Sucker Bet (2 page)

Running Bear stopped the tapes. Sipping his coffee, he listened to the air conditioner outside his window. His casino had been ripped off by a dealer recommended by the most respected gaming official in the country. And that dealer was working with a mobster.
It doesn’t get any worse than this,
he thought.

The door opened. The casino’s head of security, Harry Smooth Stone, stepped in. He was out of breath.

“More problems,” Smooth Stone said.

Running Bear pushed himself out of his chair. Thirty years wrestling alligators had put arthritis in every joint in his body, and he grimaced as his bones sang their painful song. Had he disgraced a dead ancestor recently and not realized it? There had to be some reason for this sudden spate of bad luck.

They drove Smooth Stone’s Jeep across the casino parking lot. Jumping a concrete median, they went down a narrow dirt road through thick mangroves that led into the heart of the Everglades. For centuries, the Micanopys had lived in harmony with the alligators, panthers, and bears that called this land home, and had been rewarded in ways that few humans could appreciate.

Ten minutes later, Smooth Stone pulled into a clearing and parked beside a large pool of water. Running Bear knew the spot well; in the spring, alligators came here to mate and, later, raise their young. A half-dozen tribe members with fishing poles stood by the water’s edge, looking scared.

Running Bear got out of the Jeep. The men stepped aside, revealing a body lying facedown in the water. It was a man, and he’d been shot once in the head. His left forearm had been chewed off, as had both his feet. Someone had hooked him by the collar. Running Bear said, “Flip him over.”

The men obeyed. The dead man was covered with mud, and one of the men filled a bucket out of the lake and dumped it on his face. Running Bear knelt down, just to be sure.

Back in his trailer, Running Bear thumbed through the stack of business cards he kept in his desk. He had decided to dump Jack Lightfoot’s body in nearby Broward County—the men in the limo had been white, so let white men deal with the crime—and Smooth Stone was on the phone making arrangements.

“Done,” his head of security said, hanging up.

Running Bear found the card he was looking for and handed it to Smooth Stone. “Call this guy and hire him. Tell him everything, except our finding the body.”

Smooth Stone stared at the card in his hand.

Grift Sense
International Gaming Consultant
Tony Valentine, President
(727) 591-5115

“He catches people who cheat casinos,” Running Bear
explained.

“You think he can help us?”

Running Bear heard the suspicion in Smooth Stone’s voice. Bringing in an outsider was a risk, but it was a chance he had to take. Jack Lightfoot had cheated them. If word got out that his dealers were crooked, their business would dry up overnight. The casino was the reservation’s main revenue source: It paid for health care, education, and a three-thousand-dollar monthly stipend to every adult. If it fell, so did his people.

“I heard him lecture at a gambling seminar,” Running Bear said.

“Any good?”

Running Bear nodded. He’d learned more about cheating listening to Tony Valentine for a few hours than he’d learned running a casino for ten years.

“The best,” he said.

1

“So what did you do before you got into this racket?” the security guard yelled into his ear.

“I was in the consulting business,” Tony Valentine said.

“What field?”

“Casinos. I caught crossroaders.”

They were standing in the aisle of the Orlando Arena, the seats filled with rabid wrestling fans. Up in the ring, Gladys LaFong was grappling with Valentine’s girlfriend, a knockout named Kat Berman. Their stage names were Vixen and Judo Girl, and it was their act the fans had come to see. Valentine was just a prop, not that it particularly bothered him. Kat was going to be a star one day, and he did not mind standing in her shadow.

“Transvestites?” the guard asked.

“Hustlers who rip off casinos. That’s what we call them.”

“And you caught them?”

“All day long.”

The women’s choreographed mayhem had whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Gladys was losing and not being a good sport about it. Donny, her husband and manager, climbed through the ropes. Grabbing Kat by her hair, he yanked her clean off the canvas.

Valentine felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Zoe, Kat’s smart-mouth twelve-year-old. Her eyes were ringed by black mascara, her lips a menacing brown. Did boys her age really get turned on by fright masks?

“Know what you look like?” Zoe asked.

“No.”

“A giant banana.”

His clothes were the job’s only pitfall. As part of his contract with the promoter, he had to wear a neon yellow suit with padded shoulders that made him look like a comic-book character. Donny’s suit was purple and made him look like a grape. Their audiences drank a lot of beer and needed constant reminding of who was who.

“Hey,” Zoe said, “you’re on!”

Valentine climbed through the ropes into the ring. Donny was bouncing Kat by the hair, and fake blood poured down her chin. After Valentine had lost his wife, he’d wondered if he’d ever be happy again. Then he’d met Kat during a job in Atlantic City. It wasn’t a perfect relationship, but she made him feel good, and that was all he cared about these days. He tapped Donny on the shoulder.

“Let her go,” he roared into the overhead mike.

“Get lost, old man,” Donny roared back.

