King Con

Chapter Nineteen.

LUKE ZIGMAN WAS SURPRISED TO SEE THE OLD DEAD-wood player being rolled back into the casino by his nephew at three in the morning. The old duck's head was lolling and he looked half dead. He now knew the man in the wheelchair was named Harry Price. They'd taken hidden-camera pictures of him and his nephew and put the pictures on the big "losers board" in the employee lounge, so that all the casino workers would know them and treat them special. The casino didn't want them getting out of Sabre Bay before all of their money was gone. Harry's chair was parked opposite the Stick-man by his whining nephew, who Luke Zigman now knew was named Douglas Price.

"Jeezus, Uncle Harry, can't we go to bed? It's the middle of the fucking night."

"Got the credit, yessiree, grooved and approved," he rasped. "Yessiree, two hundred big ones, the whole stack. Get the chip girl, Harry wants t'roll the bones, roll the bones."

The Night Shift Manager, Arnold Buzini, was in his office, so Luke picked up the phone and notified him that Mr. Price wanted his whole two hundred thousand in credit delivered in chips to table three.

"Go ahead and give him the ride. He's approved," Buzini said, glad the old leaker was back at the shooter's rail.

Within minutes the tray arrived with two hundred thousand in pre-counted plastic chips aboard. They were piled high on the racks in hundred-dollar blues, five-hundred-dollar reds, and thousand-dollar golds. Beano took them down and stacked them on the table while Duffy watched, wheezing badly.

"What's the limit?" Duffy croaked.

"For you, sir, it's five thousand," Luke said.

"Jesus H. Keee-rist on a bright blue bicycle," Duffy wheezed. "Can't you boys do better than that?"

Luke picked up the phone and redialed Buzini, who gave him permission to "no limit" the table. The main casino room was almost empty at three. In Las Vegas casinos, people played all night, but Caribbean hotels had more daytime than nighttime bettors, so Buzini didn't mind removing the limit.

"Ten thousand on the come line," Duffy said, and he pushed his bet out, reaching over the rail, pressing his skinny, hollow chest against the table and coughing badly.

"Aren't you gonna buy some insurance, like this afternoon?" Luke prodded.

"Nope, nope. Not now, not now. Let's go, gotta roll, gotta roll." And he got the table dice and tossed them down to the end of the table. They bounced off the rail and onto the green felt. His point was ten.

Luke smiled because ten was a hard point for the shooter. There were only three ways to make ten… the six-four, the four-six, and the double five. There were six ways to make seven, which made the odds two-to-one against the shooter on the point, but if he won, the bet only paid off at even money. That was the edge for the house. Luke didn't see Duffy's hand go to his wheelchair arm, extract the doctored dice, then palm the house dice in his other hand. He held the two fives in his palm for twenty seconds, shaking them by his ear, stalling so he could warm the cellophane gas, turning it solid.

"Want the hard five," Duffy shouted. "Gimme five thousand on the hard five."

Beano threw the chips out and Duffy threw the loaded dice. They hit and rolled and came up ten, the hard way.

"Eeeeaaahhh," Duffy shouted and then began to gag and choke.

"Pay the line. Pay the hard ten," the Stick-man droned.

Luke watched as thirty thousand dollars was pushed up against the rail where Duffy was sitting. Duffy quickly retrieved his doctored dice and palmed the casino's original dice back into the game. He bet another twenty thousand on the come line and rolled the casino dice again.

"Point is four. Four is the point," the Stick-man droned. Four is also a two-to-one bet against the shooter.

"Double odds on the four," Duffy wheezed, making his first really shrewd bet. In craps it is possible, after rolling a point, to bet twice your original bet as an odds bet. That meant if he made the four he would get paid on the original bet at even money, but the odds bet, which was twice as large as his original bet, would pay off at two to one, or at the correct odds. Luke Zigman didn't like the fact that this deadwood player had stopped making sucker bets and was now playing smart.

"Be good to Daddy, be good, be good," Harry said as he pulled the casino dice out of the game and switched them for a loaded pair of hard fours he secretly snapped out of the wheelchair arm. He rolled the loadies.

"Hard four, a winner. Pay the line, pay the odds bet," the Stick-man said, and looked over at Luke. The old duck had won back all of the money he'd lost that afternoon in two rolls.

