Sucker Bet

27

Climbing into his father’s Honda, Gerry said, “Pop, no offense, but your car smells like something died in it. It’s time.”

Valentine pulled away from Club Hedo’s valet stand, got onto Collins Avenue, and headed north in heavy traffic. “For what?”

“A new set of wheels. You’ve got the dough. What about a Beamer, or a Lexus?”

That was the thing about his son’s generation; they assumed that if you had money, you were dying to spend it. Valentine’s generation was exactly the opposite. If you had it, you wanted to keep it. “I like this car,” he said.

They drove in silence. Then his son popped the question.

“So, are you going to tell me, or what?”

“Tell you what?”

“How you know all that stuff about Rico.”

“No,” he said.

“At least tell me how you read the backs of those cards.”

“You didn’t believe what I told him?”

“About throwing your eyes out of focus?” Gerry pointed at his left eye. “This eye is out of focus. There was no writing on the back of those cards.”

“So why don’t you get glasses?”

“Pop, stop beating around the bush, would you?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because it’s important,” his son said.

Valentine was missing something. He glanced sideways and saw his son’s mouth tighten. “Don’t tell me,” he said.

Gerry stared through the windshield. “Afraid so.”

A few hundred decks of Riverboat playing cards had been sold to small-time hoodlums across New England by enterprising Riverboat employees. Every cop in Atlantic City knew about it, but no one had done anything. It was too damn funny.

“How much did you pay for them?”

“Five hundred bucks,” his son said.

The gift shop inside the Fontainebleau’s main lobby was empty. Taking a deck of cards off a rack, Valentine dropped it on the counter and took out his wallet. A jolt went through his spine as the cashier rang it up.

Gerry had laid claim to a couch in the lobby. As Valentine unwrapped the deck, his son sat at rapt attention, oblivious to the bevy of half-clad young ladies strolling about.

“Shuffle them,” his father said.

Gerry gave the cards a good mix. Valentine took them back, shuffled them some more, then took the top card and held it between his thumb and first finger.

“King of spades,” he announced.

Gerry took the card and turned it over. “Do it again,” he said.

Valentine repeated the trick, expecting his son to catch on.

“Come on, Pop. You’re killing me.”

“It’s called the one-ahead principle. When you handed the deck back to me, I spotted the bottom card, which was the king of spades. I shuffled, and brought the king to the top.” He did an overhand shuffle, showing his son how easy it was to bring the bottom card to the top. “With me so far?”

Gerry nodded, his eyes never leaving the pack.

“Now, when I take the top card off in my right fingers, I already know what it is. I pretend like I’m reading the back of the card, while I’m actually learning the identity of the new top card of the deck.”

“How?”

“It’s called the bubble peek. I squeeze the top card of the deck with my left thumb. The front corner of the card hits my left forefinger, which rests along the top of the deck, and the corner bubbles up.”

Holding the deck as if for dealing, he exposed the move to his son. “Normally, sitting as close as you are, you’d spot this. The reason you don’t is because the card in my right hand hides it from your line of vision. But the card doesn’t hide it from mine.”

Valentine shifted his arms so Gerry could see the cards from his angle. He did the bubble peek again, and said, “See it?”

“It looks like the four of clubs.”

Valentine turned the top card over. “You learn fast,” he said.

“I bet you can do that all night long,” his son said. “Does it take much practice?”

“Couple of hours in front of a mirror.”

“Show me.”

Valentine gave him half the deck and walked him through it. Within a few minutes, his son was “reading” the backs of the cards like a pro. They got onto an elevator filled with giggling young girls in bikinis, and Gerry immediately began to flaunt his newfound skill.

“Wow,” one of the girls gushed, “you’re good!”

Nigel and Candy ate lunch in their bungalow.

Eating the Delano’s food every day had gotten Candy spoiled. Fresh seafood and steaks covered in special sauces, potatoes served a dozen different ways, salads with fruits she’d never heard of and couldn’t pronounce, homemade desserts to die for. So when Nigel had said, “Let’s order a Domino’s pizza,” she hadn’t realized what a letdown it would be, the pie swimming in grease when it arrived, the pudgy pizza boy standing in his goofy uniform in the doorway, staring at the furnishings, then Nigel, then her.

To wash the pizza down, Nigel ordered a bucket of Shiner Bocks from room service. He’d discovered the beer in Texas while touring. After downing four, his drunkenness went to the next level. Soon his eyes were at half-mast, his chin dotted with tomato sauce.

“I want to ask you a question,” she said.

He smothered a belch. “By all means.”

“What’s the deal between you and Rico?”

“We’re partners in a business venture.”

“He’s a scumbag. I don’t like you getting involved with him.”

“I thought he was your friend.”

“You don’t need to be hanging out with swindlers. Or pulling scams.”

“So he’s not your friend anymore.”

She reached out and took his hand. “Not as much as you’re my friend.”

Nigel smiled. “I’ve been hanging out with crooks my whole life. They’re called record producers and concert promoters. And look where it’s gotten me.”

“Rico is different.”

The table they were eating at was covered with dead soldiers and pizza crusts. Nigel killed the last Shiner Bock, and Candy found herself wishing she had waited until he was sober to have this conversation. Sensing her displeasure, he took her hand and kissed it.

“No one’s going to get hurt except a bookie,” Nigel said.

“Will you show me?”

He said yes, went into the bedroom, and returned with his laptop computer. It was a paper-thin job with a carbon battery and a screen with better resolution than most TVs. Sitting beside her, he clicked on an icon, and Candy found herself staring at an Excel spreadsheet. In the left-hand columns were the names of hundreds of different colleges. In the right-hand columns, projected point spreads.

“You’re betting on basketball games,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said.

“You could lose.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. There’s no sure thing, unless Rico’s fixing the games.”

“Au contraire,” he said. “There is a system, and it has nothing to do with fixing the games. And it always wins. Want to see how it works?”

Candy felt her skin tingle. The stupidest damn things turned her on, like the smell of buttered popcorn and truck drivers with sweaty chests. Guys speaking in French was at the top of the list. Her hand dropped on Nigel’s crotch.

“You speak French.”

“Yes. I mean, oui.”

Candy squeezed the little dipper, and his drunken eyes lit up. “More,” she purred.

“Of course,” he replied. “But first, let me get out of these clothes.”