“Yeah,”
someone in the crowd yelled,
“get lost, you old geezer!”

Valentine wasn’t getting lost. He twisted Donny’s free arm behind his back, and Donny released Kat. She ran across the ring and jumped on Gladys, who’d been standing in the corner, egging the crowd on. The script now called for Valentine to flip Donny over his shoulder. It was a move they’d practiced a thousand times. The big man stomped his foot on the canvas, signaling he was ready to be thrown.

“Go easy, okay?” Donny mumbled.

“You bet,” Valentine said.

The promoter was all smiles in the dressing room after the show. His name was Rick Honey, and he was a shaven-headed sanctimonious prick. Rick handed out their checks along with plane tickets to their next gig, a sold-out show in Memphis the following week. As Valentine peeked inside his envelope, Rick cast him a disapproving eye.

“What’s the matter, Tony, you don’t trust me?”

“You, I trust,” Valentine said. “Not your accountant.”

Zoe came into the dressing room. “For you,” she said, and handed Valentine her mother’s cell phone.

He took the call in the hall. Out of principle, he never left his cell phone on, and people were always tracking him down through Kat’s.

“It’s me,” Mabel Struck, his neighbor, said. Mabel was the other woman in his life. She ran his consulting business when he was out of town, which had been a lot lately. “I got a package earlier from a casino in South Africa. I just read the letter from the head of security and figured I’d better call you.”

Valentine glanced at his watch. Tuesday night, nine-thirty, and Mabel was still working. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“He’s desperate.”

“Mabel—”

“Tony, he sent you a check for five grand!”

“Certified?”

“Yes! I’m sorry, young man, but I grew up knowing the value of a dollar—”

“So did I.”

“And I’m not about to let you walk away from a small fortune, so listen up.”

Valentine was standing in a tunnel, the manufactured air cool on his face, and he shut his eyes while Mabel read the letter to him. The casino was called Jungle Kingdom, and the head of security spelled out the situation pretty clearly. The casino’s blackjack tables were bleeding money, and the casino suspected a high-rolling customer was ripping them off. The problem was, the casino didn’t have any proof and couldn’t have the man apprehended without fear of a lawsuit.

“We have watched the man play for a hundred hours,” Mabel read from the letter. “He plays with different dealers, which rules out collusion. We are also convinced that he is not card-counting. Sometimes, it appears he is reading the backs of the cards. We have examined the cards, and they appear absolutely clean. I have enclosed four decks for your inspection. Your help in this matter is most appreciated. Sincerely, Jacques Dugay.”

“Jacques Dugay? He worked in Atlantic City once.”

“Were you friends?”

“No, he’s a jerk. Go into my study and turn on the black light next to my desk.”

“I’m in your study,” his neighbor said. “There, the light’s on.”

“Place one of the decks under the light.”

“Okay. Oh, my. The cards lit up like a Christmas tree. Even I can read them, and I can hardly see. All right, how did you know that?”

“I did some work for a casino in South Africa last year. I noticed that they were using playing cards manufactured in the next town. It struck me as really stupid, so I told the management. They said they did it to save money.”

“You’re saying the cheats went into the playing card factory and marked all the decks that went to the Jungle Kingdom?”

“Yes. The cards are called luminous readers. The cheat marks them in the factory before they’re shipped. Cards treated with luminous paint can be read with special glasses or with tinted contact lenses, but not with the naked eye.”

“How do you know the cheater isn’t marking the cards at home, then having an employee bring them in?”

Mabel had been running his business for two months and already sounded like a pro. He explained how he’d reached his conclusion. “That employee would have to be a dealer or a pit boss. It’s a risky play, especially with the eye-in-the-sky. The safest way to get marked cards into a casino is by going to the plant and marking them there.”

Valentine felt a tug on his sleeve.

“The cake is melting,” Zoe said.

He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “You got a cake?”

“Chocolate ice cream. From Carvel.”

He took his hand away from the phone. “Mabel, I’ve got to beat it.”

“You still enjoying being a wrestler?” his neighbor asked.

“It’s a blast,” he said.

Zoe’s cake had started to sag, the inscription
MEAN GIRLS RULE
running down one side. Donny was holding an empty plate, waiting for Valentine to take a slice before going for seconds. Donny’s career as a pro football player had been cut short by injury, and he was the humblest guy Valentine had ever known. Kat and Gladys ate their cake leaning against the wall, looking bushed but happy.

Valentine found a chair and dug in. For him, the wrestling had been a welcome relief. He’d opened his consulting business to give himself something to do after Lois had died, having no idea of what he was in for. Back in ’78, when he’d started policing Atlantic City’s casinos, two states in the country had legalized gambling. Now there were thirty-eight, plus casinos on three hundred Indian reservations. Every one had been ripped off at least once, usually for huge sums. Most never knew it. Those that did, called him.

