The pit boss complied. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to get Joe," Nick said.
His employees had gotten the mob under control, so Nick ran across his ravaged casino and ducked into One-Armed Billy's alcove. Just as he was paid to do, Joe Smith sat on his stool, looking bored out of his mind.
"How'd you like to get in on this action?" Nick asked.
Joe brightened. He was still young and in great shape, all seven feet and three hundred pounds of him, and he jumped off his stool like a sprinter coming out of the blocks.
"You mean that, Mr. Nicocropolis?" he said. "You gonna let me break the rules?"
"I sure am. Come on."
Joe was so conditioned to staying with Billy that Nick had to drag him out of the alcove. Once outside, he stiffened, his eyes traveling the length of the casino and coming to rest on the Texan, who was hopping around on one foot, like a crane.
"Who's that dude?" Joe snarled.
"The enemy. Think you can handle him?"
"Looks like a bird. Maybe I'd better pluck his feathers."
Nick smiled gleefully. This was going to be great. Too bad Valentine was going to miss it, that dumb Jersey greaseball.
Mike Turkowski, ex-hockey player and bartender at Brother's Lounge, had been standing beside the Acropolis's notorious fountain for twenty minutes, staring into the casino with a pair of infrared binoculars no bigger than a cigarette pack. Over the years, he'd been involved in a dozen casino rip-offs, all of them successful, and one thing had been true with each. The last people the casinos called were the cops. No one trusted them, especially when large sums of money were lying around. Which made his job that much easier.
Mike brought his wristwatch to his face, noting the time with one eye: 10:14. Fontaine told him to wait until 10:20, and if the ruse didn't work, run. His car was parked across the street, a one-way ticket to Seattle in the glove box, a suitcase in the trunk. Leaving town without telling his friends didn't thrill him, but that was part of the business.
At 10:16, he saw Nick duck into One-Armed Billy's alcove. Only one guy in the whole world could move Joe Smith off his stool, and that was Nick Nicocropolis. Fontaine had called it perfectly.
Mike tossed the binoculars into the fountain and started walking toward the front entrance. He saw Nick and Joe Smith leave the alcove and run across the casino, just like Fontaine said they would. Pushing open the front doors, Mike slipped into Billy's empty alcove.
Taking five silver dollars from his pocket, Mike quickly fed them into the machine. Then he pulled the giant arm.
The reels flashed by, stopping on two watermelons and four lemons. Which was where the expression "a lemon" came from. Taking a tennis ball from his pocket, Mike wedged it into the base of the arm so it could not spring back. From the sleeve of his jacket, he removed a pair of coat hangers and fitted them together in an L, then he bent a fishhook into one end. Kneeling, he inserted the hook into Billy's coin tray and shoved the hangers into the machine, his eyes fixed on Billy's twenty-six-million-dollar jackpot. Billy was insured by Lloyd's of London, and Fontaine had done his homework; he knew the policy was paid up. It was the little details that screwed you up, he'd once told Mike.
Billy had six reels, which made it harder to manipulate than hand-cranked slots, and Mike was probably the last guy in Vegas who knew how to manipulate an old-time machine, having learned on a pair of cast-iron Ballys in Brother's backroom. He had expected to put this talent to work on cruise ships, where old machines were still common. The payoffs weren't so hot, but it was easy work for the mentally challenged, a club of which Mike had considered himself a lifetime member until now.
From the alcove, he could hear the Texan hollering. Poor bastard. Fontaine had not given each member of the team a complete script. For the Texan and pizza king, this meant a beating and jail time; for everyone else, a life of wine and roses. Mike felt bad for the two ex-cons, but he wouldn't lose any sleep over them.
Twenty seconds later, he was done. Snapping the hangers back to their original shape, he slipped them up his sleeve. He found himself laughing. Instead of cherries, Nick's six ex-wives made up Billy's jackpot, their titties exaggerated to comic proportions.
"Beautiful," he said, kissing the glass they stood behind.
Then he ran out of the casino as fast as his legs would carry him.
Not everyone who worked at the Acropolis was taking part in the battle royale on the casino floor. People were getting hurt out there, and many of Nick's less courageous employees chose not to participate. These included the waitresses and bartender at Nick's Place, a group of Mexican dishwashers and chambermaids, and several bookkeepers. Together they cowered in the employee lounge, waiting for the bedlam to subside.
Roxanne sat among them, biting her nails. She'd stepped out of the elevator five minutes earlier and had nearly been hit by a flying chair. Running to the lounge, she'd bummed a cigarette off a slow-witted chambermaid named Dolores and waited it out with the rest of them.
"I thought you had a date?" Dolores said, always the snoop. "What happened?"
"It didn't work out," Roxanne said coolly.
Dolores cackled. Earlier, she'd caught Roxanne in the bathroom preening, her perfume heavy enough to choke a horse.
"Didn't work out," Dolores squawked like a parrot. "Honey, you were gone only forty-five minutes."
"It sure seemed longer," Roxanne said, trying to make light of it.
"What happened?"
"You heard what I said-it didn't work out," Roxanne snapped. "It happens, okay?"
"Was he that bad?"
Roxanne stomped her foot and the kitchen help looked up in alarm. Not a one had a green card, and they were all scared as hell.
"Stop it," she told Dolores.
Dolores cackled again. "My, my. Aren't we sensitive tonight."
"Must I tell you the gory details?" Roxanne said.
"Yeah!" Dolores said.
Roxanne lowered her voice to a whisper. "I went to his room, had room service bring up two surf and turfs, then set the table, and put on some music. Then I got a call. His son's missing and presumed dead. I call around the casino and find him and he comes upstairs. It was so sad; I figured the least I could do was console him."
Dolores, who couldn't buy a social life, looked ready to pee in her pants. "Yeah," she said breathlessly. "What happened then?"
"Nothing," Roxanne said sadly.
Dolores's face caved in. "What do you mean, nothing?"
"I mean, nothing happened."
"But…"
"He fell asleep," Roxanne said, stifling a little sob and rubbing her eye with the sleeve of her silk blouse. "He went into his room to make a call. When he didn't come out, I went in and found him lying on the bed. God, I just can't win."
"Oh, baby," Dolores said, putting her arm around Roxanne's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
"Me, too," Roxanne said, crying silently.
At 10:20, Roxanne stuck her head out of the lounge. Nick and his troops were in the pit applauding Joe Smith, who stood on a blackjack table with his shirt off, doing tricks with his muscles. A man in cowboy clothes lay on the floor, sleeping soundly.
Stubbing out her cigarette, Roxanne said her good-byes. Then, just as she had a thousand times before, she walked across the casino floor to the front entrance, opting to take the long way to her car, which was parked in the employee lot in back. Everyone who worked in the casino had seen her do it, and everyone knew why.
Because Roxanne had a dream, no different from the rest of them. A dream of a better life, one without alarm clocks and mailboxes filled with bills and time clocks to punch. It was the dream of wealth, and it had made her leave her husband and come to Las Vegas. As she walked, she removed five silver dollars from her purse, kissing Eisenhower's profile on each. Then she shook them in her hand like a pair of dice. Every day for a thousand days, she'd gone through this ritual. The long walk, the coins, the kiss, the shake, and finally the moment of truth, when she'd feed her money into One-Armed Billy and blow a kiss at Joe Smith, who'd always wished her luck.