Jackpot tv-8

by James Swain

  “Yes. You were dashing. Both of you. Now, take a look at this.” On the computer was a live-feed from a casino surveillance camera. The game was roulette, the table filled with dashing men in tuxedos and beautiful women in long evening dresses.

  “Let me guess,” Valentine said. “This is from Biloxi.”

  “Time to get your eyes checked,” Mabel replied.

  “One of those parking lot Indian reservation casinos?”

  “You’re a stitch. It’s from The Casino in Monte Carlo.”

  “We don’t do business with Monte Carlo,” Valentine said.

  “We do now,” Mabel said. “The director of surveillance called, and I signed them up. We got their check this afternoon.”

  Valentine thought Mabel was joking. The Casino in Monte Carlo was the most elegant casino in the world, with the best surveillance money could buy. The idea that he, a retired Atlantic City detective, might be working for them, didn’t seem real. On his desk he spied a Federal Express package with a certified check lying on top. It was from the Casino in Monte Carlo for five grand.

  “I thought my fee was three grand,” he said.

  “I raised it. You ever see the chandeliers in that place? They’ve got money.”

  If he’d learned anything from Mabel, it was that his services were more valuable than he’d realized. “How much have they lost?” he asked.

  “A half-million buckeroos,” Mabel replied. “They conducted their own investigation, but came up with air. The director of surveillance said the money’s being lost on this particular table.”

  That was all Valentine needed to know. Going to the kitchen, he grabbed a six-pack of Diet Coke from the refrigerator, then returned to his study and pulled up a chair beside his office manager.

  “Ready when you are,” he said.

  As a cop, Valentine had done his best work with a cigarette in one hand, a caffeinated beverage in the other. The cigarettes were a thing of the past, but not the caffeine. Sucking on a soda, he had Mabel rattle off her checklist of what wasn’t happening at the Monte Carlo casino’s losing roulette table.

  “The wheel is clean, and so is the table and the ball,” she said. “All of the apparatus has been given forensic checks. The casino also polygraphed each of the dealers, and they came out clean. With all of those things ruled out, I figured the cheaters were working from the outside.”

  Working from the outside meant the cheaters didn’t have any employees helping them. “Working how from the outside?” Valentine asked.

  Mabel enjoyed an occasional challenge and said, “My guess is, they’re using an electronic device to predict where the ball might fall.”

  “Visual prediction,” he said.

  “Yes. You told me about a Serbian roulette cheater who used a cell phone with a laser scanner to track the speed of the ball, and the speed of the wheel, and determine which half of the wheel the ball would fall in. So, I started looking for anyone with a cell phone.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No cell phones are permitted inside the Casino in Monte Carlo. Which means someone has one hidden.”

  Valentine tossed his empty soda can into the trash. Using a hidden cell phone might work once or twice, but wouldn’t win you half a million bucks. “I think something else is going on,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  Gerry, who was scribbling on a legal pad, said, “Think it’s a payoff scam, Pop?”

  Valentine nearly fell out of his chair. His son’s education had yet to include payoff scams, and he wondered how he knew about them. Then he remembered that Gerry had run a bar which had fronted his bookie operation, and was probably familiar with hiding money.

  “That would be my guess,” he said.

  Mabel looked annoyed. “What’s a payoff scam?”

  “It’s a method of stealing chips,” Valentine explained. “Albert Einstein said stealing chips was the only way you could beat roulette, and he was right.”

  “So it has nothing to do with the equipment?”

  “No.” He removed another soda from the pack and popped it open. “You said the dealers were given polygraphs. What about the box man?”

  “Is he the person who pays out winners?” Mabel asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He wasn’t given one. The casino’s director of surveillance personally vouched for him. They’re related.”

  “Oh-oh,” his son said under his breath.

  Mabel’s head snapped like a spectator at a tennis match. “You think they’re the ones doing the stealing?”

