Jackpot

Chapter 33

Mabel was stuck in traffic. Normally, the drive to the Micanopy casino in Tampa took forty minutes, and required crossing the bay over a long bridge, driving past downtown Tampa, and heading east on I-4 toward Orlando. That was on a normal day. Today, the roads were a parking lot, and she weighed calling Running Bear on her cell phone, and telling him she would be late.

Traffic started to move. People drove at two speeds in Florida — fast, or not at all. Hitting the gas, she remembered a conversation she’d had with Tony about Running Bear. According to her boss, the chief was a true opportunist.

Five years ago, the city of Tampa had decided to build an ice hockey arena, and floated a hundred and sixty million dollar bond for the project. As construction workers started to dig the foundation, they were shocked to find hundreds of human bones. The bones were tested, and discovered to be several hundred years old.

A few days later, Running Bear appeared before the Tampa city council, wearing his full tribal regalia. He had produced documentation which showed the Micanopy’s had settled Tampa well before any white man. The chief claimed the bones were his ancestors’, and said that if the city continued to dig, he would sue.

Tampa’s politicians caved in, and offered Running Bear a piece of land to bury his ancestors’ bones. The site was on the outskirts of town, in driving distance to every other major city outside Tampa. Running Bear accepted the deal, and a week later broke ground to build a casino.

Mabel had reached Malfunction Junction, the infamous spot in Tampa’s highway system where all the major traffic arteries met. It was like something out of a third-world country, the exits appearing too quickly for any sane motorist. Luckily, Tampa’s drivers were kind-hearted, and a car in the next lane flashed its brights, allowing her to merge and take the I-4 exit.

She pulled into the casino parking lot exactly on time . The lot was filled with cars and tour buses, and she spotted a tall, striking looking Indian male with long flowing hair standing by the entrance. He was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and cowboy boots, and as he stepped out from the shadows, the years showed on his face like cracks in an old wall. He pointed at a parking space that had been cordoned off with tape, and Mabel realized he’d had it saved just for her.

Running Bear introduced himself, and led Mabel into the casino while explaining that the tribe’s seven elders were waiting upstairs. The dealer in question had filed a formal complaint against Running Bear, and claimed he was being harassed.

“Don’t tell me your job is in jeopardy,” Mabel said.

“I am an elected official, so I can’t lose my job,” the chief said. “But I can lose my integrity, and that means as much to me.”

Besides being packed with people, the casino was filled with smoke. As they walked past the tables, Mabel saw several employees staring at her. Their looks made her uncomfortable, and she stayed close to the chief’s side.

They reached the elevators and Running Bear hit the button. He looked worried, and without thinking Mabel patted him on the arm.

“Don’t worry, chief. We’ll straighten this situation out, trust me.”

“Thanks,” he said.

A minute later, Mabel and the chief entered a conference room with carpeted walls. The Micanopy’s seven elders sat at a long table with three pitchers of ice water with lemon, and a tray of upturned glasses. That was it for the niceties.

The elders rose, and nodded to their visitor. Like Running Bear, they were dressed like they’d just come off a farm, and wore jeans and flannel shirts. They were in their seventies, and Mabel guessed they shared similar blood lines, their faces identical in many ways. Like bullets fired out of the same gun, she thought. Running Bear pulled two chairs in front of the table, and they seated themselves.

“Ms. Struck is employed by Tony Valentine, the consultant who helped us catch the cheaters at our south Florida casino last year,” Running Bear said. “Ms. Struck has watched the poker dealer who’s under suspicion, and like me, believes he should be terminated. I asked Ms. Struck to come here, and explain why this dealer’s actions are harmful to our casino. Ms. Struck, the floor is yours.”

Mabel stared at the elders. They were sour pusses, and she smiled at them pleasantly. The elder in the center seat cleared his throat. He looked close to eighty, and wore his silver hair in a pony tail.

“Ms. Struck,” he began.

“Call me Mabel,” she said brightly.

