Funny Money (13 page)

“No dealer shuffles the same. How do you know when the cards you want will come up?”

“I cheat,” Diamondis said, puffing away.

“How do you do that?”

The professor grinned. He obviously enjoyed putting one over on a pro. “I have two methods. If the deck is new, the cards are in perfect order. I simply look for the cards which come before the aces. For example: The king of spades proceeds the ace of diamonds in a new deck. So, when the king of spades appears, I know the ace of diamonds is right around the corner.

“Now, if the cards are mixed, my job is tougher. The deck has to be played, and I must memorize the cards which come before the aces. These cards act as my cues.”

“But you don't know
exactly
when the aces will come out,” Valentine said. “You're still having to guess.”

“I offset any miscalculations by playing multiple hands,” the professor said. “By playing four hands, I ensure the aces will come to me. And since aces often produce blackjacks, I often get a better payout.” The professor glanced at his watch. “I need to run.”

“Did you ever try this out? I mean, in a casino?”

“Of course.”

“How much did you win?”

“A few hundred dollars. I'm not much of a gambler.”

A bell rang and a hundred pairs of shoes clattered noisily past the office. Shoving papers into a battered leather satchel, Diamondis headed for the door. Valentine grabbed his overcoat off the back of his chair and followed him.

They joined the throng of students in the stairwell and descended to the first floor. The professor entered an oval-shaped lecture hall that was quickly filling with students. Climbing onto the stage, he put his satchel down beside the podium. Valentine was right behind him. “One more question. Your system is limited to dealers who break the cards dead center and riffle evenly.”

“A colleague posed the same problem to me,” Diamondis replied, checking the podium's microphone. “So I devised a schematic for all known blackjack shuffles. It requires some mental gymnastics, but it works.”

Was his name Juraj Havelka? Valentine nearly asked, but thought he knew the answer.

“I published my findings last year,” the professor said. “Would you like a copy?”

“I'd be honored.”

Diamondis removed a stapled manuscript from his satchel and handed it to him.
The Devil's Playthings. A Mathematical Examination of Riffle Shuffles, their Cycles and Descents.
Several students had approached the podium, trying to get his attention. Valentine slipped the manuscript under his arm. “Thanks for being so generous with your time.”

“Good luck catching whoever you're trying to catch,” the professor said.

Valentine tried to hide his surprise. “Who said I was trying to catch someone?”

A smile flickered across the professor's otherwise serious countenance. “It's what you do for a living, isn't it?”

22

True Love

I
t had taken Gerry five minutes to squander his father's hundred bucks in The Bombay's casino.

Luckily, Yolanda hadn't seen him do it. She'd gone to play Funny Money, convinced that she'd duplicate her sister's good fortune and win a brand new car.

Gerry had lost his father's money playing keno. According to a tent card on the bar, keno was an ancient Chinese game, and had been used by the Chinese government to pay for the Great Wall. What the card didn't say was that it was a game for suckers, the house advantage an astonishing 35 percent.

Sitting at the bar, Gerry had bought a ticket, called a blank, from a cute runner in a miniskirt. Using a crayon, he picked ten numbers from the eighty on the blank, then gave the runner the blank and his money. Going to the keno lounge next door, the runner gave the blank to the keno writer who recorded the wager, then returned to the bar and handed Gerry the duplicate.

And stared at him.

Gerry squirmed. Taking fifty cents off the bar that another patron had left, he handed it to her.

“Good luck,” she said icily.

He sat and waited. And dreamed of winning the jackpot.

A buzzer went off, signaling the winning numbers were being drawn. He stared at the electronic keno board above the bar.
Yes, yes, yes!
he thought, getting the first three right. Visions of Italian sports cars and Rolex watches filled his head. Then,
No, no, no!,
the last seventeen numbers betraying him like a jilted lover, his father's hundred gone in a blink of an eye. He tore up the worthless blank.

A man entered the bar and came toward him. His nose was zigzagged by white adhesive tape, his eyes ringed black. Gerry got off his stool.

“Get lost.”

“I want to show you something,” Joey Mollo said.

