . .not exactly sure how they got their hands on it.”
“Find out and get me one. . .I don’t care what they cost. If bozos like this are gonna come in here using the latest gear, then we gotta have a way to spot it. . .right?”
“Yes, sir, Mister Boretti, I’ll get right on it. . .”
“After we nail this guy. . .By the way, hire this buddy away from the Gold Mine.”
“Don’t know if we can. . .He’s a made man.”
“How? I know all the made men in this town. . .I ain’t never heard of him. . .So where’d he come from?”
“Not sure. . .I think he works for Mister Lemonica.”
“No problem. . .I’ll give him a call. Now, back to the business at hand. Odds are in our favor. . .”
“You mean because we’re watching him like we are?” A new technician asked the simple question.
“What? Oh, I forgot, you’re still wet behind the ears. . .No, because the house’s only got a three per cent advantage over any player. . .”
“Three per cent. . .that’s all?”
“Quit interrupting me and I’ll tell you. Blackjack’s the best odds for any player which is why we watch it real close. . .Slightest bit of cheating tips it in their favor.”
“Makes sense. . .So I see why we’re so careful. . .That’s a good thing. . .”
“Glad you like our methods,” Boretti answered sarcastically. “Now, like I said, shut up and listen. This guy’s playing real good. . .not getting too far out there and placing bets at just the right time. . .He’d be okay even if he wasn’t cheating.”
“This is gonna sound dumb, but how do we know he’s cheating?” Stan asked.
“Gut feeling, mostly. . .Like all the way down to my toes. If he was to win a few games and score big, we could overlook it. But he waltzes in here and all of a sudden he’s up forty big ones in just the first hour. He’s up almost two hundred large after a couple more hours. . .Something fishy’s going on. . .I’d bet my last dollar on it.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is experience and instinct make all the difference when it comes to spotting these guys?”
“Now you’re catching on, kid. . .You might just make it here, after all.”
Jason wiped the sweat off his forehead with a cocktail napkin and glanced at his chips. Two hundred and fifty grand, plus three hundred in the van. . .Not bad for three days work.
The voice in his left ear was showing the strain. “Think we pushed it ‘bout as far as we should. Let’s cash out and blow this pop stand.” Rick’s voice was no longer casual.
Jason used the toes in his left shoe to tap out their code for “NO.” At the same time, he used the big toe on his right foot to tap out their prearranged code indicat
ing the dealer had dealt himself the seven of spades and the jack of hearts.
A sudden burst of static in the earpiece was loud enough the people around him must have heard. It was replaced by dead air and Jason’s hands stopped halfway to the twenty thousand in chips the dealer was pushing toward him.
He started to reach again and found his arm restrained by the strongest grip he had ever felt.
A glance to his left revealed a black man in his mid-twenties wearing a bulging dark blue business suit. He had a coiled wire running from an earpiece to a shirt pocket.
Jason peered to his right to find the player next to him had been shouldered aside by another dark-suited figure.
“This table is closed,” the black security man said in a calm voice.
The other players shrugged their shoulders, scooped up their chips and wandered off. The two security men began hustling him toward the elevator. Four floors later they shoved him toward a door marked Authorized Personnel Only.
“You’ll want to come quietly,” the first one said in the same calm voice. “We have questions and don’t want to damage you any more than necessary.”
Jason almost lost control of his bladder. Gotta let the others know. “I don’t know why you want me to go in that white double door. . .What’d I do?”
“Don’t bother trying to warn your buddies. We know they’re in a gray van outside. They’ll be joining us in a few minutes.”
He entered a code into a keypad, pushed the door open and motioned for Jason to enter.
Thirty steps later they passed through another door that required a key card and retina scan and entered the internal security area of the casino.
The hum of computer fans and the ozone smell of electronics at work greeted them. Five operators sat at banks of video monitors and used joysticks to direct cameras to zoom in on the action in the casino.
Dozens of hidden directional microphones directed hundreds of voices into the headsets they wore. They monitored the action continuously and their eyes were glued to a dozen screens in front of them.
He saw a frozen picture of himself on one of the screens and his confidence slipped a little more.
The operator glanced up and smirked with obvious delight at Jason’s predicament. He twisted his head and watched as Jason was led down a hallway toward another set of double doors.
The security men rudely shoved him into what looked like an industrial break room. Bright fluorescent lights overhead cast a harsh glare off two bare six-foot banquet tables. A cheap Formica counter held a worn-out microwave oven and an ancient coffee maker that was crusted with spilled coffee.
Cupboards above and below concealed their contents behind fingerprint smudges and a broken handle. The smell of stale coffee and trash cans that needed to be emptied hung in the air.
It was not the kind of ambiance the public areas of the casino displayed.
The rest of Jason’s crew sat grouped around the far end of the tables in plastic chairs like you find in tired old Laundromats. They had their hands secured behind them with plastic zip lock cable ties that cut off circulation. Their faces showed a mixture of fear and defiance and squares of silver duck tape covered their mouths. The right side of Jack’s face was red and already showing signs of bruising.
Nick Boretti glanced up at Jason from his seat at the head of the table. The silky smooth tone in his voice was gone as he pointed toward a chair and gestured toward Jason. “Have a seat, scumbag, we got some questions.”
“So what? You’ve got no right to. . .”
Stars filled his vision as a flash of white-hot pain exploded all around him. He lurched forward from the blow to the back of his head and folded onto the table. The smell of the mildewed rag that had been used to wipe the table off sometime in the past filled his nostrils. A hand grabbed the back of his neck, pulled him upright and slammed him into a chair.