“Very well, Mabel. I’d like —

“Excuse me, but I didn’t get your name,” Mabel said.

His eyes narrowed. Mabel saw an elder sitting at the table’s end whisper in the ear of the elder beside him. The man broke into a smile.

“William Bowlegs,” he said. “Call me Billy.”

“Very well, Billy. What can I do for you?”

Bowlegs poured himself a glass of water from one of the pitchers. Mabel guessed he wasn’t used to being spoken to like a normal person, which was too bad. It was what got so many important people in trouble. Bowlegs started again. “I have also watched the poker dealer who’s under suspicion, and cannot understand what all the commotion is about. Yes, the dealer is guilty of making a mistake in the way he handled the cards. But he was not working with any players at the table — we’ve proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Therefore, the dealer wasn’t cheating. And if he wasn’t cheating, I don’t see how we can terminate him.”

Mabel heard defensiveness in Bowlegs’ voice, and wondered what the dealer’s connection was to him. It was common among native American casinos to have dozens of family members working together, a practice that was unheard of anywhere else.

“Billy, have you ever heard of a man named John Scarne?” she asked.

Bowlegs shook his head. The elder sitting beside him said, “He wrote several books on gambling, didn’t he?”

“That’s correct. Scarne was considered the world’s authority on gambling. He was also an authority on cheating with cards.” Taking her purse off the floor, Mabel removed a deck of cards and opened it. “Scarne believed the most important aspect of every game was enforcing the rules. Back in his day, there were different rules in different parts of the country. This was true in private games, and inside casinos.

“It was also a common form of cheating. A sucker would be brought into a card game, and lose to a nothing hand. The locals would tell the sucker that the losing hand was a “Lolapalooza,” and the strongest hand you could get.”

The elders broke into smiles. Suddenly, one of them laughed. Then, all of them laughed. When the noise died down, Bowlegs said, “Is that really true?”

“It most certainly is,” Mabel said.

“White men!” he said.

The elders started laughing again.

After a minute, the elders had their poker faces back on.

“When World War II broke out, Scarne heard stories about soldiers being swindled in crooked games,” Mabel went on. “He went to the Army, and offered to tour the camps, and teach soldiers how to protect themselves. Now, you may wonder what this has to do with your problem and it’s simply this: One of the things Scarne did was to get everyone to play by the same rules. This was especially true for poker. And because of Scarne’s hard work, everyone now plays by the same rules. Except for you folks.”

The words had come out of her mouth with just the right amount of punch, and the elders straightened in their chairs. Mabel leaned forward, and looked them dead in the eye. “You’ve got a dealer who’s dealing off the bottom, and that’s a cheating move. Watch.”

Holding the cards in dealing grip, Mabel did her best impersonation of a bottom deal. It wasn’t pretty, but the elders got the picture.

“Just because it hasn’t affected the game doesn’t mean a crime hasn’t been committed,” she said. “The rules are the rules. If you won’t follow them, you don’t deserve to be in the casino business.”

“Couldn’t it have been an accident?” Bowlegs pleaded.

“No,” Mabel said firmly.

“But the players at the table —

“I know, none were involved,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean the dealer wasn’t cheating. Look, maybe one of the players was involved, only you somehow missed it. The fact is this: The dealer was setting you up. You caught him, and he needs to be terminated.”

“On what grounds?” Bowlegs said.

Mabel hesitated. Bowlegs was challenging her, despite everything she’d just told him. His hands were resting on the table, and she found herself staring at them. On the back of the right hand was a tattoo of a bird, just like the crooked dealer. The two men were somehow related, either by blood, or some tribal organization.

Mabel dropped the playing cards into her purse. She had stepped into a hornet’s nest, and saw no reason to let herself be stung. She rose from her chair.

“Excuse me, gentleman, but I think it’s time for me to go. Have a nice day.”

The elders mouths dropped open. So did Running Bear’s.

She left without another word.