by James Swain
“So, this agent stole some jackpots. How’s that going to ruin the industry?”
“He’s a state employee, Gerry. He’s one of them. Don’t you get it?”
“No.”
“Understand the mind set of people who play slots. I’m not talking about your recreational player, either. I mean your hard core slot player.”
“Like your friend Lucy Price,” Gerry said.
“Exactly. Lucy sat down at a slot machine one day, and started feeding money in. She won a little, lost a little. First she’s up, then she’s down. Before she knew it, she was hooked.”
“Hooked how? It’s just a game.”
“Slots are different. The game uses intermittent reinforcement to make people want to play. B.F. Skinner showed how intermittent reinforcement works with a mouse in a box. You heard of him?”
Gerry nodded solemnly. His old man had a highschool education and was quoting B.F. Skinner. He was impressed.
“One day, Skinner put a mouse in a box. The mouse tapped a lever, and a food pellet appeared. The mouse ate the pellet, then tapped the lever again, and another pellet appeared. The mouse ate until it was stuffed.
“The next day, Skinner put the mouse back in the same box. The mouse tapped the lever, but no pellet appeared. After a while the mouse lost interest, and stopped tapping the lever.
“The third day, Skinner put the mouse in the box again. This time when the mouse tapped the lever, the pellets came out at infrequent intervals. Guess what happened?”
Gerry shook his head. He didn’t have a clue.
“The mouse tapped on that lever all day long. It didn’t matter that the mouse didn’t know when the food would come out. The mouse just knew that it eventually would. Skinner called this intermittent reinforcement.”
“And that’s how slot machines hook suckers into playing,” Gerry said.
“Yeah, but there’s a catch.”
“What’s that?”
“Slot players believe the more money they put in, the more likely the machine is to pay a jackpot. They think they’re priming the pump.”
“And they’re not?”
“No. Modern slot machines use silicon chips to control the game. The chip doesn’t have a memory, and can never be primed. Problem is, nobody who plays the slots believes that.”
“Why not?”
“They just don’t. Winning a jackpot is a dream to these people. If they read in the paper that jackpots are being stolen, they’ll think That guy stole my jackpot! and they’ll stop playing. Overnight, seven billion dollars in profits will go up in smoke.”
“Oh, wow,” Gerry said.
Another storm had rolled in from the gulf, and they walked back to Gerry’s house in rumbling darkness, stopping beneath a large cypress tree on the corner.
“How will this affect our business?” Gerry asked.
“This could hurt every casino in the country,” his father said. “If it does, the casinos will pare back, and stop using us.”
“What then?”
“Shuffle board for me, a real job for you.”
Gerry grimaced. “There’s got to be a solution.”
His father pulled a piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. Gerry knew it was nicotine because his father didn’t offer him any. His father said, “The governor of Las Vegas asked me to take the job. You know my feelings about Las Vegas, but I’m going to help him out. If I can catch this agent and the governor can keep it out of the papers, our business won’t suffer.”
Gerry nodded in the dark. His father had thought the whole thing out.
“Beautiful,” he said.
His father stepped out of the shadows. “There’s one catch. The police got this information from an informant. Bronco Marchese.”
The storm had caught up with them, the sky awash with brilliant flashes of lightning, the booms of thunder drawing closer. Gerry came out of the shadows as well. “The bastard who murdered Uncle Sal?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on him for a long time.”
His father frowned. “This is a job, Gerry, not a vendetta. If you go, it’s as my partner. Otherwise, stay home.”
Gerry felt the indignation rise in his chest. Uncle Sal had been like a second father to him, and he forced himself to calm down.
“What do you want me to do?
“I’m going to question Bronco, see if I can get the agent’s name out of him,” his father replied. “I’m sure he’s not going to be cooperative. I want you to read him.”
“Read him how?”
“Get his vibes.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, Pop.”
His father put his hand on Gerry’s shoulder. “Look, Gerry. I realized something at the track today. You know how criminals and low lifes think. You were one of them, for Christ’s sake. That’s an asset in our business.”
“It is?”
“Yes. So start using it. I’ll interview Bronco, and you tell me what you think is going on inside his head. Sound like a plan?”
Gerry dipped his head. It was a habit he’d picked up as a teenager and never outgrown. It meant ‘Yes,” only was deeper than that. His father had asked for help, and Gerry wasn’t going to let him down.
“Good.”
They walked up the path to Gerry’s house between scattered raindrops. Reaching the front door, Gerry pulled out his house key and stuck it into the lock.
