Sucker Bet

Mabel dealt him a ten, making his total nineteen. Mabel’s hand was a seventeen, which the rules did not allow her to draw on. Slash had won.

They played another round.

“The David gave me a long buzz,” he said.

Mabel had written the David’s code on the pad. A long buzz meant stand, a short click meant take a hit, a double click meant double-down, and a short buzz meant split your hand. Slash hadn’t consulted the pad once, preferring to lean on her.

“Stand,” Mabel said.

He won again. He let out a whoop that sent a shiver down Mabel’s spine.

“I’m going to be rich,” he declared.

Yes, Mabel thought, you are. He was going to succeed, not because he was skilled at operating the David, but because he did not fit the profile of the cheaters who did. Those people were usually white males between the ages of thirty and fifty who spoke articulately and dressed well. Slash was none of those things, and would fly right by even the most seasoned surveillance personnel.

Only one thing was standing in his way. Her.

Rico’s arm was bleeding all over the seat. He’d looked at the wound and not seen any bone and decided that was a good thing. Driving north on I-95, he’d settled into the right lane and hit the cruise control, then used his knees to steer while making a makeshift bandage out of some paper napkins and rubber bands he found in the armrest. He glanced in his mirror at Valentine sitting in the backseat.

“Show me your hands,” Rico said.

Valentine turned sideways and lifted his arms. His wrists were tied together with twine, his hands clean.

“I’m going to make an example of you,” Rico said.

“Why’s that?”

“You fucked up the greatest score I’ve ever had.”

“I did?”

“You killed Bobby’s Cubans and stole my money.”

“Those Cubans were dead when I walked in.”

“Don’t play stupid with me. You and Gerry ripped off Bobby Jewel. The money you stole was going to net me four million bucks. Think about it when I gouge your eyes out.”

“You don’t have the guts,” his passenger said.

Rico started to draw his .45, and the limo swerved into the left lane. Horns blared and tires screeched. Rico realized that was exactly what Valentine wanted—to draw attention, and get someone to punch 911 on a cell phone. He straightened the wheel, and the exertion sent a burning sensation through his arm that made him want to scream.

“You’re history,” he said through clenched teeth.

Ray Hicks had given up trying to find Rico’s limo.

There was too much traffic on I-95 and not enough horsepower in his engine to race around in the blind hope of spotting him. Better to come back another day and settle this, he decided. He headed north toward Davie.

Crossing the Broward County line, Hicks saw smoke coming off the highway. A quarter mile ahead, a black limo was weaving drunkenly between lanes. Hicks floored his accelerator, and soon passed signs for Hallandale, Pembroke Pines, and Hollywood. Just north of Hollywood, the limo headed west on 595. Mr. Beauregard, who’d been aimlessly plucking chords, broke into the William Tell Overture. The music sent an icy chill down Hicks’s back.

Soon they were in the last undeveloped area of Broward County and heading toward the Everglades. Hicks saw the limo’s indicator come on. Rico was going onto the Micanopy Indian reservation.

Hicks followed him.

Mr. Beauregard continued to play chase music. It made Hicks’s heart race, and he had almost convinced himself the chimp was psychic, when he realized how foolish that was. Mr. Beauregard’s gift was sensing human emotions—like anger and fear—and picking the appropriate music to accompany those feelings. Had Mr. Beauregard truly been psychic, Hicks would have sold his carnival and put him on television.

45

Slash had graduated from Mabel’s school of blackjack cheating.

He had gone through an entire deck of cards without once having to ask Mabel a single question, the codes and computer signals now second nature.

“Well,” he said, “I guess that’s it.”

Mabel felt his eyes burning her face. She was holding the cards in her hands.

“Let’s play another round,” she suggested.

“I’m done,” he said. “You’re a good teacher.”

Her throat went dry. Slash’s face had taken on a visceral quality. She tossed the cards onto Tony’s desk. They scattered, and she found herself staring at a book lying next to the phone. Tony was an avid reader—westerns, mysteries, anything by Elmore Leonard—only, she’d never seen him reading this book. She stared at the spine. It was Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment.

She thought about how she was going to do this. Thought about it calmly, because that was what Tony had told her to do in tough situations. She remembered the gang of hustlers he’d caught past-posting at roulette. Mabel had watched the tape several times, but had not seen what the gang was doing until Tony had pointed it out. While two members distracted surveillance by yelling and banging the table, a third member—a petite old lady—had surreptitiously placed a late bet. The scam had flown right by everyone, and all because the old lady had slowly put her late bet on the table. So slowly, that no one had noticed.

“And you are a wonderful student,” Mabel said.

“You think so?”

“I’d give you an A.”

Slash grinned, and Mabel calmly reached across the desk and removed Dostoyevsky’s masterpiece from its resting place. Placing the book in her lap, she flipped it open. As she’d expected, it was hollow, and she removed the Sig Sauer resting inside and aimed it at Slash’s hairless chest.

Her abductor stared down the gun’s barrel. He smiled, exposing two crooked rows of teeth. “You got me,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“You’re a cagey old broad.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Slash lifted his arms as if to stretch, and Mabel twitched the gun’s barrel.

“Don’t move,” she said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

Yes, you would, Mabel thought. I’m a sixty-five-year-old woman with lousy vision. If you jump me—and I’m sure that’s exactly what’s going through your deranged mind—I might get a round off. Wounded, you’d still be strong enough to strangle the life out of me.

Mabel aimed the gun directly at her abductor’s heart. It took Slash a few seconds to comprehend.

Forgive me, God.

Slash leapt out of his chair. But by then, Mabel had already squeezed the trigger.

As Rico pulled off 595, Valentine had understood.

Like any other predatory creature, murderers often returned to places they believed safe. Rico was taking him to the swamps, to the place where he’d dumped Jack Lightfoot, and where Splinters had tried to shoot Candy.