“Here’s the grub,” Josh said.
Betty crossed the room. Josh leaned back in his chair, watching.
“Give me a deck.” Izzie said, pointing at the two decks on the table.
Hicks slid the blue Squeezers toward him. Izzie picked the Squeezers up with his left hand, then slid his chair sideways, allowing Betty to come in, and put the cardboard tray on the table edge.
“I got the corn beef,” Izzie said.
Betty passed the sandwiches around the table. She was the perfect shade, and Izzie stuck his hand into the pocket of her apron, and switched the cards for the stacked deck.
Betty flirted with the salesmen and left. Izzie began to deal. Josh stared in disbelief as the cards sailed around the table. His brother was holding a deck of red Bicycles. Betty had put the wrong decks into the pockets of her apron.
Josh knew he had to do something to save his brother. S.W. Erdnase, a famous card cheater, once wrote, ‘The resourceful professional, failing to improve the method changes the moment.’ Picking up his cup of coffee, he poured the hot drink onto his lap.
“My balls, my balls!” Josh screamed.
It didn’t work. Hicks rose from his chair and pointed an accusing finger at Izzie.
“Hey! Those cards changed color,” Hicks said.
The other salesmen stared as well. Then, all hell broke loose.
Even nice guys turned into monsters when they thought they’d been swindled. The salesmen beat the living daylights out of Izzie and Josh, took their money, then dragged them outside, and tossed them into a garbage-filled Dumpster behind the bar.
“You’re lucky they didn’t kill you,” Seymour said a half hour later. They were driving on the outskirts of Nyack, the windshield wipers beating back the rain.
Josh sat beside Seymour. He’d lost a tooth and several of his ribs were bruised from where Hicks had kicked him. Izzie sat in backseat with Betty. His older brother had two black eyes and his swollen lips looked like blood sausages.
“I’m sorry I messed up,” Betty said.
“It’s okay, baby,” Izzie said.
“You sure?”
“Positive. Mistakes happen. It’s part of the business.”
Josh glanced at Seymour and saw his younger brother roll his eyes. If Betty kept screwing up, they’d all end up in the hospital, or a graveyard.
“I love you, Izzie,” Betty whispered.
“I love you, too,” Izzie whispered back.
The unmistakable sound of Izzie’s fly being yanked open shattered the silence. Josh shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Betty was like one of those sirens in the ancient Greek stories. Izzie was her slave, and she wasn’t going to let go of him.
An convenience store materialized on the road side. Josh said, “I need some smokes,” and Seymour pulled into the lot and the two brothers went inside. They nosed around the potato chip aisle, killing time while the lovebirds got it on.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Josh asked.
“I sure am,” Seymour replied.
“I make a motion that we lose her.”
“I second the motion.”
“All those in favor, say I.”
“I.”
“Done.”
Five minutes later, Josh and Seymour were back in the car. Izzie had his arm slung over Betty’s shoulder and was breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Seymour started to drive away, then slammed on the brakes. “Damn. I left my wallet on the counter.”
The tires spun on the gravel as Seymour backed up. Josh turned in his seat, and looked Betty in the eye. “Would you do my moronic brother a favor, and get his wallet?”
Betty giggled. It was no secret that she thought Seymour was a putz.
“Sure,” she said.
She hopped out of the car, and went into the convenience store. When Betty was happy, she walked with a little skip. It was the only thing remotely child-like about her.
Josh grabbed her purse off the back seat. Rolling down his window, he flung the purse with all his might, and it hit the convenience store’s front door with a loud Wham! Seymour threw the car into drive and punched the accelerator.
“Hey!” Izzie exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
“We’re leaving,” Josh said.
“What about Betty?”
“She’s not coming.”
“Who said she’s not coming?”
“We took a vote, and you lost.”
Izzie made a strangled sound, then fell silent. For a while they drove in silence. The highway was dark and unforgiving. Road hustling was tough work, and the brothers knew that it was time to change locales. Miami Beach was nice, and the money was always good in Chicago. But Josh wanted to branch out, and from the glove compartment he removed a glossy brochure from Resorts in Atlantic City, and passed it around the car.
Josh and Seymour took turns reading the brochure. The brothers had often fantasized about pulling an Ocean’s Eleven-type caper, and taking down a casino for a huge score. It was every hustler’s dream, yet only a handful had ever tried it. The risks far outweighed the rewards.
“I thought the mob was running Atlantic City,” Izzie said skeptically. “If those guys catch us cheating, they’ll kill us.”
“Screw the mob,” Josh said. “I’ve got this plan that will let us steal five grand a week from Resorts, and the mob will never have a clue. On top of that, we’ll get to stay in one place, and not have to move around. No more crummy motel rooms and shitty food.”
“Five grand a week? That’s huge,” Seymour said.
“You thought this out?” Izzie asked.
Josh tapped his forehead with his finger. “Every last detail.”
“Count me in,” Seymour said.
“Me, too,” Izzie chorused.
An exit sign loomed ahead. They’d been driving around aimlessly for over an hour. Seymour flipped on his indicator. Soon, they were heading south on I-95 toward New Jersey, ready to take on the mob without hearing the details of Josh’s plan, or fully understanding the dangerous risks they were about to assume.
It was another decision the brothers would later regret.
Chapter 5
Valentine’s Sicilian grandmother had a favorite expression. He doesn’t know that he doesn’t know that he doesn’t know. She liked to use it when describing really stupid people. Valentine had never thought it applied to him. But it did apply to Mickey Wright. Mickey was a fixture in Atlantic City, and for years had worked as a concierge at hotels around the island. When Resorts opened, Mickey had pulled some strings, and wound up running the casino’s surveillance department. The fact that Mickey had no casino experience hadn’t fazed the people running Resorts. Mickey was their man.
Mickey had shown Doyle and Valentine the basics of casino surveillance. He taught them how to operate a VCR, how to start the Time/Generator machine so each video tape was properly certified, and how to fill out Incident Activity Reports.
Mickey also liked to play on the job. He used surveillance cameras to pick up hairpieces and patchwork suits, and watch pretty girls wearing red clothes, which became invisible under the camera’s invasive eye. And, he was into games. Find the prettiest girl in the casino was one. Find the ugliest guy another. Mickey loved to have fun.
One afternoon, Mickey got a call from Sergeant Banko. The chief was bringing Bill Higgins, the Nevada Gaming Control Board special agent, to the casino, and wanted Mickey, Doyle and Valentine to meet him. Mickey hung up the phone shaking his head.
“What the hell am I gonna learn from this guy?” Mickey said aloud.
They met in one of the hotel’s swanky conference rooms. Bill Higgins was a lean, unusually handsome Native American with a mop of black hair that touched the collar of his shirt. He wore cowboy boots and a suit that had gone out of style years ago, yet still looked good on him. He came around the table where Mickey, Doyle and Valentine were sitting, and shook their hands. Valentine noticed Higgins was holding a video tape in his other hand, and wondered what it was.