Funny Money

“Right,” Valentine said.

Porter whipped out his cell phone. Five minutes later, the Mod Squad were sitting in Sinbad's, with Brandi enthusiastically explaining the promotion to him. Up close, she was what guys of his generation called a dish, with green bedroom eyes and a soft Southern drawl, and he found himself staring a little harder than he probably should have.

“Ninety-eight percent of people who play in a casino lose,” she said. “They have a good time, but they go home broke. The idea behind Funny Money is to let people go home thinking they won something.”

“Change the perception,” Valentine said.

She flashed a smile to melt your heart. “That's right. Last October, we put Funny Money slot machines in the casino. It meant reconfiguring the floor, but sometimes you have to take risks in this business if you want to succeed.”

How old was she? Thirty-two? She talked like she'd been in the business a hundred years. Gigi, the beautiful blonde, took over. “Funny Money coins only work in the Funny Money slots, which pay out at a rate of twenty percent. The prizes are remainders we buy from the Home Shopping Network. Some of the stuff we get for free, it's so bad.”

The three women shared a giggle. Being around them felt like a TV sitcom. Valentine laughed along, just to humor them.

“Funny Money machines also have a jackpot,” Gigi said, “which is a new car. General Motors gives us that for free. For the publicity.”

“So the prizes don't cost you anything,” he said.

It was Monique's turn. She looked like she pumped iron, and jumped right in. “But the guests are winning something, and that's what counts. They go home happy. We're changing the experience for them.”

“And they tell their friends,” Gigi said.

“And their friends come to The Bombay,” Brandi said.

Their synchronization was uncanny. It still sounded dumb, but what did he know? Mencken once said that no one had ever lost money underestimating the taste of the American public, and this sounded right up Mencken's alley.

Brandi's cell phone rang. Taking it from her purse, she flipped it open. “Yes, Archie.”

“Where's Gigi and Monique?” the casino owner bellowed.

“With me.”

“Break time's over! Get your tight little asses up here, on the double.”

Brandi dropped the cell phone into her purse. The three women's smiles faded.

They filed out of the coffee shop, leaving Valentine to wonder how modern women liked being treated like little girls. If it bothered them, they were doing a hell of a job not showing it.

“So this is the culprit,” Valentine said, standing next to a gleaming, six-foot-tall Funny Money slot machine, the handle glowing like a Star Wars laser saber.

“Not so loud,” Porter said. “We've got a customer.”

A woman wearing a jogging suit jumped on the stool and began feeding coins into the slot while jerking the handle. Physically, she was not much to look at, except for her right arm. Her pulling arm. A cross between Popeye's and Rod Laver's.

“Having a good time?” Porter inquired.

“You bet I am,” the woman said. “I've already won a K-Tell orange peeler and an electric foot massager.”

“Ask her how much she lost at the tables,” Valentine whispered in Porter's ear.

“Shut up, will you?” Porter said through clenched teeth.

Even the best game would eventually beat you, and the woman soon ran out of coins and left. Taking her stool, Porter pointed at the ceiling. “See that eye-in-the-sky camera? Well, it used to watch one blackjack table. When we added the Funny Money slots, we had to rearrange things. Now, that camera watches two tables.”

The practice was called double-duty and frowned upon in the gaming industry. Valentine said, “Let me guess. These are the tables where the European ripped you off.”

Porter nodded. “Somehow he knew which tables had double-duty cameras. He waited until the other table had heavy action before starting to play. He ripped us off for months, but we only caught him on film a few times.”

“Didn't someone notice the take was off?” Valentine asked.

“The take wasn't off,” Porter said. “The promotion has been such a boon for business, it didn't show.”

Something wasn't adding up. Valentine said, “If the take wasn't off, why did you hire Doyle?”

“Having the floor rearranged bugged me,” Porter admitted. “I would look through a camera and not know which table I was seeing. So I hired Doyle to bird-dog for me.”

“And he spotted the European.”

“First night on the job,” Porter said.

An elderly man with a walker shuffled over. His liver-spotted hands cradled a bucket filled with Funny Money. Porter helped him onto the stool.

The gods of chance were smiling down. On the elderly man's first pull, the reels lined up six elephants. A buxom hostess appeared and presented him with a sixties lava lamp.

“I always wanted one of these!” the elderly man exclaimed.

They found an empty booth in the back of Sinbad's. Porter waved away the waitress.

“Okay, so what do I do?”

“A couple of things,” Valentine said. “First, accept that you've got a mole in the casino. The mole told the European which tables had cameras doing double-duty.”

“Jesus,” Porter said. “Why didn't I think of that.”

“Second, accept that the European will show up again. Most hustlers skip town when they get made. The European killed Doyle instead.”

“He thinks we're easy pickings.”

“That's right.”

“If he does, we'll jam him.”

Jam meant having someone arrested. Valentine lowered his voice. “For what? You can't prove he killed Doyle, and you can't prove he ripped you off. The police will let him walk, and Archie will fire you.”

“So what do I do?”

Valentine wrote his cell phone number down on a napkin and slid it across the table. “Call me.”

“No police?”

Valentine slid out of the booth and put his overcoat on. Sinbad's was empty, and he slipped the Glock out of his pocket and laid it on the table. Porter swallowed his Adam's apple.

“No police,” he said.

7

A Tree in the Forest

Archie's spare car was a Mercedes SL 600 coupe. It had more amenities than most third-world countries, and while sitting at a traffic light, Valentine played with the different buttons on the dashboard.

He hit the button for the CD player and was assaulted by a throbbing rap song. The lyrics were about abusing women and killing cops, and he ejected the offensive music. Archie was of his generation—big band, Sinatra, the other crooners. This crap wasn't him at all, and Valentine tossed the CD into the glove compartment.

His motel room had been cleaned, the tread marks fresh in the carpet. The red light on the bedside phone was blinking, and he dialed into voice mail. Two messages awaited him.