The Only Girl in the Game

by John D. MacDonald

  • • • six

  At four o’clock on Sunday afternoon Ben Brown, Max Hanes’ first lieutenant on the casino floor, came plodding sullenly into Max’s office, threw himself into a chair beside the desk and said, “The son of a bitching system is still working for him, Max. Right now he’s three big ones up on us for the day.”

  “How many bets has he made?”

  “With the big ones? Five all day. He hit the first one, lost the second one, and hit the next three in a row. Honest to God, the nerves of the boys working the shifts on that table are going bad, Maxie. He can go two hours fooling with those dollar bets and all of a sudden—Bam!”

  “They know the system, don’t they?”

  “Sure. After any eight or more passes, he bets against the second roll of the next shooter—if the next shooter gets a second roll. But even knowing when he’ll do it, it’s still a shock, Max. He’s a hundred and twenty-five into us right now, and I keep telling myself that if he bets enough the odds will swing our way.”

  “But he doesn’t bet often enough, Benny.”

  “Is he going to take us?”

  “It depends on how much he wants. If he settles short, he can walk away with it, Ben. He could walk away this minute. You know that. But if he wants a lot … if he wants a hell of a lot, we’ll get back what’s ours and we’ll get his too.”

  “But, Max, he doesn’t react like a gambler.”

  “He isn’t a gambler. That leathery old bastard maneuvered me as pretty as you please, and it’s something I’m not used to. He’s got no gambling itch. He’s fish cold. He’s trying something cute and I’ve got a hunch it’ll work, and he won’t be too greedy, and he’ll try to walk away fat.”

  “Try to walk away, Max?”

  Hanes tugged at a flap of skin that sagged below the jawline of his simian face, and the deep-set eyes were venomously bright. “A manner of speaking. But I wouldn’t hire a limousine so he can get away faster.”

  Ben Brown was a monochromatic youngish man, with tan skin, tan hair, tan eyes, thin lips without color. He had the knack of being able to roam the casino tirelessly without being seen by anybody, while he saw everything. If any slightest thing stirred his ready suspicions he would go on up to the catwalk behind the false west wall of the casino, focus a powerful ’scope down through one of the concealed observation ports and watch the questionable play with the awesome feral patience of one of the great questing cats. In addition, he had a rare talent for detecting people who had trouble on their mind long before they made their first move. When asked about them later all he could say was, “They just didn’t seem to fit.”

  Once he became suspicious, he would alert the casino security staff and bird dog the person he was worried about. On the casino security staff of the Cameroon were several large men who had been ousted from law-enforcement agencies on charges of excessive brutality. Ignorant men often get the idea that because the crowds are heavy and money is very much in evidence, a big gambling casino is a sitting duck. Such a casino is just about as much a sitting duck as the main building of the Morgan Guarantee Trust Company.

  Abortive attempts are nipped in the bud as quickly as possible, and handled with an absolute minimum of fuss so as to avoid unfavorable publicity. Often all that is necessary is for some of the security staff to take the potential offenders into a private soundproofed office, or to a remote dark corner of the vast parking lot, and, with no more emotional involvement than a crew of plumbers installing a pump, add ten dreadful years to the life of each amateur robber in six skillful minutes.

  A talented and experienced crew could, of course, knock off any casino, after a professional casing job. But the skills demanded by such a project are under the control of that national hoodlum empire which has no interest in harming itself by pitting one portion of itself against another. It has been emphatically agreed that Las Vegas will be exempt from any internecine violence. So unyielding is this resolve that, even in cases where the elimination of any specific underling has been discussed in council and passed by voice vote, it has been considered advisable to lure him well away from Las Vegas before blowing his legs off with buckshot.

  Ben Brown said, with a certain amount of hesitation, “Don’t get sore if I say something … you know … just an idea.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “If it was the Havana operation, there’d be no problem. I mean it would be automatic like. I got some shapes hid away. They’re good ones, Max, the ones we took off those characters from Honolulu that time. So we move fat Pogo over onto that table on the stick and Willy on the bank, and that pair can switch so smooth nobody can tell. Each time after the long roll he waits for, we feed the new shooter the sure-pass dice and let him work with them through the second roll before we put him back on the level dice.”

  Max studied him. “And you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Well … you know … the old guy is taking us pretty good so far.”

  Deceptive as a drowsy bear, Max Hanes reached over and, with uncanny quickness, slammed the meat of his hand across Ben Brown’s face. The chair went over and Ben rolled across the rug and scrambled up, his face vivid with shock and pain, the corner of his mouth bloodied.

  “Goddammit Max! God!”

  “Pull your goddam self together and listen to me. I can remember two other times you hinted about some kind of cute trick, Brown. This time you came right out with it. We’re living in heaven, right here. We’re turning the crank on a money machine. Out of every hundred thousand bucks that goes across the tables, we hold onto an average of eight, after paying the legal grease. So you’re so stupid you want to diddle the machine.

  “I’ll draw you a picture, Brown. We’d get away with it. Let’s just say, for the hell of it, we could take a million bucks off that old man. You and I would know about it. Pogo and Willy would know about it. And as sure as you’re still breathing, the word would get around. I’m not talking about the state inspectors and license people, stupid. I’m talking about the important people who can’t afford anybody jiggling this big apple cart.

