Tampa Bay Downs was the oldest thoroughbred race track on Florida’s laid-back west coat. Located in the sleepy town of Oldsmar, it was far enough away from Tony Valentine’s home in Palm Harbor to be a nuisance to reach, with the last mile a true test of nerve. Called Race Track Road, it had enough crazed drivers to raise any sane person’s blood pressure.
Valentine didn’t need his blood pressure raised this afternoon; he already had his son, Gerry, to do that for him. They had come to the track to investigate card-cheating in the track’s Silks poker room, only Gerry had disappeared within a few minutes of walking into the joint. His son had never seen a wager he didn’t like, and Valentine guessed he was hanging off the track rail, betting his rent on a nag.
“Mr. Valentine?” a female voice asked.
An athletic woman with frosted blond hair, bronzed skin, and a hundred watt smile had materialized beside him. She extended her hand. “Suzie Brinkman, director of security. I called you this morning about the problem in our poker room. Thanks for coming out so fast.”
She was a dish. Valentine smiled and shook her hand. “My pleasure.”
“My father says you’re the best in the world at catching cheaters,” she said.
Suzie’s father owned the track, and had interests in several Nevada casinos. He was also a client, and Valentine felt obligated to make sure his daughter didn’t get ripped off. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“There’s a rumor floating around that one of our poker dealers is in cahoots with a player. I want to find out if it’s true.”
“Sounds right up my alley,” Valentine said.
“Good. I just spoke with my father, and he said it was okay if you went to the surveillance room, and looked at the tapes of the different dealers.”
They were standing in the bar next to the noisy poker room. Every table was filled, with lines of young men, and an occasional woman, waiting to fill the next available chair. Poker was all the rage, and brought huge business to the track.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk through the room first,” he said.
“May I accompany you?”
“Of course.”
Valentine took a walk through the poker room with Suzie Brinkman glued to his side, stopping at each table to watch the dealer shuffle and deal. The track employed professional dealers who’d been trained in dealer schools. Their actions were uniform in every respect, and Valentine looked for any hesitation on the dealer’s part when they handled the cards. Before any sleight-of-hand move, there was always a tiny, pregnant pause. Hustler’s called these tells. Done, he walked back to the bar with Suzie still beside him.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“Got him,” he said.
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, come on.”
“Where are we going?”
A blush rose beneath her tan. “I mean, be serious. We weren’t in there five minutes.”
“Yeah, but I know what I’m looking for.”
She flashed him another smile. He found himself liking her, and pointed into the room at the dealer working Table #6. The man was built like a mailbox, with a thin body and large, square head, and had a way of handling himself that told Valentine he’d been in prison. Most gambling venues didn’t hire ex-cons, but Florida was an exception: The state had six hundred thousand ex-felons, and they needed to work.
“That guy’s your cheater.”
“Milo Kelly,” she said, shaking her head. “My dad caught him stealing chips, and gave him another chance. This is how he repays us. What’s he doing?”
“He’s giving his partner at the table the best cards. It’s called a pick-up stack.”
“I’ll have him pulled off the game immediately. Can you show me what he’s doing, in case I have to explain it to the police?”
There was a real hunger in Suzie’s eyes. She knew she was green, and she wanted to learn the ropes. Valentine wished his son had half her enthusiasm.
“My pleasure,” he said.
They grabbed a table in the cocktail lounge, and Suzie pulled a deck of cards from her purse. She sat directly across from him, her knees knocking against his. As Valentine dealt seven hands of cards onto the table, he adroitly pulled back his chair.
“Kelly deals Seven Card Stud, and has seven players at his table. Each player gets seven cards, with five coming faceup.” He pointed at the third, sixth and seven hands. In each hand, the third card showing was an ace. “Let’s say he wants to give these aces to his partner. He scoops the hands up when the game is over, and makes sure they go on the desk last. Then he false shuffles, and deals out seven cards. Voila — his agent, who’s sitting in the third seat, gets three aces.”
“What’s a false shuffle?”
“It’s a card-cheating move.”
“Please show me.”
The request was delivered with a twinkle in her eye, and he had a feeling that Suzie was enjoying herself. He separated the cards into reds and blacks, and gave the deck a false-shuffle. He’d learned to false-shuffle from a New Jersey wizard named Herb Zarrow, who’d revolutionized card handling with a shuffle which bore his name. Finished, he showed her that the cards were still separated by color. Suzie shook her head helplessly.
“Is Kelly as good as you?”
“No, but he doesn’t have to be.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he’s the house dealer. Everyone trusts him.”
Suzie put her elbows on the table and looked into his eyes. She was a hell of a nice woman, only he wasn’t going there right now. Dating at his age was never an easy proposition. “I was thinking of firing Kelly, but now I think he should be arrested,” Suzie said. “Do you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“Whose his agent?”
“The fourth player at the table.”
“The older woman with the wig? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m always serious,” Valentine said.
Gerry the prodigal son had entered the lounge, and was waving to him. There was a panicked look on his face, and Valentine wondered how much money his son had lost.
“I’ll be happy to be an expert witness, if it comes to trial,” Valentine said.
“Thank you,” she said.
They simultaneously rose from the table and practically banged heads. Without warning, Suzie took his head with her hands and planted a kiss on his cheek. It was his turn to blush, and he caught her winking at him as she walked away.
“Lose the rent yet?” Valentine asked as Gerry sat down. His son had just turned thirty-six, and with his salt-and-pepper hair, long Italian nose and dark coloring, bore more than a passing resemblance to his father.
“You know I can’t come to the track and not place a bet,” Gerry said. “Besides, I saw someone I knew at the betting windows.”
“Was it that stripper you once dated?”
“Cut it out, Pop, will you? The guy I saw was a crook.”
“Did you have a nice conversation?”
Gerry leaned forward. There was a look on his face that Valentine hadn’t seen very many times: His serious look. Lowering his voice, Gerry said, “I think the next race might be fixed.”
“Why do you think that?”
With his head, Gerry indicated a couple seated on the opposite side of the lounge. They were straight out of a 1930's gangster movie; the mustachioed man wore a shiny, sharkskin suit, his moll a baby-doll red dress with her face painted like a Kewpie doll. “That guy came into my bar two years ago, tried to place a huge bet on a horse race at Hialeah. I refused. Later, I heard the race was fixed, and he took another bookie for a huge score. Well, I just saw that guy make a hugebet on a loser named Corky’s Boy. Sound suspicious to you?”
“Fixed the race how?”
“Silking,” his son said.
Valentine leaned back in his chair, surprised that his son was willing to rat out another crook. Gerry had been on the wrong side of the law since he was a teenager, and dishonesty was a hard thing to change.
“What’s silking?” Valentine asked.
“You’ve never heard of it?”
Valentine had policed Atlantic City’s casinos for twenty-five years, and knew every casino scam and greasy hustle ever invented. The ponies were a different story, his knowledge limited to things he’d heard about, and not experienced firsthand.