by James Swain
“Yes,” she said.
“Then let’s go.”
She escorted them through the back doors and across the parking lot to a trailer that was serving as a courthouse until a real one was built. Inside, they found the tribe’s elders sitting behind two long tables. To their left sat a shackled Running Bear. To their right, Harry Smooth Stone and the three accused dealers, also in shackles, and their lawyer. Behind them, the same six tribal policemen, still armed with Mossberg shotguns.
In the center of the room were the props Valentine had told Gladys to bring: a blackjack table, an easel with drawing paper, and Magic Markers.
“Entertain them for a few minutes,” Valentine said.
She shot him a furtive glance. “What do you mean?”
“Start talking.”
She did, and he picked up a Magic Marker and began writing on the easel. When he gave lectures for casino executives, he would write while someone timed him with a stopwatch. The exercise never took more than five minutes.
Four minutes later he capped the marker and glanced at Running Bear. The chief was going to be a free man soon and would go back to helping his people build a better life for themselves. It was payment enough, he decided. Gladys picked up the cue.
“Mr. Valentine is now going to explain how our blackjack dealers have been cheating our customers. Mr. Valentine has informed me that this method of cheating—which he calls Big Rock / Little Rock—is something new, which I guess means that Harry and his gang are not just your average run-of-the-mill cheats.”
“Objection!” the accused’s lawyer said, jumping to his feet.
“Sit down,” the lead elder said.
“But—”
“Save it. Mr. Valentine, the floor is yours.”
Valentine walked over to the easel and pointed at his handiwork. “Before I start, let me ask you a question. Are any of you familiar with this chart?”
The five elders put their glasses on and stared at the easel.
The elders mumbled among themselves. Finally their leader said, “No.”
Valentine blew out his lungs. There were three hundred Indian casinos in the United States, and the majority of them didn’t understand the basic rules of their own games.
“Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. Back in 1962, a mathematician named Edward Thorp wrote a book called Beat the Dealer: A Winning Strategy for the Game of Twenty-one. In the book, Thorp explained how to count cards at blackjack. I’m sure you’re familiar with card-counting?”
The elders nodded in unison.
“Good. Thorp also explained something called Basic Strategy. Basic Strategy is the best possible way to play blackjack. The rules of Basic Strategy differ, depending on the number of decks of cards in use. This chart is based upon the number of decks you’re using in your casino.” He paused as the elders stared at the chart. “This making sense?”
Again, the elders nodded.
“Now, Basic Strategy is known by most blackjack players. And by all dealers and pit bosses. Most casinos sell laminated cards with Basic Strategy printed on them in their gift shops. Players are invited to use them at the tables.”
One of the elders mumbled under his breath. Now they really felt stupid, Valentine thought.
“What this means is simply this: Basic Strategy is how the game is played. So much so, that if a player doesn’t use Basic Strategy, another player will spell it out to them. Or the dealer will.”
“Huh,” one of the elders said.
Valentine went to the blackjack table. Taking a deck of the casino’s cards out of its box, he shuffled them. The cards had been canceled, the edges cut short so they could not later be introduced into a game. He dealt three hands, two for the players, one for himself.
For the players, he dealt the cards faceup. His own hand he dealt one card faceup, the other facedown. His faceup card was a six. He pointed at it.
“To play Basic Strategy, you assume the dealer’s hidden card is a ten. That’s because there are more tens in the deck than any other cards. Since I have a six showing, my cards probably total sixteen, which is a weak hand. Make sense?”
“Yes,” the lead elder said.
Valentine pointed at the first player’s hand. It was a pair of sevens. To the elder sitting at the far end of the table, he said, “Sir, let’s pretend these sevens are yours. How would you play the hand?”
The elder stared at the chart. “I’d split my cards.”
“Very good.” He pointed at the second hand, an eight and a two. To the same elder he said, “How would you play this hand?”
The elder again looked at the chart. “I’d double-down my bet.”
“Correct. Now, both of these bets are risky. When you split pairs, you double your wager. The same thing occurs when you double-down. But according to Basic Strategy, it’s a good time to do this, because the dealer is probably going to lose. Make sense?”
The elders said yes. Valentine glanced at Harry Smooth Stone and the three accused dealers. Pancakes of sweat were showing through their clothes, their lives about to be changed forever.
Picking up his hand, Valentine flipped his cards. His second card was a ten. He dropped the cards on the table so the ten was showing, the six now hidden.
“Let’s pretend I just dealt the cards, only this time, instead of having a six as my faceup card, I have a ten.” He pointed at the first player’s sevens. To the elder on the far end of the table he said, “How would you play these cards now?”
The elder looked at the chart. “I’d take a card.”
“You wouldn’t split them?”
“No,” the elder said.
Pointing at the eight and two, he said, “What about this hand?”
“I’d also take a card,” the elder said.
“Not double-down?”
The elder shook his head.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what Basic Strategy says you should do,” the elder said.
Holding his two cards, Valentine walked forward. He flipped the six faceup and held it in his right hand. In his left, he held the faceup ten.