Gerry followed him across the casino to the front doors. A veil of snow had dusted the cars in the parking lot. A black Lincoln blinked its lights. Gerry stared. Big Tony and Little Tony sat in the two front seats. Sandwiched between them was Yolanda. Her eyes were filled with fear.

My old man is gonna kill me,
he thought.

         

Valentine drove back to Atlantic City in an hour and a half, the New Jersey highway patrol cruisers conveniently parked on the other side of the turnpike. He sang with the radio most of the way, a hot wire igniting his blood.

Rarely did cheaters come up with new ways to beat the house. In twenty years he'd seen it only a handful of times. Yet Juraj Havelka—with Peter Diamondis's aid—had done just that. And he'd added a clever twist. Juraj was never at the blackjack table very long, which meant Anna was tracking the aces. When the deck was primed, she signaled for Juraj to come over. That way, Juraj drew no heat. A perfectly orchestrated scam.

No wonder no one had caught on.

         

Archie Tanner was hurling things off his desk at the giant screen TV in his office when Valentine walked in a short while later. Cowering behind him were Gigi, Monique, and Brandi. Today's color was blue, and the three women wore matching Chanel outfits. They appeared ready to flee at any moment.

Valentine glanced at the screen. CNN was showing highlights of Indian uprisings taking place around the country. In a rare showing of unity, tribes from Connecticut to California had vowed to expel U.S. government officials from their land if the Micanopys were not given their casino back. The governor of Florida had issued a terse statement, vowing to remain firm.

“Fucking redskin tribal leaders haven't spoken to each other in two hundred fucking years,” Archie roared. “Now, they're rallying around the totem pole because Chief Running Bear is defying whitey!”

Valentine fielded a paperclip holder as it flew past. “We need to talk,” he told the irate casino owner.

Archie nearly came over the desk at him. “For Christ's sake, can't you see I'm busy?” Doing a one-eighty in his chair, he faced the three women standing behind him. “I want you to call the TV stations and threaten to pull my ads if they don't stop running this Chief Running Bear horseshit.”

The women looked stunned. It was Brandi who found the courage to answer him. “You mean the New Jersey stations?”

“I mean the national stations. NBC, CBS, ABC, CNN, Fox.”

“But Archie, we
can't
do that.”

“Don't
ever
use that word around me.”

Her face darkened. “We
shouldn't.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because we'll create a
worse
public relations nightmare.”

“You think so?”

Brandi nodded. The casino owner shifted his gaze to Gigi and Monique to see what they were thinking. Both women nodded their heads in agreement.

“You want to wait tables at Sinbad's? Or deal blackjack? Or do one of the hundred other crummy fucking jobs that pay minimum wage in this casino?”

The question was aimed at all three of them. Wisely, Brandi shook her head no, as did Gigi and Monique.

“Then make the fucking call.”

Eyes downcast, the women walked out of the room. Stopping at the door, Brandi glanced over her shoulder. “Are you sure about this?”

“You'd look good in one of those little keno runner skirts,” Archie told her.

The pirate's door rattled on its hinges. Picking up the remote on the desk, Archie jacked up the TV's volume. CNN's Wolf Blitzer was interviewing Chief Running Bear from his hideaway in the Florida Everglades. Running Bear wore camouflage fatigues and appeared ready for a long haul.

Valentine stood with his jacket in his hand, waiting. Finally Archie looked up at him.

“Can't this wait?” the casino owner asked.

“Not really.”

“Tell one of the girls about it,” he said, staring at the TV.

         

Valentine nearly told Archie to go to hell. Only this was a job, and he intended to finish it, just like any other job. He walked into the reception area and saw Brandi waiting for the elevator. He touched her sleeve.

“Archie said I should talk to you,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

They went downstairs to Sinbad's and found an empty booth in the back.

“It's real simple,” Valentine explained after they'd been served. “Your blackjack dealers need to shuffle the cards more. Five times should do the trick. The cards will be closer to a random order, and your tables will be safe from anyone tracking the cards during the shuffle.”

“Is this a new method of cheating?”

“It sure is,” he said.

Brandi smiled, clearly impressed. She'd ordered a cup of herbal tea and now spooned in a teaspoon of honey. “I'm sure Archie would have appreciated hearing this, if he wasn't so preoccupied.”

