'Sure.'
'I paid the court with a check, and my cash flow's been kinda short lately, if you know what I mean.'
Valentine pushed himself off the bed, not believing his ears.
'You want me to cover you?'
'Well, yeah,' his son said.
Valentine kicked the night table and got violent feedback from his big toe. The more things changed, the more they remained the same.
'I'll pay you back,' his son mumbled.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Gerry cleared his throat. 'Pop.'
'What?'
'I know this is hard to believe, but I'm trying.'
'You're trying,' Valentine echoed.
'Yeah, I'm trying.'
Across the street the Mirage's volcano spit a doughnut-shaped cloud into the air. The police cruisers were leaving the Acropolis, their wailing sirens drowning out all other sound. Roxanne was in one of those cruisers, getting her first taste of her new life. She would do a minimum of five years in the state pen and her life would never be the same again. Only when the cruisers were gone did Valentine speak.
'Well,' he said, 'it's about time.' By James Swain Published by Ballantine Books:
GRIFT SENSE
Grift sense refers to the instinct for spotting a scam and Tony has plenty of opportunity to use his skills in this entertaining read.' -The Tampa Tribune-Times 'Grift Sense is one of the best debuts I've read in years. It has a great plot, wonderful characters, and a slick, subtle wit.' -The Toronto Globe and Mail 'The hard-nosed dialogue and the fast-paced, serpentine plot deliver a page-turner of a mystery. Just when readers start to relax, thinking it's clear sailing to the end, Swain throws yet another curve.' -Canadian Press 'A knowing, lively plot surrounded by a kidnapping, a return from the dead, a promise of May-December romance, as many curves as a Vegas showgirl, and a shower of what even the hard-bitten gambling professionals in [the] cast describe as epiphanies.' -Kirkus Reviews (starred review) 'Billed as one of the best card-handlers in the world, Swain packs this first novel with enough tidbits on the art to back up the claim. Combine that insider's knowledge with clean writing and a reasonable con, and the result is a fun read a la Elmore Leonard.' -Publishers Weekly 'Well-crafted, dryly humorous, and highly enjoyable.' -Library Journal Read on for an exciting look at James Swain's next novel,
SUCKER BET
Available in hardcover wherever books are sold. Published by Ballantine Books.
The mark's name was Nigel Moon.
Jack Lightfoot recognized Moon the moment he stepped into the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. Back in the eighties, Moon had played drums for an English rock band called One-Eyed Pig, his ransacking of hotel rooms as well-publicized as his manic solos. Unlike the other band members, who'd fried their brains on drugs and booze, Moon had opened a chain of popular hamburger joints that now stretched across two continents.
As Moon crossed the casino, Jack eyed the delicious redhead on his arm. She was a plant, or what his partner Rico called a raggle. 'The raggle will convince Moon to come to your casino,' Rico had explained the day before, 'and try his luck at blackjack. She'll bring him to your table. The rest is up to you.'
She looked familiar. Jack frequented Fort Lauderdale's many adult clubs and often picked up free magazines filled with ads of local prostitutes. The raggle was a hooker named Candy Hart. Her ad said she was on call twenty- four hours a day, Visa and MasterCard accepted.
'Good evening,' Jack said as they sat down at his empty table.
Moon reeked of beer. He was pushing fifty, unshaven, his gray hair pulled back in a pigtail like a matador's coleta. He removed a monster wad from his pocket and dropped it on the table. All hundreds.
'Table limit is ten dollars,' Jack informed him.
Moon made a face. Candy touched Moon's arm.
'You can't bet more than ten dollars a hand,' she said sweetly. 'All of the table games have limits.'
Moon drew back in his chair. 'Ten bloody dollars? What kind of toilet have you brought me to, my dear? I can get a game of dominos with a bunch of old Jews on Miami Beach with higher stakes than that.'
Candy dug her fingernails into Moon's arm. 'You promised me, remember?'
'I did?'
'In the car.'
Moon smiled wickedly. 'Oh, yes. A moment of weakness, I suppose.'
'Shhhh,' she said, glancing Jack's way.
Moon patted her hand reassuringly. 'A promise is a promise.'
Moon slid five hundred dollars Jack's way. Jack cut up his chips. During a stretch in prison, Jack heard One- Eyed Pig's music blasting through the cell block at all hours, and he knew many of the lyrics by heart.
Jack slid the chips across the table. Moon put ten dollars into each of the seven betting circles on the felt. Jack played a two-deck game, handheld. He shuffled the cards and offered them to be cut.
'Count them,' Moon said.
'Excuse me?' Jack said.
'I want you to count the cards,' Moon demanded.
Jack brought the pit boss over, and Moon repeated himself again.
'Okay,' the pit boss said.
Jack started to count the cards onto the table.
'Faceup,' Moon barked.
'Excuse me?' Jack said.
'You heard me.'
Jack looked to the pit boss for help.
'Okay,' the pit boss said.
Jack turned the two decks faceup. Then he counted them on the table.
'What are you doing?' Candy asked.
'Making sure they're all there,' Moon said, watching intently. 'I ran up against a dealer in Puerto Rico playing with a short deck and lost my bloody shirt.'
Jack finished counting. One hundred and four cards. Satisfied, Moon leaned back into his chair.
'A short dick?' Candy said, giggling.
'Short deck. It's where the dealer purposely removes a number of high-valued cards. It gives the house an unbeatable edge.'
