by Mario Puzo
We chatted a bit and Hannon left. The major was looking at me with a new respect. And then he said, “Even if they can’t pin anything on you, I suggest you look for a new job.”
Christmas was always a big thing with Vallie. She loved shopping for presents for her mother and father and the kids and me and her brothers and sisters. And this particular Christmas she had more money to spend than she had ever had before. The two boys had bicycles waiting for them in their closet. She had a great imported Irish wool buttoned sweater for her father and an equally expensive Irish lace shawl for her mother. I don’t know what she had for me. She always kept that a secret. And I had to keep my present a secret from her. My present for her had been no problem. I had bought, for cash, a small diamond ring, the first piece of real jewelry ~d ever given her. I’d never given her an engagement ring. In those long ago years neither one of us believed in that kind of bourgeois nonsense. After ten years she had changed, and I didn’t really give a damn one way or the other. I knew it would make her happy.
So on Christmas Eve the kids helped her decorate the tree while I did some work in the kitchen. Valerie still had no idea of the trouble I was in at my job. I wrote some pages on my novel and then went in to admire the tree. It was all silver with red and blue and golden bells gilded over with rough silvery braiding. On the top was a luminous star. Vallie never used electric lights. She hated them on a Christmas tree.
The kids were all excited, and it took us a long time to get them to bed and stay there. They kept sneaking out, and we didn’t dare get tough with them, not Christmas Eve. Finally they wore out and fell asleep. I gave them a final check. They had on their fresh pajamas for Santa Claus, and they had all been bathed and their hair brushed. They looked so beautiful that I couldn’t believe they were my kids, that they belonged to me. At that moment I really loved Value. I felt that I was really lucky.
I went back into the living room. Value was stacking gaily wrapped Christmas packages bright with Christmas seals beneath the tree. There seemed to be an enormous number of them. I went and got my package for her and put it under the tree.
“I couldn’t get you much,” I said slyly. “Only one little present.” I knew she would never suspect that she was getting a real diamond ring.
She smiled at me and gave me a kiss. She never cared really what she got for Christmas, she loved buying presents for others, for the kids especially and then for me and her family. Her father and mother and brothers and sisters. The kids got four or five presents. And there was one super-duper bicycle that I was sorry she had bought. It was a two-wheeled bike for my oldest son, and I was sorry because I would have to put it together. And I didn’t have the faintest idea how.
Vallie opened a bottle of wine and made some sandwiches. I opened the huge carton that held the different parts of the bicycle. I spread everything out over the living-room floor, plus three sheets of printed instructions and diagrams. I took one look and said, “I give up.”
“Don’t be silly,” Vallie said. She sat down cross-legged on the floor, sipping wine and studying the diagrams. Then she started to work. I was the idiot helper. I went and got the screwdriver and the wrench and held the necessary parts so that she could screw them together. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning before we finally got the damn thing whole. By that time we had finished the wine and we were nervous wrecks. And we knew the kids would spring out of bed as soon as they woke up. We’d get only about four hours’ sleep. And then we would have to drive to Vallie’s parents’ house for a long day of celebration and excitement.
“We’d better get to bed,” I said.
Vallie spread out on the floor. “I think I’ll just sleep here,” she said.
I lay down beside her, and then we both rolled over on our sides so that we could hug each other tight. We lay there blissfully tired and content. At that moment there was aloud knock on the door. Value got up quickly, a look of surprise on her face, and glanced at me questioningly.
In a fraction of a second my guilty mind built a whole scenario. It was, of course, the FBI. They had deliberately waited until Christmas Eve, until I was psychologically off guard. They were here with a search-and-arrest warrant. They would find the fifteen thousand dollars I had hidden in the house and take me away to jail. They would offer to let me spend Christmas with my wife and kids if I confessed. Otherwise I would be humiliated: Vallie would hate me for getting arrested on Christmas. The kids would cry, they would be traumatized forever.
I must have looked sick because Vallie said to me, “What’s wrong?” Again there was a loud knocking on the door. Vallie went out of the living room and down the hail to answer it. I could hear her talking to someone, and I went out to take my medicine. She was coming back down the hail and turning into the kitchen. In her arms were four bottles of milk.
“It was the milkman,” she said. “He delivered early so that he could get back to his family before his kids woke up. He saw the lights under our door, so he knocked to wish us a Merry Christmas. He’s a nice man.” She went into the kitchen.
I followed her in and sat weakly in one of the chairs. Vallie sat on my lap. “I’ll bet you thought it was some crazy neighbor or crook,” she said. “You always think the worst will happen.” She kissed me fondly. “Let’s go to bed.” She gave me a more lingering kiss and so we went to bed. We made love and then she whispered, “I love you.” “Me too,” I said. And then I smiled in the darkness. I was easily the most chicken shit petty thief in the Western world.
