Loaded Dice

by James Swain

  He made her face him. The railing was waist-high, and he pointed at it. “I want you to swing your legs over, one at a time. I’ll hold you steady.”

  She started to say something. A helicopter came around the building, and drowned her out. It sounded lighter than a police chopper, and Valentine guessed it was from a local TV station. Lucy shook her fist at it.

  “Leave me alone!”

  She lost her balance and let out another scream. Shooting her hand through the railing’s bars, she grabbed the waist of his pants. They fell down, and a cool breeze shot through his jockeys.

  He envisioned them both going over. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he lifted her clean over the railing. She was crying, and looked terribly ashamed.

  He pulled up his pants. The TV helicopter came around the building again. He lifted his head and saw a grinning cameraman in the copter’s open doorway give him a thumbs-up.

  Valentine flipped him the bird.

  4

  Chance Newman stepped away from the window as the TV helicopter flew by. The last thing he needed was to be seen on the news, leering at a suicide.

  In the window’s reflection he saw Rags and Shelly standing behind him, their faces set in stone. Sal, the blackjack dealer, remained at his post on the other side of the room.

  “You can leave now,” Chance told him.

  Sal departed. Moments later, the door to Chance’s study opened, and a shaven-headed man in his late forties emerged. Dressed entirely in black, he was thin to the point of being unhealthy, his once handsome face marred by a zipper scar running from cheek to jowl. He approached the three casino executives.

  “This is Frank Fontaine,” Chance said.

  Shelly and Rags nodded stiffly. Fontaine sized each man up, then crossed the suite and picked up the Deadlock equipment sitting on the blackjack table. He shook his head.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Shit is right,” Shelly practically shouted. Coming over to the blackjack table, he wagged his finger in Fontaine’s face. “You told us that nobody in North America knew anything about Deadlock. You said it was a cinch. So we invest a million bucks to buy ten of these fucking things, only to find out that you were wrong.”

  Fontaine realized that Shelly was staring at his scar. Up close, it bordered on hideous. A few months ago, while serving a life sentence in the federal pen, he’d gotten his face slit for dealing off the bottom during a poker game. The doctors who’d sewn him back together had never expected him to walk free, so they’d made him look like Frankenstein.

  “I was wrong,” Fontaine said.

  “That’s it? You were wrong?” Shelly looked at Rags and Chance in disbelief. “Can you believe this guy? He was wrong. He’s gone and wasted our money, and he acts like it doesn’t matter.”

  “I think we’re entitled to compensation for our loss,” Rags said. He crossed his arms and puffed up his chest. “Know what I mean?”

  Fontaine went to the window and stared next door. He found the statue of Nola Briggs in the fountains and felt a fist go tight in his chest. They had nearly pulled off the heist of the century; then Tony Valentine had stepped in and ruined everything.

  “Not really,” Fontaine said.

  “We hired you to shut the Acropolis down,” Rags said. “Do that, and we’ll be square.”

  “Is that what you want me to do?”

  Fontaine saw the three men nod in the glass’s reflection, and laughed silently to himself. He’d heard they wanted Nick to go under, so he’d made them an offer. He’d bankrupt the Acropolis if they’d fund him. All he’d wanted was capital. Not once had he said exactly how much it would cost.

  “You’re saying I should work for free,” Fontaine said.

  “That’s right,” Rags said.

  Fontaine eyes shifted to the dumpy Acropolis and he felt himself smile. Nick’s casino was directly between Sin and two casinos owned by Shelly Michael and Rags Richardson. He’d always been good at figuring out puzzles. It was what had gotten him out of the joint. And now he’d figured out why these greedy pricks wanted Nick Nicocropolis gone.

  “Isn’t that something,” Fontaine said. “I just noticed how Nick’s casino stands between your casinos. Did you guys ever notice that?” He turned from the window and gave them his best prison-yard stare. “You want to build a walkway between your casinos, don’t you? Keep the suckers all to yourselves. That way, you can’t lose them to a competitor.”

  “Stay out of our business,” Rags said.