“I'm sure he would have,” he said.

“This will cost the casino money, though.”

“How's that?”

“The extra shuffles. Anything that slows a game down costs the casino money. That's how Archie sees it, anyway.”

“Look at it as insurance,” Valentine said.

She blew the steam off her drink and Valentine found himself staring at her. She was beautiful, but it was a beauty that struck him as unique. High cheekbones, flawless skin, perfect teeth. She was almost regal. Had he known her a little better, he would have asked where she was from and tried to figure out the bloodlines.

“Why do you put up with him?” he asked.

She put her drink down. “Do you always say what's on your mind?”

“Usually.”

“Well, it's a long story.”

“Those are my favorite kind.”

“Why do you care?”

“You seem like a nice kid.”

“And Archie's a prick, right? Okay, well here it is in a nutshell. I worked the front desk for three years, then graduated up to accounting. I came into contact with Archie a lot. We hit it off.”

“You're kidding,” he said without thinking.

The remark didn't faze her. “Archie's a powerful man, charming when he wants to be. I come from mixed parents, so the idea of having a relationship with him didn't bother me.”

“Oh,” he said.

“One night, Archie called me up to the penthouse, said he needed to see a report. I brought it, and he asked me out to dinner. That's how it started.”

“It must be serious,” he said.

“That's a very old-fashioned expression.”

“I'm an old-fashioned guy.”

Undoing the top button on her blouse, Brandi tugged on a gold chain hanging around her neck. Valentine stared at the diamond engagement ring hanging from it, the stone bigger than most of his teeth.

“Archie promised to marry me after the deal in Florida is done.”

“Congratulations,” he said.

She slipped the chain back into her blouse. “You've known Archie a long time, haven't you?”

Too long,
he nearly said. “Yes.”

“Could you see it? Him and me?”

Sure,
he thought. Thugs like Archie Tanner married smart, attractive younger women like Brandi all the time. It was called the halo effect. It made them look good to the public.

“I sure can,” he replied.

Her face melted into a beautiful smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Valentine.”

“You're welcome.”

He removed his overcoat from the back of his chair and got up from the table. “Tell Archie I'll send him my bill.”

“I know he appreciates everything you've done,” she said.

“I'm sure he does,” he replied.

23

Shaft, The First Version

V
alentine couldn't believe it: Gerry and Yolanda were gone. He knocked on the door to his son's hotel room again, just to be sure. Then saw the hand-written note lying on the ground. Kneeling, he picked it up.

Went to catch a dream. Back by 6.

“You dope,” Valentine said. He heard the phone ringing in his room as he unlocked the door. There was only one person he felt like talking to right now, and that was Mabel. Taking a chance, he answered the phone and was rewarded by the sound of her cheerful voice.

“You're going to be so proud of me,” she said.

“What did you do?”

“I solved my first case.”

He made the bed sag and unbuttoned his coat.

“Tell me.”

“Well, you got a FedEx package this morning marked urgent, so I figured I better open it. Inside was a letter from a joint in Laughlin, Nevada, called Lucky Lill's, and a check for two hundred dollars. Lill wrote the letter herself. She sounded desperate.”

Valentine couldn't help but smile. Mabel had called the place a joint. Casinos with names like Lucky Lill's
were
joints. His neighbor was learning the business fast.

“I know two hundred dollars is below your minimum fee, but you know how I am about money. So I figured maybe I could help her. Lill's husband died a few months ago and left the casino to her. Lill doesn't know much about gambling. She sent a surveillance tape of three Asian men who beat her for five thousand dollars at blackjack. I watched the tape for hours and figured out they were card counting.”

“You sure?”

“I'm positive.”

“How?”

“One of the books in your library said that the best way to spot card counters is by bet fluctuation, so I wrote down how the Asians bet. Any time they quadrupled their bets, I got suspicious. I wrote down the time showing on the surveillance tape, then rewound it and played the tape back. Then I wrote down which cards came out of the shoe. They were all high-valued. Which meant they were counting.”

There were easier ways to spot counters, but Mabel's method would do in a pinch. She was right: He was proud of her.

