draws that were paying off pretty well. The kid lost three hands in a row, leaned back in his chair and said, “Man, I am hexed!”
Hexed.
Peter realized the count was plus thirteen with about forty cards left in the shoe.
Hexed.
The blonde pushed a stack of chips worth $3,500 forward. Seeing this, the insurance guy stepped up and bet the max. “You’re giving me courage,” he told her. Peter stuck to his $100, the same as the doc and the kid.
Sam quickly dealt and gave Peter a strong nineteen, the insurance guy fourteen, the doc seventeen, the kid twelve, and the blonde a pair of jacks-twenty. The dealer was showing a six. She’s a lock, Peter thought. High count, dealer probably draws and busts, she’s sitting pretty with her twenty.
“I’m going to split these, Sam,” she said.
Sam blinked and nodded as she put up another $3,500.
Holy shit! Peter was dumbstruck. Who splits tens?
Unless?
Peter and the doc stood pat, the kid drew a six and stayed on eighteen. The insurance man busted out with a ten and spat out in disgust, “Son of a bitch!”
The blonde held her breath and clenched her fists until Sam dealt her a queen on one hand and a seven on the other. She clapped and exhaled simultaneously.
The dealer flipped his hole card, revealing a king, and drew a nine.
Bust.
Amidst her squeals, Sam paid out the table, shoving seven grand in chips her way.
Peter hastily excused himself and started for the men’s room in turmoil. His mind was grinding. What am I thinking? he said to himself. This is none of my business! Let it go!
But he couldn’t. He was overwhelmed with moral outrage-if he didn’t take advantage, why should they?
He pivoted, went back toward the cluster of blackjack tables and made eye contact with the pit boss, who nodded and smiled at him. Peter sidled up and said, “Hey, how’re you doing?”
“Just fine, sir. How can I help you this evening?”
“You see that kid at the table over there and the girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re counting.”
The corner of the pit boss’s mouth twitched. He’d seen a lot but he’d never seen one player turn in another. What was the angle? “You sure about this?”
“I’m positive. The kid’s counting and signaling her.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll handle it.”
The pit boss used his two-way to call the floor manager, who in turn got security to play back the tape of the table’s last couple of hands. In retrospect the blonde’s stepped-up bet did look suspicious.
Peter had returned to the table just as a phalanx of uniformed security men arrived and laid hands on the kid’s shoulders.
“Hey, what the fuck!” the kid shouted.
Players at other tables stopped and stared.
“You two know each other?” the pit boss asked.
“I never saw her in my life! That’s the goddamn truth!” the kid wailed.
The blonde said nothing. She just picked up her pocketbook, gathered her chips, and tossed a $500 tip to Sam.
“See you, fellows,” she said as she was led away.
The pit boss made a hand signal and Sam was replaced by another dealer.
The doc and the insurance guy looked at Peter with glazed astonishment. “What the hell just happened here?” the insurance man asked.
“They were counting,” Peter said simply. “I turned them in.”
“No you did not!” the insurance guy howled.
“Yeah, I did. It ticked me off.”
The doc asked, “How’d you know?”
“I knew.” He felt uncomfortable with the attention he was getting. He wanted to scram.
“I’ll be damned,” the insurance guy said, shaking his head. “I’m going to buy you a drink, friend. I’ll be damned.” His blue eyes sparkled as he reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Here, take my card. My business runs on computers. If you need any work, just call me up, all right?”
Peter took the card: NELSON G. ELDER, CHAIRMAN AND CEO, DESERT LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY.
“That’s very nice of you, but I have a job,” Peter muttered, his voice barely audible above the repetitive melodies and clanging of the slots.
“Well, if things change, you’ve got my number.”
The pit boss approached the table. “Look everyone, I apologize for what happened here. Mr. Elder, how are you tonight, sir? All of you are eating and drinking on the house tonight and I got tickets to any show you want. Okay? Again, I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry enough to reverse my losses tonight, Frankie?” Elder asked.
“I wish I could, Mr. Elder, but that I cannot do.”
“Oh, well,” Elder told the table, “you don’t ask, you don’t get.”
The pit boss tapped Peter on the shoulder and whispered, “The manager wants to meet you.” Peter blanched. “Don’t worry, it’s all good.”
Gil Flores, the floor manager of the Constellation, was sleek and urbane, and in his presence Peter felt scruffy and self-conscious. His armpits were damp, he wanted to leave. The manager’s office was utilitarian, equipped with multiple flat-screen panels getting live feeds from the tables and slots.
Flores was drilling down, trying to figure out the hows and the whys. How did a civilian spot something his guys didn’t and why did he turn them in? “What am I missing here?” Flores asked the timid man.
Peter took a sip of water. “I knew the count,” Peter admitted.
“You were counting too?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a counter? You’re admitting to me you’re a counter?” Flores’s voice was rising.
“I count, but I’m not a counter.”
Flores’s polish rubbed off. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“I keep the count-it’s kind of a habit, but I don’t use it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Peter shrugged. “I’m sorry but it’s the truth. I’ve been coming here for two years and I’ve never varied my bets. I make a little, lose a little, you know.”
“Unbelievable. So you knew the count when this shithead does what?”
“He said he was hexed. The count was thirteen, you know, a code word for thirteen. She joined the table when the count was high. I think he dropped a swizzle stick to signal her.”
“So he counts and decoys, the chick bets and collects.”
“They probably have a code word for every count, like ‘chair’ for four, ‘sweet’ for sixteen.”
The phone rang and Flores answered it and listened before saying, “Yes, sir.”
“Well, Peter Benedict, it’s your lucky day,” Flores announced. “Victor Kemp wants to see you up in the penthouse.”
The view from the penthouse was dazzling, the entire Strip snaking toward the dark horizon like a flaming tail. Victor Kemp came in and extended his hand, and Peter felt his chunky gold rings when their fingers entwined. He had black wavy hair, a deep tan and gleaming teeth-the sleek, easy looks of a headliner at the best club in town. His suit was a shimmery blue that caught the light and played with it, a fabric that seemed unearthly. He sat Peter down in his cavernous living room and offered him a drink. While a maid fetched a beer, Peter noticed that one of the wall monitors at the far end of the room had a shot of Gil’s office. Cameras everywhere.
Peter took the beer and considered doffing his cap but kept it on-damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.
“An honest man is the noblest work of God,” Kemp said suddenly. “Alexander Pope wrote that. Cheers!”