  Rags’s tone had a real threat behind it. Fontaine looked him over. A big black guy dressed like an African prince, his clothes all shiny. Rags wouldn’t last a week in the place he’d just come from.

  Fontaine removed a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It had been torn from the infamous Nevada Black Book. The book contained mug shots of individuals who’d cheated Vegas’s casinos, and were barred from entering any gaming establishment. He raised the paper to eye level, letting them see his picture.

  “So?” Rags said.

  “I’m not allowed in any Nevada casino, yet here I am. Know why?”

  The three men shook their heads.

  “Because the FBI wants me here, that’s why.” He paused to look each man in the eye. “I’ve got the tiger by the balls, boys. Welch on this deal, and I’ll fuck you permanently. Understand?”

  Fontaine saw the fight leave their faces. Mentioning the FBI had done the trick. They had become Nevada’s casinos worse nightmare, and had every owner in town shitting in his pants. He went to the door. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “What about Valentine?” Shelly said.

  “What about him?”

  “You two have a history. He’s not going to ignore you if you run into each other at the Acropolis.”

  A history. That was a nice way to put it. He’d killed Valentine’s brother-in-law twenty years ago, and Valentine had paid him back by getting Nola sent to prison, where she’d gotten sick and died. No, he and Valentine had a lifetime together.

  “I’ll take care of him,” Fontaine said.

  “Will we be funding that as well?” Shelly asked.

  The question was on each man’s face. That was the beauty of Las Vegas. No matter what it was about, it was always about money.

  “On the house,” he replied.

  5

  Valentine felt like he was dancing.

  Lucy Price was as light as a feather in his arms. As she pulled away from him, her chin grazed his. Their eyes met, and she said, “You’re not a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you save me?”

  Because you remind me of her, he nearly said. Through the slider, he saw that the suite had filled with security people. He escorted Lucy inside and let Wily, the casino’s head of security, take over. Wily couldn’t connect life’s dots if he had a blueprint, yet had managed to stay in Nick’s employ for fifteen years. He wore a sharkskin suit—the norm for casino management these days—and had spiked his hair with mousse. Lucy tried to scratch his eyes out.

  Wily wrestled with her briefly, then handed her over to a pair of security guards. She left the suite kicking and screaming. Wily brushed himself off, then shot Valentine a loopy grin.

  “For an old guy, you sure attract the dames.”

  “Shut up,” Valentine said, tucking in his shirt.

  “What’s wrong with your pants?”

  “They don’t fit. The airline lost my luggage.”

  “Why did you buy a pair that doesn’t fit?”

  “I like wasting money.”

  “I guess so.”

  Valentine tried tightening his belt, only it made him look like a circus clown. Out in the hallway, he could hear Lucy putting up a fuss as she was dragged into an elevator.

  “What’s her beef, anyway?” he asked.

  “That’s a good question,” Wily said. “Little Miss Lucy won twenty-five thousand bucks playing blackjack, so we comped her into a suite. She woke up th
is morning, and the money was gone from the room safe. She went ballistic, claimed we stole it.”

  “Did you?”

  “Very funny,” Wily said.

  Wily offered to buy him coffee, and they took an elevator to the first floor. The Acropolis was not responsible for money left in room safes, he explained on the way down. Insurance didn’t permit it, and there was a sign in every guest room.

  “Lucy Price’s money isn’t our problem,” Wily said.

  They walked through the bustling casino. It was designed like the hub of a wagon wheel, with table games and slot and video poker machines in the center, and all other destinations flowing from that center. Once, all casinos had been designed this way, the idea being that people would drop a few dollars each time they passed by.

  They entered Nick’s Bar. Wily grabbed a table with a RESERVED tent and motioned to the hostess, a pretty woman in a toga. “Coffee for two. And make it fast, okay?”

  The hostess left. At the next table, a group of intoxicated men were whooping it up. Behind the bar, two backlit screens contained shadows of topless dancers gyrating to blaring music. Valentine glanced at his watch. Ten in the morning.

