a beeline for the men's bathroom, while his red-haired companion was heading toward a side exit.
“You got someone following the girl?” he asked Porter.
“No.”
“I've got a brawl on the other side of the casino,” Porter said. “There's no security in your zone.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Let her go.”
Valentine followed the European. The door to the men's bathroom resembled the entrance to one of the great pyramids, with a pair of sword-wielding genie statues standing guard. The European slipped past them and disappeared inside.
“I'm going in.”
“Let me get backup over there,” Porter said.
“How long?”
“Two minutes, tops.”
Two minutes was too long. What if the European put on a disguise, or wiggled out through a pipe? Stranger things had happened. “I can't risk losing him, Frank.”
He heard Porter suck in his breath.
“Be careful, you hear me?”
Valentine touched the handle of the Glock. It felt cool and smooth in his hand. Then he touched one of the genies' swords for luck and went in.
The men's bathroom was massive. The stalls covered an entire wall, and he got low, looking at pant legs. The European's black pair was at the row's end. He entered a stall two away and latched the door.
He dropped the crown and had a seat. By lowering his head, he was able to see the European's shoes. They were scuffed and needed a good polish.
Moments later, a man wearing Nikes took the stall next to the European's. An exchange followed in a language Valentine did not understand. The European began passing handfuls of hundred dollar chips underneath the stall. Smart hustlers never cashed in their own winnings. Instead, they passed their chips on to a member of their crew, who split the chips up among other crew members, who turned them into cash. That way, the loss was less noticeable to the casino.
The transfer done, the man in sneakers left. Valentine counted to five, then unlatched the door. At the same time, his left hand removed the Glock from his pocket.
The European stood waiting on the other side. He was breathing hard, his pocked face pouring sweat. His hand clutched a .38, the barrel pointed at Valentine's heart.
“Give me your weapon.”
Valentine handed him the Glock. Then said, “Don't shoot,” knowing the words would make Porter jump out of his skin and trigger every alarm in the casino.
The European weighed the Glock in his hand, then slipped his own .38 into his pocket.
“Let me guess,” Valentine said. “It's not loaded.”
“Not a real gun,” the European replied. “But yours is.”
It was Valentine's turn to start sweating. Anyone who carried around a fake gun couldn't be trusted to handle a real one. The European pointed at the stall he'd just come out of.
“Sit,” he said.
Valentine sat on the crown, then covered his head with his arms. One shot was all it was going to take. Did he have any regrets? Only one, he decided, and that was making Gerry his sole beneficiary.
“Look at me,” the European said.
Valentine stared into the European's face. He was a sad-looking guy with lifeless eyes. He placed the barrel of the Glock against Valentine's nose. Valentine closed his eyes.
“Stop following us,” the European said.
He heard the stall door close. The air slowly escaped from his lungs. He waited, then rose and stuck his head out. The European was gone.
Taking the baseball cap off, he started yelling into it.
Five minutes later, Valentine was sitting in Porter's office in the surveillance control room on the third floor. There was no greater jolt to the nervous system than having a gun pointed at you, unless the gun happened to go off.
A cup of hot coffee brought him around. As his head cleared, he was struck by the realization of what an incredibly stupid thing he'd done. Not only had he allowed the European to escape, but he'd given him an illegal hand gun with
“I'm sorry, Tony,” Porter said. “I thought I told you the transceiver doesn't work in the bathroom. Something to do with the tiles.”
“You might have, and I might have forgotten,” Valentine said. “You nail him?”
“He flew by us.”
“He turned his coat inside out before he came out of the bathroom, stuck shades and a hat on. He walked right past two guards coming to help you. I didn't realize it was him until it was too late.”
Valentine tossed his cup in the trash, wanting to yell at Porter, but knowing it wasn't his fault. He'd messed up by going in alone, and that was all there was to it.
Porter extracted a jelly doughnut from the Dunkin' Donuts box on his desk and took a healthy bite. Gooey red stuff dripped onto a picture frame on the desk. It was an eight-by-ten glossy of Frank with the comedian Rodney Dangerfield. The inscription read
“I opened for him once,” Porter said glumly.
Valentine felt bad for him. Not only had Frank let the European get away, he'd also let him steal another ten grand. That would not sit well with his employer.
Valentine took the four decks of playing cards used on Table 42 off Porter's desk. Removing them from their boxes, he examined their backs. They were Bees, and made exclusively by the U.S. Playing Card Company.
“I already checked the cards,” Porter said.
“And?”
“Clean as a whistle.”
He held the cards up to the light. Marking playing cards was considered an art among hustlers. Paint, daub, shade, and a substance called juice were commonly used. Sometimes, the cards were nicked with a finely sharpened fingernail. All of these marks could be seen by a trained eye, and the cards from Table 42 appeared clean. Then he had an idea.
Taking a pencil off Porter's desk, he ran it down the face of the card and checked for warps, a sophisticated method of crimping that put a subtle bend in the card that was almost impossible to remove. Again, he found nothing.
“Damn,” he said aloud. He'd told Doyle the dark-haired beauty was marking the cards. And he'd been wrong.
“You're stumped,” Porter said. “That's a first.”
Valentine snatched the last doughnut from the box and bit into it. The red stuff was artificially sweet and disgustingly good.
“Any suggestions?” the head of security asked.
Valentine finished the doughnut, thinking about it.
“Maybe I should be the one to tell Archie what happened.”
Porter didn't get it. “Why?”
“I'll build the European up, tell Archie he's the greatest blackjack hustler I've ever seen.”
“You think he'll buy it?”
“He should.”
“Why's that?”
“Because he may be the greatest blackjack hustler I've ever seen.”
Porter considered it. Then shook his head.
