“This interview is over.” He raised his voice. “Rachel. Come in now.” She reluctantly obeyed.
“Wait just a goddamn minute. I’m not-”
“If you don’t leave my property immediately, I’ll call the authorities.”
“I didn’t do anything. I just-”
“Goodbye.” He tucked Rachel behind the door, but she rushed forward and hugged me, hard. He eventually pried her away. Then he shut the door and left me standing like a goon on his well-swept porch. Alone.
Annabel raked in the dough, all the while giggling and acting as if she barely knew what she was doing, as if her big wagers were made out of boredom rather than expertise. She’d ask the dealer for advice-they do that now, ever since Vegas decided to become friendly. Not that they could tell her anything she didn’t already know. It was all for show.
Back around 1994, a team of six MIT students began flying to Vegas to prove what many had speculated for years-that a keen understanding of advanced mathematics could pay off at the blackjack table. Half the team-the Spotters-would spread through the casino and sit at various blackjack tables making normal bets, never varying the amount-but counting cards. Some of these guys were absolute geniuses. They could bring off a slick trick called shuffle tracking, which took advantage of probability-distribution mathematics and the fact that most dealers do a light shuffle so as to resume the game as quickly as possible. Shuffle tracking allowed the Spotters to follow a pocket of favorable cards from one shoe to the next, calculating the amount of low-card infiltration caused by the shuffle. Some Spotters would even intentionally blow hands to control the flow of cards-that is, to make specific cards they were tracking come up when and where they wanted them.
When the deck favored the players, the Spotters would signal one of the Gorillas, who wandered the floor, usually pretending to be drunk or inexperienced or both. When they got the signal, they sat at the Spotter’s table and made the big bets, cleaning up until the Spotter signaled them to leave because the deck was no longer favorable. The Gorillas couldn’t be accused of counting cards; they barely looked at the cards. And it was nearly impossible to nail the Spotters, since they never made any money and often lost. At the end of the day, all members of the team shared the loot. In this manner, the MIT invasion managed to make big bucks and not be detected.
For a few years. Then the casinos caught on and came down on the students-hard. Not only were they all banned, but some were beaten, apartments were robbed and raided, and everyone was terrorized. House rules were changed to make counting less reliable. But new students kept coming. They became the scourge of Vegas; rumor had it the big security firms were willing to take drastic steps to stop the students. Annabel thought it seemed like a crazy risk and had never expected to do it herself.
Until she found out she was pregnant.
Warren had saved her life. When she first came to MIT, she was all alone, had no friends. She was awkward and isolated and tended to stutter in class. Even with a famous mother, she was a standout nerd-and at MIT, that took some doing. She knew some of the boys made fun of her behind her back. But not Warren. He adopted her, took care of her, showed her the ropes, invited her to parties. They’d been going out for more than a month before he even tried to have sex with her. And by then, she was so in love that she melted like an ice cube.
She loved Warren, but he was in no position to marry her, not now, when they were both in school and had no money. He told her it would be a mistake and she knew that he was right. Once again, he was looking out for her. But she couldn’t bear the thought of having an abortion. And even less could she bear asking her mother for help. The mother who could spend hours with the network suits she belittled but couldn’t find time to see her daughter win the Academic Bowl state finals. She had never given Annabel any direction or advice or help other than financial. Her mother had chosen to make her job Priority One, to never be seriously involved in Annabel’s life. Well, fine. She wasn’t about to go running to the woman now.
Which meant she needed to come up with some cash, fast. So she’d flown west, slapped on this blond wig, and come to the Transylvania. And on the eighth hand, the last dealt from the favorable shoe, she split two tens-not normally a smart move, but the deck favored her, and the dealer had a six showing, his worst possible card. It paid off. She doubled a two-thousand-dollar bet twice, took all her winnings, and quit. Now she had the stake she needed. She could marry Warren, give this baby a name, and continue their education without involving her mother.
She pushed away from the table. “That’s enough for me. It can’t get any better than that.”
The little man sitting beside her grabbed her hand. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
She yanked her hand away. Something about the man’s touch made her skin crawl. “I’m afraid I am. B-B-Best of luck to you.”
She cashed out, then quickly made her way to the elevators that descended to the parking garage. She didn’t want to risk being stopped by pit bosses or mashers or thieves. All she wanted was to get back to Warren and start their life together. This development wouldn’t advance her plan to be the youngest woman ever to win the Fields Medal, but she didn’t mind. She liked the idea of settling down, being a married woman. And she loved the thought of being a mother. Annabel would take a different approach than her own mother had done. Better. She would turn her heartache into empowerment.
The elevator doors dinged and she stepped out into the cold, barren garage. It was quiet and dark, shadowy. This was one area where the haunted house motif did not need to extend, she thought.
Her pace quickened; she heard each step echo in her wake. Chill bumps rose on her arms and legs. She moved even faster.
That was when she heard the footsteps.
No one had come off that elevator since she arrived, she was certain of that. Nonetheless, someone else was here. She fumbled in her purse for her keys. She was practically running now, her heart thumping in her chest. She was alone, dressed provocatively, carrying a big wad of cash-an obvious target, an easy one. Please, God, just get me back to the rental…
She rounded a lane of cars and sprinted. Just a few more steps and she’d be safe. Just a few more steps…
He jumped right in front of her. She screamed.
It was the man from the blackjack table. The little man with the mustache.
“Where you going in such a hurry?” he said, his vulpine eyes dancing.
“Leave me alone.” She held her purse up, brandishing it like a club.
He was quick, smooth, as if he’d had martial arts training. He knocked the purse out of her hand, then grabbed her by the hair. The wig came off in his hands.
“Not a natural blonde? That’s disappointing.” He tossed the wig away and grabbed her brunette locks, jerking her head back. He pressed his face close to hers. “If you take that pretty dress off yourself, I won’t have to rip it.”