by James Swain
“I’ll tell him,” Gerry said. “I still haven’t cashed out.”
Gerry started to leave, and Pash touched his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Gerry wanted to tell Pash that it was okay, only it wasn’t okay. Amin was a known card-counter. If Gerry got pegged as a member of his team, he’d be photographed and have his face added to FaceScan’s database. He’d never be able to set foot inside a casino again, much less work for his father. He was mad, and Pash knew it.
“Very sorry,” Pash added.
14
Out of the corner of his eye, Amin watched Gerry come up to the table, grab his chips, wish everyone good luck, and walk away. Their eyes never met, yet Amin knew what was happening.
Gerry was running out on him.
Amin continued to play. Back in his country, men who broke their promises were made to pay, and often lost a hand, or an eye. Not here in America. It was the thing about Americans that he hated the most. They would change their minds, and their allegiances, whenever it suited them.
He glanced down at his chips. He’d been keeping a running track of his winnings in his head. Over six thousand dollars. It was a lot of money, but he needed to make up for the bag of chips he’d left in the stripper’s townhouse the day before.
Kris. Another traitor. Like Gerry, her job had been simple. Every few days, she brought Amin’s chips to the casinos and cashed them in at the cage. If anyone questioned her—and someone usually did—she would say that she received them as tips. Strippers did it all the time, and the casinos accepted it.
Only Kris had decided to pull a fast one. She wasn’t willing to accept 10 percent as her take. She wanted 20. When Amin protested, she’d threatened him.
“My boyfriend will beat you up,” she’d said, lying on the couch in her townhouse. She always wore crummy clothes when Amin came over, saving the G-string and slutty makeup for her customers. “He’ll put the screws to you.”
“Your boyfriend?” Amin had said skeptically.
“Yeah. Pete Longo. He’s a cop.”
Amin had tried to play it cool. He didn’t think a cop would be stupid enough to date this woman. Sitting on the arm of the couch, he’d said, “Ten percent is standard. Come on.”
“I want twenty.”
“I can find another girl.”
She lit up a joint and blew the disgustingly sweet smoke in his face. “Do that, and I’ll tell Pete what you’re doing.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “There is no Pete Longo.”
Kris went into the bedroom and returned with a digital camera. Loaded into its memory were a dozen pictures of her and her beau, a monster of a man with a balding head and a wedding ring and a loose smile that spelled trouble.
The last picture in the camera was of an open wallet. It showed a detective’s badge and photo ID. It was the same man in the photo. Pete Longo.
Amin liked to wear his shirt out of his pants, and he’d reached beneath it and drawn the .357 he’d purchased with Gerry Valentine’s credit card that morning. Seeing it, Kris had nearly choked.
“Amin, I was only—”
“Joking?”
Kris smiled. “Yeah.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She offered to have sex with him, as if fucking would lessen the betrayal. They’d gone into the bedroom, and he’d watched her undress and fold her clothes neatly and lay them in a pile. Then she lay on the water bed and motioned for Amin to join her.
She was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The tiny brain that hung between his legs wanted to have sex with her, and he’d started to undo his pants.
Then he caught himself. He couldn’t do it, not even in a moment of weakness. Screwing Kris would be the beginning of the end. She would destroy his resolve, and then he’d be lost. Lying on top of her, he’d pressed the .357 against her rib cage and pulled the trigger, killing her, as well as his desire to have her.
He snapped back to the present. The pit boss was standing behind the table, whispering to the dealer. The dealer nodded, then removed the cards from the shoe and added them to those in the discard tray.
“What are you doing?” Amin asked.
“Shuffling up,” the dealer replied.
The dealer was starting the game over. It was called preferential shuffling, and a favorite method of casinos to thwart card-counters. It meant he’d been spotted by MGM surveillance. Rising, he scooped up his chips, and left the table.
The MGM had four exits. His rental was parked behind the casino, so he took the escalator down to a subterranean mall, and walked past the shops to the exit. The mall was filled with people, and he overheard someone say that a computer convention was in town. Reaching the exit, he spied a destroyer standing by the glass doors, and felt himself shudder.
Most of the big casinos employed destroyers. Their job was to guard the exits and thwart card-counters and cheaters from entering. They worked off hot tips and were financially rewarded when they nailed an undesirable.
The MGM’s destroyer was black and built like an American football player. He had a tiny walkie-talkie headset and was talking rapidly. His eyes suspiciously brushed Amin’s face. Then he stepped forward and tapped Amin’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” Amin said loudly.
The destroyer dropped his hand. “Let’s see some ID.”
“You don’t have any right to ask for my ID,” Amin said.
“Let’s step outside.”
Amin followed the destroyer through the glass doors. The destroyer stopped, and whipped out his wallet from his back pocket. He was going to read from a card and inform Amin that he was trespassing. Then he would tell Amin never to step foot on MGM property again. Amin would agree and walk away. He’d done it many times, and saw tonight as nothing special.
Only the destroyer had a funny look in his eye as he read from the card. He cocked his head, as if trying to get a better look at Amin through the disguise.
“Don’t I know you?”