  Gerry turned the legal pad around, and showed her what he’d written. Of the many sentences on the page, he’d crossed out all but two. The first sentence, three spaces down, said, ‘Too much money flying out the door.’ The second, just below it, said, ‘Inside job.’ Mabel nodded; it was the same technique Tony used. Eliminate the obvious, and the answer will often stare you in the face.

  “And the director of surveillance was so polite over the phone,” she said.

  Valentine stared at the live-feed of the Casino at Monte Carlo on his computer. The player sitting to the box man’s right was sweating, the collar of his starched shirt cutting his neck like a garrotte.

  “You taping this?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Mabel said. “Want to see something again?”

  “The last minute.”

  Mabel rewound the tape, then hit play. Valentine and Gerry leaned forward and stared. After the tape was done, they both pulled back. “Got it,” Valentine said.

  “Me, too,” Gerry said.

  “Oh, I hate you both,” Mabel said. “What’s going on?”

  “The player to the box man’s right is stealing the money. He bets red, or black. Forty-five percent of the time, he wins. When the box man slides him his winnings, he overpays him. The player immediately adds his winnings to his stack. The evidence is only on the table for a few seconds. Then, it melts away.”

  “Doesn’t the eye-in-the-sky catch on?” Mabel asked.

  “The director of surveillance makes sure it doesn’t. He tells the techs manning the cameras to watch the wheel. They never see the overpay.”

  Mabel leaned back in her chair, clearly perplexed. “But the director of surveillance hired us. Surely he had to think you might catch on.”

  If there was one part of the business Mabel didn’t understand, it was that casino cheaters didn’t just steal for the money. They stole because they enjoyed the high that came from beating the house. Sometimes they enjoyed it so much, they couldn’t stop. Valentine dialed The Casino in Monte Carlo, and within a minute, had the casino’s GM on the line. He explained the scam, and the GM cursed loudly when he learned who was involved. He thanked the GM for his business, then hung up.

  “What will happen now?” Mabel asked.

  “Watch.”

  Sixty seconds later, four security guards appeared, and escorted the box man and his partner from the table.

  “That’s what I call service,” Mabel said.

  Chapter 5

  It was quitting time. Gerry and Mabel both left, while Valentine went back to work. Since losing his wife, he’d found it the perfect antidote for loneliness. As he sat down in the chair in his study, his private line rang. Only a handful of people had the number, and he snatched up the phone.

  “Valentine here.”

  “Higgins, here,” Bill Higgins said. Bill was the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, and a close friend. “I’m standing in the governor’s office in the Capitol Building in Carson City. Governor Smoltz is here, along with his staff. The governor personally asked me to call you. He needs your help.”

  Valentine leaned back in his chair. He’d vowed never to work for Nevada’s casinos after the casino owners had tried to blackball his son. His business hadn’t suffered, and he’d been a better man for the decision.

  “Is this about one of your casinos?”

  “It’s about all our casinos,” Bill said.

&nb
sp; “Tell Smoltz I’m not interested.”

  The line went silent, and Valentine stared out his study window. It was growing dark, and he was looking forward to his evening stroll. He’d left his kitchen door open a week ago, and been amazed at the number of critters that had decided to pay him a visit. Five varieties of frogs, a chameleon, a colorful banana spider, and a squirrel had poked their heads in. Palm Harbor was filled with wildlife, and he could either be like his neighbors and set traps, or get a book from the library and learn what the animals were. The latter choice had appealed to him, and he’d started taking nightly walks.

  “The governor has asked me to ask you to reconsider,” Bill said, coming back on the line. “This problem could cripple every casino in Nevada.”

  “Is your job on the line?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not interested. How’s the weather out there?”

  Bill relayed his answer to Smoltz. Valentine heard the phone being ripped out of Bill’s hands, and the governor come on the line. Valentine had met Smoltz when he was the head prosecuting attorney in Las Vegas, and hadn’t know his ass from a shovel. Valentine had told him so, and they’d never bonded.

