The Hoods (33 page)

Then it was a shill's chance to shoot. He laid heavy. He made six passes in a row and won four grand. It renewed the suckers' interest in the game. It was obvious that the croupier, his assistant, and the shills were operating as a smooth team. The croupier was the boss in this set-up. He gave the signals to his assistants for the kind of dice to palm out to the customers. The shills watched his signals. It was that simple.

As we strolled away from the dice table, Cockeye remarked, “Dumb clucks!”

Patsy said, “Yeh. They never wise up that the winner is working for the house and has to return the money later.”

We walked along the sides of the room, easily spotting the gimmicks in the card games. They were all running full blast. A different kind of card game at practically every table. There was a smooth team working at each table, consisting of a dealer or banker in combination with a shill or a stick, supposedly on his own.

In one game, they were using the “paper” vernacular for marked cards. Every game had a slightly different set-up. The second game we watched took about three deals before we caught the crooked angle. It was a tiny mirror cleverly concealed in the dealer's ring. He could read every card he threw to the players.

In the third game, a sandpapered deck was used. We could tell by the way the banker felt the edges as he swiftly dealt out the cards.

We walked around with make-believe indifference, stopping for a moment at a table to watch. At another we participated in the play. Slicked aces were being used. They were so thoroughly waxed it was surprising no one wised up. The dealer, a professional sleight-of-hand artist, could pick them out of the deck, shift them to the bottom and pass them at will to any shill or to himself, wherever he thought they would do the house the most good. He was an artist at it.

The biggest game of all was being played at a poker table. No chips. Straight money was being bet. The opening was blind for a C note. The sky was the limit in this game. Max took a hand for awhile and the rest of us kibitzed. We watched closely. We knew there was something phoney, but we couldn't catch the gimmick. The only thing that struck me as peculiar was the way the dealer had his odd-colored eve-shade well over his eyes. One chump dropped six thousand dollars in the game in about twenty minutes.

We completed the rounds by throwing a few quarters into the slot machines. They were hidden way off in a corner. Even they were doped up. It was simple to detect: the middle bar was fixed, making the jackpot impossible to hit. We went to the cashier's window. Max turned in his chips for cash. We got into the Caddy. Driving back to the hotel, Maxie said, “The players certainly get a good screwing in that joint.”

“Yeh, and without vaseline,” Cockeye observed.

We stopped at a diner for hamburgers and coffee. We were sitting at a back table, and over our cigars we compared notes on the casino's crooked gambling.

“I dropped five grand in that joint,” Maxie remarked. He puffed at his cigar. “But, I'll get it back. Them bastards will pay through the nose before I'm finished with them.”

I said, “That dealer at the big poker game was a clever card, wasn't he?”

“He'll be dealt with,” Max said drily. “I'm wise to him. Did you guys notice the gimmick he was using?” Nobody answered. “Didn't you guys notice the eyeshade over his eyes?”

“Yeh, I noticed he was looking through it, but what?” I said.

“Noodles, I'm disappointed in you. It's what you call a luminous reader. Gather round, pupils.”

Maxie was all smiles. He was in his glory. He knew something I didn't know.

“You guys remember as kids we used to go into the five and dime store on Delancey Street and for a nickel get an envelope of pictures and a colored piece of isinglass?” We nodded. “Well, don't you get it? When we looked through the isinglass, the design on the pictures changed. The hidden picture appeared, remember? Well, chumps, the deck this dealer uses is a specially designed pack with tell-tale hidden markings on the backs of the cards that can only be read through colored isinglass. His eyeshade is made of colored isinglass.”

I looked at Max with admiration. “A pretty good deduction, Max.”

“Thank you, my dear Mr. Holmes,” he laughed.

“How about the wheel, Max? Did you figure that out?” I said.

“Nope,” he shook his head. “It's got me. But we'll look into it again tomorrow.”

“No quick action on these bastards, Max?” Patsy was impatient.

Maxie replied, “Well, I was thinking of calling the New York office and having them send me a couple of shabonies, you know, the demolition squad from Mulberry Street, to blow the joint apart. That would be quick action. But what the hell's our hurry? It's nice out here, and it's all on the Combination.”

“I guess you're right,” Patsy said. “We don't need help from them wild zulus.”

“Phil didn't want any violence, so we'll try if we can do it the smooth way,” Max said. “Let's go up to our rooms and have an honest game of stud.”

We drove to the hotel and played all night. Max sent the hired suits to Schwartz by bellhop with instructions to press and return them.

We slept until about seven p.m. Max called service. “I went to order some breakfast sent up.”

Evidently he was told on the other end of the wire it was an odd hour for breakfast.

He said impatiently, “Okay, okay, call it what you want, just send up some orange juice, ham and egg sandwiches, with coffee for four.”

After we had finished our light repast, Max called downstairs for some bathing shorts.

There were very few people on the beach.

Cockeye said, “It isn't as much fun as swimming in the East River in the moonlight, hanging on to the garbage tugs.”

Maxie said sarcastically, “But we'll make the best of it.”

We swam out quite a distance. Then we went up to our rooms, took showers and waited for our dress suits. Finally Mr. Schwartz came in, struggling under his load which he put down on the bed with a sigh.

“How are you boys? Enjoying?” he asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Schwartz,” I said. “We're having a pleasant vacation.”

We started dressing. Mr. Schwartz sat around smoking, making inconsequential talk. In the midst of a lull, the old man asked us one of his queer, direct questions.

“You boys are brave, yes?”

I smiled and shrugged.

Maxie could only ask, “Why?”

The old man with his quick smile and surprising candor retorted, “Because they say Jews are supposed to be cowards.”

Patsy and I laughed at Maxie. He was stumped for an answer.