Luke picked up the phone, turned his back to the table, and dialed the office again. "Mr. Buzini, this guy just hit us twice for over fifty grand. You wanna leave this no-limit on?"

"Is he still betting stupid?"

"No. All of a sudden he's turned into a player."

"Float the dice. If they're okay, leave it on, but keep me posted."

Luke hung up and turned around as the Stick-man was about to push Duffy's dice back to him with the curved stick. Luke scooped them up off the table, looked for the imperfect S, then dropped them into a glass. They all watched as the dice floated but didn't roll. The cellophane had already returned to its natural, gaseous state.

"Want my lucky dice," Duffy wheezed angrily.

"Okay, let's play," Luke said and the doctored dice were dried with a napkin and pushed back to Duffy, who palmed them immediately off the table and replaced them with the casino's original dice.

Now Duffy pushed out the whole fifty thousand dollars he'd just won. "Let 'er go," he said. And then he began to wheeze and cough and cause a huge distraction to take everybody's mind off his bet. His body started to convulse. The few people who were in the casino had found their way to the crap table.

The Stick-man counted the fifty-thousand-dollar bet and became nervous about letting it stand.

"We'll allow twenty," he said, finally making his decision. "That's the new table limit."

Duffy was shaking his withered body. He was beginning to convulse slightly.

"Uncle Harry, you've got to take your medicine. You'll have one of your seizures if you don't take it now."

"Fuck it. Fuck the medicine," Duffy wheezed. "These ass wipes was perfectly willing to take my money when I was losing with no limit. Now… I'm winning, all of a sudden we gotta new set of rules." The people standing around murmured their assent. They agreed it didn't seem fair. Duffy was shaking badly now, his chest heaving torturously.

Luke called for Arnold Buzini, who now hurried out onto the floor and was witnessing the disturbance. Some of the other players were now siding loudly with Duffy.

Luke looked up at Buzini questioningly, and the Shift Manager nodded his approval.

"Okay, we'll accept the bet," Luke said.

Duffy grinned and shook and drooled slightly as he picked up the casino dice and rolled them.

"Seven, a winner," the Stick-man said, and Duffy's bet was matched. A hundred thousand dollars was now out on the green felt.

"Let the fucker ride," Duffy wheezed. "Let 'er ride."

"Take the medicine, Uncle Harry," Beano said. "You'll have a convulsion."

"Shut the fuck up," Duffy croaked, his arm now started convulsing as he reached for the dice. He dropped them once, had trouble regaining them, and finally rolled them feebly. They barely hit the rail at the end of the table.

"Point is eight."

"Eighter from Decatur." Duffy shook and wheezed.

"What the hell's wrong with him?" Buzini said.

"He's epileptic. He won't take his medicine. Says it jinxes him."

"Sir, you should take your medicine," Buzini said.

"Go fuck a duck," Duffy replied. "Eighter from Decatur. Come to Papa," he drooled and switched the dice again. Now, with the doctored eights in his hand, he warmed them… holding them in his palm while Beano shoved the bet out. Duffy rolled the loaded dice and won.

"Winner. Pay the line," the Stick-man said.

There was now over half-a-million dollars in chips on the table.

"Float 'em," Buzini demanded again, and Luke grabbed the dice off the table, first checking them under an ultraviolet light for the stripe of color, and then dropped them in a glass of water. Buzini leaned in and watched closely. They didn't roll.

"The Price Is Right," Duffy trumpeted. "My lucky dice. Harry wants them bones." Duffy now started to shake slightly in the seat of the chair. He looked very sick. His head was lolling, he was losing control of his convulsing arm.

"Sir, I think you should see a doctor," Buzini said.

"I'm winnin', so I'm grinnin'. Gotta go. Gotta go. Luck's on my side. Let 'er ride."

Buzini was looking at the pile of gold chips on the table. He knew that one house roll would bring the casino back to even. He also knew this was loser's logic, but he didn't know what to do. "Get Tommy on the phone," he said to Luke. Buzini didn't want a million-dollar loss on his shift report. He wanted to be taken off point. He'd get Tommy Rina to approve the action.

