Funny Money (4 page)

6

Funny Money

Y
ou're brutal,” Porter said as they descended in Archie's private elevator.

“Just being honest,” Valentine replied.

“Is this what I have to look forward to when I retire?”

“They say it gets worse.”

The elevator's walls were made of glass, and Archie's vast empire lay below. The Bombay's casino was the length of three football fields, and its Arabian Nights architecture was as gaudy as any neon-soaked building on the Las Vegas strip.

Valentine watched a tour bus pull up to the entrance and disgorge a mob of white-haired geezers. Atlantic City's casinos preyed on the elderly, who squandered their pensions and Social Security checks playing slot and video poker machines. The elevator doors parted and they got out.

“How does Archie think he can get gambling passed in Florida,” Valentine said. “The voters have rejected it twice.”

“Archie's talked Florida's governor into passing special legislation so counties can decide whether or not they want casinos,” Porter said.

“So Archie's trying to rewrite the law.”

“You got it.”

“Good luck.”

“He's already spent a fortune buying up hotels in Miami and St. Petersburg. Trust me, Arch knows what he's doing.”

They walked the casino floor. The Bombay's interior decor was one part faux India, one part Arabian Nights, the rest New Jersey schmaltz. Cocktail waitresses wore skimpy
I Dream of Jeannie
costumes, the dealers and croupiers silk shirts and satin bow ties. Every seat at every slot machine was taken, the room a sea of polyester and blue hair.

“I need a cup of coffee,” Valentine said.

“Sinbad's is our best bet,” Porter replied.

Valentine followed Porter through the blackjack pit. Passing a table, he stopped to watch a young female dealer shuffle the cards, then deal a round. Porter edged up beside him.

“Something wrong?”

“She's new, isn't she?”

“Started last week,” Porter mumbled. “How could you tell?”

“Her hole card is a red nine.”

“Don't screw with me.”

“Bet?”

“With you? Never.”

“Then watch.”

The players at the table played their hands. Then the dealer turned over her hole card. It was the nine of hearts. Porter pulled Valentine away from the game.

“How the hell did you know that?”

“She flashed a corner when she slid it under her face card,” Valentine explained. “Inexperienced dealers do that sometimes. Hustlers call it front loading.”

Porter cursed under his breath. Every day, hustlers walked through his casino, looking for flaws in his games, or green dealers who didn't know all the rules. For every problem he didn't fix, he lost thousands of dollars, sometimes more.

“I'll pull her off the floor right now,” he said.

         

They met up in Sinbad's ten minutes later. A harem girl served them coffee in elephant-shaped mugs. Blowing away the steam, Valentine said, “So, tell me how The Bombay lost six million bucks, and you managed to keep your job.”

Porter spit coffee on himself. “That's not funny.”

“It wasn't meant to be funny.”

Grabbing a handful of paper napkins from a dispenser, Porter wiped his chin. “I didn't get canned because it wasn't my fault.”

“Why's that?”

“I don't know if you noticed it, but The Bombay's changed.”

Valentine had noticed. Walking through the casino, he'd gotten lost several times.

“Back in November, Archie launched a new promotion,” Porter said. “Every customer gets a pail of special coins, called Funny Money. People gamble with it and win prizes.”

Valentine sipped the scalding brew. He'd seen a lot of cockamamie promotions in casinos over the years, and they'd always produced the same results: the casinos lost money.

“Whose idea was this?”

“The Mod Squad's. They run the marketing department. At first I thought it was stupid. Casinos aren't supposed to give stuff away. But it worked, so they obviously know something.”

“Worked how?”

“It changed people's perceptions of us.”

“Right,” Valentine said.

Porter whipped out his cell phone. Five minutes later, the Mod Squad were sitting in Sinbad's, with Brandi enthusiastically explaining the promotion to him. Up close, she was what guys of his generation called a dish, with green bedroom eyes and a soft Southern drawl, and he found himself staring a little harder than he probably should have.

“Ninety-eight percent of people who play in a casino lose,” she said. “They have a good time, but they go home broke. The idea behind Funny Money is to let people go home thinking they won something.”

“Change the perception,” Valentine said.

She flashed a smile to melt your heart. “That's right. Last October, we put Funny Money slot machines in the casino. It meant reconfiguring the floor, but sometimes you have to take risks in this business if you want to succeed.”

