Jackpot

Chapter 9

Karl Klinghoffer’s shift at the county jail ended at two P.M. Instead of driving home and eating lunch like he normally did, he drove straight into downtown Reno. The streets were practically deserted, and he guessed he could have driven around with his eyes closed and not hurt anybody.

He drove beneath the famous Reno Arch on Virginia Street. Neon letters bragged against the clear blue sky, “The Biggest Little City in the World.” On a fine spring day in 1928, the arch had been raised to honor the paving of a two-lane highway over Donner Summit to California. As a band played brassy ragtime, the town’s casino operators and bankers had celebrated their good fortune. So had Klinghoffer’s grandfather, a local bootlegger. It had been a glorious time.

A car’s horn snapped him out of his daydream. He was driving below the speed limit, and goosed the accelerator of his fading Tercel. He’d bought the car the same week he’d met Becky, a preacher’s daughter, at a party where he’d had too much to drink. Three months later they’d gotten married. Six months after that, Karl Jr. was born. The car was a constant reminder of how messed up his life had become since that night.

He turned into the Gold Rush’s parking lot. As he parked, his conscience spoke to him. You can still walk away. He sat at the wheel and thought about it.

There was no question in his mind that the slot machine Bronco Marchese had told him to play was rigged. How else could Bronco know that it was going to pay a jackpot? By Nevada law, Karl was supposed to report this information to the police, or risk becoming an accomplice. But was knowing this really wrong? Every casino in town ran promotions for slot machines that paid off 101%. The trick was finding out which machines they were. Why was knowing that any different than knowing which machine would pay a jackpot?

It wasn’t, he told himself.

He entered the casino. He was still in his uniform, and saw an armed security guard nod. Karl nodded back, then let his eyes slide across the glittering landscape.

The slots were the first thing he saw. They called them one-armed bandits, but that had never stopped people from playing them. Every sound that came out of a slot machine was a variation of the musical note C. Karl knew a lot about slots, and other stuff as well. Because he talked slow, people thought he was stupid. But he wasn’t stupid. Just unlucky.

He went to the cage and bought a plastic bucket filled with quarters. Then, he sat down in front of the third slot machine from the end. It was a Quarter Mania, just like Bronco had said. He realized his hands were trembling. What if the casino’s surveillance department was watching from the eye-in-the-sky? What if they knew the machine was rigged, and were just waiting to see who played it a certain way? There was still time to back out, go home, and eat his peanut butter sandwich.

“Screw that,” he said aloud.

A woman in a tracksuit at the next machine looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

He started feeding his quarters into the machine. He’d thought it over, and decided he should lose some money before he went for the kill. Otherwise, if would look funny if someone watched the tape later on.

He lost thirty dollars in the time it took for a cocktail waitress to bring him a beer. She was dressed like a cowgirl and sneered at his fifty cent tip. The bottle was cold in his hand, and he took a long swallow of beer. It made him relax, and soon his hands stopped trembling.

Karl did not remember feeding the coins into the Quarter Mania machine in the three, two, one order, but he guess he had, because soon the machine was ringing, and he was staring at the flashing number in the payout bar. He’d won $9980.45.

He’d never won anything in his life. It made him want to run around the casino and pound his chest. After a minute, the floor manager appeared, and congratulated him on the casino’s behalf. Her name was McDowell, and she wore glasses and a sharp-looking suit. She asked him if he’d like another beverage.

“Actually, I’d like to collect my money,” Klinghoffer said. “I need to be getting home to my family.”

“We have to inspect the machine first,” McDowell said.

“Why’s that?”

“Governor Smoltz has ordered us to check slot machines that pay out any jackpots. It’s a new rule.”

Karl brought the bottle to his lips, trying to act nonchalant. To his surprise, it was empty. “What are you looking for?”

“Tampering,” she said.

McDowell escorted him away from the machine. The same cocktail waitress returned and stuck a fresh beer in his hand. This time Klinghoffer tipped her two dollars, and she gave him a wink.

Soon a team of casino employees in work clothes appeared on the casino floor. They opened the Quarter Mania machine, and, using a laptop computer, began running a diagnostic test on the machine’s RNG chip. Klinghoffer felt the beer rise in his stomach as waves of numbers rapidly appeared on the laptop’s screen. When it came to cheating, there was no way to fool a computer. He was doomed.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Klinghoffer?” McDowell asked.

“I need to use the bathroom,” he mumbled.

She pointed the way, and he went into the men’s room and puked in a stall. What a god damn fool he was. The last guy to know about a scam was always the sucker who got caught. Washing his face in the sink, he thought about Becky, and how disappointed she was going to be in him. When he emerged from the men’s room, McDowell was waiting with a smile on her face.

“Everything’s fine,” she said cheerfully.

Klinghoffer thought it was a ruse, and looked around for the police. “It is?”

“Yes. The machine hadn’t been touched. Are you all right?”

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I guess all this excitement’s gotten to me.”

“Well, hopefully this will make you feel better.”

She removed a certified check from her pocket, and handed it to him. He could tell that she was genuinely excited, and it made all the bad things he’d been feeling disappear. As far as the casino was concerned, he’d won the jackpot fair and square. And that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

McDowell handed him his driver’s license. Klinghoffer didn’t remember giving it to her, and slipped it into his wallet along with his newfound wealth.

“Much obliged,” he said.