Luke looked at his watch. "It's three-forty-five A.M.," he said.

"There's half-a-million bucks on the table. Call him. He'll wanna know."

Luke started to dial while they all waited.

"Gotta go, gotta go. What's the problem? Gotta go," Duffy complained, stirring the crowd, most of whom were also now betting and winning with him.

"Who the fuck is this?" Calliope's sleep-filled voice said over the phone. She was in the bed in the large private villa Joe owned, adjacent to the hotel.

"This is Luke, in the casino. Gotta talk to Tommy. Put him on."

"Tommy ain't here, the little prick. God knows where the fuck Tommy is," she said, and slammed down the receiver.

Luke looked at Buzini and shook his head.

"Gotta go, gotta go. Let's do it… gotta go," Duffy started shouting. Buzini didn't know what to do.

"For God's sake, let him shoot. He's getting so excited he's gonna have a grand mal. You haven't seen anything till you've seen one of those fuckers," Beano warned.

"Okay. New dice. Let's roll 'em," Buzini said, as two Pit Bosses from ajoining tables wandered over to watch.

They brought out a new set of casino perfects. Buzini checked them, then dropped them on the table. They were pushed over to Duffy.

Duffy tapped them on the green felt then rolled a six.

"Point is six. Good point for the shooter," the Stick-man droned.

And now, under the careful scrutiny of three sets of eyes, Duffy went to the arm of the wheelchair and performed his short hand magic, switching the dice as the trained Pit Bosses stared directly at his hands. They never saw the switch, never saw it happen. He put the loaded dice in his palm, held them, heated them and rolled them.

"Six, a hard-way winner," the Stick-man said, and now Duffy had a million dollars in chips. There were so many, they couldn't lie in front of him on the green felt and still leave the table clear for play.

"Let 'er ride," Duffy wheezed and the twenty or so spectators cheered.

"Get Joe in New Jersey," Buzini said, sweat starting to form on his forehead.

Luke grabbed his phone and called the emergency number for Joe Rina.

"Let 'er ride."

"No, sir, you can't bet a million until I get an approval."

"Whatta buncha ass wipes," Duffy growled. He wheezed, his arm quivering on the table rail where it was resting.

Joe came awake instantly when the phone rang. It was almost four A.M. He knew this call had to be important. Nobody would call him at four in the morning unless it was a wrong number, a disaster, or somebody looking to get his face rearranged.

"What is it?" he said.

"Just a minute, sir," Luke said. "I have Arnold Buzini from the Sabre Bay casino."

He handed the phone to Buzini, who cleared his throat and watched as Duffy and Beano argued about his medicine. "Sir, we have a little situation here," he said softly. "We have a big winner on the number three crap table. He's hit us for over a million dollars… in less than an hour. This guy is white-hot. And a buncha other players are slip-streaming with him."

"You check the dice?"

"Yes, sir. They're okay… least they seem to be."

"Tommy's down there. Get Tommy."

"We can't find Tommy, sir. He's not in your villa. We don't know where he is."

Joe sat up in bed. Sometimes Tommy's lack of responsibility was startling. He was great when it came to wet-work, great at clipping somebody you wanted to put down, but when it came to just common-sense business, he was lame. Joe stifled a flash of anger at his brother and tried to clear his head of sleep and concentrate. "Okay, this guy on any of our sheets?"

"No, sir. His name is Harry Price. Old guy in a wheelchair. He owns a car lot in Fresno. His nephew is named Douglas. Says on his credit-ap he's an unemployed oil company geologist. The Eye-in-the-Sky was watching them. They're either very good or they're not cheating."

"Okay, here's what you do," Joe said. "Put the table limit at fifty thousand. You let them roll once more to buy some time. While they're doing that, go through their room. If it's clean, plant something… dope, anything. Call the Bahamian Patrol. If your player gets angry or starts an incident, close the table for an accounting. Pay them slowly to stall them, but don't let them out of the hotel with the money. We'll bust 'em for drugs and then take their winnings. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And tell my brother I wanna talk to him soon as you find him."