How old was she? Thirty-two? She talked like she'd been in the business a hundred years. Gigi, the beautiful blonde, took over. “Funny Money coins only work in the Funny Money slots, which pay out at a rate of twenty percent. The prizes are remainders we buy from the Home Shopping Network. Some of the stuff we get for free, it's so bad.”

The three women shared a giggle. Being around them felt like a TV sitcom. Valentine laughed along, just to humor them.

“Funny Money machines also have a jackpot,” Gigi said, “which is a new car. General Motors gives us that for free. For the publicity.”

“So the prizes don't cost you anything,” he said.

It was Monique's turn. She looked like she pumped iron, and jumped right in. “But the guests are winning
something,
and that's what counts. They go home happy. We're changing the experience for them.”

“And they tell their friends,” Gigi said.

“And their friends come to The Bombay,” Brandi said.

Their synchronization was uncanny. It still sounded dumb, but what did he know? Mencken once said that no one had ever lost money underestimating the taste of the American public, and this sounded right up Mencken's alley.

Brandi's cell phone rang. Taking it from her purse, she flipped it open. “Yes, Archie.”

“Where's Gigi and Monique?”
the casino owner bellowed.

“With me.”

“Break time's over! Get your tight little asses up here, on the double.”

Brandi dropped the cell phone into her purse. The three women's smiles faded.

They filed out of the coffee shop, leaving Valentine to wonder how modern women liked being treated like little girls. If it bothered them, they were doing a hell of a job not showing it.

         

“So this is the culprit,” Valentine said, standing next to a gleaming, six-foot-tall Funny Money slot machine, the handle glowing like a
Star Wars
laser saber.

“Not so loud,” Porter said. “We've got a customer.”

A woman wearing a jogging suit jumped on the stool and began feeding coins into the slot while jerking the handle. Physically, she was not much to look at, except for her right arm. Her pulling arm. A cross between Popeye's and Rod Laver's.

“Having a good time?” Porter inquired.

“You bet I am,” the woman said. “I've already won a K-Tell orange peeler
and
an electric foot massager.”

“Ask her how much she lost at the tables,” Valentine whispered in Porter's ear.

“Shut up, will you?”
Porter said through clenched teeth.

Even the best game would eventually beat you, and the woman soon ran out of coins and left. Taking her stool, Porter pointed at the ceiling. “See that eye-in-the-sky camera? Well, it used to watch one blackjack table. When we added the Funny Money slots, we had to rearrange things. Now, that camera watches
two
tables.”

The practice was called double-duty and frowned upon in the gaming industry. Valentine said, “Let me guess. These are the tables where the European ripped you off.”

Porter nodded. “Somehow he knew which tables had double-duty cameras. He waited until the other table had heavy action before starting to play. He ripped us off for months, but we only caught him on film a few times.”

“Didn't someone notice the take was off?” Valentine asked.

“The take
wasn't
off,” Porter said. “The promotion has been such a boon for business, it didn't show.”

Something wasn't adding up. Valentine said, “If the take wasn't off, why did you hire Doyle?”

“Having the floor rearranged bugged me,” Porter admitted. “I would look through a camera and not know which table I was seeing. So I hired Doyle to bird-dog for me.”

“And he spotted the European.”

“First night on the job,” Porter said.

An elderly man with a walker shuffled over. His liver-spotted hands cradled a bucket filled with Funny Money. Porter helped him onto the stool.

The gods of chance were smiling down. On the elderly man's first pull, the reels lined up six elephants. A buxom hostess appeared and presented him with a sixties lava lamp.

“I always wanted one of these!” the elderly man exclaimed.

         

They found an empty booth in the back of Sinbad's. Porter waved away the waitress.

“Okay, so what do I do?”

“A couple of things,” Valentine said. “First, accept that you've got a mole in the casino. The mole told the European which tables had cameras doing double-duty.”

“Jesus,” Porter said. “Why didn't I think of that.”

“Second, accept that the European will show up again. Most hustlers skip town when they get made. The European killed Doyle instead.”

“He thinks we're easy pickings.”

“That's right.”

“If he does, we'll jam him.”

Jam
meant having someone arrested. Valentine lowered his voice. “For what? You can't prove he killed Doyle, and you can't prove he ripped you off. The police will let him walk, and Archie will fire you.”