But three days after Christmas a strange man came into my office and asked me if my name was John Merlyn. When I said yes, he handed me a folded letter. As I opened it he walked out. The letter had printed in Old English heavy letters:
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
then in plain capital printing:
SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORK
Then in block lines my name and address and off to the far end in capital letters: “GREETING:”
Then it read: “WE COMMAND YOU, that all singular business and excuses being laid aside, you and each of you appear and attend before the GRAND INQUEST of the body of the people of the United States of America”-and went on to give times and place and concluded “alleged violation Title 18, U. S. Code.” It went on to say that if I didn’t appear, I would be in contempt of court and liable to penalties of the law.
Well, at least now I knew what law I had broken. Title 18, U.S. Code. I’d never heard of it. I read it over again. I was fascinated by the first sentence. As a writer I loved the way it read. They must have taken it from the old English law. And it was funny how clear and concise lawyers could be when they wanted to be, no room for misunderstanding. I read that sentence over again: “WE COMMAND YOU, that all singular business and excuses being laid aside, you and each of you appear and attend before the GRAND INQUEST of the body of the people of the United States of America.”
It was great. Shakespeare could have written it. And now that it had finally happened I was surprised that I felt a sort of elation, an urgency to get it over with, win or lose. At the end of the working day I called Las Vegas and got Cully in his office. I told him what had happened and that in a week I would appear before a grand jury. He told me to sit tight, not to worry. He would be flying in to New York the next day and he would call my house from his hotel in New York.
Book IV
Chapter 17
In the four years since Jordan ’s death, Cully had made himself Gronevelt’s right-hand man. No longer a countdown artist, except in his heart, he seldom gambled. People called him by his real name, Cully Cross. His telephone page code was Xanadu Two. And most important of all, Cully now had “The Pencil,” that most coveted of Las Vegas powers. With the scribbling of his initials he could bestow free rooms, free food and free liquor to his favored customers and friends. He did not have unrestricted use of “The Pencil,” a royal right reserved for hotel owners and the more powerful casino managers, but that too would come.
The table had been losing money every day for the last three weeks. By Gronevelt’s percentage law this was impossible; there must be a scam. Cully had spied from the Eye in the Sky, rerun the videotapes monitoring the table, watched in person, but still couldn’t figure out what was happening. And he didn’t want to report it to Gronevelt until he had solved the problem. He felt the table was having a run of bad luck, but he knew Gronevelt would never accept that explanation. Gronevelt believed that the house could not lose over the long run, that the laws of percentage were not subject to chance. As gamblers believe mystically in their luck so Gronevelt believed in percentages. His tables could never lose.
After taking Merlyn’s call, Cully went by table three again. Expert in all the scams, he made a final decision that the percentages had simply gone crazy. He would give a full report to Gronevelt and let him make the decision on whether to switch the dealers around or fire them.
Cully left the huge casino and took the staircase by the coffee shop to the second floor that led to the executive suites. He checked his own office for messages and then went on to Gronevelt’s office. Gronevelt had gone to his living suite in the hotel. Cully called and was told to come down.
He always marveled at how Gronevelt had set himself up a home right there in the Xanadu Hotel. On the second floor was an enormous corner suite, but to get to it, you had to be buzzed into a huge outside terrace that had a swimming pool and a lawn of bright green artificial grass, a green so bright you knew it could never last for more than a week in the Vegas desert sun. There was another huge door into the suite itself, and again you had to be buzzed in.
Gronevelt was alone. He had on white flannels and an open shirt. The man looked amazingly healthy and youthful for his over seventy years. Gronevelt had been reading. His book lay opened on the velvet tan couch.
Gronevelt motioned Cully toward the bar and Cully made himself a scotch and soda and the same for Gronevelt. They sat facing each other.
“That losing table in the blackjack pit is straight,” Cully said. “At least as far as I can see.”
“Not possible,” Gronevelt said. “You’ve learned a lot in the last four years, but the one thing you refuse to accept is the law of percentages. It’s not possible for that table to lose that amount of money over a three-week period without something fishy going on.”
Cully shrugged. “So what do I do?”
Gronevelt said calmly, “I’ll give the order to the casino manager to fire the dealers. He wants to shift them to another table and see what happens. I know what will happen. It’s better to fire them just like that.”
“OK,” Cully said. “You’re the boss.” He took a sip from his drink. “You remember my friend Merlyn, the guy who writes books?”
Gronevelt nodded. “Nice kid,” he said.
Cully put down his glass. He really didn’t like booze, but Gronevelt hated to drink alone. He said, “That chicken shit caper he’s involved in blew up. He needs my help. I have to fly into New York next week to see our collection people, so
I thought I’d just go earlier and leave tomorrow if that’s OK with you.”
“Sure,” Gronevelt said. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know. He’s a good writer.” He said this as if he had to have an excuse to help. Then he added, “We can always give him a job out here.”
“Thanks,” Cully said. “Before you fire those dealers, give me one more shot. If you say it’s a scam, then it is. It just pisses me off that I can’t figure it out.”
Gronevelt laughed. “OK,” he said. “If I were your age, I’d be curious too. Tell you what, get the video tapes sent down here and we’ll watch them together and go over a few things. Then you can catch the plane for New York tomorrow with a fresh mind. OK? Just have the tapes sent down for the night shifts, covering eight P.M. to two A.M. so we cover the busy times after the shows break.”