“You tell Lill this?”

“I most certainly did. She was most appreciative.”

“Congratulations,” he said.

“I assume you've decided to stay in Atlantic City and finish your job.”

“I have. Thanks for the pep talk yesterday.”

“You're welcome. One last thing. Detective Davis called about an hour ago. He said if you didn't call him by three o'clock, he was going to track you down and have you arrested. I assume he's joking.”

“Of course he's joking.” He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter till three. What had he done wrong now? He started to sign off, then said, “You did good, kid.”

“You think I have a future?”

“I sure do,” he said.

         

He called Davis on his cell phone and caught the detective driving in his car. Davis did not sound happy. They agreed to meet at the IHOP.

Ten minutes later Valentine pulled into the vacant lot and parked. Locking the .38 in the glove compartment, he went inside.

Dottie, his least favorite waitress, was manning the register, an impossibly long ash dangling from her cigarette. He'd never come back for his change, and he stopped at the counter.

“Remember me?”

“Nope.”

“I was in the other day with my son. I gave you a hundred-dollar bill for breakfast; you said you didn't have any change. Told me to come back later.”

“Wasn't me,” Dottie said.

“Sure it was.”

“Look mister . . .”

“I want my change,” he said irritably. “The meal was nine bucks. Add a buck tip, and you owe me ninety dollars.”

“I'm telling you, it wasn't me.”

Valentine could tell where this was going. He should have come back immediately and not let Dottie write him off. In the back counter mirror he saw Davis's Thunderbird pull in. The detective came through the front door with a stern look on his face, his designer shades vanishing into his breast pocket. He was wearing hip-hugger jeans and a black leather jacket and looked just like he'd stepped off a movie set. Valentine motioned him over.

“Dottie, this is my friend Eddie.”

“Hi,” she said stiffly.

“Hello, Dottie,” the detective said.

“Dottie and I have a little disagreement,” Valentine said, “which you could settle by showing her your credentials.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your badge.”

Davis flipped open his wallet and stuck his silver detective's badge in the mean-spirited woman's face. Dottie changed colors, her waxy cheeks glowing red. Davis kept the badge out, and Valentine sensed that he was enjoying himself. Maybe he'd come in for coffee once and Dottie had been slow serving him. Or hadn't bothered serving him at all. That kind of crap went on every day in America.

“So what do you think?” Valentine asked her.

The no sale flag appeared on the register. Dottie counted ninety dollars into his waiting palm. Valentine handed her two dollars back. “Two coffees, when you get a chance.”

“I hope she's not in the back pissing in our cups,” Davis said as they slid into the farthest booth from the counter. “I've seen that one before.”

“Why don't you ask her?” Valentine suggested.

“You're just filled with good ideas, you know that?”

Their coffee came, Dottie bringing giant mugs and pouring from a fresh pot, treating them like normal customers. Davis spooned cream and sugar into his mug, then said, “I thought you told me yesterday you were going to apologize to Kat Berman.”

So that was what this was about. Feeling relieved, Valentine said, “I got sidetracked.”

“Well, she called the station this morning. The call got transferred to me. I told her we'd spoken, and how sorry you were. I
promised
her I'd find you and get you to apologize.”

Davis was starting to grow on him. He said, “Did she give you a number where I can reach her?”

“You're not getting off that easy,” Davis said.

“What do you mean?”

“I called her ten minutes ago and told her I was meeting you here. She'll be by soon. You can apologize to her in person.”

Valentine's cheeks grew warm. He felt like he was six years old and his mother had just scolded him. “I really appreciate this, Eddie.”

“I bet you do. So here's what I want in return.” Taking a piece of paper from his leather jacket, he unfolded it, and slid it across the table. “The lab boys put Doyle's notebook through an ESDA machine yesterday. The machine detected an impression of a page that had been torn out. It was a note Doyle had written to his brother, Tom. Take a look.”

Valentine slipped his bifocals on. The ESDA machine made a copy that looked like a bad Xerox, and he had to squint.

Tom,

Sorry for the blow-up yesterday at lunch,

but this Bombay investigation has made me

a nervous wreck. So many of my friends seem

to be involved. I still don't know what to do.

