Sucker Bet

44

Slash had torn the house apart.

Bound and gagged, Mabel watched him destroy the study, then listened as he moved through the house. Shelves were pulled out, glassware broken, the heirlooms and sentimental bric-a-brac that Tony and Lois had brought from Atlantic City tossed around like so much junk. Seeing him destroy things was hard. Hearing it was somehow worse.

When he returned, he was holding a sandwich. He untied her hands and removed the gag. “You want this?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Where did he hide the gun?”

“Tony must have taken it with him.”

“You better not be lying.”

The sandwich was baloney with mayo and tasted as good as anything she’d ever put into her mouth. Slash pulled up a chair and attached the David to his waist, then fitted the special boots on his feet.

“One more time,” he said.

The playing cards were on the desk, and Mabel picked them up. She shuffled, then dealt two hands. Slash’s cards were a six and a three. He wiggled his toes in his boots.

“The David just gave me two clicks,” he said.

“That means double-down on your bet,” Mabel said.

“Okay. Deal me another.”

Mabel dealt him a ten, making his total nineteen. Mabel’s hand was a seventeen, which the rules did not allow her to draw on. Slash had won.

They played another round.

“The David gave me a long buzz,” he said.

Mabel had written the David’s code on the pad. A long buzz meant stand, a short click meant take a hit, a double click meant double-down, and a short buzz meant split your hand. Slash hadn’t consulted the pad once, preferring to lean on her.

“Stand,” Mabel said.

He won again. He let out a whoop that sent a shiver down Mabel’s spine.

“I’m going to be rich,” he declared.

Yes, Mabel thought, you are. He was going to succeed, not because he was skilled at operating the David, but because he did not fit the profile of the cheaters who did. Those people were usually white males between the ages of thirty and fifty who spoke articulately and dressed well. Slash was none of those things, and would fly right by even the most seasoned surveillance personnel.

Only one thing was standing in his way. Her.

Rico’s arm was bleeding all over the seat. He’d looked at the wound and not seen any bone and decided that was a good thing. Driving north on I-95, he’d settled into the right lane and hit the cruise control, then used his knees to steer while making a makeshift bandage out of some paper napkins and rubber bands he found in the armrest. He glanced in his mirror at Valentine sitting in the backseat.

“Show me your hands,” Rico said.

Valentine turned sideways and lifted his arms. His wrists were tied together with twine, his hands clean.

“I’m going to make an example of you,” Rico said.

“Why’s that?”

“You fucked up the greatest score I’ve ever had.”

“I did?”

“You killed Bobby’s Cubans and stole my money.”

“Those Cubans were dead when I walked in.”

“Don’t play stupid with me. You and Gerry ripped off Bobby Jewel. The money you stole was going to net me four million bucks. Think about it when I gouge your eyes out.”

“You don’t have the guts,” his passenger said.

Rico started to draw his .45, and the limo swerved into the left lane. Horns blared and tires screeched. Rico realized that was exactly what Valentine wanted—to draw attention, and get someone to punch 911 on a cell phone. He straightened the wheel, and the exertion sent a burning sensation through his arm that made him want to scream.

“You’re history,” he said through clenched teeth.

Ray Hicks had given up trying to find Rico’s limo.

There was too much traffic on I-95 and not enough horsepower in his engine to race around in the blind hope of spotting him. Better to come back another day and settle this, he decided. He headed north toward Davie.

Crossing the Broward County line, Hicks saw smoke coming off the highway. A quarter mile ahead, a black limo was weaving drunkenly between lanes. Hicks floored his accelerator, and soon passed signs for Hallandale, Pembroke Pines, and Hollywood. Just north of Hollywood, the limo headed west on 595. Mr. Beauregard, who’d been aimlessly plucking chords, broke into the William Tell Overture. The music sent an icy chill down Hicks’s back.

Soon they were in the last undeveloped area of Broward County and heading toward the Everglades. Hicks saw the limo’s indicator come on. Rico was going onto the Micanopy Indian reservation.

Hicks followed him.

Mr. Beauregard continued to play chase music. It made Hicks’s heart race, and he had almost convinced himself the chimp was psychic, when he realized how foolish that was. Mr. Beauregard’s gift was sensing human emotions—like anger and fear—and picking the appropriate music to accompany those feelings. Had Mr. Beauregard truly been psychic, Hicks would have sold his carnival and put him on television.