“Think of the six as a little rock, the ten as a big rock. These cards force the players into making certain decisions. The little rock hurts the dealer, while the big rock helps the dealer. Everyone with me?”
The elders nodded. So did Gladys and his son.
“So, here’s how the scam works. Your dealers have a tiny piece of sandpaper hidden on their clothing.”
“Objection,” the defendants’ attorney said. “There’s no evidence.”
Gladys Soft Hands rose and asked that the bag of evidence found in Karl Blackhorn’s locker be introduced. A tribal policeman brought the bag forward. The expired aspirin bottle was removed. The policeman opened it and displayed the piece of sandpaper.
“Oh,” the attorney said.
Valentine continued. “Your dealers are sanding the edges of the cards in their games. They sand one edge if the card is a big rock, another edge if the card is a little rock. That way, they know the cards by feel.
“The cheating happens during the deal. When the dealer deals his first card to himself, he feels what it is. When the second card comes out, he feels that, as well. Then he flips the higher of the two cards faceup. The big rock gets exposed, and the players are forced into making bad decisions. They have no chance of winning.”
“Why didn’t this show up in the take?” the lead elder asked.
The take was the amount of money each game was expected to make based upon its average winning percentage. Valentine pointed a finger at Harry Smooth Stone, who had shrunk in his chair. “Harry took care of that. He was skimming the difference and keeping it for himself and his dealers.”
“Surely our accountants would have picked up on this.”
“Are your accountants part of the tribe?” Valentine asked.
The lead elder bristled; so did everyone else at the table. Valentine decided he’d had enough of bei
ng nice, and got up close to the guys making the decisions. “Your accountants are involved. So are several other employees, including Billy Tiger. You can’t have this much cheating going on without lots of people knowing. The fact is, gentlemen, you’re running a crooked operation. You need to clean up your act, or risk getting exposed and ruining it for all the other Indian casinos around the country.
“You can start by educating yourselves in the games. Then you need to change a few policies. Like hiring ex-convicts to work for you. The fact is, you’re all guilty, either of stupidity or of not having enough common sense to police yourselves more closely.”
He heard Gladys let out a deep sigh. It was obviously not the closing argument she would have chosen. The elders went into a huddle. It lasted a few minutes, then the lead elder told Harry Smooth Stone and the three dealers to rise.
“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
Smooth Stone stared straight ahead, the others at the floor. The air conditioner made a sound like it was about to blow up. One of the tribal policeman shut it off, and the trailer turned deadly still.
“No,” Smooth Stone muttered.
Neither did the others.
“Very well,” the lead elder said. “By the power vested in us through the Micanopy nation, this council finds you guilty of cheating the tribe and of the murder of Karl Blackhorn. You will be turned over to the Broward County police along with the evidence presented here today, and tried in the white man’s court.” He paused, then added, “You are a disgrace to your forefathers. To all of us.”
Then the tribal police escorted the guilty men out of the trailer.
Valentine watched them file out. The only evidence presented here today was him. Which meant he’d have to hang around for questioning, depositions, and a jury trial. He was going to become part of the system again, whether he liked it or not.
He could not believe how much the thought depressed him.
He went over to the defense table. His son was smiling, and Valentine realized it was the first time Gerry had actually seen what he did for a living. A tribal policeman removed Running Bear’s shackles. The chief stuck his hand out, and Valentine shook it.
“Jack Lightfoot taught them this trick, didn’t he?” Running Bear said.
Valentine nodded.
“By reversing the process and showing little rock, Lightfoot let the drunk Englishman win eighty-four straight hands.”
“Right again,” Valentine said. He watched the elders file out. None came over to thank him. He guessed they hadn’t liked the scolding.
“Let’s go,” he said to his son.
“The chief and I would like to take you and Gerry to dinner tonight,” Gladys said. “There’s a wonderful restaurant on Las Olas that we think you’ll like.”
Valentine nearly said yes. He’d been wanting a good meal for days. Only, his head wasn’t in the right place. He didn’t like helping casinos anymore, even ones that helped people. Tomorrow, he might feel different, but that was tomorrow.
“No thanks,” he said.
Gladys looked hurt. So did Running Bear. And his son looked as embarrassed as hell.
Valentine walked out of the trailer.
37
I-95 was the usual madhouse. His son was handling the wheel and kept shooting unhappy glances at his father. Finally he couldn’t hold it in, and said, “That was rude, Pop.”
“Those people aren’t our friends,” he said. “We don’t owe them anything.”
“But you helped them. And they wanted to say thanks.”
“I help a lot of people. They can say thanks by paying me.”
“That’s not my point. You didn’t have to be so crummy to them.” A car cut them off from the right lane, and Gerry punched his horn. “By the way, why were you so crummy to them?”
Valentine stared out the window. Back home, in his closet, was his yellow suit. In its pocket, an airplane ticket to Memphis. He took a deep breath. “Standing in front of the elders, I was reminded of why I enjoyed being on the road with Kat so much.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because sometimes, I hate working for casinos.”
