Moon’s eyes danced behind his sour expression. He sipped his martini, trying to act nonchalant. Candy stared at him dreamily.
“Congratulations, sir,” Jack said, his lines committed to memory. “You just broke the house record.”
Moon fished the olive out of his martini glass. “And what record is that, my good man?”
“No one has ever won eighty-four hands before,” Jack informed him.
The Brit sat up stiffly, basking in the moment. “Is that how many I’ve won?”
“Eighty-four, yes, sir.”
“And no one’s ever done that before.”
“Not in a row, no, sir.”
“So I’m the champ?”
“Yes, sir, you’re the champ.”
Moon snapped his fingers, and a cocktail waitress came scurrying over.
“Drinks for everyone,” he said benevolently.
The crowd gave him a round of applause. Candy brought her mouth up to Moon’s ear and whispered something dirty. Moon’s eyes danced with possibilities.
Jack gathered up the cards. He’d dealt winning hands to players before, and the transformation was always fun to watch. Weak men turned brave, the shy outspoken. It changed them, and it changed how others saw them. And all because of the turn of a single card.
“A question,” Moon said.
Jack waited expectantly.
“Is there a limit on tipping?”
“Sir?”
“I know there’s a limit on betting,” Moon said. “Is there a limit on tipping?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Jack said.
Moon shoved half his winnings Jack’s way. Standing, he leaned over the table and breathed his martini onto Jack’s face. “Do something wicked tonight. On me.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied.
Jack’s shift ended at midnight.
He changed out of his dealer’s clothes into jeans and a sports shirt and drifted outside through the back door. Standing in the parking lot were his other dealer buddies. They were planning an excursion to the Cheetah in Fort Lauderdale to gape at naked college girls. Jack told them he had plans and begged off. His buddies got into their cars and left.
Jack lit a cigarette. A full moon had cast a creamy patina across the macadam. The casino backed onto a lake, and across its surface floated a dozen pairs of greenish eyes. The Micanopy reservation was in the Everglades, and alligators were always hanging around, eyeing you like a meal.
He smoked his cigarette down to a stub while thinking about the raggle. She had melted when Moon had started winning, and Jack had watched her leave the casino draped to his side. Was she falling for him? He sure hoped not.
A black limo pulled into the lot. Behind the wheel sat Rico’s driver, a spooky Cuban guy named Splinters. The limo pulled up and the back door popped open. Rico Blanco sat in back, jabbering on his cell phone.
Jack got in.
“South Beach,” Rico told his driver.
The limo glided out of the lot. Rico was a New Yorker and liked to boast that he was the only member of John Gotti’s crime family currently not in jail. Tonight he wore a designer tux with a red bow tie and looked like a million bucks. Rico put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I hear you were a star tonight.”
“Who told you that?”
“Candy,” Rico said. “She called me a little while ago.”
“It went great.”
“Let me ask you something. You think she’s in love with him?”
Jack nodded.
“Damn hookers,” Rico said. “They smell money, their brains melt. Every time I use one, know what I tell them?”
Jack had no idea what Rico told them. But Rico had a line for everybody, and if you hung around him long enough, you got to hear it. Jack opened the minibar and helped himself to a beer. “No, what do you tell them?”
“I tell them, honey, you know it’s time to quit the business when you start coming with the customers. Think any of them listen?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Fucking-a they don’t,” Rico said. Taking his hand away from the mouthpiece, he said, “Yeah, Victor, I’m still here. No, Victor, I’m not driving while I’m talking on the phone; I’ve got someone to drive for me.” Rico looked at Jack and rolled his eyes. Victor was the senior partner in the operation and often treated Rico like a kid. “Yeah, Victor. I’ll see you tomorrow. Nine sharp. Brunch at the Breakers. Bye.” He killed the power. “So where were we?”
“Hookers,” Jack said.
“Speaking of which, I’ve got some girls lined up you’re going to love.”
“They like Indians?”
“They like who I tell them to like,” Rico said. He took a Heineken out of a holder and clinked it against Jack’s bottle. “To the best blackjack cheat in the world.”
Only one road led back to civilization, and it was long and very dark. The limo jumped into the air as it hit a bump in the road, then bounced hard on the macadam.
“What the hell you doing?” Rico yelled.
“Sorry,” Splinters said, not sounding sorry at all.
Jack looked at his shirt. Beer had jumped out of the bottle and soaked it. He swore under his breath. Rico laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
“Jack’s all wet,” Rico said with mock indignation. “Apologize.”
“Sorry,” Splinters said.
Jack swallowed hard. “No problem.”
“You got a towel up there?” Rico said. “I got some on me, too, for Christ’s sake.”
A handkerchief flew into the backseat. Rico plucked it out of the air and balled it up. He pressed it against the wet spot on his knee, then leaned forward and pressed the handkerchief against Jack’s shirt. Jack pulled back, and Rico’s eyes grew wide. Then his hand turned into a rock-hard fist.
“You fucking bastard!” Rico roared.
At seven the next morning, Chief Running Bear, leader of the Micanopy nation, sat in his double-wide trailer a hundred yards behind the casino, staring at a pair of identical TV sets. Two hours earlier, a phone call had awoken him from a deep sleep, and now he rubbed his eyes tiredly while staring at the dueling images.
On one TV, a casino surveillance film showed an employee named Jack Lightfoot dealing blackjack. A player at Lightfoot’s table had won eighty-four hands in a row, a feat that Running Bear knew was statistically impossible. The player had never touched the cards, ruling out sleight of hand. There was only one logical explanation: Lightfoot had rigged the game.
On the other TV, a second surveillance film showed Lightfoot standing in the casino parking lot, smoking a cigarette.
Before running the tapes, Running Bear had gone through Lightfoot’s personnel file. He was a Navajo and had come to work for the Micanopys with a glowing reference from Bill Higgins, another Navajo, who happened to run the Nevada Gaming Control Board. Indians did not lie to other Indians, and Running Bear could remember Higgins’s words as if it were yesterday.
“Jack won’t let you down,” Higgins had said.
Running Bear shook his head. Jack Lightfoot had let him down. He was a cheat, and a damn good one. Bill Higgins had once bragged to Running Bear that he knew every goddamned cheater in the country. So why hadn’t he known about this one?
On the second TV a stretch limo appeared. Running Bear leaned forward to stare. The passenger door opened. Sitting in back was an Italian with wavy hair and a mustache. Running Bear found most white men identical, their faces as bland as pudding. Italians were particularly annoying. The men all wore mustaches, or snot-catchers as Indians called them. This one looked like a gangster.
Running Bear stopped the tapes. Sipping his coffee, he listened to the air conditioner outside his window. His casino had been ripped off by a dealer recommended by the most respected gaming official in the country. And that dealer was working with a mobster. It doesn’t get any worse than this, he thought.