  “Goddamn it, Valentine!” Smoltz thundered. “We’re talking about a problem that could turn the state’s economy upside-down. A catastrophe with a capital C.”

  “Still not interested. Put Bill back on, will you?”

  Smoltz swore and passed the phone back to Bill.

  “So, how’s the weather?” Valentine asked.

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Bill asked.

  From his desk drawer Valentine removed his binoculars and the notebook he used to jot down his wildlife sightings. “Just sticking to my principles, that’s all.”

  “This involves Bronco Marchese,” Bill said.

  The smile faded from Valentine’s face. A day hadn’t gone by in the last twenty years that he hadn’t thought about Bronco Marchese.

  “How does he figure into this?”

  “Bronco got arrested in Reno yesterday. He’s charged with second-degree murder, and for stealing a jackpot from the Cal Neva Lodge. Bronco’s asked the prosecutor to cut him a deal, and it looks like he might.”

  Valentine put his binoculars and notebook back into the drawer. Bronco’s gang had murdered his brother-in-law Sal on the Atlantic City Boardwalk twenty years ago. Every other member of the gang was now in prison, and it was the last piece of unfinished business from his days in law enforcement.

  “How can they let him skate?”

  “Bronco’s claiming there’s a Nevada Gaming Control Board agent stealing jackpots from Nevada’s casinos,” Bill said. “If we don’t let Bronco go, he’s going to release the agent’s name to the media, and ruin our business.”

  Valentine whistled into the phone. Bill had just described the casino business’s worst nightmare. If the public thought the people policing the casinos were crooks, they’d stop playing. Overnight, business would dry up, and the casinos would go under. No wonder Smoltz was sweating through his underwear.

  “Is Bronco telling the truth?” Valentine asked.

  “Not sure,” Bill said. “We want you to have a look, and tell us what you think.”

  “Which would put Bronco’s fate in my hands.”

  “That’s right.”

  Dusk had settled, and Valentine saw his backyard pool into darkness. Perhaps this was God’s way of rewarding him for living a clean life, or maybe it was just dumb luck. Either way, he wasn’t going to pass it up.

  “Tell Smoltz I’ll take the job,” he said.

  The Internet was a beautiful thing. Five minutes later, Valentine was reading three reports that Bill Higgins had e-mailed him concerning Bronco Marchese.

  He started with the official police report. According to a statement made by a newlywed named Karen Farmer, Bronco had rigged a million dollar jackpot on a slot machine at the Cal Neva Lodge, allowing Karen and her husband to claim the prize. The next day, while cutting up the winnings, Bronco and Bo had gotten into a fight, and Bronco had shot and killed Bo, then left.

  Karen Farmer had called the police and confessed. While being questioned, she had recounted eating dinner with Bronco in Sacramento two nights before, and Bronco paying with a credit card. The waitress had mistakenly presented the card to her husband, and Karen had noticed a different name on the card. Frank Revel.

  Using that single piece of information, the police had tracked Bronco to a motel in Reno, and arrested him. While searching Bronco’s car, they had discovered a box of disguises, weapons, a welding kit used to make keys, and a diary with detailed notes about ten slot machine jackpots stolen from Nevada casinos in the past three years.

  The second report had been written by Fred Friendly, the director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board’s Electronic Systems Division. The GCB was required to keep records of every jackpot paid out in the state, and Friendly had examined the ten jackpot thefts recorded in Bronco’s diary, and discovered four similarities.

  1) All ten rip-offs had occurred in small, out-of-the-way casinos, where surveillance was less stringent than the state’s larger casinos.

  2) Each jackpot was for one million dollars.

  3) Each machine was a refurbished electro-magnetic model. By law, refurbs were not allowed in casinos, but some casinos used them instead of buying new machines in an effort to cut costs.

  4) Each rip-off had occurred during a shift change in the casino’s surveillance control room, when the techs were less likely to notice theft.

  The third report was a transcript of a meeting that had taken place between Bill Higgins and Bronco’s attorney, a mob-connected reptile named Kyle Garrow.

