Sucker Bet

Having grown up in Atlantic City, he knew a thing or two about the game. The only smart way to play had been published in a book by Edward Thorp called Beat the Dealer. Thorp had doped out a system that he called Basic Strategy. It was as exact a science as algebra.

Sitting beside Gerry was a cruise-ship drunk. The drunk wore an ugly parrot shirt dotted with catsup and a green avocado-like substance. Belching into his hand, he said, “You Puerto Rican?”

“Italian. What’s it to you?”

“Sorry. With that tan, you look Puerto Rican.”

“You got something against Puerto Ricans?”

“Puerto Ricans aren’t allowed to play in the casino,” the drunk said defensively.

“Says who?”

“Says the government. They just want us tourists playing.” The drunk lowered his voice. “If you ask me, I think it’s because they’re too stupid to understand the rules.”

Yolanda was Puerto Rican. Had he been on his home turf, Gerry would have smacked the guy in the head. He glanced at the dealer. He was an effeminate Puerto Rican with olive skin and wavy hair. He didn’t say much, but in his eyes a fire was burning. He heard the drunk, Gerry thought.

His father had told him to never play with a pissed-off dealer. But what could the dealer do? A pit boss was watching, and the cards were dealt out of a plastic shoe. Deciding to go against his old man’s advice, Gerry had stayed put.

That had been his first mistake.

The dealer had cleaned out everyone at the table. Because Basic Strategy required intense concentration, Gerry had noticed the inordinate number of small cards being dealt. Small cards—two, three, four, five, six—favored the house, while big cards—ten, jack, queen, king, and ace—favored the players. Not enough big cards were coming out of the shoe, which meant something fishy was going on. He’d decided to call the dealer on it.

That had been his second mistake.

“How do you know the dealer was cheating?” Yolanda asked the next day, applying a fresh ice pack to Gerry’s eye. For his imprudence he’d been asked to step outside, where a security guard had punched him.

“Because I figured out what the dealer was doing.”

“You did?”

“He was keeping a slug of high cards out of play. My old man told me about it. It isn’t very hard, once you understand the basics. I should have done what my father said.”

“Which is?”

“If you think you’re getting cheated, leave.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m a dope,” he said.

His beautiful bride kissed him on the cheek. “No, you’re not.”

There was a knock on the door. Yolanda ushered in a waiter with the meal she’d ordered from room service. She was loving every minute of their honeymoon, and Gerry struggled with how to tell her that he no could longer pay for their room, or her treatments at the spa, or the lavish meals, or all the other bills they’d rung up. The phone rang and she answered it.

“Hi, Dad,” she said cheerfully.

Gerry groaned. She spoke to her own father in Spanish. Which meant it was his father, the last person on earth he wanted to talk to. He made a move for the bathroom.

“He’s right here,” Yolanda said.

“No, I’m not,” Gerry whispered. “Tell him I’m in the crapper.”

“Talk to your father,” she whispered back, handing him the phone.

Gerry held the receiver in his outstretched hand. He could already hear his old man yelling at him, and he hadn’t even told him what he’d done. He stared at his wife’s protruding belly. Was he really ready to be a parent?

“Hi,” he said.

There was a time in every man’s life when he had to admit his mistakes, and Gerry realized now was that time, even if it meant his father might explode and Yolanda might kill him. But before the words could come out of his mouth, his father stopped him dead in his tracks.

“I don’t know how to ask you this,” his father said.

“What’s that?”

There was a brief silence. Then his old man let him have it.

“I need your help,” he said.

15

Rico knew something was wrong the moment he laid eyes on Candy Hart.

It was lunchtime, and they were sitting in the Delano’s patio restaurant. The tables were filled with pasty- skinned young women and their coke-sniffing boyfriends, the waiters balancing monster trays as they darted between tables. Candy had called him an hour ago. Nigel had gone to play eighteen holes on the Blue Monster, and she wanted to talk.

It was the clothes, Rico realized. She was wearing a yellow sundress that made her look like a Sunday school teacher. That was okay—she couldn’t be a hooker twenty-four/seven—but her hair was different, and she wore less makeup. No more bedroom eyes, he thought.

“I want out,” she said.

“Out?”

“Out.”

“Now?”

“Uh-huh.”

Rico tapped his fingertips on the table. Too many people were around for him to raise his voice. So he just frowned, working it out in his head. Candy’s leaving he could handle; he could always find another pretty hooker. But Candy wasn’t leaving, she was staying right here at the Delano, shacked up in Nigel’s bungalow. Removing his wallet, he dropped two thousand dollars on the table and slid it her way. Her eyes locked on the money, then met his face.

“What’s that for?”

“Your last payment. I don’t want anyone ever saying Rico Blanco stiffed them.”

“You sure?”

“It’s yours.”

She started to pick up the money. Rico brought his hand down forcefully on the bills. In a harsh whisper he said, “Do you really think it’s gonna last with this guy? He’s slept with more women than I’ve had bowel movements. You’ll wake up one morning and he’ll be gone. For good.” He saw her eyes well up and went for the kill. “You know why I’m scamming him? Because he’s got it coming. Nigel Moon is a fake.”

The waiter brought their drinks, and Rico drew his hand away. Candy picked up the money and stared at him. Rico looked at his beer. It was an Amstel Light. He hated light beer. The waiter had brought the wrong drink.

“What do you mean, he’s a fake?”

“You want the gory details?”

Candy’s cute mouth twisted into something harsh and unfriendly. “No.”

“Well, for starters—”

“I said no. Shut up.”

“I’ll pay you five grand to stay in.”

“Is that what I’m worth to you, Rico? Five grand?”

“That’s on top of what I’ve already paid you,” Rico said.

Candy picked up the money and threw it into Rico’s face. In a loud voice she said, “Stick it up your ass, you crummy piece of shit,” and stormed down the path toward the hotel’s bungalows. Rico sipped his beer, trying to act