Sucker Bet

31

“You look like a bag of wet doughnuts,” Victor Marks said.

“It’s been a long week,” Rico admitted.

“Appearances are important,” Victor said, his tone scolding. “In this racket, they’re the most important thing you’ve got.”

They were sitting at the Seafood Bar in Victor’s favorite hangout, the Breakers in Palm Beach. The bar was an aquarium, and Victor identified the fish as they swam past. “The orange and white one is a clown fish. That one’s a purple damsel. And that big guy is a spotted eel. Every day, the eel eats one of the other fish. It costs the hotel a lot of money to keep replacing them. Know why they leave the eel in the aquarium?”

“No,” Rico said.

“Appearances.” Victor motioned for the bartender. “Two more,” he said, pointing at their glasses. When the bartender was gone, he said, “How’s the basketball scam going?”

“It’s going to be tough to pull off.”

“Of course it’s going to be tough to pull off. If pulling cons was easy, every blowhard from here to Cincinnati would be in the racket. You’ve got to play the part.”

“I’m trying.”

Victor touched Rico’s sleeve. “Look at me.”

“Okay.”

“What do you see?”

What Rico saw was the best-dressed guy in the hotel, an eighty-year-old with a perfect haircut and capped teeth and tailored clothes. He saw a guy he’d like to be one day.

“A guy on top of the world,” Rico said.

“That’s right. And I’m working a job, right now.”

“Here?”

“Yup. Surprised?”

“Yeah . . .”

“It’s called the confidence game, kid. You’ve got to exude confidence, otherwise you won’t fool a blind man.”

“What you got going?”

Victor dropped his voice. “I come here three or four times a year, and I always leave with a bag of money. Twenty grand, sometimes more. Pays for my vacation and the broad on my arm.”

Rico felt his spirits pick up. Victor did that to him. Victor was the epitome of what a criminal was supposed to be, the master of a universe of his own creating. Every pearl he passed along, Rico knew would bring him closer to his own dream.

“Come on. Tell me.”

“It’s the Titanic Thompson/Arnold Rothstein con.”

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t read the book I gave you?”

Rico lowered his head in shame. He hadn’t read a book in twenty years.

“No.”

Victor looked out the window as two well-kept women walked by. He spoke in a normal voice, no longer caring who heard. “I give you a book, you’re supposed to read it. Titanic Thompson was the greatest con man of the twentieth century. Arnold Rothstein was one of the greatest gamblers of the twentieth century. He fixed the 1919 World Series.”

“The Black Sox scandal,” Rico said.

“Go to the head of the class. One night in New York, Rothstein got into a poker game at the Roosevelt Hotel with a bunch of heavy hitters, one of whom was Thompson. Rothstein ends up losing half a million bucks. We’re talking 1927 here, which might make this the biggest pot ever.”

“Was Thompson cheating?”

“Of course he was cheating!”

Rico slumped in his bar chair. “How?”

“That’s the good part. Thompson had been watching Rothstein for years. He’d noticed that whenever Rothstein played poker, he always bought the cards himself. That way, the cards were always clean. So Thompson loaded marked decks in every gift shop and stationery store within a two-block radius of the hotel. When Rothstein showed up to the game and took two brand-new decks out of his pocket, Thompson knew they were his.”

Rico beamed. “Is that what you’re doing here, using marked cards?”

Their drinks came. Victor sipped his soda water, savoring the moment. “The hotel has its own decks of cards. I went to the plant and bribed them into changing the plates.”

“You mean all the decks in this joint are marked?”

“Heh, heh, heh,” Victor said.

Victor’s scam was a lot like Tony Valentine’s marked-deck scam. A real sweet deal. That was the thing about the old guys, Rico thought. They knew how to make money without getting their fingernails dirty.

Thinking about it reminded Rico why he’d asked Victor for a meeting, and he lowered his voice. “Victor, I have a problem.”

Victor was watching broads. A pair was standing outside, smiling and waving through the glass. Victor blew one of them a kiss. “I took her husband for ten grand, and she’s been flirting with me ever since. God, I love rich people.”

“A real problem.”

Victor turned in his chair. “What’s that?”

“A guy named Tony Valentine is putting the muscle on me.”

“Tony Valentine?”

“You know him?”

“He was a dick in Atlantic City. Made life miserable for me and my crew.” The fun had gone out of Victor’s voice. “What does he want?”

“A cut.”

“What for?”

“He knows about the scam I pulled at the Micanopy casino, and about Bobby Jewel.”

“How does he know that?”

“Dunno. I haven’t told the details to anybody but you, Victor.”

Victor’s eyes grew narrow. “Bull.”

“What do you mean?”

“You probably told the last broad who showed you her titties.”

“You think so.”

“Yeah. You’ve got a big mouth.”

Victor was talking to him like he was a punk, showing no respect. Rico didn’t like it. “The only person I told the details to was you, Victor.”

Victor took out his wallet and threw down his resort charge card, money not allowed on the property. The bartender said, “On the house, Mr. Marks,” and Victor put the resort card away. Under his breath he said, “Are you accusing me of ratting you out?”

“You’re the only one who knows.”

“You came to me six months ago, asked me to teach you the ropes. Said you wanted to screw a bookie out of a few million. So I taught you the rackets. And this is my reward?”

Rico grabbed the older man’s sleeve. “I didn’t tell nobody else.”

Victor slapped his hand on the bar so hard that a school of tiny fish disappeared. The bartender hurried toward them, a worried look on his face. Victor waved him off. Shaking free of Rico’s grasp, he said, “Go back to New York, kid. You’re out of your league down here.” Then he straightened his jacket and walked away.

Rico got out of the Breakers, but just barely. Two mean-faced security guards appeared within moments of Victor’s departure. They followed Rico to the valet stand and watched him get into his limo and drive off, the one in shades scribbling down his license number. Staring at them in his side mirror, Rico let out a stream of obscenities.

He drove through Palm Beach, drawing stares from other limo drivers, who wore hats and neckties. He needed another driver, someone to play the part, so he could play his part. Victor was right. Appearances were everything.

He drove west until he saw signs for the Florida’s Turnpike. There was no doubt in his mind that Victor had told someone. And that someone had told Valentine. It could have been anyone—a mutual friend, even a barber—but Rico had to find out who it was, before he told someone else.

He got on the turnpike and headed south. He needed to put the screws to Valentine and make him talk. Which was what he probably should have done in the first place.

Fishing out his wallet, he removed the napkin that Gerry Valentine had scribbled his phone number on, and dialed it on his cell phone.

“Fontainebleau hotel,” an operator answered.

This was going to be too easy, he thought.