The Wheel of Darkness (20 page)

“You here for the show, too?” Kemper asked.

“The gentleman in question has studied the Kama Sutra. I believe that position is called ‘the Churning of the Cream.’ ”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Kemper replied. “We’re down another two hundred thousand in Covent Garden so far tonight. I thought you were going to help us.”

Pendergast took a seat, throwing one leg over the other. “And that is why I’m here. May I have photographs of tonight’s winners?”

Kemper handed him a sheaf of blurry photographs. Pendergast flipped through them. “Interesting—a different group from last night. Just as I thought.”

“And what’s that?”

“This is a large, sophisticated team. The players change every night. The spotters are the key.”

“Spotters?”

“Mr. Kemper, your naïveté surprises me. While the system is complex, the principles are simple. The spotters mingle in the crowd, keeping track of the play at the high-stakes tables.”

“Who the hell are these spotters?”

“They could be anyone: an elderly woman at a strategically placed slot machine, a tipsy businessman talking loudly on a cell phone, even a pimply teenager gaping at the action. The spotters are highly trained and quite often masters of creating an artificial persona to cover their activities. They count the cards—they don’t play.”

“And the players?”

“One spotter might have two to four players in his string. The spotters keep track of all the cards played at a table and ‘count’ them, which usually involves assigning negative numbers to low cards and positive numbers to tens and aces. All they have to remember is a single number—the running count. When the ratio of high cards to low cards remaining in the deck grows beyond a certain point, the odds shift temporarily in favor of the players; high cards in blackjack disfavor the dealer. A spotter who sees a table shift in this way sends a prearranged signal to one of his players, who then sits down at that table and starts betting heavily. Or, if the player is already at the table, he will suddenly up his bets. When the ratio slips back to normal or below, another signal from the spotter tells the player it’s time to leave, or to drop back to smaller bets.”

Kemper shifted uneasily. “How can we stop it?”

“The only foolproof countermeasure is to identify the spotters and give them the, ah, bum’s rush.”

“Can’t do that.”

“No doubt that’s why they’re here and not Las Vegas.”

“What else?”

“Combine the cards into eight-deck shoes and then deal only a third of the shoe before reshuffling.”

“We deal out of a four-deck shoe.”

“Another reason you’ve attracted counters. You could stop them cold by instructing your dealers to shuffle up every time a new player sits down or when a player suddenly ups his wager.”

“No way. That would slow play and reduce profits. Besides, the more experienced players would object.”

“No doubt.” Pendergast shrugged. “Of course, none of these countermeasures solve the problem of how to get
back
your money.”

Kemper looked at him, eyes red-rimmed. “There’s a way to get back the money?”

“Perhaps.”

“We can’t do anything that would involve cheating.”

“
You
can’t.”

“We can’t allow you to cheat either, Mr. Pendergast.”

“Why, Mr. Kemper,” Pendergast responded, his voice full of hurt, “did I say I was going to
cheat
?”

Kemper said nothing.

“A characteristic of card counters is that they stick by their system. A normal player will quit if he’s losing heavily—but not a professional card counter. He knows the odds will eventually come around. That’s to our advantage.” Pendergast looked at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. That leaves three hours of prime play ahead. Mr. Kemper, be so kind as to extend me a half-million line of credit.”

“Did you say half a
million
?”

“I’d hate to find myself short just when things got going.”

Kemper thought hard for a minute. “Are you going to get back our money?”

Pendergast smiled. “I shall try.”

Kemper swallowed. “All right.”

“You’ll need to have Mr. Hentoff warn your pit bosses and dealers that my play might be eccentric, even suspicious—although it will always remain within legal bounds. I’ll take my seat at first base—on the dealer’s left—and I’ll be sitting out about fifty percent of the hands played, so please tell your people
not
to move me if I’m not playing. Hentoff should instruct his dealers to give me the cut at every normal opportunity, particularly when I first sit down. I’ll appear to be drinking heavily, so make sure when I order a gin and tonic I’m brought only tonic water.”

“All right.”

“Would it be possible to lift the maximum wager at one of the high-stakes tables?”

“You mean, no upper limit to a bet?”