Thanks for lending a sympathetic ear.

Doyle

Davis leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If I'm reading this note right, it seems that Doyle discovered another scam at The Bombay, one where employees were involved. Normally, I'd go and lean on Tom Flanagan and find out what Doyle told him. However, since you were tight with Doyle, I figure you might be able to get him to open up.”

Valentine put his bifocals away, then slid the note back to the detective. “The scam Doyle is referring to involved slots. A lot of employees were in on it, probably a whole shift. But it never came off.”

Davis sat up very straight. “Say what?”

“I spoke to Liddy Flanagan about it. She said Doyle spoke to the auditors at the Division of Gaming Enforcement, and the Casino Control Commission. They monitor the take on The Bombay's slot machines every week. And the auditors said the take was normal.”

“So what happened?”

Valentine chose his words carefully. He hated guessing, but in this case, he had no choice. “My gut says Doyle stumbled onto the scam right as it was about to happen. The employees got scared and backed off.”

“You don't think the employees killed Doyle to keep him quiet, do you?”

Valentine shook his head. “Doyle had a lot of friends at The Bombay. But I'll tell you this: Every one of them probably pissed in their pants when Doyle got killed.”

“Thinking they'd get blamed,” Davis said.

“Exactly.”

The detective grew silent. Then said, “We're talking about what, a hundred employees who must have known about this.”

“At least.”

“People in the cage, security people, chip people, dealers. A lot of lives ruined if I decide to keep digging.”

“A lot of lives.”

Davis finished his coffee. Conspiracy to defraud a casino was a serious crime in New Jersey. But Valentine had a feeling the people involved had learned a lesson. Like Doyle, he had a lot of friends at The Bombay, and he did not want to see them go to jail for a crime that had never come off.

“Let it go, Eddie,” he told the detective.

         

Their check came. Davis was taking his wallet out when his eyes flew out the window. He whistled through his teeth. “As I live and breathe. What do we have here?”

Valentine followed his wolfish gaze. A navy Saturn had parked in the IHOP lot, and a knockout of a woman was getting out. He slipped his bifocals back on. It was Kat Berman.

“That's her,” Valentine said.

“That's the woman you knocked down?”

Davis's eyes were dancing, the juices flowing to places they hadn't been flowing before. They both stood up as Kat entered the restaurant and approached their table. She was wearing makeup and had brushed out her mane of hair, the effect strong enough to make Valentine catch his breath.

“So let's hear it,” she said, looking straight at Valentine.

“I want to apologize,” he mumbled.

“So do it!” she snapped.

“I'm sorry about the other night. I was out of line.”

She crossed her arms. “That's pretty lame.”

“I'm
really
sorry,” he said, feeling like an idiot.

“That's a little better.”

“From the bottom of my heart.”

“Much better.” She glanced at Davis. “Hello.”

The detective was grinning like a kid at his first school dance. “How you doing,” he said cleverly.

She looked at Valentine. “Would you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“Introducing us.”

Valentine was not used to having his tongue tied in knots. This woman was having a strange effect on him. He said, “Kat Berman, I'd like you to meet Richard Roundtree.”

“Nice to meet you, Richard.”

Davis stared at Valentine like he'd lost his mind.

“Who?”

“What did I say?”

“Richard Roundtree . . .”

Kat was laughing. “You know, you look just like him.”

“Who?” the detective said.

“Richard Roundtree,” they both said.

Davis was fuming, any potential for magic reduced to a shambles. He shot a murderous glance at Valentine, who busied himself staring at the floor.

“I need to run,” the detective said. “It was nice meeting you, Kat.”

“Nice meeting you, Richard,” she giggled.

Valentine walked Davis to his Thunderbird. He put his hand on the younger man's arm and got the cold shoulder. “Hey look, I'm really sorry. I think it has something to do with growing old. Not all the neurons connecting.”

Davis murmured something unpleasant under his breath, then got into the car. A moment later the window rolled down, his profile a study in constraint.

“You are one cagey old man,” he said.

And before Valentine could ask him what he meant, the detective gunned the ancient engine and drove away.