  “Stack it up against the total take in this town, and that million is cigarette money. They’d make a move, buddy boy. They’d send in the specialists. Then you and me and Pogo and Willy would get taken out into that desert out there, and when they got tired of seeing who could scream the loudest, they’d finish the job and pile rocks on the graves and go back East. It would be like an advertisement for other people who might get cute ideas.”

  “Jesus Christ, Max!”

  “That’s why your idea is stupid. Keep cute ideas out of your head. Don’t ever try anything cute. I love you like you were my own son, Brownie, but if I found out you got cute with one of the marks out there, I’d help kill you, and I’d make it last. Pick up the chair and sit down.”

  Ben Brown sat down. He sighed. He patted his mouth with a handkerchief and then spat something into his palm and examined it.

  “You busted a tooth, Max.”

  “Let me see. Scrooch down a little so the light is better. Yeah, I see it. It doesn’t look too bad, Ben. It’s like a corner came off. Does it hurt?”

  “No, I don’t feel anything.”

  “So it didn’t bust as far down as the nerve. That can hurt like hell. You got a dentist here?”

  “I got one I like pretty good.”

  “How’s Sally? I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

  “Well, this time, Max, she’s sick in the mornings. I mean she had so easy a time with the first kid we thought it would be the same this time. She’s still got two months to go, and that poor little chick is miserable. And you take Kevan, that little guy is walking now and he gets into everything, and she’s got to watch him every minute.”

  Max pulled out the middle drawer of his desk, opened a Manila envelope, slid three hundred-dollar bills out and placed them in front of Ben Brown. He winked and said, “Right off the top, Brownie.”

  “Thanks, Max. Thanks a lo
t.”

  “We all squared away on everything?”

  “Sure, Max. I got the message. But I hate to see that old bastard walk out heavy. If he does, it’ll give us a bad week on the books.”

  “That’s my worry, not yours. If he keeps playing, the house percentage will be working for us. He sandbagged me into that big limit, and Al is going to be asking too many questions if Gallowell makes out good. So I’ve got a special interest in making sure he keeps right on playing, and I’ve got some ideas about that. You run along, and just keep me up to date on how he’s making out.”

  Ben Brown came back to the office a half hour later to tell Max Hanes the old man had dropped one.

  After Ben left, Max sat at his desk, broad and heavy in the chair, his eyes almost closed, thinking about the old man who now had a total of a hundred thousand dollars of casino money, a full half of what he had dropped on the last visit.

  Hugh Darren was in the swimming pool at four o’clock on that Sunday afternoon when word came to him that Al Marta wanted to see him in the Little Room. He said a hasty good-bye to Betty, changed quickly, and found Al seated in one of the big leather booths with two strangers. Al was drinking a highball. The two strangers were working on rare steaks with hungry, stolid efficiency. They were both sizable men in their late thirties, wearing conservative suits, junior executive pallor and glasses with ponderous black frames.

  “Sit down, Hugh. Sit right down, boy. Boys, this is the hotel manager I was telling you about, the one that’s a friend of Shannard.”

  As Hugh nodded and sat beside Al, Al said, “These are the boys who flew in to listen to the deal.” It was the closest Al came to an introduction. The two men looked at first glance as if they could be on the intermediate executive level anywhere—in the automotive industry or a bank, or an insurance company. But there was a calculated incivility about their attitude, a grossness of table habits, and a cold appraisal behind those corrective lenses that set them apart from the unending personal popularity contest the average businessman feels obligated to enter.

  “You’ve talked to Temp?” Hugh asked.

  “Yes, and there’s a problem and Shannard isn’t too happy. Maybe you can help out a little, Hugh. Maybe you better explain it, Dan.”

  The slightly older-looking one spoke. As he spoke he had the disconcerting habit of staring fixedly at Hugh’s necktie rather than at his face. “The properties look like the sort of thing we can be interested in. In one week we could make certain they have not been misrepresented in any way, and we could put the deal through on a cash basis. But your friend wants something we’d never give, because it’s against policy. We have no need for or use for partners in any investment enterprise. If the properties check out, we’ll pay him two hundred and twenty thousand dollars for his equity. This represents a slight overevaluation, and we’re making the offer merely because we’d like to expand the resort-investment program in that area.

  “Shannard is in a bind. He says that the money would not quite cover his outstanding obligations. He wants to retain partial ownership so he can share in the profits from development, or sell his share out after development. We couldn’t be less interested in his personal financial problems, or what he wants or doesn’t want. He seems to have the idea we’re trying to bargain with him. He has something to sell. We’ll buy it. We’ve named the price. Somebody has to convince him that we never bargain with anybody. We don’t have to. If you can convince him that all he can do, dealing with us, is sell, we’ll pay you a ten-thousand-dollar finder’s fee.”

  “I told Al I didn’t get mixed up in this to make money off a friend.”

  “Then take your fee and turn it over to him, and it will give him two thirty instead of two twenty—if you’re so hot on the friendship bit. But the point is, will you talk to him?”