“Yes. It will ensure the counters mark that table, and it will make taking the money back much more efficient.”

Kemper felt a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. “We can do that.”

“And finally, please have Mr. Hentoff staff that table with a dealer with small hands and thin fingers. The less experienced, the better. Have him or her place the end-of-play card high up in the shoe.”

“Do I dare ask why?” said Kemper.

“You dare not.”

“Mr. Pendergast, if we catch you cheating, it’s going to be extremely awkward for both of us.”

“I will not cheat—you have my word.”

“How can you possibly influence play when none of the players ever touch the cards?”

Pendergast smiled enigmatically. “There are ways, Mr. Kemper. Oh, and I shall need an assistant, one of your cocktail waitresses, someone invisible, discreet, and intelligent, who will bring me my drinks and be on call for some—how shall it put it?—
unusual
assignments I may suddenly give her. They are to be performed unquestionably and without hesitation.”

“This had better work.”

Pendergast paused. “Naturally, if successful, I shall expect another favor in return.”

“Naturally,” said Kemper.

Pendergast rose, turned, then glided through the office door into the central monitoring room beyond. Just before the door closed, Kemper could hear his honeyed southern voice raised. “My word, now it’s the apadravyas position. And at their age!”

T
HE ELDERLY WOMAN IN STATEROOM
1039
TURNED SLIGHTLY IN HER
bed, mumbling in her sleep.

A moment later, she turned again, the mumbling growing fretful. Something was interfering with her slumber: a rapping sound, loud, insistent.

Her eyes opened. “Inge?” she croaked.

The only reply was another rap.

The woman raised one gnarled hand, grasping a steel bar that ran across the length of the headboard. Slowly, painfully, she raised herself to a sitting position. She had been dreaming; a rather lovely dream involving Monty Hall, door number 2, and petroleum jelly. She licked her desiccated lips, trying to recall the details, but they were already fading into a fog of elusive memories.

“Where is that girl?” she mumbled, feeling a twinge of fear.

The rapping continued. It came from somewhere beyond the bedroom.

From beneath countless layers of satin and sea-island cotton, a withered hand emerged. It plucked dentures from a dish on the bedside table, seated them over anemic gums. Then it reached out—flexing, grasping—until it closed over the handle of a cane. With a series of groans and imprecations, she raised herself to her feet. The ship was rolling noticeably and she kept one hand against the wall as she moved toward the bedroom door.

“Inge!” she called.

She felt another wash of fear. She hated being dependent, truly hated it, and she was scared and embarrassed by her frailty. All her life she had been independent, and now this rotten old age, this horrible dependency on others.

She turned on the light and looked around, trying to master her fright. Where was that damn girl? It was outrageous, leaving her alone. What if she fell? Or had a heart attack? Take pity on a girl, bring her into your service, and how did she repay you? With disrespect, disloyalty, disobedience. Inge was probably out carousing with some low element of the ship’s staff. Well, this was the last straw: as soon as the ship was docked in New York, she’d send the vixen packing. No notice, no recommendations. She could use her charms—the tramp—to work her way back to Sweden.

Gaining the doorway, the old woman stopped to rest, leaning heavily on the frame. The rapping was louder here—it came from the main door of the suite: and now she could hear a voice as well.

“Petey! Hey, Pete!” The voice was muffled, coming from the corridor beyond.

“What?” the woman cried. “Who is that? What do you want?”

The rapping stopped. “Pete, come
on
!” the slurred voice replied. “We aren’t going to wait all night.”

“Hey, Petey-boy, get your ass out here!” said another drunken voice from beyond the door. “Remember those babes we met in Trafalgar’s tonight? Well, after you left, they came back to the club. And we’ve been sucking down champagne ever since. Now they’re back in my room, shit-faced. Come on, bud, it’s your chance to get laid. And the tall blonde one’s got a rack that—”

The old woman began to tremble with rage and indignation. She took a fresh hold on the doorframe. “Leave me alone!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “Get out of here!”

“What?” came the first voice, a little bewildered now.

“I said, go away!”

A pause. Then a giggle. “Oh,
shit
!” came the second voice. “Rog, we fucked up!”

