The Grand Palace was located on the north side of Commercial Boulevard between A1A and Federal Highway in an area known to local law enforcement agencies as Maggot Mile. The restaurant advertised Continental Cuisine, which in south Florida might include broiled alligator and smoked shark.
The main dining room, decorated in Miami Hotel Moderne, attracted a regular clientele of well-heeled retirees and tourists during the season, October to May. The shadowy back room, called the Palace Lounge, had its own side entrance opening directly onto the parking lot. The Lounge was decorated with fishnets, floats, lobster traps, and a large preserved sailfish over the bleached pine bar.
David Rathbone left his black Bentley in the care of the parking valet in front of the Grand Palace, then walked around to the Lounge entrance. He was wearing a suit of raw white silk with a knitted mauve polo shirt, open at the throat. His white bucks were properly scuffed. His only jewelry was an identification bracelet of heavy gold links, a miniature anchor chain.
The Lounge was empty except for Ernie polishing glasses behind the bar. Ernie was an ex-detective of the NYPD, cashiered for allegedly shaking down crack dealers. In addition to his barkeeping duties, he booked bets and served as a steerer for pot and coke dealers. He could also provide the phone number of a young call girl who happened to be his daughter.
'Good evening, Mr. Rathbone,' he said. 'How you doing?'
'Surviving,' Rathbone said, and removed a five-dollar bill from his money clip. 'Will you do me a favor, Ernie?'
'You name it.'
'Put this fin in your cash register. Later in the evening I'll ask you for a five. Be sure to bring me this one. Got it?'
Ernie examined the bill, running his thumb across the surface. 'Queer?'
'No,' Rathbone said, 'it's the real thing.'
The bartender stared at him. 'Is this a scam?'
'Nah, just a little joke.'
'Uh-huh. What's in it for me?'
'The five.'
'Okay,' Ernie said, 'I'll play. You want the usual, I suppose.'
'You suppose correctly. With a wedge of lime, please.'
The Lounge had tables of fake hatch covers poly-urethaned to a high gloss. Most of them seated two or four patrons comfortably. But in the most shadowed corner was a giant table set about with nine mate's chairs. This table bore a small card, reserved, and it was there Rathbone carried his vodka gimlet. He lighted his first Winston of the day and settled down.
He didn't wait long. Ten minutes later Mortimer and Nancy Sparco came in, stopped at the bar, then brought their Scotch mists over to the big table. Rathbone stood up.
'Nancy,' he said, 'you look ravishing, and if Mort wasn't here, I would.'
'Be my guest,' Sparco said and flopped into the chair next to Rathbone's.
'Mort's in a snit,' Nancy said. 'He didn't win the lottery-again.'
'You still playing that?' Rathbone asked. 'It's a sucker's game; you know it. Look at the odds.'
'Look at the payoff,' Mortimer said. 'Millions! It's worth a hundred bucks a week.'
'What numbers do you play?' Rathbone asked idly.
'He plays anything with a seven in it,' Nancy said. 'Claims it's his lucky number. Some luck!'
'It'll hit,' Mort said. 'Seven has always been very good to me.'
'That's where you're making your mistake,' Rathbone said. 'Look at the winning numbers over the past year. You'll find that most of them have five in them. Like five, fifteen, twenty-five, and so on.'
Sparco looked at him. 'You're kidding.'
Rathbone held up a palm. 'Scout's honor. I've studied random number frequency on my computer and believe me, five turns up more often than seven or any other number.'
'I don't believe you,' Mortimer said.
Rathbone shrugged. 'It's even true for the serial numbers on five-dollar bills. You'll find that the digit five occurs most frequently.'
'David, you're nuts.'
'Am I? Would you like to make a small bet?'
'Mort,' Nancy said, 'don't do it.'
'I'll make it easy on you,' Rathbone said. 'I'll bet you twenty bucks that the first five-dollar bill we examine will have more fives in the serial number than any other digit.'
'All right,' Sparco said, 'I'll take your bet.' Then, when he saw Rathbone reach in his pocket for his money: 'Oh no, not your five! You've probably got a ringer all ready for me.'
Rathbone shook his head. 'What a suspicious bastard you are. You're my friend; I wouldn't cheat you. All right, we'll do it this way.' He called over to the bar: 'Ernie, you got any fives in the register?'
'Sure, Mr. Rathbone,' the bartender said. 'How many you want?'
'Just one. Pick out any five-dollar bill you like and bring it over here for a moment, will you?' Then, to Sparco: 'Satisfied it's on the up-and-up now?'
'I guess so.'
Ernie brought the bill to their table. They bent over it and examined the serial number.
'There you are!' Rathbone said triumphantly. 'Three fives. Now do you admit I'm right?'
'Son of a bitch,' Mortimer said, and handed a twenty to the other man. 'You've got the luck of Old Nick.'
'It's the science of numbers,' Rathbone said. 'You can't fight it.'
'Mort, I told you not to bet,' Nancy said morosely. 'David always wins. I need another drink.'
James and Trudy Bartlett joined them, and a few regulars came through the side entrance to sit at the smaller tables. A noisy party of four tourists entered from the dining room, headed for the bar. Sidney and Cynthia Coe arrived, and then Ellen St. Martin and Frank Little. More regulars came in; the tables filled up; someone fed the jukebox; the joint began to jump.
At the big table, the talk was all about a three-year-old filly, Jussigirl, who had won all her eleven starts. Then the conversation turned to the recent run-up in the price of precious metals. Sid Coe, who owned a boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard, announced his intention of switching his yaks from gemstones to platinum.
Ernie came from behind the bar, leaned over Rathbone, whispered in his ear.
'That guy at the end of the bar, dressed like an undertaker, he says he's a friend of yours, wants to talk to you. Okay, or should I bounce him?'
Rathbone turned his head to stare. 'Yes, I know him. Is he sober, Ernie?'
'He's had a few, but he's holding them.'
Rathbone excused himself and joined the man standing at the bar. He was tall, skinny, almost cadaverous, wearing a three-piece black suit of some shiny stuff. The two men shook hands.
'Tommy,' Rathbone said, 'good to see you. When did you get out?'
'About a month ago.'
'Hard time?'
'Nah. I can do eighteen months standing on my head. Just the cost of doing business.'
'They sure as hell didn't fatten you up.'
'The food in that joint is worse than hospital slop. The warden's on the take.'
'Need some green?'
'No, thanks, David; I'm doing okay. I had a safe deposit box they never did find. You got anything going?'
'This and that.'
'I got something that could be so big it scares me. But I don't know how to handle it. You interested?'
'Depends,' Rathbone said. 'What is it?'
Tommy leaned closer. His breath was 94 proof. 'I shared a cell with an old Kraut who was finishing up five- to-ten. He was in for printing the queer. Not pushing it, just manufacturing fifties and hundreds and selling them to the pushers. He told me a lot about papers, inks, and engraving. The guy really knows his stuff*. He claimed that when he was collared, he had just come up with an invention that could make a zillion if it was handled right. Well,
