Sucker Bet

10

“You were telling me about Jacques when we got interrupted,” Valentine said to Mabel the next morning, trying to get back on track. It was eight-thirty, and his neighbor was at his office, manning the phones.

“He called yesterday in a tizzy,” Mabel said. “He checked the employee lockers like you suggested, only he didn’t find any of those tools you told him to look for. No sandpaper or drills or fast-drying cement. He thinks you were wrong about one of his employees doctoring the dice on his craps tables.”

He’d ordered room service, and a piece of toast hit the plate. “Is that what Jacques told you, that I was wrong? Why that stupid horse’s ass—”

“Tony! That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“All right, he’s not stupid.”

“Tony!”

“His casino is bleeding money, and he’s got the chutzpah to tell you I’m wrong.”

“He’s just frustrated.”

“Call him back, and have him inventory everything in those lockers. One of his employees is doctoring those dice. And I’m going to find out how.”

“You’re sure about this,” she said.

“One hundred percent sure. And you can tell Jacques that if I’m wrong, I’ll give him his money back.”

His neighbor fell silent. Valentine picked up the toast and bit into it. The end was burned and tasted like soot. He ate it anyway.

“Will you really give him all the money back if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong. One of his employees is doctoring the dice. That’s why his casino lost a half-million bucks.”

“Couldn’t a player have gotten lucky? It happens, you know.”

Had anyone else said that, Valentine would have laughed into the phone. Once in Atlantic City, a computer geek had gotten arrested for scamming a keno game by using a software program to predict the winning numbers. As he was handcuffed, the geek had asked the arresting officer a question. “How did you know I was cheating?”

“Easy,” the officer replied. “No one’s ever won the Keno jackpot before.”

Sometimes players got lucky, and sometimes people got hit by lightning. Not coincidentally, the odds of the two events happening were about the same.

After saying good-bye to his neighbor, Valentine called Bill Higgins.

As director of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, Bill ran the most powerful gaming enforcement agency in the country. His team of four hundred agents monitored every Nevada casino and gaming establishment. Bill’s voice mail picked up, and Valentine remembered that it was three hours earlier on the West Coast, and left a short message.

He decided to go downstairs and take a walk. On his way out, he glanced at the surveillance tape of Jack Lightfoot lying on the chair. It had been bugging him that Lightfoot had helped a player win eighty-four hands in a row. No one was that good.

He skipped the walk and watched Lightfoot on the room’s VCR. He was a skinny Indian in his late twenties who handled the cards well. At his table sat an old hippie with a pretty redhead hanging on his arm. Lightfoot dealt the round. The hippie played seven hands and won all seven.

“Huh,” Valentine said.

Lightfoot dealt another round. The hippie won every hand. Then he did it ten more times. The ten-dollar limit did not diminish the enormity of the feat, and a crowd gathered, clapping and cheering. The redhead acted like she was going to screw the hippie on the table—there was that much electricity in the room.

Valentine grabbed a Diet Coke from the minibar, a six-ounce bottle for three bucks. His one great addiction was Diet Coke. He rewound the tape and watched it from the beginning. By the time it was over, his drink was gone, and he was scratching his head.

Jack Lightfoot had him stumped.

The Fontainebleau had a fancy gift shop in the promenade. Valentine placed two I Love Miami decks of playing cards on the counter. A female cashier with a layer-cake haircut rang up the sale.

“Fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents, please.”

“How much are they?”

“Seven-fifty apiece, plus tax.”

“That’s highway robbery,” he said.

She stuck a hand on her hip. “So just buy one.”

“But I need two.”

“Fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents, please.”

He was fuming when he got back to his room. He hated getting ripped off, especially in a joint as pricey as this. Why not just have a giant at the front door who picked you up by the ankles and shook until your money fell out of your pockets?

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he turned on the TV. Lightfoot’s face filled the screen. He had seen plenty of blackjack cheats over the years, and none were capable of dealing eighty-four winning hands in a row. The random order of a shuffled deck of cards simply didn’t allow it. Which meant Lightfoot was using a cooler.

Two-deck coolers were hard to bring into a game, but it happened. Most likely, a confederate wearing an arm sling had sat down at Jack’s table. The confederate had switched the casino’s cards for the cooler residing in his sling. To shade the move, a third member of the gang had “turned” the pit boss by asking him a question.

For the cooler to work, Lightfoot needed to false shuffle. Mechanics used one of three false shuffles to get the money: the push-through, strip-out, and Zarrow. Each created a convincing illusion of the cards being mixed. But each also had a tell that a trained eye could detect.

Staring at the TV, Valentine mimicked Lightfoot’s shuffling with the cards he’d bought in the gift shop.

Lightfoot’s shuffles were slow and deliberate, the way they taught in dealer’s school. After a few minutes, it became apparent that when he telescoped the cards together, they were being honestly mixed. Which meant Valentine still didn’t know what Lightfoot was doing. And had wasted fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents.

He killed the TV. The screen faded to black, a tiny white dot pulsating in its center. The elbow he’d used to crack the alligator had started to throb. He’d dreamed about that alligator last night and had a feeling he’d dream about him again. A real keeper.

The phone on the night table rang. He let voice mail pick up, then retrieved his message. It was Bill Higgins.

“Did you find Jack Lightfoot?” Bill asked when he called back.

“No,” Valentine said.

“Any idea where he went?”

Valentine hesitated. Pieces to this puzzle were missing, and he felt certain Bill was holding a couple of them. “I think he ran.”

“From what?”

“Jack Lightfoot was cheating the Micanopys at blackjack.”

Bill breathed heavily into the phone. “You’re sure about this.”

“Positive.”

Valentine’s leg had fallen asleep from sitting on the floor. Standing, he jerked open the sliding glass door and went onto the balcony. The sun was spitting a thousand flecks of gold off the ocean. He stretched and felt the feeling return to his leg.

“Did the Micanopys let you talk to any of his friends?” Bill asked.

“I’m not a cop anymore, Bill.”

A prop plane passed over the hotel, and Valentine clapped his hand over his cell phone. Tied to the plane’s tail was a red and white banner: CLUB HEDO—SOUTH BEACH’S PREMIER MEN’S CLUB. When the plane was gone, he took his hand away.

“You’re sure he was cheating,” Bill said.

Valentine heard a loud racket on Bill’s end. It sounded like someone vacuuming the carpet. Then the noise disappeared.

Going to the edge of the balcony, he leaned over the railing. The prop plane had passed the last hotel on the beach and was heading toward Key Biscayne. He sucked in his breath, the deception hitting him like a punch in the stomach.

Bill was on Miami Beach.