“Yes.”
“Tony, you’re getting old.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to tell Nick.”
A look of apprehension crossed Wily’s face. “You really think it’s him?”
“Yes.”
Wily went to the console, punched in a command, then crossed the room to the laser printer in the corner. A printed sheet came out. He held it up so Valentine could see it. It was the photograph of Fontaine talking on the phone.
Walking over to a technician, Wily handed him the photograph and said, “Make a few hundred copies and distribute them to every employee. If anyone sees this guy, tell them to send up a flare.”
Valentine watched the technician leave. Then he looked at Wily. He hadn’t liked the crack about getting old. That was the thing he hated the most about Las Vegas. People didn’t stay your friend for very long.
Walking over to the printer, he removed Fontaine’s photograph and left without saying a word.
17
Mabel got up Saturday morning, fixed herself a fruit smoothie, and walked down the street to Tony’s house. She drank her breakfast while sitting at Tony’s desk, fielding e-mails and phone calls from panicked casino bosses that had come in the night before. In a business that never went to sleep, Friday nights were particularly hectic, and she spent an hour going through Tony’s messages. At ten o’clock the phone rang. It was Tony’s private line, and she snatched it up. It was Yolanda.
“Can you come over here?”
“Of course. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Yolanda said. “It’s about Gerry.”
“Be there in five,” Mabel said. She exited Tony’s e-mail, then shut his computer down. They lived in the lightning capital of the country, and leaving the computer on was an invitation for disaster. As she rose from her chair, the business line rang. She stared at the caller ID, then brought her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, no,” she said.
The caller was Richard Beamer, manager of the exclusive Liar’s Club in Beverly Hills. He had overnighted a certified check two days ago and been calling ever since. And she’d forgotten to tell Tony.
Beamer’s check lay on the desk. It was for three grand, Tony’s usual fee. She’d grown up during the tail end of the Depression and could remember eating three-day-old bread, and standing on line with a wooden bucket to scoop sauerkraut and pigs’ feet from a barrel. She answered the call.
“Grift Sense. Can I help you?”
“This is Richard Beamer. Did you speak to your boss?”
“He’s on a job in Las Vegas,” she said truthfully. “He asked me to take the information. Once he figures out what these cheaters are doing, he’ll call you.”
“They were here last night,” Beamer said. “The other members want them thrown out. My job is at stake.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I can’t expel them without proof. They’ll sue the club.”
“What game are they playing?”
“Poker.”
Mabel had an idea and put him on hold. From the bookshelf, she removed one of Tony’s favorites: Poker to Win, by Al Smith. Tony said that 99 percent of the guys who cheated at poker used three scams described in the book: Top Hand, the Cold Deck, and Locating. She opened the book to the table of contents and picked up Beamer’s line.
“I’m back. Let me ask you some questions.”
“Is Mister Valentine going to call—”
“Do your cheaters sit beside each other when they play?”
“Why yes, they do,” Beamer said. He sounded like someone who’d had acting lessons, his voice animated. “How did you know that?”
“It’s common among cheaters. Now, does one of your cheaters always drop out of the game, and the other wins?”
Beamer gave it some thought. “No. Sometimes they both stay in.”
Mabel smiled. That ruled out playing Top Hand, which was the signaling between players of who had the strongest hand, with the weaker dropping out. “Next question. Have you seen either player spill a drink on his cards, and replace them with a new deck?”
Another pause. “Not that I can recall. Let me guess. The new deck is stacked so they’ll win.”
“Yes. It’s called a Cold Deck,” she said, reading from the book. “The cards are usually false-shuffled when they’re introduced into the game.”
“I would have noticed that,” Beamer said. “I’m a card player myself.”
“Last question. Have you noticed the cheaters comparing hands after they’ve both dropped out?”
Beamer didn’t hesitate this time. “Yes. They do that a lot. They’ll drop out of a hand and then compare the cards they had. I thought it was harmless.”
“They’re memorizing them,” Mabel said, having flipped to the section on Locating. “The next round, the cards are passed to one of the cheaters. He shuffles but doesn’t disturb the memorized cards. On the last shuffle, he adds twenty cards to the bottom, then offers them to his partner to be cut.
“His partner cuts at the memorized stack and brings the cards to the top. The cheater then deals. He plays a game like Seven Card Stud, where the first two rounds are dealt facedown.”
“The hole cards,” Beamer said.
“That’s right. By looking at their own hole cards, the cheaters work backward in their memorized stack and know the other players’ cards.”
“That’s it!” he exclaimed.
“It is?” Mabel said.
“That’s exactly what they’re doing,” Beamer said triumphantly. “They always play Seven Card Stud, where each player gets two facedown cards. You nailed it, Miz...”
“Call me Mabel,” she said.
“You nailed it Mabel,” he said. “Much obliged.”
The line went dead, and Mabel placed the receiver in its cradle. She picked up the Liar’s Club check and gave it a kiss, then remembered that Yolanda was waiting for her.
Mabel locked the door to Tony’s house and walked down the front path. It was a beautiful morning, the air crisp and infused with ocean spirits, and she crossed the street with a smile on her face.
Yolanda and Gerry lived across the street in a 1950s clapboard house. The house had a screened front porch and all the original fixtures and appliances. Having them in spitting distance — Tony’s words — wasn’t easy, but Mabel had come to the conclusion that family relationships rarely were. She pressed the buzzer, and the door opened.
“Hey,” Yolanda said. She wore a pink maternity dress, no makeup, her hair tied in a ponytail. Her brown eyes looked very sad.
“Sorry it took me so long,” Mabel said.
Yolanda ushered her inside, then padded noiselessly down the hallway to the back of the house. Mabel followed, glancing at the silent TV in the living room. It had a cartoon on, and there was a yellow legal pad in front of it. Yolanda had started watching the popular kids’ shows, and was rating them based on the level of violence and the content. She had decided that she was going to determine what her child watched on the boob tube.
Mabel stepped into the kitchen. It was small, with barely room for a breakfast table. She saw Yolanda moving a pile of medical books from the kitchen table.
“Let me help you with those.”
Mabel helped her put the books on the stove. Yolanda had been interning at Tampa General Hospital across the bay until she’d gone out on maternity leave. The hours were long, the pay lousy, and she was loving every minute of it. She pulled out a chair for Mabel, then took the one beside it.
“What did Gerry do now?” Mabel asked, sitting.
Yolanda let out an exasperated sigh while looking at the picture of Gerry on the table. He was dark and handsome, with a smile that could light up a room.