Funny Money

“And that would bring heat, to use your expression.”

“Precisely.”

“All right, I give up. What does the crossroader say?”

“He says, ‘You're right, there are only fifty cards.' And he pushes the deck to the center of the table. By agreeing with the first player, he takes the heat off himself.”

“What does he do then?”

“He waits,” Valentine said.

“For what?”

“Another player will inevitably pick up the deck and count them, and he'll say, ‘Wait a minute, there's fifty- two.' And that will put all the heat on him.”

Mabel made a funny face.

“No wonder you like putting these people in jail,” she said.

Valentine escorted Mabel home. It was a beautiful place, this town on the west coast of Florida they'd both retired to, the breeze filled with the Gulf of Mexico's warm spirits. As they walked the hundred yards that separated their New England–style clapboard houses, they stopped to inspect a brand new Lexus parked in a neighbor's driveway, the sales sticker prominently displayed in the side window. They were of the generation that were greatly fascinated not only by the astronomical cost of things these days, but also by people stupid enough to fork out the money.

At Mabel's house they stopped again, this time to smell the seductive night-blooming jasmine in her front yard.

“Are we a couple of squares or what?” she said.

“I like being a square,” he said.

“You could have fooled me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your life is exciting. I envy you.”

Going inside, he did a quick tour of the downstairs, then checked the back door and windows. Being old made you a target, and he feared that Mabel would one day lose her valuables to a burglar. He found her waiting in the foyer.

“Everything's shipshape,” he said. “You know, you really ought to consider getting a dog.”

It was a conversation they'd had many times. Mabel was going to get a dog when she was good and ready. She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the fun evening.”

“You're welcome. Listen, I've got a proposition for you.”

“What's that?”

“How would you like to come work for me? I need someone to answer the phone and act as a buffer with clients. You could even help me with some cases.”

Mabel hesitated. She liked Tony and sensed that he liked her. But he lived in a different world, one that she was not sure she'd be comfortable in.

“But I don't know anything about casinos or cheating.”

“No, but you're one of the best judges of character I've ever met, and that's half the battle when it comes to spotting crossroaders. I'll teach you the basics. It'll be fun.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

He was making it sound easy. If Tony had impressed anything upon her, it was that crossroaders weren't like other criminals. They used sophisticated sleight-of-hand, cameras, and hidden computers to commit their crimes. They were smart people, and it took even smarter people to catch them.

“Do you have any books I can read, so I don't sound too stupid answering your phone?”

“I've got a whole library.”

“And you promise to help with the technical stuff?”

“I will.”

Mabel hesitated and saw him smile. He was going to make it fun, she realized. She gave him another peck on the cheek.

“It sounds wonderful,” she said.

Valentine was settling into the La-Z-Boy in his living room when the phone rang. He never answered the phone, preferring to let the caller go into voice mail and leave a message. He considered it one of the great perks of working for himself.

The ringing stopped. He waited a minute, then dialed into voice mail. The message was from Doyle Flanagan, his ex-partner in Atlantic City. He dialed Doyle's cell number and caught his friend as he exited a McDonald's drive- through.

“Don't you ever go home?”

Doyle had retired from the force six months after him. Finding it impossible to live on his pension, he'd gone to work as a private investigator. “I wish. You have a chance to look at the surveillance tape I overnighted?”

“Sure did.”

“Aw, for the love of Christ,” Doyle said.

“What's wrong?”

“The bitch shortchanged me.”

Valentine listened as Doyle went back through the drive-through and argued with the cashier, letting his hamburger go cold over twenty-five cents. Doyle's tape was still in Valentine's VCR, and he picked up the remote and hit play.

The tape was from The Bombay, the largest casino in Atlantic City. It annoyed him that New Jersey Gaming Control let its casinos record at extended play in order to conserve tape. It made the tapes hard to view and was a strain on the eyes.

The Bombay tape showed six people sitting at a blackjack table. The player in question—who Doyle had identified in a note as being European—was in his late thirties and had hair that stuck out at odd angles, like electricity was playing with it. He was winning big, his nervous mannerisms suggesting his play was not on the square.

“You think he's cheating?” Doyle asked.

“He sure acts guilty,” Valentine said.

“Guy sweats a lot, doesn't he?”

“Like a whore in church.”

Doyle dropped his cell phone. Picking it up, he said, “I've broken so many cell phones Liddy finally bought me one made of stainless steel. Any idea what he's doing?”

“I've got a couple of theories.”

“I really want to bust this joker,” Doyle said.

His partner was challenging him. Valentine watched the European play a few more hands. He heard his partner humming along to a song on his radio. Van Morrison's “Tupelo Honey.”

“Got it,” Valentine said.

“What's he doing?” Doyle said.

“I've been watching the way he places his bets. When he bets big, he's very direct. It's like, bam, here's my money. He knows he's going to win the hand.”

“How's he doing that?”

“He's got a partner at the table marking the high cards,” Valentine said. “The European is at first base, which means the top card for each round is his first card. Whenever he sees a marked card at the start of a round, he bets heavy.”

“But he doesn't know what his second card will be,” Doyle said.

“No, and he might lose sometimes. But over the course of an evening, he'd have an unbeatable edge.”

“Who's marking the cards?”

Valentine stared at the other five players at the table. Marking cards is a felony in New Jersey and punishable by four and a half years in prison. His eyes locked on a chain-smoking beauty that reminded him of a young Audrey Hepburn.