And now, under the careful scrutiny of three sets of eyes, Duffy went to the arm of the wheelchair and performed his short hand magic, switching the dice as the trained Pit Bosses stared directly at his hands. They never saw the switch, never saw it happen. He put the loaded dice in his palm, held them, heated them and rolled them.
"Six, a hard-way winner," the Stick-man said, and now Duffy had a million dollars in chips. There were so many, they couldn't lie in front of him on the green felt and still leave the table clear for play.
"Let 'er ride," Duffy wheezed and the twenty or so spectators cheered.
"Get Joe in New Jersey," Buzini said, sweat starting to form on his forehead.
Luke grabbed his phone and called the emergency number for Joe Rina.
"Let 'er ride."
"No, sir, you can't bet a million until I get an approval."
"Whatta buncha ass wipes," Duffy growled. He wheezed, his arm quivering on the table rail where it was resting.
Joe came awake instantly when the phone rang. It was almost four A.M. He knew this call had to be important. Nobody would call him at four in the morning unless it was a wrong number, a disaster, or somebody looking to get his face rearranged.
"What is it?" he said.
"Just a minute, sir," Luke said. "I have Arnold Buzini from the Sabre Bay casino."
He handed the phone to Buzini, who cleared his throat and watched as Duffy and Beano argued about his medicine. "Sir, we have a little situation here," he said softly. "We have a big winner on the number three crap table. He's hit us for over a million dollars… in less than an hour. This guy is white-hot. And a buncha other players are slip-streaming with him."
"You check the dice?"
"Yes, sir. They're okay… least they seem to be."
"Tommy's down there. Get Tommy."
"We can't find Tommy, sir. He's not in your villa. We don't know where he is."
Joe sat up in bed. Sometimes Tommy's lack of responsibility was startling. He was great when it came to wet-work, great at clipping somebody you wanted to put down, but when it came to just common-sense business, he was lame. Joe stifled a flash of anger at his brother and tried to clear his head of sleep and concentrate. "Okay, this guy on any of our sheets?"
"No, sir. His name is Harry Price. Old guy in a wheelchair. He owns a car lot in Fresno. His nephew is named Douglas. Says on his credit-ap he's an unemployed oil company geologist. The Eye-in-the-Sky was watching them. They're either very good or they're not cheating."
"Okay, here's what you do," Joe said. "Put the table limit at fifty thousand. You let them roll once more to buy some time. While they're doing that, go through their room. If it's clean, plant something… dope, anything. Call the Bahamian Patrol. If your player gets angry or starts an incident, close the table for an accounting. Pay them slowly to stall them, but don't let them out of the hotel with the money. We'll bust 'em for drugs and then take their winnings. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
"And tell my brother I wanna talk to him soon as you find him."
"Yes, sir." Buzini hung up the phone. "Okay, table limit is fifty thousand, you can roll," he said to Duffy, who started to bitch that the no-limit was off. Buzini didn't stick around to listen. He moved to another pit area, picked up the phone, and ordered Security to come to table three and to notify the Bahamian Patrol they had a possible drug problem. Then he called his assistant and told him what to plant in Duffy's High-roller suite on the tenth floor.
"Same shooter, new point," the Stick-man said. Beano bet the new lower table limit of fifty thousand dollars, grumbling at the casino Manager as he did. As they pushed the dice over to Duffy, he was quivering with anger.
"Buncha cheap fucks," Duffy muttered, as he picked up the dice.
"Come to Daddy. Seven come eleven," and he pitched the dice to the end of the table and they came up nine.
"Nine. The point is nine."
Beano could tell from the phone calls and the furtive looks that they were about to get closed down. He nudged Duffy in warning, so Duffy didn't go for the loadies and instead rolled the casino dice. After three rolls, he sevened out. The crowd around the table let out a sad collective breath and the dice were passed.
"Cash me in," Duffy growled.
"This table's closed while we do the count," Buzini instructed, but the other players stayed there and watched as the old man's chips were counted. The process took almost fifteen minutes.
"One million one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. How do you want that, sir?" Luke Zigman asked.
"Cash fucking money," Duffy yelled, and the people at the table laughed.
They rolled a cart out from the cage and made a big deal of counting the money and laying the packs of bills in Duffy's lap. Beano had brought the small, blue folding bag which, had Buzini and Zigman stopped to think, would have seemed very strange. Beano packed the money into the bag. Once it was all in, he started to roll Duffy out of the casino. Security guards were everywhere now and Duffy, with the bag on his lap, was stopped from leaving just a few feet away from the casino main entrance. Buzini stood in front of them, blocking their exit. "I'd like to buy you a congratulatory drink; maybe we could get some pictures of you with the money for the newspaper. It's good for the casino to publicize big winners," he said, as thirty or so spectators gathered around.
"Don't drink. Hate having my picture took," Duffy croaked, but now he was shaking so badly that he was actually wiggling all over the chair. Several of the Security men had their hands on the arms of the chair so Beano couldn't leave.
"Harry, you're about to have one a your seizures," Beano warned.
"You sure we can't put that money in the safe for you?" Buzini said.
Then the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance and Duffy looked up at Arnold Buzini, rolled his eyes back in his head, and suddenly convulsed. His legs shot out straight and his neck went rigid. He catapulted out of the chair, onto the floor.
"Oh, my God, he's having an epileptic fit," Beano screamed, pumping the atmosphere with adrenaline and confusion. "Call a doctor! Call an ambulance!" he shouted.
Duffy was on the floor; his legs shot out, his back arched, he gagged as he inhaled.
The cops from the Bahamian Patrol now came running into the casino. Several of them were met by the Assistant Manager and led off to the tenth floor to find bags of pure heroin that were planted in Duffy's room.
Duffy was convulsing terribly. A ring of people stood helplessly with their hands up to their mouths in horror.
During all of this, Beano had managed to slip silently out of the casino with the bag full of money. He moved to the parking lot, and Victoria pulled up in the blue van. He jumped in the back. Roger-the-Dodger put his paws up on the seat and looked back at him.
An ambulance arrived a few minutes later and the attendants ran inside. When they reached Duffy, he appeared to be unconscious. When they pried open his mouth, they found he had swallowed his tongue. They cleared it out to open the airway.
"This man is in critical condition," a paramedic announced.
"Where the fuck is the other guy?" Buzini said, finally realizing that Beano had disappeared with the cash. "The guy with the bag. Where's the guy with the bag?" Buzini said, in a panic.
But Beano wasn't in the casino.
The paramedics pushed Buzini out of the way. They got the roiling stretcher from the back of the ambulance and loaded Duffy aboard. They wheeled the unconscious man out and into the back of the yellow and white ambulance. Then, with red lights and sirens, they roared away, heading for the Community Hospital, ten miles to the west. Nobody noticed the van that followed.
Fit-Throwing Duffy sat up in the back of the ambulance and looked at the startled paramedics.
"I'm okay now. Feel much better. Thanks," he said. "I'll just get out here."