“One more thing,” his father said.
“What’s that?”
“I overheard your conversation with Yolanda.”
Gerry froze. Busted again. Without another word, his father turned and walked away. He thought about all the bills that needed to be paid, then erased the thought from his mind.
“I’ll take the money back tomorrow,” he heard himself say.
His father waved in the darkness and then was gone.
Chapter 7
Bronco Marchese lay on his cot in his jailhouse jammies, staring at the concrete ceiling. His lawyer, bad-breathed Kyle Garrow, was running late. Garrow had never been late to an appointment before, but Bronco had never been in jail before. Bronco sensed a shift in their relationship that he didn’t like. The moment he got out of jail, he planned to set Garrow straight.
He shut his eyes. It was the strangest damn thing. His first time behind bars, and he wasn’t missing the taste of good food, or the rush of an ice-cold beer. What he was missing were the slots.
He’d started playing in New York forty years ago. Slots were illegal, only most bars in New York had them. He’d been fifteen, and had never experienced the kind of joy that coursed through his body after winning a jackpot. He’d fed his winnings back into the machine, expecting it to happen again. When it hadn’t, he’d gone and gotten a screwdriver, opened the machine, and stolen every last coin.
For the next two years, he’d stolen jackpots all over the city. His parents were dead and he had no friends, and it had kept him alive. One day while sitting at a bar, he’d overheard a conversation that had changed his life.
It was between two hoodlums, and they were discussing a gang of cheaters in Las Vegas who were rigging jackpots. The hoodlums had made it sound like the greatest scam ever invented.
“They’re stealing millions,” one of the hoodlums said.
“You’re garbageting me,” the other hoodlum said.
“No, I’m not.”
“Man, I’d like to get my hands on some of that money.”
Bronco had thought about the conversation for days. He guessed the Las Vegas cheaters were doing the same thing he was, but the jackpots were bigger. Suddenly, his life’s path had been laid out before him: He would go west, and make his fortune. The next day, he’d gone to the Port Authority Bus terminal on west 42nd Street, and bought a one-way ticket to Las Vegas.
The trip had taken a week. When Bronco arrived, he’d been awed by what he’d seen. Las Vegas was a mega-watt shrine to
greed that burned twenty-four hours a day. It made the gambling back east seem like kindergarten, and had only further confirmed his decision to come. He had no money, and slept under bridges and ate out of dumpsters, his nights spent in the casinos.
One night at the Riviera, he spotted five people bunched around a slot machine. Their movements looked suspicious, and he quickly made their leader, a red-haired man with a scarred face. When he approached, Red told him to get lost.
“I’m on your side,” Bronco said.
“Prove it,” Red said.
Bronco pointed across the casino floor. “See that guy by the change machine? He’s the house dick. Wait until he leaves before making your play.”
Red had liked that. The house dick wandered off, and the gang went to work. While Red opened the machine with a skeleton key and set the reels, his accomplices stood in front of the machine, blocking it from the surveillance cameras, while a fourth acted as a lookout. Once the reels were set, the gang dispersed, leaving a blonde woman to claim the prize. Bronco stood off to the side, awe-struck.
An hour later, everyone met up in a parking lot across the street, and cut up the jackpot. Red, whose real name was Glenn, handed Bronco five hundred dollars and said, “Kid, you’ve got a future in this business.”
Bronco had stared at the money. It was more than he’d ever seen in his life. He’d handed it back to Glenn, and saw surprise register in the older man’s face.
“You don’t want the money?” Glenn said.
“I want to learn,” Bronco said.
Glenn had taken him under his wing, and become his friend. According to Glenn, any idiot could rig a slot machine. All you needed was a skeleton key and a lot of nerve. The hard part was finding a claimer. They needed to be John Q. Citizens with squeaky-clean backgrounds. Otherwise, the casino would be suspicious when they ran a background check. The blonde at the Riviera was a perfect example. She was a first grade teacher, and had never broken a law in her life.
“But how do you convince claimers to work with you?” Bronco asked one night.
They were eating spaghetti and meatballs at a dump on Fremont Street, and Glenn put his fork down and stared him in the eye.
“You don’t,” his teacher said.
Bronco put his elbows on the table, and stared his teacher in the eye.
“You don’t convince them,” Glenn said. “That’s the secret to this business, kid.”
Bronco looked at his plate of food. He knew everything about rigging slot machines but the important part, and felt defeated. After a moment he lifted his head, and saw a softening in his teacher’s face, and realized Glenn was going to tell him.
“They convince themselves,” his teacher said.