“No, man, I’m sure he said 1039.”

“I’m calling security!” shrilled the old woman.

From the corridor beyond the door there came an explosion of mirth, then the sound of retreating footsteps.

Breathing heavily, the woman pushed herself away from the doorframe and surveyed the room beyond, leaning on her cane. Sure enough: the couch hadn’t been slept in. The clock above the couch read half past eleven. She had been abandoned. She was alone.

Turning slowly, she made her painful way back into the bedroom, her heart pounding. She eased herself onto the bed, laid the cane carefully beside her. Then, turning to the nightstand, she picked up the phone and dialed zero.

“Ship’s operator,” came the pleasant voice. “How may I help you?”

“Get me security,” the old woman croaked.

A
NH
M
INH SAW THE HIGH ROLLER IMMEDIATELY UPON HIS ARRIVAL
at the blackjack tables of the Mayfair Casino. Mr. Pendergast, that was the name Mr. Hentoff had given her. He looked like an undertaker in his black tuxedo, and she felt a little shiver as he stopped in the doorway and cast his pale eyes about the dim, elegantly appointed room. He must be a very high roller indeed for Mr. Hentoff to assign her solely to him as a cocktail waitress, and she wondered about the odd instructions that went along with the assignment.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” she asked, approaching him.

“Gin and tonic, please.”

When she returned with the drink—tonic water only, as instructed—she found the strange-looking man over by the high-stakes tables in conversation with a very nicely groomed young blond gentleman in a dark suit. She went over and waited patiently with the drink on her tray.

“. . . And so,” the high roller was saying—in a completely different accent now—“I gave the guy twenty-two thousand six hundred and ten dollars, cash on the barrelhead, counting it out by hundreds, one bill at a time—one, two, three, four, and when I hit five, up came a twenty, and that’s when I realized I’d been cheated. The brick of hundreds had been plugged in the middle with twenties! Hell, was I pissed. Twenties, along with tens and even some fives and ones.”

“Excuse me,” said the young man, suddenly angry, “I couldn’t care less about your hundreds or twenties or whatever the hell it is you’re talking about.” He moved off quickly, scowling, his lips moving as if thinking furiously to himself.

Pendergast turned to Anh with a smile. “Thank you.” He lifted off the drink, dropped a fifty on the tray, his eyes roving the room once more.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?”

“Yes, you can.” He gestured faintly with his eyes, his voice now low. “Do you see that woman over there? The overweight one in the muumuu drifting among the high-stakes tables? There’s a little experiment I’d like to conduct. Change this fifty and bring her a mess of bills and coins on your tray, telling her it’s change from the drink she requested. She will protest that she did not buy a drink, but you will pretend you don’t understand and start counting out the money. Just keep counting, reciting
as many numbers as possible
. If she is what I think she is, she may become angry like that young man I was just speaking to—so keep your cool.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Anh went to the cashier and exchanged the fifty for a miscellany of bills and coins. Placing them on the tray, she walked over to the woman in the muumuu.

“Your change, ma’am.”

“What?” the woman glanced at her, distracted.

“Your change. Ten pound, five pound, two one pound—”

“I didn’t order a drink.” The woman quickly tried to move off.

Anh followed her. “Your change. Ten pound, three one pound, make thirteen pound, twenty-five pence—”

A hiss of exasperation came from the woman. “Didn’t you
hear
? I didn’t order a drink!”

She pursued the woman. “Drink cost six pound, seventy-five pence, change come to thirteen pound, twenty-five pence—”

“You incompetent bitch!” the woman exploded, turning on her with a great swirl of color and advancing, face bright red.

“So sorry.” Anh Minh retreated with the trayful of money, the woman glaring after her. She returned to the bar, poured tonic water over ice, and added a slice of lemon. She found Pendergast strolling through the crowd, gazing this way and that.

“Drink, sir?”

He looked at her, and she fancied she could now see amusement dancing in his eyes. He spoke low and rapidly. “You’re a quick study. Now, do you see that man sitting at first base at the table to your right? Go spill this drink on him. I need his seat. Quick, now.”