"Yes, sir." Buzini hung up the phone. "Okay, table limit is fifty thousand, you can roll," he said to Duffy, who started to bitch that the no-limit was off. Buzini didn't stick around to listen. He moved to another pit area, picked up the phone, and ordered Security to come to table three and to notify the Bahamian Patrol they had a possible drug problem. Then he called his assistant and told him what to plant in Duffy's High-roller suite on the tenth floor.

"Same shooter, new point," the Stick-man said. Beano bet the new lower table limit of fifty thousand dollars, grumbling at the casino Manager as he did. As they pushed the dice over to Duffy, he was quivering with anger.

"Buncha cheap fucks," Duffy muttered, as he picked up the dice.

"Come to Daddy. Seven come eleven," and he pitched the dice to the end of the table and they came up nine.

"Nine. The point is nine."

Beano could tell from the phone calls and the furtive looks that they were about to get closed down. He nudged Duffy in warning, so Duffy didn't go for the loadies and instead rolled the casino dice. After three rolls, he sevened out. The crowd around the table let out a sad collective breath and the dice were passed.

"Cash me in," Duffy growled.

"This table's closed while we do the count," Buzini instructed, but the other players stayed there and watched as the old man's chips were counted. The process took almost fifteen minutes.

"One million one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. How do you want that, sir?" Luke Zigman asked.

"Cash fucking money," Duffy yelled, and the people at the table laughed.

They rolled a cart out from the cage and made a big deal of counting the money and laying the packs of bills in Duffy's lap. Beano had brought the small, blue folding bag which, had Buzini and Zigman stopped to think, would have seemed very strange. Beano packed the money into the bag. Once it was all in, he started to roll Duffy out of the casino. Security guards were everywhere now and Duffy, with the bag on his lap, was stopped from leaving just a few feet away from the casino main entrance. Buzini stood in front of them, blocking their exit. "I'd like to buy you a congratulatory drink; maybe we could get some pictures of you with the money for the newspaper. It's good for the casino to publicize big winners," he said, as thirty or so spectators gathered around.

"Don't drink. Hate having my picture took," Duffy croaked, but now he was shaking so badly that he was actually wiggling all over the chair. Several of the Security men had their hands on the arms of the chair so Beano couldn't leave.

"Harry, you're about to have one a your seizures," Beano warned.

"You sure we can't put that money in the safe for you?" Buzini said.

Then the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance and Duffy looked up at Arnold Buzini, rolled his eyes back in his head, and suddenly convulsed. His legs shot out straight and his neck went rigid. He catapulted out of the chair, onto the floor.

"Oh, my God, he's having an epileptic fit," Beano screamed, pumping the atmosphere with adrenaline and confusion. "Call a doctor! Call an ambulance!" he shouted.

Duffy was on the floor; his legs shot out, his back arched, he gagged as he inhaled.

The cops from the Bahamian Patrol now came running into the casino. Several of them were met by the Assistant Manager and led off to the tenth floor to find bags of pure heroin that were planted in Duffy's room.

Duffy was convulsing terribly. A ring of people stood helplessly with their hands up to their mouths in horror.

During all of this, Beano had managed to slip silently out of the casino with the bag full of money. He moved to the parking lot, and Victoria pulled up in the blue van. He jumped in the back. Roger-the-Dodger put his paws up on the seat and looked back at him.

An ambulance arrived a few minutes later and the attendants ran inside. When they reached Duffy, he appeared to be unconscious. When they pried open his mouth, they found he had swallowed his tongue. They cleared it out to open the airway.

"This man is in critical condition," a paramedic announced.

"Where the fuck is the other guy?" Buzini said, finally realizing that Beano had disappeared with the cash. "The guy with the bag. Where's the guy with the bag?" Buzini said, in a panic.

But Beano wasn't in the casino.

The paramedics pushed Buzini out of the way. They got the roiling stretcher from the back of the ambulance and loaded Duffy aboard. They wheeled the unconscious man out and into the back of the yellow and white ambulance. Then, with red lights and sirens, they roared away, heading for the Community Hospital, ten miles to the west. Nobody noticed the van that followed.

Fit-Throwing Duffy sat up in the back of the ambulance and looked at the startled paramedics.

"I'm okay now. Feel much better. Thanks," he said. "I'll just get out here."

"Lie down, mon," the startled attendants ordered. Duffy got off the rolling stretcher and moved to the back of the ambulance, but the door was locked. Duffy tried to open it but couldn't.