“Why do you figure those times?” Cully asked.
“Has to be,” Gronevelt said. When Cully picked up the phone, Gronevelt said, “Call room service and order us something to eat.”
As the two of them ate, they watched the video films of the losing table. Cully couldn’t enjoy his meal, he was so intent on the film. But Gronevelt hardly seemed to be glancing at the console screen. He ate calmly and slowly, relishing the half bottle of red wine that came with his steak. The film suddenly stopped as Gronevelt pushed the off button on his console panel.
“You didn’t see it?” Gronevelt asked.
“No,” Cully said.
“I'll give you a hint,” Gronevelt said. “The pit boss is clean. But not the floor walker. One dealer on that table is clean, but the other two are not. It all happens after the dinner show breaks. Another thing. The crooked dealers give a lot of five-dollar reds for change or payoffs. A lot of times when they could give twenty-five-dollar chips. Do you see it now?”
Cully shook his head. “Paint would show.”
Gronevelt leaned back and finally lit one of his huge Havana cigars. He was allowed one a day and always smoked it after dinner when he could. “You didn’t see it because it was so simple,” he said.
Gronevelt made a call down to the casino manager. Then he flicked the video switch on to show the suspected blackjack table in action. On the screen Cully could see the casino manager come behind the dealer. The casino manager was flanked by two security men in plain clothes, not armed guards.
On the screen the casino manager dipped his hand into the dealer’s money trays and took out a stack of red five-dollar chips. Gronevelt flicked off the screen.
Ten minutes later the casino manager came into the suite. He threw a stack of five-dollar chips on Gronevelt’s desk. To Cully’s surprise the stack of chips did not fall apart.
“You were right,” the casino manager said to Gronevelt.
Cully picked up the round red cylinder. It looked like a stack of five-dollar chips, but it was actually a five-dollar-chip-size cylinder with a hollow case. In the bottom the base moved inward on springs. Cully fooled around with the base and took it off with the scissors Gronevelt handed him. The red hollow cylinder, which looked like a stack of ten five-dollar red chips, disgorged five one-hundred-dollar black chips.
“You see how it works,” Gronevelt said. “A buddy comes into the game and hands over this five stack and gets change. The dealer puts it in a rack in front of the hundreds, presses it, and the bottom gobbles up the hundreds. A little later he makes change to the same guy and dumps out five hundred dollars. Twice a night, a thousand bucks a day tax-free. They get rich in the dark!”
“Jesus,” Cully said. “I’ll never keep up with these guys.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Gronevelt said. “Go to New York and help your buddy and get our business finished there. You’ll be delivering some money, so come see me about an hour before you catch the plane. And then when you get back here, I have some good news for you. You’re finally going to get a little piece of the action, meet some important people.”
Cully laughed. “I couldn’t solve that little scam at blackjack and I get promoted?”
“Sure,” Gronevelt said. “You just need a little more experience and a harder heart.”
Chapter 18
On the night plane to New York Cully sat in the first class section, sipping a plain club soda. On his lap was a metal briefcase covered with leather and equipped with a complicated locking device. As long as Cully held the briefcase, nothing could happen to the million dollars inside it. He himself could not open it.
In Vegas Gronevelt had counted the money out in Cully’s presence, stacking the case neatly before he locked it and handed it over to Cully. The people in New York never knew how or when it was coming. Only Gronevelt decided. But still, Cully was nervous. Clutching th
e briefcase beside him, he thought about the last years. He had come a long way, he had learned a lot and he would go further and learn more. But he knew that he was leading a dangerous life, gambling for big stakes.
Why had Gronevelt chosen him? What had Gronevelt seen? What did he foresee? Cully Cross, metal briefcase clutched to his lap, tried to divine his fate. As he had counted down the cards in the blackjack shoe, as he had waited for the strength to flow in his strong right arm to throw countless passes with the dice, he now used all his powers of memory and intuition to read what each chance in his life added up to and what could be left in the shoe.
Nearly four years ago, Gronevelt started to make Cully into his right-hand man. Cully had already been his spy in the Xanadu Hotel long before Merlyn and Jordan arrived and had performed his job well. Gronevelt was a little disappointed in him when he became friends with Merlyn and Jordan. And angry when Cully took Jordan ’s side in the now-famous baccarat table showdown. Cully had thought his career finished, but oddly enough, after that incident, Gronevelt gave him a real job. Cully often wondered about that.
For the first year Gronevelt made Cully a blackjack dealer, which seemed a hell of a way to begin a career as a right-hand man. Cully suspected that he would be used as a spy all over again. But Gronevelt had a more specific purpose in mind. He had chosen Cully as the prime mover in the hotel skimming operation.
Gronevelt felt that hotel owners who skimmed money in the casino counting room were jerks, that the FBI would catch up with them sooner or later. The counting room skimming was too obvious. The owners or their reps meeting there in person and each taking a packet of money before they reported to the Nevada Gaming Commission struck him as foolhardy. Especially when there were five or six owners quarreling about how much they should skim off the top. Gronevelt had set up what he thought was a far superior system. Or so he told Cully.
