Wild Card

The agents practically jumped out of their chairs. Valentine held up his hands like he was stopping traffic. “Let me explain. Last week, an agent of the Nevada Gaming Control Board was here talking to us about casino cheating. While we were watching a surveillance tape, I saw a strange thing. A john standing behind the table was negotiating with a Puerto Rican hooker I recognized. It felt contrived.”

“How so?” Fuller asked.

“As a rule, johns don’t come into Resorts to pick up hookers. They pick them up on the street. Hookers inside the casino charge more than street walkers. They do it because the guys have gambling money they’re willing to burn.”

“You’re saying the john on the tape came inside Resorts specifically to pick up a hooker?”

“Yes. There was something else. As they started to leave, the john fumbled with a flask in his back pocket. I thought it was liquor, and he was going to take a pull to get his courage up. But now I think it was something else.”

The agents waited expectantly. So did Banko, who leaned against the wall.

“I think it was chloroform,” Valentine said.

Fuller and Romero exchanged long glances. They appeared to be communicating by telepathy, their eyes doing all the talking. Fuller looked at Valentine again.

“We think that’s how he’s knocking them out,” the agent said.

“So I’m right.”

“Perhaps. You said there was a surveillance tape,” Fuller said.

“Mickey Wright has it. He runs Resorts’ surveillance department.”

Fuller rose from his chair. “I’d like to see him immediately,” he told Banko. He approached Valentine, and stuck his hand out.

“You’re a hell of a detective,” the FBI agent said.

Valentine shook his hand while looking at Banko. His superior snarled at him before leaving the room.

Valentine started to leave the station house, then realized he hadn’t picked up his messages in several days. He went to his desk, and found a message from Bill Higgins thumb-tacked to the bulletin board. Bill had left his home number, said it was urgent. He checked the time. It was nearly ten, which made it seven in Las Vegas. He picked up the phone, and punched in the number. A man that was not Bill answered.

“This is Tony Valentine. Is Bill around?”

The man put the phone down. When Higgins came on, he was out of breath.

“I was in the garage working out. I wanted to alert you to a gang of blackjack cheaters that are ripping off your casino.”

Valentine grabbed a pen and pad off the desk. “I’m all ears.”

“We have a wiretap on a group of cheaters working the Sands. We caught a conversation that leads us to believe half the gang is working here, the other half in Atlantic City.”

“Any idea what they’re doing?”

“Yeah, and it’s pretty clever. They’ve constructed beer cans to hold mirrors in the base. If a player sits at one end of the table and puts his can down, he can glimpse the dealer’s hole card during the deal. He signals the card to another player at the table, the BP. The BP then plays his hand accordingly.”

BP was casino slang for Big Player. Hustlers had learned that casinos were more inclined to pay off a BP than an average player. And, BPs got complimentary suites and free meals and a lot of other free stuff. They lived large, and when they were part of a gang of cheaters, they lived even larger.

“Anything else I should look for?”

“The guy with the beer can signals the BP by blowing cigarette smoke through his nostrils,” Higgins said. “One puff means the hole card is a ten. Two puffs, an ace. If he breathes through his mouth, the dealer has a stiff. One more thing. They always use Budweiser cans.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s their favorite drink.”

“I really appreciate your giving me the heads-up,” Valentine said.

“Any time,” Higgins said.

Valentine heard someone cough and glanced up from his writing. Banko was standing a few yards away from his cubicle along with Fuller and Romero. The three men did not look happy.

“I’ve got to beat it. Thanks again.”

He hung up the phone, then looked expectantly into the three men’s faces.

“Mickey Wright erased the tape,” Banko said dejectedly.

Chapter 11

Valentine had inherited two things from his father. The first was his mouth, which had gotten him into more trouble than anything he’d ever done. The second was his photographic memory.

His father’s memory was phenomenal. Dominic Valentine could remember just about anything that had ever been said to him, or anything significant he’d ever seen. It was a gift wasted on a drunk, but that was how life went sometimes. Valentine’s memory was just as good, and it hadn’t gone to waste.

Banko made a phone call. Twenty minutes later, an artist from the Camden Union Register was setting up an easel in Banko’s office. The artist’s name was Ernie Roe, and he had a goatee and wore his stringy blond hair on his shoulders. Valentine knew him from the court house, where Ernie often covered important trials. Ernie removed a charcoal pencil from his breast pocket.

“Ready when you are,” Ernie said.