“Mr. Kemper, your naivete surprises me. While the system is complex, the principles are simple. The spotters mingle in the crowd, keeping track of the play at the high-stakes tables.”
“Who the hell are these spotters?”
“They could be anyone: an elderly woman at a strategically placed slot machine, a tipsy businessman talking loudly on a cell phone, even a pimply teenager gaping at the action. The spotters are highly trained and quite often masters of creating an artificial persona to cover their activities. They count the cards—they don’t play.”
“And the players?”
“One spotter might have two to four players in his string. The spotters keep track of all the cards played at a table and ‘count’ them, which usually involves assigning negative numbers to low cards and positive numbers to tens and aces. All they have to remember is a single number—the running count. When the ratio of high cards to low cards remaining in the deck grows beyond a certain point, the odds shift temporarily in favor of the players; high cards in blackjack disfavor the dealer. A spotter who sees a table shift in this way sends a prearranged signal to one of his players, who then sits down at that table and starts betting heavily. Or, if the player is already at the table, he will suddenly up his bets. When the ratio slips back to normal or below, another signal from the spotter tells the player it’s time to leave, or to drop back to smaller bets.”
Kemper shifted uneasily. “How can we stop it?”
“The only foolproof countermeasure is to identify the spotters and give them the, ah, bum’s rush.”
“Can’t do that.”
“No doubt that’s why they’re here and not Las Vegas.”
“What else?”
“Combine the cards into eight-deck shoes and then deal only a third of the shoe before reshuffling.”
“We deal out of a four-deck shoe.”
“Another reason you’ve attracted counters. You could stop them cold by instructing your dealers to shuffle up every time a new player sits down or when a player suddenly ups his wager.”
“No way. That would slow play and reduce profits. Besides, the more experienced players would object.”
“No doubt.” Pendergast shrugged. “Of course, none of these countermeasures solve the problem of how to get
your money.”
Kemper looked at him, eyes red-rimmed. “There’s a way to get back the money?”
“Perhaps.”
“We can’t do anything that would involve cheating.”
“
can’t.”
“We can’t allow you to cheat either, Mr. Pendergast.”
“Why, Mr. Kemper,” Pendergast responded, his voice full of hurt, “did I say I was going to
?”
Kemper said nothing.
“A characteristic of card counters is that they stick by their system. A normal player will quit if he’s losing heavily—but not a professional card counter. He knows the odds will eventually come around. That’s to our advantage.” Pendergast looked at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. That leaves three hours of prime play ahead. Mr. Kemper, be so kind as to extend me a half-million line of credit.”
“Did you say half a
?” “I’d hate to find myself short just when things got going.”
Kemper thought hard for a minute. “Are you going to get back our money?”
Pendergast smiled. “I shall try.”
Kemper swallowed. “All right.”
“You’ll need to have Mr. Hentoff warn your pit bosses and dealers that my play might be eccentric, even suspicious—although it will always remain within legal bounds. I’ll take my seat at first base—on the dealer’s left— and I’ll be sitting out about fifty percent of the hands played, so please tell your people
“All right.”
“Would it be possible to lift the maximum wager at one of the high-stakes tables?”
“You mean, no upper limit to a bet?”
“Yes. It will ensure the counters mark that table, and it will make taking the money back much more efficient.”
Kemper felt a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. “We can do that.”
“And finally, please have Mr. Hentoff staff that table with a dealer with small hands and thin fingers. The less experienced, the better. Have him or her place the end-of-play card high up in the shoe.”
“Do I dare ask why?” said Kemper.
“You dare not.”
“Mr. Pendergast, if we catch you cheating, it’s going to be extremely awkward for both of us.”
“I will not cheat—you have my word.”
“How can you possibly influence play when none of the players ever touch the cards?”
Pendergast smiled enigmatically. “There are ways, Mr. Kemper. Oh, and I shall need an assistant, one of your cocktail waitresses, someone invisible, discreet, and intelligent, who will bring me my drinks and be on call for some—how shall it put it?—
“This had better work.”
Pendergast paused. “Naturally, if successful, I shall expect another favor in return.”
“Naturally,” said Kemper. Pendergast rose, turned, then glided through the office door into the central monitoring room beyond. Just before the door closed, Kemper could hear his honeyed southern voice raised. “My word, now it’s the apadravyas position. And at their age!”
27
THE ELDERLY WOMAN IN STATEROOM 1039 TURNED SLIGHTLY IN HER bed, mumbling in her sleep.
A moment later, she turned again, the mumbling growing fretful. Something was interfering with her slumber: a rapping sound, loud, insistent.
Her eyes opened. “Inge?” she croaked.
The only reply was another rap.
The woman raised one gnarled hand, grasping a steel bar that ran across the length of the headboard. Slowly, painfully, she raised herself to a sitting position. She had been dreaming; a rather lovely dream involving Monty Hall, door number 2, and petroleum jelly. She licked her desiccated lips, trying to recall the details, but they were already fading into a fog of elusive memories.
“Where is that girl?” she mumbled, feeling a twinge of fear.
The rapping continued. It came from somewhere beyond the bedroom.