Amin turned and began walking toward the garage. He knew his rights. He hadn’t broken a single law. The MGM couldn’t back-room him, like they could with a suspected cheater. They can’t touch me, he told himself as he fled.
He heard the destroyer keeping pace behind him. This was unusual. He saw a couple walk past and cast him a suspicious look.
“I’m talking to you, brother,” the destroyer said.
Amin knew that certain casinos routinely beat up counters. Bart had said it was what had driven him out of the business.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the destroyer said.
He sounded like a cop. A lot of the casinos hired ex-cops to be destroyers. Still walking, Amin removed his hand from his pocket and let his car keys dangle from his fingertips. “Just my keys,” he said.
He stopped at the garage’s stairwell. He couldn’t remember on which level his rental was parked, and didn’t want to go to the wrong floor.
The destroyer was right behind him. He came up, and pointed an accusing finger in Amin’s face.
“I know you.”
The third floor, Amin thought. He’d parked in the middle aisle on the third floor. He started up the stairs.
The destroyer grabbed him by the shoulder, and shoved him into the wall. Then he tore away Amin’s beard and baseball cap. For a long moment, he stared.
“You.”
Amin’s keys were also a weapon. A little treasure he’d picked up during his travels. He squeezed the ring, and a stainless-steel three-inch blade popped out. In one swift downward motion, he sliced the destroyer’s throat.
The destroyer staggered backward in the stairwell. The blood flowing down his neck shone brightly against his black skin. Amin’s aim was good; he’d cut an artery. He raced up the stairs to the third floor and quickly found his car.
Climbing in behind the wheel, he felt his heart beating wildly and took several deep breaths. This was the closest he’d
ever come to being caught. Hearing the engine turn over, he screeched backward out of the spot.
The car hit something solid. He threw the vehicle into park and jumped out. The destroyer lay face down on the asphalt behind the car, his legs quivering.
Amin’s eyes found the long ribbon of blood running back to the stairwell. For a long moment, he wrestled with what that meant. What type of man chases someone when he is dying?
Amin thought he knew. Bending over the destroyer, he pulled his wallet from his pocket. No ID. That was odd. He searched his other pockets. In the destroyer’s inner jacket pocket, he found a second wallet, designed to hold business cards. The ID was in there. Amin stared at it, felt himself shudder.
The destroyer was an FBI agent.
Amin backed over him a second time, then drove away.
15
Valentine had killed his evening cruising the Strip in his rental, looking for Gerry.
It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, but sometimes that approach worked. As a kid, he’d read an O. Henry story about a boy who sees his father’s murder, grows up to become a cop, and asks for the beat outside the New York Public Library, his reasoning being that the killer would someday walk past. The killer eventually did, and justice was served.
It was nine thirty when he walked into the Acropolis. Grabbing a house phone, he called upstairs to the surveillance control room and asked for Wily. Friday nights were when casinos made hay, and most security heads worked double shifts.
Wily came on a minute later. “What’s up?”
“I want to get my room changed, just in case that guy I tangoed with earlier gets any more stupid ideas,” Valentine said.
“No problemo.”
“I also want to disappear from the hotel computer.”
“You think someone in the hotel told that guy what room you were in?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Valentine said.
He heard Wily’s fingers tap a computer keyboard. “Done. I put you in the penthouse, Suite Four. Nick said you agreed to look at the tape of Lucy Price. Mind if I send it up?”
“Go ahead,” Valentine said.
He got a key from the front desk and went upstairs. His new suite faced west and afforded a perfect view of the Strip. He called room service, ordered a cheeseburger and fries. His food arrived at the same time as the tape of Lucy Price.
He ate his dinner while sitting on the balcony. He’d left his cell phone on, and now the battery was running down. Every time it beeped, he thought it was his son calling. He stared down at the thousands of people milling on the sidewalks. Gerry was down there; he could feel it in his bones.
He finished his dinner, then went into the suite and popped the tape into the VCR. Going into the kitchen, he grabbed a Diet Coke from the mini fridge and drained half the bottle. He’d read somewhere that artificial sweetener was bad for you, and he imagined that after he died, a doctor was going to cut him open and discover that every artery in his body was clogged with the stuff.
Then he sat a foot away from the giant-screen TV and stared at Lucy Price.
The pang of recognition he’d felt on the balcony that morning returned. Like being stabbed with a beautiful memory. The tape was black and white, and showed Lucy and two men sitting at a table playing blackjack. Lucy was winning, and the look on her face was pure joy.
He took another swig of soda. Caffeine had a way of making him think clearly, and he watched the cards fly around the table. Lucy acted like she’d never played before, consulting a laminated Basic Strategy card each time she needed to make a decision. Valentine found himself smiling. She really was a beginner.
Basic Strategy for blackjack had been developed by a mathematician named Ed Thorp. It was the optimal way to play every hand, based upon the dealer’s “up” card. Lucy would stare intently at the dealer’s “up” card, then consult her Basic Strategy card.
It was comical to watch. Every time Lucy had to make a decision, the game came to a screeching halt. Casinos let players use Basic Strategy cards because the house still held a minimum 1.5 percent edge. It was enough to beat the daylights out of anyone.
Except Lucy.