“So what do I do?”

Valentine wrote his cell phone number down on a napkin and slid it across the table. “Call me.”

“No police?”

Valentine slid out of the booth and put his overcoat on. Sinbad's was empty, and he slipped the Glock out of his pocket and laid it on the table. Porter swallowed his Adam's apple.

“No police,” he said.

7

A Tree in the Forest

A
rchie's spare car was a Mercedes SL 600 coupe. It had more amenities than most third-world countries, and while sitting at a traffic light, Valentine played with the different buttons on the dashboard.

He hit the button for the CD player and was assaulted by a throbbing rap song. The lyrics were about abusing women and killing cops, and he ejected the offensive music. Archie was of his generation—big band, Sinatra, the other crooners. This crap wasn't him at all, and Valentine tossed the CD into the glove compartment.

His motel room had been cleaned, the tread marks fresh in the carpet. The red light on the bedside phone was blinking, and he dialed into voice mail. Two messages awaited him.

“Hey, Pop,” his son said. “I just got a call from my bartender. Big Tony took over this morning and fired everybody. He's running my bookmaking operation and has some scary colored guys collecting bets for him. I've got to get him the money. Call me, will you?”

Valentine couldn't believe his son's nerve. The bar was
his,
and he wasn't going to pay for it a second time. He erased Gerry, then played the second message.

“Tony,” Mabel said. “I need your help. Please call me.”

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly eleven thirty. He had promised to call Mabel every morning at nine sharp and hadn't done so once. He dialed his house.

“Grift Sense,” she answered.

“Hey, kiddo, how's it going?”

“There you are. You must start leaving your cell phone on. I've got another panicked customer on the line.”

“Who?”

“Frank Beck.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He's the new head of security at Harrah's in Lake Tahoe. He's holding on the other line.”

Harrah's was a good customer, and he sat on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his jacket. “What's the problem?”

“Beck thinks he has a dice cheater in his casino. This player wins money
every
time he bets. Beck can't figure out what he's doing.”

“Ask Beck if the guy is throwing the dice, or just a bettor.”

Mabel put him on hold, then came back. “Beck says he's just betting.”

“Ask him to describe the type of bets the guy is placing. This might get a little complicated, so you'd better write it down.”

She was gone a little longer this time.

“This is so exciting,” Mabel said when she returned. “The man is in the casino
right now.
Beck says he always puts $1,000 on the Field bet, $600 on Place bet on 10, $600 on Place bet on 9, $200 on 12 ‘On the Hop,' $200 on 11 ‘On the Hop,' and $600 on any 7. Whatever that all means!”

Valentine closed his eyes and ran over the bets in his head. Opening them, he said, “Tell Beck I'll call him right back.”

Mabel put him on hold. When she returned, she said, “Do you have any idea what this man is doing?”

“Yes. He's part of a crew. They're laying sixes. It's one of the oldest dice scams in the world.”

“Why didn't you have me tell him?” she asked, sounding a little miffed.

“Because I didn't want to embarrass him.”

“Why would that embarrass him?”

“Because if Beck knew anything about craps, he would have made the scam. Only he doesn't, which means he's new.”

“If Beck doesn't know anything, how did he get his job?”

“He must know somebody upstairs. That happens a lot in casinos. It's called having juice.” Valentine glanced at his watch. A minute had passed, and he had Mabel give him Beck's phone number. Then he said, “You still liking the job?”

“It's very exciting,” his neighbor said.

“Talk to you later.”

He hung up, then punched in Beck's number. Beck answered from the floor of Harrah's casino. He was panicking and sounded a heartbeat away from a stroke. Valentine explained the scam to him. “You've got three crossroaders at your craps table. One member throws the dice, but palms one in his hand. Another member at the opposite end of the table places a late bet and leaves a duplicate die on the layout with the six up. A third member does the betting and always makes the bets you described to my office manager. The bettor wins money on every outcome except an eight. Which is an 84 percent winning percentage.”

“Why am I not seeing this?” Beck said belligerently.

“You will if you tape it and watch it in slow motion,” Valentine said.

“Arrest them,”
Beck told someone standing nearby. To Valentine he said, “Thanks for the save.”

“Call me if you need me,” Valentine said.