  “I don’t know if this is the right thing for him to do.”

  “I’d guess that so far as doing anything else is concerned, his time has run out. He’s done a lot of stalling. For your private information, Darren, I phoned a contact in Nassau. He phoned me back fifteen minutes ago. They’re waiting to serve Shannard with a lot of unpleasant papers the minute he steps off the plane.”

  Al said, “But these boys aren’t putting the squeeze on him, Hugh. It’s a good price. It’s a cash deal. It’s quick. Where can he go and get it the same way?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Hugh said. “I’ll find out how he feels about it. It was his idea, coming out here. I didn’t suggest it.”

  “He made that clear,” the spokesman said. “We’ve always got the same kind of problem the depletion-allowance boys have—putting money to work and getting the diversification that makes sense, protectionwise. I admit we’re moving fast enough so we’re always running short on management talent, but we’re not so short yet we’ve got to cut up the pie to attract it. This place, for instance. We got you here, Darren, without giving you a piece of it. And if you’re smart you’ll know it isn’t a dead end. We’ve got resort areas we’re developing. When the time is right, we can move you into something bigger.”

  “Thanks,” Hugh said, “but … I’ve got the idea of owning my own show.”

  The spokesman shrugged. “Like they say, the dream of every man, huh? But it can end up like Shannard, right? Then where are you?”

  “Would you hire Temp to operate those properties?”

  “Offhand I’d say it wouldn’t work out. He’s been his own man too long.” He looked at his watch. “We got a flight to catch. Shannard can tell Al what he decides.”

  It was dismissal with no attempt at cordiality, no slightest concession to the social amenities.

  Hugh, wondering why the attitude should make him feel indignant, went off to find Temp and Vicky Shannard. Their suite did not answer. He had Temp paged, but he was apparently not in the hotel. Hugh put a note in their box.

  He had been at his desk about five minutes when John Trabe, his manager of liquor sales, came in to see him. John had the pouched mournful face of an aging spaniel, the wary watchful eyes of a bank guard, and an astonishingly sweet, transforming smile.

  “That bartender I mentioned, Hugh, that Chester Engler, I got him outside, and I swear I don’t know whether it would be smart to get rid of him right now.”

  “He’s worth a special effort?”

  “He’s a damn good man. He was a damn good man. I haven’t talked to him about this last deal. I thought maybe if you could sit in on it.…”

  “Bring him in, John.”

  Chester Engler was in his early thirties, overweight, with a round pink face, receding blond hair, blue eyes. He was obviously nervous, with a dew of perspiration on his upper lip in spite of the air conditioning.

  “Sit right there, Chet,” John Trabe said. “I want Mr. Darren to get the background on this. How long have you been tending bar in this state?”

  Engler looked down at his hands. “Four years in Reno before I came here. Nine years altogether.”

  “You’re married, own your own home, have a car.…”

  “The car is gone.”

  “You’ve got two kids, two girls in grade school. It’s a pretty good life. Or it seemed to be a pretty good life, up until four or five months ago. Chet, you’re smart enough to take a long look at yourself. You know damn well that the people who live and work in this town don’t gamble. And you also know that every once in a while somebody will start. You’ve known guys who have. And you know how they drop right out of sight, after everything is gone. It’s … one of the hazards of working in Nevada. And you’ve said—I’ve heard you—that it’s a foolish crazy thing for a man to do. But now you’re gambling. And you’re in trouble. You promised me you’d quit. I happen to know that you spent sixteen hours playing blackjack before you came on duty yesterday. How did you make out?”

  Engler sighed and shrugged. “Not so good.”

  “Where do you stand right now?”

  “Not so good.”

  “How much h
ave you dropped?”

  “About … twelve grand, John.”

  “Where did you get the money?”

  “The savings went, and then I cashed in the insurance, and then the car went and I remortgaged the house and got some that way. And … I’ve sold some stuff. Lila took off with the kids. She said she couldn’t take it. She went to her folks in Amarillo. She said she’s going to get a job and her mother can watch the kids.” His voice had been dead, but suddenly it strengthened and he looked at John Trabe. “But I nearly got out of the whole jam, John. Honest to God. Last week. It was what I’d been waiting for. It had to turn. I was eleven grand in the bag until then, and I built it back, almost all of it, I swear. I was damn near ten grand ahead, and I swore I’d quit forever the minute I got even. I meant it, John. I hung on, staying right about the same place for an hour. And then it went bad again.”

  “And you gave it all back.”

  “I shouldn’t have started betting bigger. That’s where I made the mistake.”

  “You made the mistake when you started gambling. You know better, Chet. What happened to you? We used to shake our heads at the guys who got hooked. For nine years you’ve been learning you can’t beat the house.”

  “Some do.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. Don’t insult my intelligence and yours, Chet. You know its asking for trouble to keep a gambler on the payroll. You’ll be looking for some cute way to pick up extra money to feed across the table.”

  “I’m no thief!’ Engler said hotly.

  “That’s the next step. Why should you be any different?”

  “I tell you I’m no thief!”

  Hugh interrupted, his tone quiet and reasonable. “What are your plans, Engler?”