“Hey, punk. Wake up.”
Bronco’s eyes snapped open. A hulking guard stood outside his cell door.
“You the pizza guy?”
“Very funny,” the guard said. “Your lawyer’s here.”
Bronco rose from the cot and held his hands out. The guard entered and handcuffed him, then led Bronco down a hallway to the visitor’s room.
The room was small and stunk of sweat. Garrow stood behind a pocked table wearing a concerned look on his face. Bronco sat down behind the table, and was handcuffed to the leg of his chair, which was hex-bolted to the floor. Garrow remained standing, his hands clasped in front of his chest.
“How you doing?” his lawyer asked.
“Having the time of my fucking life.”
“You’ve opened up Pandora’s box, Bronco.”
“I don’t know any broad named Pandora,” Bronco said.
Garrow unclasped his hands and stepped closer. He was small and greasy and knew how to get under people’s skin. “It’s a figure of speech. You’ve created a shit storm, in case you didn’t know it.”
Bronco knew exactly what he’d created. He stared down at the pocked table. In blue ink someone had scratched the words NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE into the wood. No one but me, he thought.
“Good,” he said.
Garrow gave him a no-nonsense stare. “Listen to what I’m saying. Governor Smoltz has put half the cops in the state on the case. He’s also bringing in outside help. And, he’s putting heat on me.”
“He can’t do that, can he?” Bronco said.
“You’re threatening the state’s livelihood. Smoltz will do whatever he wants.”
Bronco used his free hand to scratch his chin. He enjoyed seeing Garrow sweat; it brought the relationship back to a normal level.
“What kind of outside help?”
“Some casino dick named Valentine.”
“Tony Valentine?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell me you know the guy.”
Bronco dropped his head, and stared at the words written on the table. Not a joke, but a premonition. He wasn’t getting out of here alive if Valentine was involved. “Afraid so.”
Garrow gestured nervously with his hands. “Let me guess. He hates your guts.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do to him?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Then we’re sunk.”
Bronco stared up at him. “I can still go to the media. I’ll tell them the name of the crooked Gaming Control Board agent, and the casinos will be fucked.”
Garrow lowered his body so his chin was a few inches from Bronco’s face. “What if the police don’t let you talk to the media? What if they keep you locked up in this stinking jail until they figure out who it is. What then?”
“But I’ve got rights,” Bronco said.
“You’re holding them hostage,” his lawyer said. “Smoltz will do whatever it takes to keep you muzzled. Think about it.”
“Then you talk to the media, and tell them the agent’s name,” Bronco said.
Garrow pulled back. “Me? Are you insane? I’ll be run out of the state. No thanks.”
“So you’re saying I’m on my own.”
“I’m saying give them the agent’s name, and we’ll ask the judge to go lenient on you for shooting Bo Farmer, claim it was self-defense.”
“What kind of sentence are you talking about?”
“Six to eight years, with time off for good behavior. I’ve already talked to the D.A. about it.”
Bronco glanced at the big clock hanging on the wall. The second hand was sweeping in twelve noon. Less than ten minutes had passed since he’d entered the visitor’s room, and his high-priced lawyer had already sold him down the river.
“Listen to me,” Bronco said in a whisper. “If you don’t help me get out of this fucking place, I’ll tell the D.A. about all the crooked shit you’ve done, like laundering money, and hiring hit men for clients. You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life.”
Garrow looked stricken. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“Do more. I need time so I can figure a way to get out of here.”
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it,” his attorney said.
Bronco stared at the pocked table. This whole conversation had started because Tony Valentine was involved in the case. That gave him an idea.
“Take Valentine out of the picture.”
“But he’s a cop.”
“Ex-cop. Nobody cares about them.”
“You want him whacked?”
“You’re a mind reader.”
Garrow understood what his client was saying, and nodded solemnly.
“Consider it done,” the lawyer said.
Walking back to his cell, Bronco glanced over his shoulder at the guard who was escorting him. His name was Karl Klinghoffer, and he was as big as a mule and half as smart. As they reached his cell, Bronco said, “You married?”
Klinghoffer lifted his bovine eyes. “What if I was?”
“Want to make your wife happy?”
“Don’t go there,” Klinghoffer warned.
Bronco dropped his voice. “I’m talking about buying her a fancy appliance, or a big diamond. Think she’d like t
hat?”
Klinghoffer unlocked the cell door, and brusquely shoved him in. Then, he closed the door and started to walk away. It was a slow walk, and Bronco knew that he’d taken the bait.