Hanging up, he went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. It had been a long day and it wasn't even noon. He was looking forward to getting some lunch, maybe taking a nap later. He heard the phone ring in the other room.

He waited a minute, then picked up the message. The caller was Liddy Flanagan, and she sounded more distressed than any woman who'd just lost her husband needed to be.

“Oh, Tony, I need your help,” she said. “I found a notebook of Doyle's while I was cleaning. It's filled with the strangest entries. I think you should see it.”

The message ended without her saying good-bye. He stared at the phone while listening to his stomach growl. Lunch would have to wait. Taking his coat off the bed, he headed out the door.

         

The ten-minute drive to Doyle's house took twenty on the icy roads. The Mercedes was drawing a lot of stares from schmucks driving beaters, and Valentine was happy for the tinted windows. Himself, he drove a '90 Honda Accord, a good solid car with roll-down windows, the odometer stuck at 160,000 miles.

Liddy met him at the front door. She wore faded jeans and a fluffy green sweater, her hair done up nice. Only her bloodshot eyes betrayed her true feelings.

“The boys are here,” she said.

He followed her into the living room. Sean sat on the couch with a spiral notebook in his lap. He read aloud to Guy, who stood by the fireplace puffing nervously on a cigarette, his eyes fixed on the blue-orange flames.

“It's not like stealing from a friend, it's a goddamn casino. They expect it. Hell, they even budget for it.” Sean flipped the page. “Here's some more. ‘Nobody got hurt, so nothing really happened. I don't do this all the time, so I'm not really a thief.' ”

Sean stopped, unable to make something out. Valentine sat on the couch beside him. Sean handed him the notebook.

“You try.”

The page was covered with Doyle's infamous chicken scratch. Valentine deciphered the line at the top of the page.

“It's like a tree falling in a forest. If no one catches you, are you really breaking the law?” He looked up at Liddy. “Where did you find this?”

“I was changing the bed,” she said. “It was stuck between the mattress and box spring. I didn't understand it at first, but the more I read, well, it seems like Doyle is denying something that he's done.”

“He wasn't denying anything,” Guy spouted angrily, his gaze still fixed on the roaring fire. “My father didn't steal anything from anyone in his life.”

An uneasy silence filled the living room. Valentine glanced at Sean; Doyle's older son did not seem so sure. Neither did Liddy. Sensing his family's betrayal, Guy crossed the room and ripped the notebook from Valentine's hands. Flipping to the first page, he shoved it in front of Valentine's face.

“Look,” he said.

On this page, Doyle had drawn a floor plan of The Bombay, with tiny
X
's for banks of slot machines,
O
's for blackjack tables,
R
's for roulette wheels, and so on. In the margins were mathematical calculations, the numbers blurry from repeated erasure. There was also a scribbled name: Detective Eddie Davis. And the detective's cell phone number.

“My father was talking to the police,” Guy snapped. “He found something rotten at The Bombay, and he called Detective Davis. My father wasn't a criminal.”

“Guy, sit down,” Valentine said.

“You don't believe me!”

“Guy, I said sit down.”

Guy angrily marched out the front door. Moments later they heard car wheels spin as he backed down the drive. Liddy sat on the couch next to her older son.

“Poor Guy,” she whispered.

Valentine studied Doyle's map. Neither Frank nor Archie had mentioned that Doyle was talking to the police, which meant Doyle hadn't told them. He flipped the pages and reread the quotes. Had someone inside the casino told Doyle about something that was going on?

He stood up from the couch. He didn't know Davis, but there were a lot of new cops that he didn't know.

“I'm going to have to take this to the police,” he said.

Liddy's head snapped. “You are?”

“Yes.”

“But it makes Doyle look bad . . .”

“Liddy, it's evidence. Detective Davis should have a chance to examine it. He'll probably want to put the notebook through an Electrostatic Detection Apparatus, which picks up indented writing. If Doyle wrote something and later tore out the page, the ESDA will see it.”

“But what if . . .”

“Doyle was doing something dirty? I don't believe that for a minute.”

Liddy lay her head on Sean's shoulder. Valentine stood in the center of the living room, hoping she'd agree. Only she wasn't returning his gaze. He buttoned his overcoat, sensing it was time to go.

“Do what you must,” Sean told him.