“Sit your ass down and listen,” his escort commanded. “You’re in a shit load of trouble.”
“That’s right, Mister Pressley,” said a middle-aged man who had been observing from the back of the room.
His charcoal gray suit was custom-made, with a white dress shirt and dark gray tie with silver specks. A neatly folded matching handkerchief peeked out of the breast pocket of the jacket. Silver cufflinks secured the shirt sleeves that shot out of the jacket sleeves at a fashionable length. Italian loafers were polished to a high sheen and his smooth dark hair had streaks of silver that nicely matched his clothing.
“Oh yes, we know who you are, where you live and where you work. . .so don’t bother trying any tricks. In fact, we know more than you know about each other. . .So don’t waste my time trying to hide anything. I’m Mister Lemonica, Director of Security for casinos here and in Las Vegas, and don’t bother asking around. For all intents and purposes, me and my associates don’t exist in those jobs. . .at least not as far as the Gaming Commission is concerned.
“We been watching you since you started winning at the Grand Dame. Nobody escapes our attention, especially mooks who suddenly win big. We get paid a lot of money to settle things like this without ever getting the cops involved. . .understand?”
The group looked at each other and nodded.
“I gotta admit it did take a while to figure out how you were pulling it off. . .Course, what you don’t know is we got the latest in monitoring gear. That stuff you’re using is old news according to my guy. . .at least three or four years old. He picked up your radio signals earlier this evening at the Stardust and we tailed you. . .Figured you’d end up here or at the Brentwood. . .You know, looking for the low-count shoes.”
A chilling smile faded almost as fast as it appeared. “Sure enough, you didn’t disappoint us and here we are.”
He pointed to each of them in turn. “Now, I don’t know which one of you is the leader and, quite frankly, I don’t give a damn. It’s up to your little group to figure out exactly how to get our money back to us. All I have to do is figure out how painful today is gonna turn out to be for you.”
He said it as a matter of fact and Jason came close to losing control over his bladder again.
Lemonica went on, “For instance, let me introduce you to Toby, one of my best wet-work guys. . .Found him a coupla years ago working for a loan shark in Trenton. . .specializes in breaking body parts, so they heal slow and don’t ever work quite right again. And Craig over there knows the nervous system better than most third-year medical students. . .He’s what you’d call a pro in the dark side of pain management. Most guys pass out in seconds from the pain and shock.
Jason started to stand. “You greasy sack. . ..”
His words were cut off by Toby dropping him back to his chair with a precision blow to his collarbone. Pain shot all the way down to his toes, back up to his head and settled in his stomach. His testicles tightened like they were in a vise and his stomach did a dozen flip-flops in a matter of seconds. He felt like he needed to vomit and suck in his breath at the same time.
“Mind your manners, punk. . .Unless you want a lot bigger dose of their skills,” Lemonica commanded. “Didn’t I tell you they were good? And for your information, I’m not trying to scare you. Oh no, we’re way past that. I don’t have time to play games with yous. . .so, I’m gonna lay this out in terms you can understand. You owe us the three large that you already got away with and, as you can imagine. . .we want it back. My guys searched the van and came up with squat and that’s a real problem. Wherever you stashed it, we want it!” His face turned beet red in a flash and he slammed his fist on the table.
Jason looked around at the rest of the crew. “How would I know? I was in the casino!”
Toby shuffled toward him.
“No, wait!” he yelled. “I’m not trying to be a smart-ass. The three hundred thousand was in the van when I came into the casino.”
He swept the table with his eyes. “Ask them where it is.”
The duck tape over their mouths muffled his teammates’ excited r
esponses.
Lemonica leaned forward with his hands curled into fists and rested white knuckles on the table. He gave the impression of a silver-back gorilla preparing to charge. “I told you I don’t got time for this and I’m through arguing with you. . .So get this straight. . .I don’t care where or how you come up with the dough, so long as you do. . .Understand what I’m saying?”
They nodded in unison and he continued, “Now, I know you got houses, vehicles and retirement accounts and you can borrow from your families and friends. Push comes to shove, that’s the only reason your bodies ain’t rotting away in the desert as coyote hors d’oeurves.”
Jason slumped back in his chair as their predicament sank in. Gotta stall for time. “Look, I’m sure we can get the money. . .In fact, I know we can,” he was almost shouting.
The others were nodding in agreement and screaming strained approval through the duck tape.
Only Rick sat with no expression, seemingly ignoring the panic around him. He looked as if he was an observer who wanted this scene to finish so he could get on with the next phase—whatever that might be.
Lemonica straightened up and slowly replied, “I gotta tell you, you’re putting me on the spot here. . .ten years ago you woulda been dead by now. In fact, my bosses would probably like it better if I just had my men kill you and got it over with. But, there is the matter of the missing money and we are a business. You can come up with it if you make as much effort as you did at trying to cheat us.
“So listen up, and listen good. First of all, I’m tired of this whole mess already, so don’t even think about screwing with me or I’ll do what the bosses want. . .But first, let’s talk about how much time it’s gonna take for you to cough up the bucks.”
“Well, that depends. . .I mean, I don’t know for sure,” Jason stammered, “We’ll have to find buyers for our houses and I’m sure it’ll take a while to get loans against our retirement funds. It could take a few weeks, even a few months. . .It’s not like we can snap our fingers and make it happen. What I’m saying is, I don’t know how fast. . .”