“Is this one of those times?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you thinking about getting back together with Kat?”
What he’d been thinking about was flying to Memphis next week and watching her from the audience. Showing his support without stepping foot in the ring.
“Yeah.”
“So, what you’re saying is, you’d like to get away every now and then, but not shut down the business.”
Valentine nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Sounds like you need a partner.”
Valentine’s head snapped. Gerry momentarily took his eyes off the highway, and they stared at each other. Then his son’s eyes shifted back.
“You’re kidding,” Valentine said, “aren’t you?”
“Mabel says you have more business than you can handle. I’m going to sell the bar. If I have anything left after I pay you the fifty grand I owe you, I wanted to buy into Grift Sense.”
Valentine blinked. Pay him back? Buy into his business? The past three days did not balance out the last twenty-two years, and Gerry did not sit high on his list of potential business partners.
“I figured you could teach me the ropes,” his son went on. “It would be fun. And you could see me and Yolanda more, and your grandson.”
Valentine blinked again. “You’re going to have a boy?”
“Uh-huh. Yolanda got tested.”
“You pick out a name?”
“We sure did.”
“What is it?”
His son laughed. “Wait until he’s born, Pop.”
Valentine watched the cars hurtling past them. Gerry was offering to share his family. It sounded great, but was Valentine really ready to be around his son and Yolanda and an infant? It would be like stepping back in time, something he was not sure he wanted to do. His cell phone rang. The caller ID said UNKNOWN. He answered it anyway.
It was Bill Higgins.
“Tony,” his friend said. “I’ve been shot.”
The emergency room at Mount Sinai Medical Center was filled with the elderly and frail. Higgins, one of two gunshot victims, was in a room with two patients attached to respirators. Saul Hyman, the other gunshot victim, was down the hall.
Valentine pulled a chair next to Bill’s bed. His friend’s eyelids were at half-mast. Then they snapped open. “Get my chart, will you?”
Valentine got the clipboard hanging off the bed. Bill said, “Tell me what it says.”
Valentine read the description of Bill’s wound. The bullet had missed the bone in his leg. From what Valentine could surmise, the doctor expected him to heal without complications.
“Good,” Bill said. “I wanted to be sure he wasn’t lying to me.”
Valentine put the clipboard back. Out in the hallway, a uniformed cop stood guarding the door. North Miami was a haven for the retired, and shootings were not the norm, like they were a few miles west and south.
Bill motioned him closer. “Rico Blanco shot us.”
“You sure?”
“He was wearing a stocking, but he said something when Saul opened the door. Saul made his voice. It was that scumbag.”
“When did you talk to Saul?”
“In the ambulance. They brought us over together.”
“Did Rico steal your cell phone?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I called you earlier. Rico answered, and threatened to kill me.”
“Jesus,” Bill said. “You have your gun?”
Valentine shook his head. He’d left his Sig Sauer at home.
“Get my jacket,” Bill said. “It’s hanging in the closet.”
Valentine brought Bill’s jacket over to the bed, and Bill removed his hotel room key from a pocket. “Room 784. There’s a safe in the closet. My piece is in it.”
<
br /> “I’m not going to shoot him, Bill.”
“No, you’re going to run him in.”
“I’m retired, remember?”
“Ex-cops count for something, and you’ve got me backing you up. Gather your evidence and take him to the police. You’ll be doing everyone a favor.”
A doctor in a white gown accompanied by a plainclothes female detective entered the room. Valentine had introduced himself to the detective earlier, and she’d given him the green light to visit Bill. “Time’s up,” she said. “I need to talk to your friend.”
“Combination is 7474,” Bill whispered.
Valentine patted him on the shoulder. “Talk to you later.”
Saul Hyman’s room was at the end of the hall. A uniformed cop sat outside the door, reading a dog-eared copy of People. Valentine glanced through the doorway. Saul had a private, and lay on a bed with tubes running up his nose and pumping fluids into his body. He was unconscious, his arms and legs in casts, a step closer to the great beyond.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“He should live.”
“The guy who shot him might try again,” Valentine said.
The cop stood up. “Please identify yourself.”
Valentine gave him his card, then said, “He was helping me on a case.”
The cop put the card in his pocket. “Can you give me a description?”
Valentine gave him Rico’s description right down to the color of his mustache. Normally, he didn’t care what happened to crooks, but this was different. Saul had helped him and, in doing so, nearly gotten killed. Valentine owed him.
“Don’t worry,” the cop said, “we’ll get this guy.”
Not if I get him first, Valentine thought.
38
Slash shook Mabel awake early Monday morning. He let her use the bathroom, then tied her legs back to the chair. She was hungry, but that didn’t concern him. He wanted to learn how to use the David card-counting computer.
The David was strapped to his waist, with two wires going down to his crotch, where they were separated by a Y-connector, with separate wires running down each pants leg to the special boots. Inside each boot were two switches, one mounted above and one below the big toe. The switches corresponded to the switches on the practice keyboard, which Mabel held in her lap.
