“This is different. Once the story hits the news wires, it could destroy the gambling industry in Nevada.”
“You’ve lost me, Pop.”
His father licked his cone, then made a face. “This tastes funny.”
“So does mine,” Gerry said. “I think you got frozen yogurt by mistake.”
“Crap.”
They tossed their cones into a trash bin. His father said, “Do you have any idea how much revenue slot machines account for in Nevada?”
Gerry shook his head. Slot machines had never interested him, simply because there was no way for players to get an edge. The earliest slot machines had given out candy and chewing gum, then some genius had started offering cash prizes, and an industry had been born.
“Take a guess,” his father said.
“Twenty percent?”
“Seventy,” his father said. “Slot machines generate seven billion dollars a year profit in Nevada, thirty billion dollars a year nationwide. They’re the heart and soul of every casino. They’re also responsible for most taxes which are collected.”
“So, this agent stole some jackpots. How’s that going to ruin the industry?”
“He’s a state employee, Gerry. He’s one of them. Don’t you get it?”
“No.”
“Understand the mind set of people who play slots. I’m not talking about your recreational player, either. I mean your hard core slot player.”
“Like your friend Lucy Price,” Gerry said.
“Exactly. Lucy sat down at a slot machine one day, and started feeding money in. She won a little, lost a little. First she’s up, then she’s down. Before she knew it, she was hooked.”
“Hooked how? It’s just a game.”
“Slots are different. The game uses intermittent reinforcement to make people want to play. B.F. Skinner showed how intermittent reinforcement works with a mouse in a box. You heard of him?”
Gerry nodded solemnly. His old man had a highschool education and was quoting B.F. Skinner. He was impressed.
“One day, Skinner put a mouse in a box. The mouse tapped a lever, and a food pellet appeared. The mouse ate the pellet, then tapped the lever again, and another pellet appeared. The mouse ate until it was stuffed.
“The next day, Skinner put the mouse back in the same box. The mouse tapped the lever, but no pellet appeared. After a while the mouse lost interest, and stopped tapping the lever.
“The third day, Skinner put the mouse in the box again. This time when the mouse tapped the lever, the pellets came out at infrequent intervals. Guess what happened?”
Gerry shook his head. He didn’t have a clue.
“The mouse tapped on that lever all day long. It didn’t matter that the mouse didn’t know when the food would come out. The mouse just knew that it eventually would. Skinner called this intermittent reinforcement.”
“And that’s how slot machines hook suckers into playing,” Gerry said.
“Yeah, but there’s a catch.”
“What’s that?”
“Slot players believe the more money they put in, the more likely the machine is to pay a jackpot. They think they’re priming the pump.”
“And they’re not?”
“No. Modern slot machines use silicon chips to control the game. The chip doesn’t have a memory, and can never be primed. Problem is, nobody who plays the slots believes that.”
“Why not?”
“They just don’t. Winning a jackpot is a dream to these people. If they read in the paper that jackpots are being stolen, they’ll think That guy stole my jackpot! and they’ll stop playing. Overnight, seven billion dollars in profits will go up in smoke.”
“Oh, wow,” Gerry said.
Another storm had rolled in from the gulf, and they walked back to Gerry’s house in rumbling darkness, stopping beneath a large cypress tree on the corner.
“How will this affect our business?” Gerry asked.
“This could hurt every casino in the country,” his father said. “If it does, the casinos will pare back, and stop using us.”
“What then?”
“Shuffle board for me, a real job for you.”
Gerry grimaced. “There’s got to be a solution.”
His father pulled a piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. Gerry knew it was nicotine because his father didn’t offer him any. His father said, “The governor of Las Vegas asked me to take the job. You know my feelings about Las Vegas, but I’m going to help him out. If I can catch this agent and the governor can keep it out of the papers, our business won’t suffer.”
Gerry nodded in the dark. His father had thought the whole thing out.
“Beautiful,” he said.
His father stepped out of the shadows. “There’s one catch. The police got this information from an informant. Bronco Marchese.”
The storm had caught up with them, the sky awash with brilliant flashes of lightning, the booms of thunder drawing closer. Gerry came out of the shadows as well. “The bastard who murdered Uncle Sal?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on him for a long time.”
His father frowned. “This is a job, Gerry, not a vendetta. If you go, it’s as my partner. Otherwise, stay home.”
Gerry felt the indignation rise in his chest. Uncle Sal had been like a second father to him, and he forced himself to calm down.
“What do you want me to do?
“I’m going to question Bronco, see if I can get the agent’s name out of him,” his father replied. “I’m sure he’s not going to be cooperative. I want you to read him.”
“Read him how?”
“Get his vibes.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, Pop.”
His father put his hand on Gerry’s shoulder. “Look, Gerry. I realized something at the track today. You know how criminals and low lifes think. You were one of them, for Christ’s sake. That’s an asset in our business.”
“It is?”
“Yes. So start using it. I’ll interview Bronco, and you tell me what you think is going on inside his head. Sound like a plan?”
Gerry dipped his head. It was a habit he’d picked up as a teenager and never outgrown. It meant ‘Yes,” only was deeper than that. His father had asked for help, and Gerry wasn’t going to let him down.
“Good.”
They walked up the path to Gerry’s house between scattered raindrops. Reaching the front door, Gerry pulled out his house key and stuck it into the lock.
“One more thing,” his father said.
“What’s that?”
“I overheard your conversation with Yolanda.”
Gerry froze. Busted again. Without another word, his father turned and walked away. He thought about all the bills that needed to be paid, then erased the thought from his mind.
“I’ll take the money back tomorrow,” he heard himself say.
His father waved in the darkness and then was gone.
Chapter 7
Bronco Marchese lay on his cot in his jailhouse jammies, staring at the concrete ceiling. His lawyer, bad-breathed Kyle Garrow, was running late. Garrow had never been late to an appointment before, but Bronco had never been in jail before. Bronco sensed a shift in their relationship that he didn’t like. The moment he got out of jail, he planned to set Garrow straight.
He shut his eyes. It was the strangest damn thing. His first time behind bars, and he wasn’t missing the taste of good food, or the rush of an ice-cold beer. What he was missing were the slots.
He’d started playing in New York forty years ago. Slots were illegal, only most bars in New York had them. He’d been fifteen, and had never experienced the kind of joy that coursed through his body after winning a jackpot. He’d fed his winnings back into the machine, expecting it to happen again. When it hadn’t, he’d gone and gotten a screwdriver, opened the machine, and stolen every last coin.