Mabel Struck materialized on his back stoop, looking tropically resplendent in her orange polyester slacks and high-wattage parrot shirt. Seeing the Tupperware container between her liver-spotted hands, Valentine realized that, bless her heart, she'd brought him dinner.
'Anybody home?' she said, nose pressed to the glass. 'Hey, Tony, I can see the TV on. You sleeping on the job again? Wake up, sonny boy.'
He unlocked the back door. 'Come on in, Mabel.'
'Don't tell me you were standing there the whole time,' she said, entering his kitchen.
'Afraid I was.'
'I can't see a thing without my glasses anymore,' she said, jabbing him in the gut with the container. 'You know, this old-age thing really sucks.'
'It beats the alternative. I was just having lunch. Want a ham-and-Swiss?'
'No thanks. You sound stressed.' Fishing her glasses from her pocket, Mabel fitted them on her nose and gave him the once-over. 'You look stressed. You feeling okay, young man?'
'Great,' he said without enthusiasm. After Lois had passed away, Mabel had started leaving hot meals on his doorstep, country-fried steak and mashed potatoes or fried chicken and cornbread. It was food for the soul, and he'd eaten every bite, even when he'd had no appetite. He took the container and put it on the top shelf of his refrigerator. It was heavy. He said, 'Lasagna? You shouldn't have.'
'It's no bother, really. What's eating you?'
'I'm having a problem figuring something out.'
'Can I help?'
'Sure. Have a seat while I finish lunch.'
Mabel took her usual spot at the kitchen table. A sixty-four-year-old retired AT amp;T operator from Cincinnati, she'd raised two children by herself and had come to Florida when they'd tried to move back in. She despised retirement and had embarked on a new career that brought her a surprising amount of notoriety.
'Know anything about blackjack?' he inquired.
'Not really. But I used to play bridge.'
'Competitively?'
'Yes, tournament level.'
'Ever catch an opponent signaling cards to a partner?'
'Well, now that you mention it, yes. Back in 1968 in a tournament in Boise, I saw Ethel Bell signal her husband that she had five trump cards. I called the referee immediately.'
'That's enough qualification for me,' Valentine said. 'I'd like you to look at a videotape a casino sent me.'
'Sure,' Mabel said, 'but before we do that, I want you to critique my newest ad. I think it's ready.'
From her purse Mabel removed a piece of manila stationery and slid it across the table. Her anonymous classifieds had been running in the St. Petersburg Times for over a year and had turned her into a minor celebrity. Newspaper editorials now quoted her witticisms and local politicos used her jokes in their long-winded speeches. She had become a voice, a responsibility she did not take lightly.
'Be honest,' she told him. Depressed, overweight, domineering older woman, slight drinking problem, hyper, on food stamps and oxygen. Would like to meet a cute young professional man with big abs and a foreign sports car, low mileage. Please send current resume, blood test results, and nude photo for a platonic relationship.
'Haw, haw, haw,' Valentine brayed, holding his sides. To think that his sweet-faced neighbor possessed this kind of wit was beyond him.
'You like it,' she said.
'You've outdone yourself.'
She produced another sheet. 'This one, too. Be truthful.'
'Two? You're going to run two ads in one day? I don't think the locals are ready for this, Mabel.'
'Stop acting retarded. Just read it.'
'Yes, ma'am.' Tired of phone sex, sweet boys? Call Grandma Mabel and I will tell you about my arthritis, my bills, how people are better drivers up north, how hard it is to live on a fixed income, my ex-husband, grandkids, last operation for gallstones, and lots more. No crackpots, please.
'You're killing me,' he said, swiping at his eyes. 'This is a classic.'
'You really think so?'
'You're taking practical jokes to a new level.'
'I want to leave something behind,' she said, deadpan.
'You sure you want to use your real name?'
'I could use some groupies. But enough about me. Tell me all about your problem. Maybe Grandma Mabel can help.'
'Maybe you can,' he said.
Mabel was one of the best judges of character Valentine had ever known, her instincts honed from years of talking to strangers on the phone. He escorted her into the living room and helped her get settled, then started the VCR and knelt beside her.
'Something unusual's going on here,' he explained. 'The guy on this tape is cheating, and the people who've hired me think the dealer may be helping him. Tell me what you think.'
Mabel pulled her chair up within a few feet of the TV and stared at the screen for several minutes, then cleared her throat. 'Well, she's definitely interested in him.'
'Define interested.'
'You sound just like a cop when you talk like that.'
'Excuse me. Please-define interested.'
'As in she likes him. Would like to know him better.'
Valentine was surprised. If anything, the dealer seemed to be holding back. It was too bad the tapes didn't come with sound; if he could just hear them talking, he might get a better feeling for what had gone down.
'She seems pretty reserved, if you ask me,' he remarked.
'Oh, Tony. Sometimes you act like you just crawled out of a cave. Any woman with an ounce of class acts reserved when she's around men. Women show their interest in the opposite sex in little ways. Take this young lady. She's interested; you can see it when she makes eye contact. And when she smiles. You can definitely see it in her smile.'
Valentine had noticed that, too. As a rule, blackjack dealers did not smile or interact with patrons. But Slick was the only player at her table, which made not having a conversation pretty much out of the question.
'There you are,' Mabel said, pointing at the screen.
'What?' he said, staring.
'He just did it again,' Mabel said.
'Did what?'
'Did you see the corners of her mouth turn up?' Mabel said. 'She was going to laugh. The guy keeps making her laugh. I counted three times. He's definitely got her number. I know it's none of my business, but why would a casino worry about someone winning a few hands of blackjack? Don't they make millions a day?'
He paused the tape. 'They do. And a guy like this can put them out of business.'
'Out of business? Oh, come on!'
And that was the shame of what Valentine did for a living; no one understood the seriousness of his work. So he explained.
'Let's say our friend bets a hundred dollars and wins twenty hands in a row. If he parlays every bet and the house doesn't stop him, by the end of the twentieth hand, he'll own the casino.'
Mabel paused. 'Is the man we're watching capable of that?'
'Definitely.'
She consulted her Mickey Mouse watch, then stood up. 'Time to run. I've got to fax my ads to the newspaper's classified department by two.'
'You going to run both?'
'Read tomorrow's paper and find out,' she replied.
He walked Mabel down the front path to the narrow sidewalk that connected the row of New England-style