Which was why he enjoyed the wrestling. No pressure, no worries, his role a minor one. Best described, his life was a breeze, and when the dressing room door opened a minute later, he wasn’t ready to have it end. Especially by the handsome guy who waltzed in carrying a bouquet of flowers.

“Daddy!” Zoe yelled.

She rushed across the dressing room and hugged her father. As he tousled her hair, she let out a joyous squeal, and Valentine felt something drop in his stomach. In the six weeks he’d known Zoe, the best he’d done was a lame high five. Donny and Gladys tossed their plates in the trash and left.

“Hey, Ralph,” Kat said.

“Hey, beautiful,” her ex-husband said. “That was some show.”

“Didn’t know you liked wrestling.”

“No? I think I mentioned in one of my letters that I did.”

Valentine blinked. Ralph had deserted Kat and Zoe two years ago. Except for the monthly checks, Kat had said there had been no contact. Ralph crossed the room and handed Kat the flowers.

“Congratulations on your newfound fame.”

Zoe was hanging on to both her parents, a smile illuminating her face. It was as happy as a Norman Rockwell painting, and as Valentine pushed himself out of his chair, he caught his reflection in the dressing room mirror. The only thing out of place was the clown in the yellow suit. Kat followed him into the hall.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said.

“How many?” he asked.

“Four or five. We also talked a few times.”

The cop in him wanted to grill her. Had they chatted when Valentine was sleeping, or doing errands with Zoe? “You should have told me,” he said.

“I was afraid you’d leave.”

“Should I?”

Her lower lip trembled. “Damn it, Tony. Zoe asks about him. If my being nice to Ralph means he’ll be nice to Zoe, then I’ll do it.”

“How nice?” he said without thinking.

Kat slapped his face. Hard. Valentine stepped back, fearful of falling into the chasm that had opened between them.

“You want me to leave?” he asked.

“I want you to stop acting this way,” she said.

He took his car keys from his pocket. “You shouldn’t have lied to me,” he said. Then he walked away.

Ralph was eating the last slice of cake. Kat pulled up a chair, her head spinning. Tony had never been divorced and didn’t understand that you could hate someone, yet still care for them deep down. Although their marriage had ended ugly, with Ralph getting loaded and her dialing 911, there had been some bright spots.

Ralph took some quarters from his pocket and handed them to their daughter.

“Go buy your daddy a soda pop, okay?”

Zoe skipped out of the room, her feet barely touching the floor.

“So how do you like selling cars?” Kat asked.

Ralph undid the button on his jacket. His belly fell out, as round as a party balloon. “I quit last week.”

“What happened?”

He snorted contemptuously. “A man can’t soar with eagles when he has to wallow with pigs.”

It was Ralph’s favorite line. He’d used it after he’d quit as a bartender, fast-food restaurant manager, real estate salesman, and stockbroker. He removed some legal papers from his jacket and handed them to her. Kat read the first page, then looked up in disbelief. “What the hell is this?”

“I’m cutting off my alimony payments. You’re making a good buck, and I’m not. My lawyer said you won’t have a snowball’s chance in hell if you take me to court.” He took out a Bic and handed it to her. “So, if you’ll do me the pleasure of signing the last page.”

“Is this why you wanted to see me and Zoe?”

“It wasn’t the only reason.”

“This is so low.”

He shrugged. “Happens every day in America.”

“What am I going to tell Zoe?”

He shrugged again. “I really don’t like the makeup, if you want to know the truth.”

Kat felt something inside of her snap. Zoe had appeared in the doorway, a Mountain Dew dangling in her hand. Her mother ushered her into the hallway.

“Go get in the car,” Kat said.

Zoe glanced into the dressing room. Her father held a handful of legal-looking papers in one hand, a cheap pen in the other.
Shit,
she thought.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just do as I say,” her mother said.

Zoe came out of the underground tunnel to the parking lot behind the Arena just in time to see Tony’s ’92 Honda Accord pull out of its spot and drive away.

“Hey, Tony!”

She waved to him, hoping he’d stop, only he didn’t. God, how she hated Tony’s car. It was old and plain and had so many miles on it that the odometer had stopped. Tony had the money to buy something sexy—like a Mercedes or a Lexus—but he wouldn’t take the plunge. Zoe hated him for that. She and her mother deserved better than a smelly ’92 Honda.

Zoe watched him drive to the lot’s exit. His window came down, and he tossed something out. Then the car crossed the street and climbed the ramp to Interstate 4. Tony was a geezer, but he could be a lot of fun sometimes. Especially when hokey magicians were on TV. They never fooled him.

Walking over, she picked up the small box he’d tossed from his car. It was a gift, the wrapping paper bruised and torn. Standing beneath a bright halogen light, she tore away the paper and opened the lid. A cry escaped her lips as she stared at Tony’s gift to her mother.

It was so beautiful, she thought.