“Donovan, trust me. This town will eat you up. They don’t play fair.”
“So I’ve heard. But betting is all about understanding the odds of probability. If Lucky’s winning all the time, he knows how to calibrate the point spread. He’s probably got a bunch of people betting one side of the wager, helping him improve the odds. When he feels the number’s right, he has another bunch bet big money on the other side.”
“Of course. That’s public knowledge. He admits to manipulating the odds.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not according to the Grand Jury. He’s been indicted twice.”
“And?”
“They tossed it out both times.”
“Don’t you think Sam could calculate the odds better than Lucky?”
“He’s got the mind for it, but no, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Sam doesn’t know shit about sports.”
I frown. “That can’t be true.”
Callie gives me a dirty look. “I dated him for a month, remember?”
“Right. Sorry.”
She shakes her head in disgust. “I had sex with him!”
“Once. As I recall, you came out of it quite wealthy.”
“Still.”
I say, “The whole gambling thing is fascinating, but I took the job so I could meet Gwen.”
“You plan to charm her into giving you the device?”
“If I have access to the house, I’ll find the device.”
“When do you start?”
“Right after lunch.”
“Lucky wants you to what, watch Gwen?”
“Yeah. I’m to introduce myself to Gwen, keep an eye on her till he gets back, late tonight. He wants me and Gwen to pick him up at the airport. I’m not supposed to let her out of my sight.”
“How convenient.”
“I know. Talk about things falling into place.”
“You want me to slip into his house when you go to the airport? Help you find the device?”
“I might. Let me get a feel for his security first.”
“Oh, please.”
“I know you can get past whatever he’s got in place, but I want to make it easy for you.”
She shrugs.
I’m quiet for several minutes. Callie waits, knowing I’m working an angle. Finally, I look up at her and smile.
“You’ve got a plan,” she says.
“A contingency plan.”
“And?”
“And if we need it, you’re going to love it!”
“Goody. Let’s eat.”
10.
Before we tuck into our salads, I call a car rental agency and tell them to pick me up at twelve-fifteen, which gives me forty-five minutes. When I go down the elevator, the driver’s waiting for me in the lobby. I sign the paperwork, ask if he needs a ride back to the lot. He does, so I take him, then drive out to Lucky’s house for the second time in three hours.
This time when I approach, there are no cop cars. There are two muscle heads working the gate, however, and I have to show them my ID and give a password before entering. The password is the name of Lucky’s doctor in Jamaica, Dr. Gayle. Satisfied with the answer, the gate goons open the gates. I drive through, and down the long driveway, and park by the turnaround. From there I walk to the front door, climb the four stone steps, and stare at the twelve foot high, four-inch thick, mahogany doors, until one of them slowly opens.
Gwen is very young, and stunning.
Not Callie Carpenter stunning, or even super model stunning. But Gwen would be right at home with any of the troubled TV and movie starlets I’ve seen on the news. The ones who are in and out of court, and rehab, and who