After ten minutes, her pile of chips had grown by several thousand dollars. Only Lucy wasn’t on a hot streak. She was just winning a few more hands than normal. Since she was betting five hundred dollars a hand, her winnings were adding up. Just a few hands was making a big difference.
What the hell, he thought.
Fifty minutes later, Lucy was up five grand.
Wily had said that Lucy had won a total of twenty-five grand, which meant she’d beaten them for five hours straight. Valentine found himself shaking his head. Somehow Lucy had changed the game’s odds to be in her favor, and she was cleaning them out.
He killed the power on the VCR. Then he went onto the balcony and stared down on the neon city. The Strip had kicked into high gear, and he tried to guess how many people were down there. Five thousand? Ten? It was like trying to guess the number of ants in an anthill. Inside, he heard someone knocking on his door.
He crossed the suite and stuck his eye to the peephole. Wily stood outside, an empty cocktail glass in his hand. He looked three sheets to the wind.
Valentine hated drunks. His father had been one, and slapped him around when he was a kid. Then he’d grown up and paid his father back. In people who drank he saw weakness, and little else.
He let Wily in and offered him a chair. The head of security reeked of scotch, and he tried to keep the contempt out of his voice.
“What’s up?”
“Look at the tape yet?” Wily asked, smothering a belch.
“Yeah. I’m surprised you let her play so long.”
“You think she’s cheating?”
Valentine thought back to the tape and chose his words carefully. “It’s definitely not on the square. She always wins the big hands. Did you notice that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Whenever Lucy Price doubled down, she won. Whenever she split pairs, she won. That’s why she beat you silly. She won the important hands.”
A pained expression crossed Wily’s face. “You tell Nick that?”
“I haven’t told Nick anything. My guess is, you saw her reading the Basic Strategy card and pegged her a sucker. When she won a few grand, you credited it to beginner’s luck. When she got way up, you figured she was on a hot streak and would eventually fall back to earth. Am I right?”
Wily stared into his glass. He seemed surprised that it was empty.
“You should have been a mind reader,” he said.
Valentine found himself feeling sorry for him. Bad losses often cost security heads their jobs. He said, “Forty-nine out of fifty pit bosses would have done the same thing you did, and let Lucy Price continue to play.”
Wily brightened. “Is that what you’re going to tell Nick?”
“Yes. Tell me something. Did you interrogate the dealers who worked Lucy’s table during her streak?”
“I did better than that,” Wily said. “I had them polygraphed.”
“And?”
“They came out clean.”
Valentine leaned back and stared at the drunken head of security. Novice blackjack players did not win twenty-five grand placing five-hundred-dollar bets. The odds just weren’t there for it to happen. He hated to be stumped, and this had him stumped.
“I need to talk to this woman,” he said.
Wily gave him a scornful look. “How you going to do that?”
Valentine thought about the little dance on the balcony that morning. He couldn’t deny the magnetism he’d felt when he’d held her in his arms. But that wasn’t going to stop him from figuring out what she was doing. If Lucy was cheating, he would make her pay.
“Easy,” he said. “I’ll call her.”
He had no trouble getting Lucy’s phone number. She was a slot queen, and played in slot tournaments held by the large casinos. That me
ant her name, address, phone number, and preferences were stored in their databases. Calling around, he’d gotten a casino he did work for to give him Lucy’s number. It had been easy.
She had three numbers: work, home, and cell. He nestled the cordless phone into the crook of his neck and debated which to call. There was a chance she was in a local hospital under psychiatric observation, but more than likely she’d been released and was home. Las Vegas was bad that way. It had the highest suicide rate in the country, yet the treatment that everyone subscribed to was to ignore the problem.
He decided to call her house. An answering machine picked up, her voice bright and cheery. “Well, hi there. You caught me at a bad time. Wait for the beep, and don’t forget to leave your number. Bye.”
The beep came a few seconds later. Clearing his throat, he said, “This is Tony Valentine calling for Lucy Price. We met this morning at the Acropolis. I was hoping—”
His words were interrupted by a piercing sound.
“This is Lucy Price,” a woman’s voice said.
“Hello,” he said stiffly.
“Do you believe in kismet, Mister Valentine?”
“It’s Tony. No, not really.”
“I do. I’m sitting in front of my computer, staring at your Web site.”
He didn’t know what to say. Putting up a Web site had been Mabel’s idea. Good for business, she’d assured him, and cheap. Only it made him uncomfortable as hell when he was on the phone with someone and she told him she was staring at his Web site. Trying to trip me up? he wanted to ask.
“So what do you think of my Web site?” he asked when they met for breakfast at ten o’clock the next morning.
“The graphics are cool. And the articles you wrote about casino cheating for Gambling Times were interesting, too,” she said. “I never realized that there was so much cheating going on.”
He was finding it hard to take his eyes off her. He’d woken up mad as hell that he hadn’t heard from Gerry. But those feelings had disappeared when he’d set eyes on Lucy. She was a symphony in blue—a powder-blue pantsuit, a blue bow in her hair, and light blue eyeliner. Had the Web site mentioned blue was his favorite color? If not for the dark circles beneath her eyes, he would have found her beautiful.
