“You’re a man after my own heart,” Rufus said.
Valentine heard a whirring noise and stopped what he was doing.
“What the heck’s that?” Rufus asked.
Acoustics in casinos could be deceiving. The lobby was empty, and Valentine decided the noise had come from behind the door. He grasped the door’s handle, and to his surprise, found that it was unlocked.
“This is our lucky day,” Rufus said.
Putting his picks away, Valentine stuck his head in side. In the old days, casino poker rooms had been toilets, reeking of ashtrays and body odor. Televised poker tournaments had changed that. Celebrity’s poker room had thick carpet and cut-glass chandeliers the size of wrecking balls. He spied a team of Hispanic cleaning men vacuuming the floor with a level of enthusiasm you hardly saw anymore.
“Follow me, and take off your hat,” Valentine said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want anyone in surveillance who might be watching to see it and recognize you.”
“Got it.” Rufus removed his Stetson.
Walking to the room’s center, Valentine took from his pocket Rufus’s flashlight and twisted it on. He shone the light at the ceiling, then moved it back and forth in a slow, steady pattern. If what Rufus had alleged was true —and the cards at Skip DeMarco’s table were marked with luminous paint—then someone was reading them while looking down from above. That someone had to be looking through red-tinted lenses, which would become reflective the moment his flashlight shone against them. The hidden accomplice in the ceiling trick. An old scam but still a good one.
After a minute his hopes came crashing to earth. No glitters had appeared in the ceiling, the pure white alabaster not showing a single crack or imperfection.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“No luck?” Rufus asked from several tables away.
Valentine’s neck hurt from looking up, but he kept looking anyway.
“No, and it’s pissing me off.”
He twisted the flashlight off, returned it to his pocket. The cleaning men were racing around the room on their machines, making a game out of who could finish first. He saw Rufus take out a pack of cigarettes and light up.
“You want one?” Rufus asked.
“I’m trying to quit.”
“I tried to quit once. Enrolled in one of those special progams.”
“Did it work?”
“Yeah. Every time I wanted a smoke, I called a special phone number, and a guy came over and got drunk with me.” Rufus laughed through a mouthful of smoke. His pack fell from his hand, and he bent over to pick it up. As he did, he glanced beneath one of the poker tables.
“Well, lookee here,” he said.
He pulled something from beneath the table, then held it on his palm for Valentine to see. It was pink and looked like it had been thoroughly chewed.
“Know what this is?”
“Gum?”
“Silly Putty.”
Valentine came over for a closer look. “You think it’s a bug?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So we’ve got a mucker in the tournament.”
“Sure looks that way,” Rufus said.
A mucker specialized in switching cards during play. The bug was his assistant, and used to secretly hide a card beneath the table. When the mucker needed the card, he brought it up, switched it with a card in his hand, then put the extra card back in the bug. The switch required terrific timing, skill, and plenty of nerve.
“There’s also a paper clip involved,” Rufus said. “The paper clip is wedged into the Silly Putty, and the card is stuck in the clip.”
“Did you see a paper clip on the floor?”
“No, but there has to be one.”
Valentine searched the floor beneath the table. The carpet was sticking up after being vacuumed, and he walked over to the cleaning men and took out his wallet. They instantly silenced their machines.
“Which one of you cleaned that table?” he asked, pointing.
None of the men spoke English, but their eyes said they were eager to help. Rufus came over and asked them in Spanish, which he spoke without an accent. One of the cleaning men stepped forward and raised his hand.
“I clean,” the man said haltingly.
Rufus asked him to open the bag on his vacuum. The man obliged, and Valentine handed him a twenty-dollar bill. The man’s face lit up.
Rufus glanced into the bag, then stuck his hand in up to the elbow, and twirled his long fingers around. Moments later he pulled out an object, and held it up to the light. It was a paper clip painted black. Mucking cards during play was the hardest cheating known to man. No matter how good a mucker was, he never drew attention to himself, and played under the radar. This wasn’t Skip DeMarco’s scam; it was somebody else’s.
“Looks like we’ve got another cheater working the tournament,” Valentine said.
8
Hanging out with Eddie Davis was a step back in time. Outside of being an undercover detective, Davis was like a lot of guys Gerry had grown up with. He was single, liked to frequent clubs and singles bars, and drove a souped-up car. He was an eighteen-year-old kid in a forty-year-old body, and enjoying every minute of it.
Davis was also a night owl, and they did a loop of the island, eventually returning to the Atlantic City Expressway entrance. Gerry found himself remembering the housing development that once stood there, and the park with a statue of Christopher Columbus. The park had been one of his father’s favorite places; his mother’s, too.
Davis’s cell phone began to play the theme song from the TV show
“Davis here.”
“Eddie, it’s Joey,” his caller said. “I need help. I’m at Bally’s with our friends.”
Davis’s brow knotted. “You got them pinned down?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right over.” Davis closed the phone. His tires ripped the macadam as they took off.
“Trouble?” Gerry asked.
“There’s a gang of blackjack cheaters we’ve been trying to nail for a month. Two men, one woman. My partner spotted them at Bally’s.”
“Is the woman nicking cards?”
Davis’s head jerked in his direction. “How did you know that?”
Nail-nicking cards in blackjack was a speciality among female cheaters. The woman would put in the work with her fingernails while no one was looking, then her partner would read the cards before they were dealt from the shoe, and signal them to the gang’s third member, who did the heavy betting—organized cheating at its best.
“Lucky guess,” Gerry said.
Davis got onto Atlantic Avenue, put his foot to the floor, and sped south.
“Not that it’s any of my business,” Gerry said, “but why haven’t you arrested them before now? It sounds like you know them pretty well.”