  “I saw Nola Briggs’s statue in the fountains,” Valentine said. “Is Nick still pining after her?”

  “Yeah,” Wily said. “He really loved that chick.”

  “When does she get out of prison?”

  Wily gave him a somber look. “You didn’t hear?”

  “No. What?”

  “Nola died in prison. Some sort of female thing. Bled to death internally. The doctors thought she had food poisoning.”

  Their coffee came. Valentine stared at the reflection in his cup. Nola hadn’t been a bad person, just wounded, and he’d imagined her getting her life back together once she got out of prison. It made him feel bad to know that would never happen.

  “So, what brings you to town?” Wily asked.

  “Checking up on my son,” he said. “He just started working for me. I wanted him to learn card-counting at blackjack, so I paid for him to attend Bart Calhoun’s school.”

  “So you’re spying on him,” Wily said.

  Valentine didn’t answer him.

  “I hope your son’s not tempted too easily,” Wily said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “A lot of newbies form teams. Being new, we don’t have their faces in our computers. A new team took Harrah’s for two hundred grand last month.”

  Valentine sipped his coffee. It sounded exactly like something Gerry might try. His son had been on the wrong side of the law since he was a teenager. Now thirty-six, he’d recently decided to go legit, mainly because he was married to a wonderful woman named Yolanda, and there was a baby on the way. Only legit had a different meaning to Gerry than it did to most people.

  Valentine stared at the drunks whooping it up at the next table and realized he’d made a big mistake. Vegas was Sin City. He should never have sent Gerry here.

  He glanced across the table at Wily. “Any idea where Calhoun’s school is? The phone number I’ve got is answered by a service.”

  “Calhoun is a hard guy to pin down. I’ll put some feelers out for you, if you want.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Wily gulped down his coffee. “Remember those Asian cheaters I e-mailed you about? The ones beating us silly at baccarat?”

  Valentine dredged his memory. He was on a monthly retainer for several dozen casinos and received distress calls constantly. Then he remembered. “Three males, early thirties, playing a thousand bucks a hand. Winning way too much.”

  “That’s them,” Wily said. “You told me they were probably nail-nicking the cards. Said it was an Asian specialty. Well, you were right.”

  “You caught them?”

  Wily slapped the table. “It was absolutely beautiful. One of the guys had really long fingernails. He had a tiny razor beneath one of them. He was slicing up the side of the cards, marking all the nines.”

  “A razor?”

  “Yeah. He baked it in an oven, made it pliable.”

  “How did you catch them?”

  Wily laughed, really enjoying himself now. “That’s the best part. The guy must have realized we were on to him. He got scared and started tugging at his collar. Guess what happened?”

  “He cut himself.”

  “Sliced a fucking artery,” Wily roared. “Nearly bled to death right there on the baccarat table. Oh man, you should have been there.”

  “You thought this was funny?”

  Wily was holding his sides and appeared ready to fall out of his chair. The guys sitting at the adjacent table had overheard the conversation and decided to leave; so did several other patrons. Wily was oblivious to their departure, his face beet red.

  “I’ve got it on tape, you want to see it,” he choked. “It’s priceless.”

  6

  Gerry Valentine was sweating like a hooker teaching a Sunday school class. His cell phone, which was on buzzer mode and sat in his pocket, had gone off twelve times in the past hour. Three times he’d pulled it out and glanced at the face.

  His wife.

  Something was wrong, and he thought he knew what. Yolanda had found the grocery bag stuffed with bills he’d hidden under the bed. That, or a creditor had started calling the house and was threatening her.

  Gerry owed a lot. How much, he wasn’t entirely sure. Which was why going into his father’s business had seemed like a good idea.

  His old man made some serious coin. He was pretty tight, but Gerry had a feeling that becoming a grandfather might loosen the purse strings. Then Gerry would touch him for a loan, and get the wolves away from the door.