  Garrow: “Bronco wants to cut a deal.”

  Higgins: “No deals.”

  Garrow: “Bronco has information that could destroy the gambling business in Nevada.”

  Higgins: “Give me a break.”

  Garrow: “I’m dead serious.”

  Higgins: “You’ve got two minutes. Talk.”

  Garrow: “Three years ago, Bronco was casing a casino when he spotted someone stealing a jackpot. He introduced himself, and the two became friends.”

  Higgins: “How touching.”

  Garrow: “The other cheater was an agent with the Nevada Gaming Control Board.”

  Higgins: “An agent in my department?”

  Garrow: “That’s right. Want to extend that two minutes?”

  Higgins: “Keep talking.”

  Garrow: “Bronco and this agent entered into an arrangement. Bronco taught this agent how to play the game. You know, pick dead times to beat the eye-in-the-sky, that sort of thing.”

  Higgins: “What did Bronco receive in return?”

  Garrow: “The agent told Bronco where all the refurbs were in the state. The agent knew the exact location of every one.”

  Higgins: “Does Bronco know how many jackpots this agent has stolen?”

  Garrow: “Hundreds. Maybe more.”

  Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”

  Garrow: “No, it’s not. The agent is stealing jackpots under ten grand so he doesn’t have to report them to the IRS. He’s flying under the radar.”

  Higgins: “Keep talking.”

  Garrow: “Bronco says your agent has developed a unique method of corrupting slot machines. I’m not talking old machines, either.”

  Higgins: “Is this agent stealing jackpots himself?”

  Garrow: “No. He’s using claimers.”

  Higgins: “Different claimers for each jackpot?”

  Garrow: “Yes. He recruits them.”

  Higgins: “Let me get this straight. He’s corrupted hundreds of people to claim the money?”

  Garrow: “That’s right.”

  Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”

  Garrow: “No, it’s not. Bronco taught him how to do it. Look at Bo and Karen Farmer. Neither has a criminal record, yet Bro
nco got them to help him rip off the Cal Neva.”

  Higgins: “How does Bronco do that?”

  Garrow: “I honestly don’t know.”

  Higgins: “And Bronco is willing to give this agent up, provided we let him go.”

  Garrow: “That’s the deal. Take it, or leave it.”

  Valentine shut down his computer, and watched the screen become an iridescent blue dot. What Garrow was claiming was pure bull. Modern slot machines couldn’t be corrupted into paying off jackpots. They were sophisticated computers that had more anti-theft safeguards than most banks. At the heart of these computers were random number generator chips, called RNGs, which cycled hundreds of numbers per second, and selected jackpots. They were impossible to corrupt.

  His stomach growled. The day he’d lost his wife, he’d stopped eating right. Yolanda was good about feeding him, but he tried not to make himself a regular at Gerry’s table. His son and his wife needed their space.

  He decided on hot dogs, and was boiling water on the stove when he spied a note stuck to the refrigerator. It was from Mabel, informing him she’d left pot roast and mashed potatoes in the fridge. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten homemade pot roast. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

  He heated the food in the microwave, then ate with the sports section spread before him. Something was bothering him, and his eyes would not focus on the page.

  Picking up his plate, he returned to his study.

  Sitting at his computer, he retrieved the transcript of Bill and Garrow’s meeting. His brain had always been good at finding things that didn’t make sense, and turning those things inside-out. He stared at the screen.

  Higgins: “Let me get this straight. He’s corrupted hundreds of people to claim the money.”

  Garrow: “That’s right.”

  Higgins: “That’s (expletive deleted) and you know it.”

  It sounded familiar. Opening his desk drawer, he removed a stack of letters, and sorted through them. Lucy Price had written him weekly since going to prison nine months ago. Although he’d accepted that a relationship between them wouldn’t work, he still cared deeply about her. He found the letter he was looking for, and stared at Lucy’s flowing script.