I said, “Courage or the lack of it isn't a racial trait, Mr. Schwartz. Sometimes it's a question of circumstances, necessity, discretion. Oh, many reasons go into acts of behavior. From my observation, and believe me this conclusion is based on a view from the first row, you can't just put a stigma on any group of people. Particularly for a lack of courage. Courage is developed—I mean the consistent kind, not a flash here and there—just as great physical or mental prowess is developed. May I submit in evidence,” half jestingly, I waved my arm around the room, “these living proofs to clinch my argument?”

“Thank you,” Maxie bowed in mock gravity as he buttoned his fly. “In all modesty, did you, my dear Noodles, include yourself as a living proof?”

“In all modesty,” I returned Maxie's bow, “I did include myself.”

“Shy fellow.” Maxie bowed again.

“You guys going to chew the rag all night? I'm hungry,” Patsy said.

“Okay, you guys all dressed?” Max asked. He looked around the room.

We slung our shoulder holsters and put our jackets on.

“Dressed like gentlemen,” the old man clucked fondly.

After another sumptuous meal we went to the casino. Maxie went over to the cashier's cage and again bought ten thousand dollars worth of hundred dollar chips. The casino was as crowded as on the previous night. We went directly to the roulette wheel. Max lost steadily. He played for hours. I watched the play with meticulous care. The ball. The wheel. The croupier. I took into account every insignificant move. To no avail. Max dropped about six grand but continued playing. I moved away from the table in disgust. Here we were, four experts, supposed to be in the know on every trick in the trade, unable to catch this gimmick.

Then, I noticed a shill glance rapidly at the ceiling. I followed his look. It seemed to me there was a little hole, part of the decoration on the ceiling. I signaled Patsy because his eyes were sharper than mine. We walked aside. I whispered my suspicions. He confirmed them. We walked back to the table. It was odd. I guess it was a farfetched idea, but I felt as though a pair of eyes were watching me from the ceiling. I caught Maxie's attention. He followed me into the washroom. I told him what I had discovered.

“Good work, Noodles. That's probably it,” he said.

Maxie cashed in the remainder of his chips. We left the place. It was about two in the morning. We drove over to the all night diner, sat at the same secluded table, ordered hamburgers and coffee and sat quietly smoking afterwards. More than an hour passed.

I broke the silence. “We got to get into the joint tonight and give it the elzoo.”

Max nodded.

“That's what I was thinking,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Three-thirty,” he read. “Let's go.”

We drove back to the casino. We parked some distance away with our lights out, watching the place. One by one, cars left the parking area until only two remained. Most of the lights were out in the building. We sat and waited until we saw all the lights go out. Then the two remaining cars pulled away together. We sat awhile longer to make certain everything was quiet and dark in the building.

Maxie got out of the Caddy. “Okay,” he snapped.

We avoided the gravel roadway. We walked noiselessly on the grass and circled the building. We saw a light flashing and heard muffled footsteps in the building.

“That's probably the watchman,” I whispered.

Max motioned for us to follow. He took out his gun. With the butt end he tapped one side of the building. We heard a window being opened. We ducked behind some shrubbery. A head appeared.

A voice said, “Who's there?”

Then a flashlight played all around the grounds. “Goddamn,” said the voice. The window closed with a bang.

Maxie repeated the tapping performance. Again the window shot open, the flashlight played around. An angry voice said, “Who the hell is there?” The window shut with a bang. A door opened. A tall man in a business suit stepped out, gun in right hand, flashlight in the other.

He was muttering to himself, “I'll be goddamned.”

Big Maxie crept behind him. His Roscoe was in his hand. Patsy, Cockeye and I were in the bushes. We had our guns leveled at the guy's head. Maxie swung and clipped the guard a terrific smack over the head. The guy fell on the grass. He didn't utter a sound. He was bleeding from the head. I leaned over him. Max looked at me questioningly. I shrugged. I didn't feel any heart beat.

Max whispered, “Is he finished? Did I croak him?”

“Yeh, I think so.”

Then very faintly I felt a beat.

I said, “Wait a minute.” I bent down with my ear to his chest. I heard a steady beating. I said, “Yeh, hell be all right.”

We picked him up and carried him into the building. We tied him securely with some handkerchiefs and laid him on the floor. We walked silently around the place, ending up in the cashier's office. The room was about twelve by twelve, with a little window in the corner. It faced the lobby like a bank teller's. It had bullet-proof glass. We looked in the cashier's drawers. And then in the small safe. Everything was unlocked and empty.

There was a door in the rear of the office. I opened it cautiously. It was just an ordinary bathroom. The rest of the furniture was sparse. It consisted of a few chairs, a desk with empty drawers, and a refrigerator. I thought it was a peculiar place for a refrigerator. I looked in. All I could see were three quarts of milk. Nothing else. Maxie peered over my shoulder.

He remarked, “The cashier's probably got ulcers.”

I said, “A peculiar place for a refrigerator.”

There was a narrow stairway leading to the attic. We noticed a trap door. It lead down into the cellar.

Maxie stood in the center of the room, perplexed. First he looked up at the attic, then down in the cellar. Undecided which to explore first, he started up the stairway. He motioned us to follow. The attic was low ceilinged. It was filthy and unfinished. We had to crouch to go through the door. Max lead with the flashlight he had taken from the guard. What we figured out was directly above the front center of the big room below. We came to a door. We entered a small room about four by nine. Maxie played the flashlight around.

When it hit the floor we saw the gimmick: a roulette wheel painted on the floor, and next to every painted pocket of the wheel was an electric switch. A hole covered by a magnifying glass was directly in line with the roulette wheel in the room below.

“Clever bastards,” I whispered. “The ball in the roulette wheel downstairs isn't regulation marble. It's evidently a steel ball covered with some imitation marble. Just as I guessed. It's run by remote con-