  He wiped at his brow and saw his classmates giving him funny looks. Four other people were enrolled in Bart Calhoun’s school along with him. Tara, a legal secretary from Boston who was supersmart; Getty, a gay stockbroker from San Francisco who believed ripping off casinos was more ethical than robbing pension funds; and Amin and Pash, the Indian brothers whose parents back in Bombay thought they were enrolled in UNLV’s hotel management program. They weren’t sweating, and Gerry guessed he was making a spectacle of himself.

  “You with us, Gerry?” their teacher asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” Gerry replied.

  “Good. I was getting worried.” Calhoun pointed a crooked finger at the blackboard at the front of the room. He’d been barred from every casino in Nevada because of his ability to card-count. He was a cowboy and wore denim shirts with pocket flaps, and wide silver belt buckles. “Today our topic is Flying Under the Radar. I’d suggest taking notes, as this gets a little detailed.”

  Gerry stared at the blackboard. As schools went, Calhoun’s was pretty basic. There was a blackboard with each day’s topic written on it, a blackjack table where they could practice their lessons, and that was it. Students were expected to bring their own paper and writing instruments. And Calhoun didn’t tolerate interruptions, unless someone was dying.

  “Flying Under the Radar is probably the most important thing I’m going to teach you,” he said, leaning against the wall and firing up a cigarette. “Anyone can learn to count cards. All it takes is practice. The hard part is getting away with it.

  “The enemy is the casino’s surveillance department. Most surveillance people learn to count. If a deck is rich in high cards, and you increase your bet, they’ll know you’re card-counting. Right?”

  He blew two purple plumes of smoke through his nostrils. Part of the entertainment included tricks with cigarettes. So far, he hadn’t repeated himself.

  “Wrong!” he exclaimed. “Surveillance won’t know you’re a card-counter if they’re not watching you. And surveillance hardly ever watches certain types of people. This includes women over seventy, drunks, and people with a history of losing. Those people fly under the radar. They’re there, but they’re not noticed.”

  “What about me and my brother?” Amin, the older Indian, asked.

&n
bsp; “What about you?”

  “We cannot disguise ourselves to look like women, and our religion prohibits us from touching alcohol. How do we fly under the radar?”

  Calhoun scrunched his face up. “Bunch of ways. Disguises, although from what your brother’s told me, you’re pretty good at those.”

  Amin nodded. He and Pash were experienced counters. They had enrolled in Calhoun’s school to sharpen their skills and pick up a few pointers.

  “You could use a ham radio to jam the frequency of the surveillance cameras, but that will only work once,” Calhoun said. “It would also mean smuggling a ham radio into the casino, which is a serious offense if you get caught.

  “You can learn to know when surveillance is watching you. The cameras beneath the smoky domes have tiny red lights. If the camera is on, so is the red light. If you see the light, it means the camera is looking in the opposite direction.”

  Amin scribbled furiously, his pen never leaving his yellow legal pad.

  “You need to rethink the alcohol thing,” Calhoun said, puffing on his cigarette. “Here’s an idea. Bring a beer bottle filled with water into the casino with you. It’s a great way to blend in. Just don’t do like one dumb ass did over at the Tropicana and come in with a Corona bottle. They’re see-through, so everyone knew it was water.”

  Pash slapped his desk. “Very good!”

  Everyone in the room laughed. Pash was a funny kid, a perfect counterpart to Amin, who was often sullen and brooding. Calhoun smiled and said, “Here’s another jewel. Every surveillance department has something called ‘blind time.’ That’s when the department switches the tapes in the VCRs. This can take anywhere from several minutes to over an hour in some of the larger joints. You want to fly under the radar, that’s the time to do it.”

  Amin put down his writing instrument. “That is brilliant.”

  Calhoun’s leathery face seemed to crack as he smiled. “Thanks.”

  “But how would you get such information? You can’t just ask them.”

  Calhoun used the cigarette to light another. “Bunch of ways, actually. Check the want ads in the papers when the new casino job listings are posted. Most surveillance departments say they’re looking for technicians or investigators, instead of running blind ads. If it says, ‘Come visit our HR department for immediate consideration,’ you know they’re desperate. Go interview.”