"Get back on that stretcher," the young Bahamian paramedic commanded.

"Go fuck yourself," Duffy shot back.

They were now almost to the hospital. Beano could see that Duffy wasn't going to be able to get out unless they did something drastic. "Gotta stop the ambulance," Victoria said, picking up his exact thought. She gunned the van, shot around the ambulance, hit the brakes, and threw the van into a four-wheel drift right beside the ambulance. Once she was sideways in the lane next to the ambulance, she floored it; the tires caught hold, smoking and squealing on the pavement. She was now perpendicular to the ambulance, and as the Bahamian driver hit the brakes in panic, she T-boned the yellow and white ambulance, pinning it against the curb. The ambulance and van both smoked to a stop. Roger was thrown off the seat to the floor with a yelp. Beano jumped out and yanked open the back door of the ambulance. Duffy leaped out and ran for the van. Beano wasn't far behind. An ambulance attendant had jumped out and was running after them, but Victoria now had the van in reverse. She backed up and skidded the van around and cut the attendant off. The van engine was smoking, the radiator leaking water. Beano and Duffy jumped in the open door on the opposite side as the ambulance attendant banged on Victoria's locked door, trying to pull it open.

"Come back here, that's our patient," the attendant screamed as Victoria floored it and squealed away, heading in the opposite direction.

Beano looked over at her, surprised, as Roger-the-Dodger jumped back up on the seat between them.

"You okay?" Victoria asked Duffy, who nodded.

"Not my best fit but certainly in the top ten," Fit-Throwing Duffy grinned, as they roared away.

They could hear sirens coming toward them. Beano knew that Buzini was heading toward them with the police. "Turn right, across the field!" he yelled.

Victoria turned the blue van right and crashed through a fence and drove across the soft ground. She could barely control her progress in the soft dirt but managed to keep the van slip-sliding on course, heading southwest. The van fishtailed and threw up a plume of brown dirt that was visible from the road in the lightening sky. Through the back window, Beano could see the cop cars pull up and park next to the ambulance. Several of the police, plus a fuming Buzini, got out and looked at them across the field. They had gained distance, but now the police cars backed up and gave chase, roaring out through the broken fence, across the field after them.

They arrived at the Deep Water Airfield at five past six; the morning sun was just over the rim of the hill.

"If my cousin Lee isn't on time, we're all going to jail," Beano said as Victoria pulled the van onto the runway tarmac and came to a screeching stop. Parked at the end of the runway was a red and gray King Air twin-engine plane.

"There," Duffy said, pointing.

Victoria floored it. By now the police cars were in view, coming along the airport frontage road, their sirens braying. Victoria drove the van full-speed to the plane. Beano jumped out before Victoria had even brought it to a complete stop. He ran to the pilot leaning against the wing. "Lee, get this thing up right now!"

Leland X. Bates looked off at the approaching squad cars and shook his head in dismay.

"Usually you're a little smoother than this," Lee said, moving quickly into the plane. The squad cars were now on the runway and racing toward them.

Duffy, Victoria, and Roger-the-Dodger, toting the blue canvas bag, were already out of the van and running to the King Air.

Inside the plane, Leland was looking at the approaching police cars as he set the throttles and began to start the starboard engine. "It'll be tight but let's give it a go," he said as he revved the starboard engine, then immediately started the port. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna scrap the preflight," he said, as the second engine coughed to life. He throttled up. The squad cars were only three hundred yards away as Leland shouted, "Hold on…"

The King Air roared down the runway directly at the police cars, which had come to a stop across the center of the tarmac to block him. But they had left too much runway and, just before the plane hit the nearest car, Leland pulled back the yoke and the plane lifted off… They heard one of the tires leave a patch of rubber on the roof of the nearest police car as they skimmed over.

"Holy shit," Victoria said, her heart slamming in her chest as she clutched Roger-the-Dodger in her arms. Then she looked over at Beano, who was grinning.

"Even more exciting than my first night in jail," he said.

Duffy smiled. He was still out of breath and his chest hurt; he was pooped. Throwing a convincing epileptic fit was damn hard work.

Then the little plane turned west and headed out over the inland cut toward Miami.